by Adele Clee
“Really? I hear Miss Smythe is your mother’s current lady of choice and that you have been instructed to stop and pet her whenever she holds up her paw.”
Isabella regretted the words as soon as they’d left her lips. She was not a bitter or resentful person. She did not parade around the ballrooms partaking in spiteful gossip. All she asked for was a little consideration. It took a conscious effort to suppress the pain of the past. She would not have approached Tristan had there been any other option.
“As I said, my mother may do as she pleases. Her actions have no bearing on my decisions.”
Isabella sighed wearily. Trading quips with him proved mentally exhausting. That was not the reason she had asked to speak to him. “Then let me take this opportunity to express my condolences for your loss. Indeed, I shall miss Andrew terribly and would have come to pay my respects had I thought I would be welcome.”
He straightened, his countenance remaining rather stiff. “I assumed your lack of compassion stemmed from your feelings towards me. I had no idea you were so fond of Andrew.”
It hadn’t always been the case. She had despised Andrew for the part he’d played on the night she had eloped with Tristan. But he had reached out to her when Lord Fernall died, and she had been so desperately short of friends. Indeed, she would never sully Andrew’s memory because of her feelings over Tristan’s shortcomings.
“He was there for me when I needed him,” she said solemnly. “He was there for me when I had no one else to turn to.”
Tristan snorted. “Well, he always knew what to say to win a lady’s affection.”
Do not retaliate. That is what he wants.
“Yes.” She smiled as she remembered Andrew’s words of reassurance when she told him how frightened she was of living alone at Highley Grange. “He also knew what to say to bring a lady comfort.”
Tristan dragged his palm down his face and sighed. “Well, I am pleased he proved helpful to one of us.” His tone conveyed a trace of sincerity. It was the first time since the moment she’d sat next to him at Lady Mottlesborough’s concert that he sounded somewhat like the man she remembered.
She had expected him to offer another cutting comment and had prepared a response accordingly. Now she did not know what to say. Plunged into an awkward silence, she took the opportunity to examine her feelings.
Tristan was the love of her life.
She supposed she would always love him. One did not give themselves to a man they presumed would be their husband and feel nothing. But the flaming passion she’d once felt in her chest no longer burned with any intensity. Her heart did not skip a beat at the thought of his touch. The desperate ache to be near him, the long, endless hours of agony while she waited to hear his voice, had all abandoned her, too.
Now, there was nothing left but a cold, empty shell.
In those wistful hours before sleep, she often imagined loving another man. It would not be an intense, all-consuming passion. It would be a different sort of love: a shared appreciation for life, a mature feeling of warm companionship and mutual respect.
“I hear your sister has married and moved to Ripon,” she said, deciding it was childish to be bitter and to dwell on an incident that happened so long ago. One of them had to offer the proverbial olive branch. And whether she liked it or not, she needed his help.
“Catherine prefers a life with few distractions. She has never been one for pomp and ceremony.”
Isabella understood completely. “And you have spent the last five years in France.”
He sat back, his shoulders relaxing a little. “I would still be there now if I had my way.” A faint smile touched his lips, and his blue eyes sparkled. For a brief moment she caught a glimpse of the man with whom she had fallen in love. “The monastery is the only place I feel at peace.”
“The monastery?” She could not hide her surprise. Had he spent all those years living with monks? “Surely you don’t mean you stayed there, that you lived in seclusion, prayed for hours every day.”
“Of course not.” He offered a mocking snort. “I have never been the pious type. The religious community who once occupied the monastery abandoned it long ago. My good friend, Marcus Danbury, purchased the property. We were in business together. We had the same goals, the same ideals. Our work proved fulfilling.”
“Work?” Isabella shook her head. “But you are the son of a viscount, a viscount yourself now. Why would you have a need to work?”
He did not reply immediately. There was a flash of uncertainty in his eyes before he said, “It is of no consequence. Andrew’s death forced me to leave a place I regarded as my home. And so I had no choice but to give up a life I found satisfying.”
It suddenly occurred to her that he could not possibly be the same man she once knew. They had spent five years apart, separated by the sea, the language, by circumstance. During that time had he known love, heartbreak? What events had shaped and moulded his character? Would anything else ever compare to the level of satisfaction he had experienced elsewhere?
“The title and land are yours whether you reside in London or not,” she said. In his youth, he had been a little reckless. He’d thought nothing of disobeying his family then. “You should follow your heart rather than what society expects or your position dictates.”
His expression darkened. “Do you truly believe that? When people depend on us, how can we ever be free? I’m afraid duty and responsibility are hats I must learn to wear comfortably and with pride.”
“You sound so different from the man I used to know.” The words fell from her lips without thought or censure. She sucked in a breath, wishing they would somehow find their way back. “What I mean is maturity alters the way we view the world. We have come to realise our options are limited.”
He snorted in both amusement and mockery. “Indeed, life no longer feels like a glorious adventure filled with endless possibilities.”
Isabella sighed. Whilst she recognised the truth to their words, a part of her wanted to kick off her slippers, take his hand and run through the garden like they used to do. The moon would be full and bright. They would sit by the fountain, splashing water, laughing. He would kiss her beneath a blanket of heavenly stars. Life would be perfect, just as it was then.
Good Lord. She was but three-and-twenty, yet she suspected every new experience awaiting her would fall hopelessly short of that one magical night. A surge of raw emotion sought to draw all the air from her lungs. She put her hand to her mouth, coughed against her gloved fingers.
“Listen to us.” A weak chuckle left her lips. “We sound so miserable, so morbid.”
He stared at her for a moment, the tightness around his jaw relaxing somewhat. “In France, my friends often remarked on my cheerful disposition. I am known for my optimism, for my carefree attitude to life. Yet I do not recognise myself when I am here. The words that fall from my mouth sound foreign to me. Everything feels like a lie.”
Isabella felt a familiar tug in her chest upon hearing his honest words. In an instant, she was transported back to the night at the coaching inn, when they realised it was his father’s carriage rumbling into the courtyard. She had put her hand on his cheek, told him nothing would ever keep them apart. Their ability to be honest and speak so openly to one another was just one of the things she loved about being with him.
How ironic that he should deceive her but a few hours later.
“It can take time to settle after years of living a different life,” she said, though she wanted to say that she understood what it was like to deceive oneself, that her life had been one huge lie, too. “Things are bound to feel strange, certain modes of conduct uncomfortable.”
He narrowed his gaze. “You always did know what to say in any given situation. It is one of the things—” he stopped abruptly, waved his hand in the air. “The more we converse, the further we seem to stray from the original point.” His tone was somewhat sharper. “You said you wished to speak to me about And
rew. Am I to assume it was to pay your respects privately?”
Isabella watched him draw back behind a solid wall of ice, a defensive manoeuvre that sent a frosty chill rushing through her.
“Whilst I grieve for Andrew that is not why I was compelled to come here this evening.”
He shrugged. “Then what forced you to seek me out?”
Sucking in a breath and squaring her shoulders, she said, “I believe your brother’s death was not accidental. I believe someone murdered him.”
Tristan jerked his head back as though reeling from a hard slap. “You believe Andrew was m-murdered?” He gulped and swallowed deeply. “Why on earth would you think that?”
The story was far too complicated to condense into a sentence or two. “I cannot explain it now. But say you will meet me tomorrow in Hyde Park, and I will tell you everything.” Panic flared. She flew forward, put a hand on his arm. “You are the only person I can turn to for help.”
He stared at her black glove as though it was something foreign to him, something dirty and tainted. When his brows knitted together and a look of disdain flashed in his eyes, she knew he did not believe her.
“Andrew is dead,” he said bluntly. “Nothing I can do or say will bring him back.” He shuffled to the edge of the seat, wrapped his fingers around the handle on the carriage door. “I suggest you speak to your husband if you are in need of attention, for I cannot think of a single reason why someone would wish to hurt my brother.”
Isabella gaped at him as he opened the door and vaulted down to the pavement.
He struggled to look at her. “If I’ve any hope of being happy here, I must move forward. I cannot revisit the past. I’m sure you understand.” Without another word, he closed the door.
The clip of his shoes faded into the distance.
Isabella sat back in the seat as she struggled to make sense of her chaotic thoughts. She should have explained the catalogue of mysterious events before revealing her suspicions. Still, the mere mention of murder failed to rouse his curiosity. Indeed, he had implied she was somewhat dramatic, perhaps even deceitful.
How hypocritical of him.
He didn’t trust her. Their history obviously still weighed heavily on his mind. Perhaps he’d suspected she was the one responsible for informing his father of their elopement. Perhaps he’d doubted her desire to marry him and thought she had used any means necessary to avoid the match, and that had been the reason behind his sudden change of heart.
Something else troubled her, too.
Why would he tell her to speak to her husband?
How could he not know that Lord Fernall was dead?
Chapter 3
“Have no fear,” Matthew Chandler said slapping Tristan playfully on the back. “You’ll find no desperate debutantes here. There’s no need to scurry behind potted ferns in a bid to hide from matchmaking matrons. Trust me. Any virgin seen stepping through my door is sure to find their reputation in tatters come the morning.”
Tristan smiled as he let the decadent atmosphere soothe his anxious spirit. “There are some who would frown at the mere mention of me attending a masquerade so soon after Andrew’s death.”
He glanced around the ballroom, at the array of vibrant and somewhat indecent costumes, feeling rather more cheerful than he had of late. A few entertaining hours spent in Chandler’s townhouse was just what he needed. And his black domino afforded a certain anonymity.
“Propriety is not something my guests are overly concerned with.” Chandler’s green eyes shone with amusement. “You should make the most of the relaxed modes of decorum. Indulging one’s desires is a sure way to ease a troubled mind, my friend.”
Tristan had no intention of conducting an illicit liaison. He was simply grateful not to have Miss Smythe hanging from his coattails. “I was expected to attend Lady Padmore’s soiree, but I would prefer to stick pins in my eyes than endure another evening of fake smiles and mindless drivel.”
“I still don’t understand why you came home.” Chandler sighed. “Why give up your happiness just so an heir, which you have yet to produce I might add, can enjoy a life of wealth and prosperity long after you are dead. Spend it all now. That’s what I say. Live every day as though it could be your last.”
Tristan snorted. He admired Chandler’s honesty and relaxed attitude, but their circumstances were entirely different. “Your brother is still very much alive, possess good business acumen, is sensible enough to ensure your mother and sister never need go without. Your uncle dotes on you, pays your tailor’s bills and the repairs to your carriage. If you were forced to take your brother’s place, would you still host your exclusive parties then?”
Chandler shook his head. “Good Lord. You have been spending far too much time with your mother. Worrying is not good for the constitution. You’ll be grey and wrinkled before you reach thirty.” He draped his arm around Tristan’s shoulder and stared out over the crowded room. “You see all these people dancing, drinking and making merry. Everyone in here, bar you, has paid for the privilege.” Chandler chuckled. “Since Lord Delmont decided to retire from hosting his scandalous balls, I have been inundated with requests for membership. This is an exclusive club of sorts. Uncle Herbert hasn’t had to put his hand in his pocket for months.”
Tristan envied any man who had the courage and the wherewithal to live as he pleased. “Then I commend your efforts. But let me ask you a question. What will you do when you meet a woman you admire, one who disapproves of what you do here? Would you turn your back on a life of decadence and debauchery? Would you give it all up for love?”
“Love?” he scoffed. “I imagine love to be akin to madness, and I have no desire to spend my days in Bedlam.” Chandler brushed his mop of black hair from his brow. “Thankfully, I’m a man incapable of expressing sentiment. However, should such an unlikely occasion arise, I shall just have to hope she’s an heiress willing to trade money for aristocratic lineage.”
Tristan laughed. It was refreshing to spend time with someone with such loose morals.
“Come.” Chandler continued. “I’ll not leave you alone to wilt like a wallflower in the corner. If we cannot find a woman to spark your interest, we will drown your sorrows in a bottle of brandy.”
Tristan was about to surrender to his friend’s profligate suggestion when he noticed Chandler’s footman waving at them from the stairs. “It appears your footman wishes you to acknowledge him. Either that or he is so happy in his employment he wants the whole world to know.”
“Do I detect a hint of humour?” Chandler gave him a friendly elbow in the ribs. “See. You are beginning to sound more like your old self by the minute.”
After witnessing an exchange of nods and odd hand gestures, Tristan watched the footman return to his post. “I assume you could make sense of his ticks and twitches.”
Chandler nodded. “Of course. We have an interloper at the door. A lady seeking admittance. My footmen know not to turn away such a ravishing beauty for something as trivial as lacking an invitation.”
“How do you know she’s a ravishing beauty?” Tristan asked somewhat baffled.
“It is simple,” Chandler informed. “When Dodson touches his finger to his cheek, that means she is beautiful. When he pats his chest, that means she has the assets required to tempt a man to sin.”
“Good Lord.” Despite the licentious nature of the conversation, Tristan found it far more interesting than talk of ribbons and pins. “So have you given Dodson permission to let her in?”
“You should know I would never want a lady to leave here dissatisfied.” Chandler raised an arrogant brow. “It would be disastrous for my reputation. Now, don’t tear your gaze away from the stairs. Our beauty is about to make her entrance. Perhaps it might be my lady love, my heiress come to save me from a life as a dissolute rake.”
Tristan did not envy anyone forced to make a late appearance. To descend a flight of stairs whilst a hundred pairs of eyes searched for every flaw or
imperfection required a certain amount of courage.
He stood next to Chandler and watched with interest. The blood pumped through his veins at far too rapid a rate. The hairs at his nape jumped to attention. He felt excited, alive.
It felt so damn good.
As the mysterious beauty came through the double doors at the top of the stairs, Tristan sucked in a breath. Dressed in a close-fitting black silk gown, her face obscured by a black jewelled mask, the lady was utterly captivating.
“Most people believe black to be a morbid colour,” Chandler said, his eyes fixed on the lady before them. “Some would say it is rather dull and uninspiring. But I say it creates an air of wickedness, an element of intrigue that speaks to the hearts of men.”
Tristan stared. “Hearts? Are you certain that is the word you wished to use?”
“Watch how she scans the crowd,” Chandler said, his rich tone conveying the fact he found the sight highly stimulating. “Watch how she holds her neck defiantly, a warning to those who dare to question her right to be here.”
“Do … do you know her?” Tristan struggled to force the words from his mouth.
Chandler turned to look at him, his brows drawn together. “Are you telling me that you don’t? If so, I suggest you look a little closer. Indeed, her attendance here tonight is not a coincidence.” He turned his attention back to the lady on the stairs, rubbed his chin and said, “How interesting.”
Tristan blinked, narrowed his gaze and stared beyond the glittering mask and rouged lips. Her ebony hair was tied back in a loose knot at her nape. The style was simple. It reflected a relaxed attitude, a lack of vanity so opposed to the sensual aura she radiated. As he noted the narrow shape of her chin, the creamy hue of her skin, he felt the familiar tightening in his abdomen that only ever occurred with one woman. Whilst her eyes were hidden behind the delicate mask, he would stake his life that they were a dark, chocolate brown.
“Isabella.” He had not intended to say her name out loud.