by Adele Clee
“What? Do your lofty manners prevent you from playing cards in the drawing room and drinking my sherry?” Isabella mocked.
Sedgewick’s cheeks turned berry red. “A regrettable incident that will not happen again, my lady.”
Isabella noted the piece of cloth tied around Molly’s finger. “I am told the paint smeared over the wall in the master chamber burns when it comes into contact with the skin. Is that not correct, Lord Morford?”
“It is, Lady Fernall. Perhaps we should consider your maid’s obvious injury to her finger as an admission of guilt.”
“No, my lady,” Molly cried holding up the offending article. “I scalded it yesterday when heating the water for his lordship’s bath.” Her frantic gaze shot to Mrs. Birch. “Tell them it wasn’t me who ruined the wallpaper. Tell them we had no choice but to do what Mr. Blackwood said.”
“For goodness sake, girl.” Mrs. Birch shook her head and with a grunt of resignation stepped forward. “Mr. Blackwood told us what we had to do.”
Tristan straightened. “Did Mr. Blackwood say why you were to terrify your mistress?” The muscles in his cheek twitched. Anger radiated from him, hot and fiery. “Make no mistake. What you have done here could be regarded as deception, deception with the intent to cause harm.”
The colour drained from their faces; their complexions turned ashen, their eyes wide with alarm.
“Causing my lady harm was never our intention.” Mrs. Birch cleared her throat and turned her attention to Isabella. “Mr. Blackwood said Lord Fernall resents his father for forcing you to stay in this house. Lord Fernall thinks you should reside at Grangefields, a more respectable abode. This house is no place for a lady.”
“Well, why did he not say so instead of devising such a ridiculous charade?”
“You’ll have to ask his lordship. Mr. Blackwood is the one who passed on his instruction.”
“And what of the hound I hear howling outside my window at night?”
Mrs. Birch lowered her gaze. “It’s my nephew’s dog. Mr. Blackwood trained him to sit in the same spot by burying fresh meat.”
Isabella flopped down onto the gilt-framed settee. She was so tired. Since her mother’s death she had struggled to settle, struggled to call any place her home. Her life during the last five years had been an awful lie. A marriage of convenience simply to ease her pain, to prove a point. A loveless arrangement to a gentleman known for his rakish behaviour and utter lack of morals.
Isabella stared at her housekeeper. “Was there a point in all of this where you questioned if what you were doing was wrong?”
Mrs. Birch nodded. “Mr. Blackwood can be very persuasive. He insisted it was for the best. We could see it was causing you distress which is the only reason we went to such great lengths last night.”
Isabella could not even rouse the energy to pity them.
“You may all leave us,” she said in a tone as cold as her heart. “Resume your duties until I tell you otherwise. I shall confer with Lord Fernall and decide what is to be done here.”
The women offered a curtsy, Sedgewick a low bow, before retreating sombrely from the room.
Tristan came to sit beside her. “They were acting on instruction,” he said. “I’m afraid their loyalty lies with the gentleman who employs them.”
Isabella sighed; she was not so naive as to suppose it would be any different. “Perhaps they felt they were acting in everyone’s best interest. But it reaffirms my need to find an alternative place to reside. I refuse to be beholden to Henry.”
Tristan placed his hand over hers as they lay in her lap. “Do not be too hasty. We shall discuss the matter with Lord Fernall. Only then will you know how best to proceed.”
She looked up into his piercing blue eyes. “We? You intend to accompany me when I call on Henry?”
“If that is what you want.”
Emotions were a strange thing. Tristan had broken her heart, smashed it into a million tiny pieces. Now, every kind word and gesture went some way to help heal the damaged organ. Would it ever be whole again? Would she ever be capable of loving with the same passionate intensity?
“I do not know what to do.” She glanced down at the large masculine hand enveloping hers. His warm touch made her pulse race a little too rapidly; it also brought a measure of peace, serenity. “Perhaps it is best not to think about it too much. They say a calm mind is a path to wisdom.”
Tristan stood, walked over to the window are stared at the view beyond. “I suggest we stay here for the time being.”
Her heart fluttered up to her throat. “Stay here?”
“I am certainly in no rush to return to London. Give yourself another day or two before you call on Henry Fernall.”
He had promised to help her, and he had, but whilst they had solved the mystery of the haunting there was still the matter of murder to consider.
“The hauntings turned out to be nothing more than the work of an overbearing peer, but I am still convinced a murderer is lurking in our midst.”
He turned to face her. “One thing is clear. The feigned hauntings bear no relation to Lord Fernall’s death, or to Andrew’s death for that matter. Perhaps they were both accidents. Perhaps fear played havoc with your imagination.”
Isabella shook her head and clenched her jaw with a level of determination she rarely expressed. “You’re wrong. Andrew believed me. He made enquiries, spoke to a few gentlemen who knew Samuel well. He kept a notebook—”
“I’m certain Andrew would have said or done anything just to spend more time in your company.” His bitter tone sliced through the air. “Andrew always had an ulterior motive for everything he did.”
She came to her feet and closed the gap between them. “Why can you not accept that he had changed? Do not mistake me. I found it so hard to forgive him for dragging me away from you that night at the coaching inn.”
The mere mention of the night they eloped roused a host of painful memories. With the assistance of his coachman, Lord Morford had held Tristan at bay whilst Andrew had picked her up and bundled her into his carriage. She had cried until there were no tears left to shed. She had sworn never to forgive them for their treachery.
But loneliness and despair had overshadowed all other emotions.
“I will never forgive him.” Tristan’s expression darkened, and he narrowed his gaze. “But you do not need to pretend anymore. Andrew was your saviour, and that is why you were able to bear his company when I could not stand to look at him.”
“My saviour?” She struggled to understand his meaning. “Yes, he helped me when Samuel died, when I had no one to turn to for guidance and support. In doing so, I forgave him for informing your mother of our elopement. I forgave him for ruining my life.”
Tristan rubbed his neck as he gave a contemptuous snort. “I cannot believe I am about to defend my brother, but you are the only person responsible for ruining your life. Andrew did not force you to marry Lord Fernall.”
Isabella swallowed down the hard lump in her throat. She clenched her fists for fear of slapping him. “No, Andrew did not force me into the arms of another man. You did, with your cold words and blatant disregard.”
Tristan stared at her blankly. “I recall the last words spoken between us were at the coaching inn. I called out, told you I loved you. I told you no one would ever keep us apart.”
Hearing the words fall from his lips brought the pain of the last five years flooding back. “But you said your affections for me stemmed from your need to defy your parents. You were reckless and thrived on the thrill that came with disobeying their wishes.”
His mouth hung open; his frown created two deep furrows between his brows. “I never said that. Why would I say such a thing when it is not true?”
Her mind raced. Her chest grew tight, her face hot. “You said so in your letter.”
“What letter?”
She struggled to breathe. “The letter you wrote to me on the night your father brought us both back
to Kempston Hall.”
“I am at a loss.” He shook his head. “Why would I write to you when we prided ourselves on being so open and honest with one another?”
Panic flared. “Then be honest with me now.”
“Trust me when I say I did not write to you.”
She put her hand to the base of her throat. “But I have your letter here with me.” She carried it around with her, had read it only the day before. She read it whenever she needed reminding that he did not want her. “It bears your signature.”
There was a moment of silence.
The colour drained from his cheeks until his skin took on a deathly pallor. “Then I suggest you go and fetch this letter, Isabella,” he sucked in a ragged breath, “for I fear we have both been cruelly deceived.”
Chapter 11
Tristan paced back and forth while he waited for Isabella to return to the drawing room. He stopped, sat down on the settee, held his head in his hands as he attempted to make sense of their conversation.
One innocent comment, said in a fit of frustration, had now put everything he believed to be true into question. He rocked to ease the pressure building in his head. He could not bear to acknowledge the agonising ache wreaking havoc with his heart.
God, he hoped he was wrong. Living with the thought of her not wanting him had been torturous. To live knowing there had been a perfidious plan to keep them apart would be unbearable.
The door flew open. Isabella darted into the room in a state of agitation. “Here,” she said waving the heavily creased paper in the air. “This is the letter you sent to me.”
Tristan jumped to his feet and closed the gap between them. With hesitant fingers, he took the letter from her hand. He was desperate to read it, yet he knew the words would bring nothing but pain.
He tried to assess the faded script logically: it was not written in his hand. The long, confident flourishes were the mark of an arrogant man. Sucking in a breath, he read the first line. There was nothing untoward. The tone conveyed a warmth of feeling: she meant the world to him, which was why he had no option but to let her go.
My father was right. We are like kin. The love I feel is not what a man should feel for his wife. I made a mistake.
“Hell and damnation!” He covered his mouth with his hand for fear of bringing Satan’s curse down on everyone.
Isabella shuffled closer. Her flustered demeanour revealed an impatience for answers. “What is it, Tristan? Tell me. Now do you remember writing it?”
It is best that you leave here, that you leave Kempston Hall, for to be together will only serve to bring us both unnecessary pain.
Tristan tried to swallow, but his jaw held firm, locked and frozen in so rigid a position he was in danger of cracking the bone. Fury, red and hot, coursed through his veins. His vision grew hazy, the words on the paper lost in a blur.
“I did not write this.” He wanted to shout as a way to release the pent-up emotion. But despair washed over him like a giant wave sweeping away all traces of anger. “I did not write this,” he repeated quietly.
She grasped his arm. “What do you mean? Of course you wrote it.” She blinked rapidly, her eyes overly bright. “You mentioned our walks in the garden. You spoke of our plans to wed.”
Tristan shook his head. “I did not write it, Isabella.”
“Then who—” She broke on a sob. Clutching her throat, she stared at him, confusion and fear giving way to anguish. “What are you saying? You … you did not want me to leave Kempston? You did not want us to part?”
His throat was so tight he could barely speak. “I loved you. Why would I have wanted any of those things?”
Time stopped momentarily.
A heart-wrenching cry burst from Isabella’s lips. “No! Please Lord, no.” Her knees buckled; her legs gave way, and she crumpled to a heap on the floor. “Please, it cannot be true.” She bowed her head, her body shaking as she sobbed uncontrollably.
In his dazed state, it took him a few seconds to react. He knelt down, put his hand on her shoulder. Damn, he could not stop the water welling in his eyes.
“Come,” he said knowing he had to remain calm for both their sakes. “Let me help you to your feet. Let us sit and talk.”
Despite the painful emotions, vengeance flamed to life in his chest. Someone would pay. At this precise moment, he didn’t care who.
He cupped her elbow, brought them both to their feet. She fell into his arms as her legs struggled to support her weight. For a time he held her there, rubbed his hand over her back in small circular motions until her breathing slowed.
“Tell me it is not true,” she muttered into his chest. “I can live with loss but I cannot live with this.” She pulled away and looked up at him, her puffy red eyes revealing the extent of her sorrow. “Do you know what hurts me most of all?”
“No.” The word was quieter than a whisper.
“You went away believing I did not love you.”
He sighed as he brushed a lock of ebony hair from her face. “I was told you had made a mistake. I woke to find you gone, soon discovered you had married.”
She closed her eyes briefly as another tear fell. “And so … so you ran away to France. You’ve spent five years believing I abandoned you to marry another. I can understand why you did not want to come home.”
He would have done anything to avoid seeing her again. He should have had more faith. “Mr. Chandler told me that illogical behaviour often stems from a misunderstanding. I would have questioned your motives for leaving had I been given more time.”
“Then I am the one to blame.” She shook her head vigorously. “I should have come to you. I should have demanded an explanation before running off into the night. My only defence is that I was vulnerable, a young girl without family, a young girl so easily manipulated by those she thought she could trust.”
“We are not to blame,” he said firmly. The guilt was not theirs to bear. “Someone ruined our lives for their own purpose, and I will not rest until I discover the reason why.”
She gave a weak smile. “Then know that I feel the same way. But all is not lost. We have salvaged something from the wreckage. You came to my aid when I needed help even though you were convinced I had abandoned you to marry another. That is the sign of a true friend, Tristan. Whatever wickedness was at play here, they have not succeeded in their effort to keep us apart. Despite all we believed to be true, we were able to put our differences aside and come together.”
“And together we will find the answers. We will discover the truth.” He glanced at the drinks tray, at the amber liquid calling to him from the decanter. “I’m in need of a drink, and then we shall sit down and relive the painful memories of that night.”
“Then I shall join you,” she said dabbing the corner of her eye with the pad of her finger. “We must be honest with each other now, though I know it will hurt.”
He poured himself a glass of brandy, her a sherry, remained silent through the process for his mind continued to recall the gut-wrenching moment his mother told him Isabella had married Lord Fernall.
“These things are for the best,” his mother had said. “The girl obviously doesn’t care for you.”
Those words had been a lie.
Someone had written the letter on his behalf. While the motive for such an evil betrayal eluded him, there were but three people with the opportunity to deceive. His father and brother were dead. With only his mother left to question, he had to accept there was a possibility he would never discover the truth.
“I keep replaying the events over in my mind,” Isabella said as he handed her the glass of sherry before sitting in the chair opposite. “I find myself forced to question Andrew’s motives for being so kind to me these last few years. And I do not want to think ill of him when he is not here to defend himself.”
“Based on what we know, it is fair to say that at least one member of my family was involved in the deception.” He swallowed his brandy, let the wa
rmth of the spirit soothe him. “Andrew was spoilt, often jealous. It would not surprise me to learn he acted out of spite. He was the only person who knew of our elopement. He expected us to leave Kempston in the dead of night, which was why I chose to hire a carriage and leave at noon.”
“You meant to give us a few hours start?”
“I knew he would not think to alert my parents until we failed to come down for dinner.”
She smiled. “You never mentioned any of this at the time.”
He inclined his head respectfully. “As the gentleman, it was my responsibility to ensure I planned for every eventuality. The mistakes I made were foolish when I think back now. Marcus would chastise me for my naivety. But I was just a boy, desperately trying to be a man.”
“We were young and in love, of course we were naive and foolish.” She took a sip of her sherry. “Do you ever wonder what our lives would have been like had your father not discovered us at the coaching inn?”
Wonder?
He had spent many hours awake at night dreaming of just that.
“We would have married, lived in a remote village far away from society’s prying eyes. I would have been disowned for bringing shame on my family, forced to work to support you.” It was a rather grim view, but they were the thoughts of a broken man. “Things would have been difficult, but I hope we could have been happy.”
She put her hand to the base of her throat and swallowed. “I would have been happy as long as we were together.”
He snorted. The contemptuous sound revealed his belief that the reality would have been so far removed from the stories told in romantic poetry. “Fate obviously had other things in store for us.”
“And yet we are here together now.”
He rubbed his chin as he considered her comment. A few months ago, he would have cursed and protested with uncontrollable vehemence at the mere suggestion of spending the night at her house. “Then we must be grateful for something.”