What You Deserve (Anything for Love, Book 3)

by Adele Clee

  There were two doors on the first-floor landing. They knocked on the one nearest to the stairs, heard groans and grumbles emanating from within when they knocked for the third time.

  “What have I told you drunkards about—” The woman stopped abruptly. She opened the door fully and met their gaze. With a quick glance at the quality of Isabella’s vibrant gown, her filthy scowl became a beaming smile, despite the absence of a front tooth. “What can I do for you fine people at this very late hour?”

  Isabella placed her hand on his arm, a gesture to inform him of her desire to address the woman. “We are looking for someone,” she said. “A Mr. Blackwood. We were told he lives here.”

  The woman narrowed her gaze and scratched the greying hair at her temple. “A Mr. Blackwood you say? Does he have thick dark eyebrows that meet in the middle?”

  “I would not say they were entirely thick, but they do meet just above the bridge of his nose.”

  “Does he have a large mole on his cheek?”

  “Yes, I believe so,” Isabella said with a sigh.

  The woman rubbed her chin as she glanced up at the ceiling. “Does he have—”

  “Good heavens,” Tristan interrupted. “Can you just tell us if you know of him or not.”

  “He … he did live here, but now he’s moved.”

  “When?” Tristan stepped closer. “Do you know where we might find him?”

  “You’re not the first to come here looking for him. I could tell by Blackwood’s shifty stare he was up to no good.” With a mischievous glint in her eye, the woman said, “It can get mighty cold at night.” She took the ends of her shawl, wrapped them across her chest and shivered. “It doesn’t help having the door open all this time.”

  Isabella nudged him.

  He raised a brow in enquiry and through a series of animated facial expressions revealed he did not have so much as a coin on his person.

  The woman raised her chin as she was obviously well-versed when it came to silent communication. “You know, it’s not just woollen gloves what keeps your hands warm.”

  It did not take a genius to decipherer her meaning.

  Isabella held her hand out. “What about these gloves? Do you think they will help keep the cold at bay? You may have them if you can tell us where we might find Mr. Blackwood.”

  Clasping her hands to her chest, the woman gasped. “Oh, how kind of you, madam, to think of an old woman in her hour of need.”

  Tugging the gloves at the ends of the fingers, Isabella pulled them off. She clutched them in her hand. “Mr. Blackwood’s address and they are yours.”

  “Church Street.”

  Isabella offered the woman her silk gloves. “And the number.”

  “It’s behind the modiste. Number twelve, on the ground floor. I do some sewing for her when she’s running behind. That’s how I know he’s moved there.”

  Tristan put his hand out to prevent Isabella from delivering the prize. “Before we go, you mentioned someone else was curious to know of Mr. Blackwood’s whereabouts. Do you recall this person’s name?” Call it simple curiosity. Call it a need to be thorough in their investigation. “Did you tell them where to find the gentleman?”

  The woman’s rough fingers hovered in the air as she gripped the tip of the gloves. “He never gave his name. Neither did he offer any reward for keeping me standing at the door.”

  Tristan lowered his hand, and the woman greedily claimed her reward.

  “Pleasure doing business. Please call again.” With that, she closed the door to leave them standing in the hallway.

  Isabella turned to him. “Well, I cannot say I have ever heard of Church Street.”

  “It is but a five-minute walk from here. We will instruct Dawes to wait in Wardour Street and then see if we can find the elusive Mr. Blackwood.”

  “Let us hope I do not have to use all my garments to barter for information.”

  Tristan cast a wicked grin. “Oh, I don’t know. The idea has some appeal.”

  Chapter 19

  The lodgings on Church Street were similar to those on Gerrard Street, although the entrance to the upper floors could be found via a dingy passageway between two buildings.

  As with any place that offered some protection from the harsh elements, what appeared to be a mound of clothes piled up against the wall was indeed a man sheltering beneath an over-sized coat. Isabella covered the lower part of her face with her hand. Tristan imagined that the sudden stench of stale urine proved to be too overpowering for her. With no choice but to ignore the poor man’s plea for a spare coin, they entered the building through the door in the alley. Unlike the previous premises, there was accommodation on the ground floor.

  Tristan stepped forward and raised his hand to knock the paint-chipped door. “Let us hope the old woman told the truth and did not deceive us into giving her your best gloves. If you have to give away your slippers as a bribe for information, I am more than happy to carry you.”

  Isabella raised a brow. “We will lose your cravat before we lose anything else of mine.”

  He chuckled in the hope his amusement would help to ease her anxiety. After all, Mr. Blackwood had engaged in criminal activity; Tristan knew many thieves who had progressed to murder.

  Dismissing a faint hint of apprehension, he thumped the door with the side of his clenched fist. As expected, no one answered.

  “It is ridiculously late,” Isabella said moving to his side to assist him by rapping the crude brass knocker three times. “Perhaps he is tucked up in his bed.”

  Or perhaps the man was out fencing stolen goods.

  The sound of shuffling on the other side of the door caught Tristan’s attention. Unless rats were scurrying about the house, someone was listening to their every word.

  Tristan put his mouth to the gap between the frame and the door. “Mr. Blackwood,” he whispered. “We know you are in there. Let us in else we will be forced to call the constable.”

  The noises inside grew progressively louder. There was a range of mumbled curses, the dull thud of a heavy object falling to the floor.

  Was it Mr. Blackwood’s intention to make it obvious he was at home?

  “It sounds as though he is moving the furniture,” Isabella said.

  “Bloody hell!” Tristan grabbed Isabella’s hand. “No doubt he is attempting to climb out of the window.”

  They raced out into the dark alley, ignored the foul scent hanging in the air. They turned left and followed the cobbled path to a small courtyard at the rear of the building. A man, whom Tristan presumed to be Mr. Blackwood, sat astride the window ledge. With one leg on the ground and his head bent to navigate the low sash, the man was obviously trying to make his escape.

  Tristan cleared his throat. “Ah, Mr. Blackwood, have you lost your key?”

  The man craned his neck, gasped as his gaze fell to Isabella. With wide eyes, Mr. Blackwood stared at her with a look of horror.

  “Go away,” he whispered. “Leave now before it is too late.”

  The words were far from threatening. In fact, if Tristan was not mistaken, Mr. Blackwood appeared utterly terrified.

  “We are not leaving here until we have spoken to you.” Tristan stepped forward. “Now, we can do that out here, or we can come inside. We can do that with or without a constable.”

  There was a tense moment of silence.

  “We just want to talk to you,” Isabella added, “and then we will leave you in peace.”

  “Peace?” Mr. Blackwood continued to mutter to himself. While the rest of his words were incoherent, his rapid, high-pitched tone revealed an element of distress. “I’ve not had a minute’s peace for months. You … you had better come inside.”

  Isabella turned to Tristan and touched his arm. “If we leave he might not open the door.”

  She had a point. Whilst they were walking to the front door, Mr. Blackwood could easily escape through the window.

  “I shall wait here,” Tristan whispered. “
I’ll watch you walk down the alley until you are safely inside. Then I shall climb through the window.”

  Without a whimper or a murmur of protest, she nodded. The look of confidence flashing in her eyes made his chest swell with pride. She really was a remarkable woman.

  Mr. Blackwood attempted to drag his leg through the window, but he stumbled back, until naught but the sole of his shoe was visible.

  Tristan suppressed a snigger. “Once you have found your feet, you are to open the door for Lady Fernall. I shall enter via the window.”

  “It doesn’t seem as though I have a choice,” Blackwood groaned.

  Tristan watched Isabella until she entered the building. After a minute or so, she appeared at the raised sash and assisted him as he climbed through into a small parlour.

  Whilst Tristan brushed the cobwebs and dirt from his coat and breeches, Mr. Blackwood fiddled about with a tinderbox, lit the solitary candle and placed it on the mantelpiece. A musty smell lingered in the air but their host raced to the window, pulled down the sash and drew the dusty drapes.

  The sparsely furnished room consisted of a small sofa and two chairs. The coverings were far more threadbare than the ones in Isabella’s drawing room in Brook Street.

  “You may as well sit.” Mr. Blackwood gestured to the sofa. He waited for them both to take a seat before flopping into the chair nearest the hearth.

  Tristan observed the man’s demeanour. With his head hung low and his shoulders hunched, he did not appear to be capable of general everyday tasks, let alone theft and murder.

  “Do you know why we are here?” Tristan stared at the sorry state of a man, waiting to catch his gaze.

  “How did you know where to find me?” Mr. Blackwood looked up. A thick, dark line of hair ran the breadth of his forehead, giving the appearance of one eyebrow, not two.

  “A charming lady in Gerrard Street told us where to come,” Tristan informed him, his tone revealing a hint of pride in their investigative abilities.

  Mr. Blackwood did not pass comment but lifted his chin in a look of resignation. “I suppose it was too much to expect I could go about unnoticed.”

  Isabella straightened. “Do you not have something to say to me, Mr. Blackwood? Do you not owe me an apology for arranging a rather terrifying welcoming party whenever I returned home to Highley Grange?”

  The man’s long slug of a brow twitched. “You know about the ghost then?”

  Isabella scoffed. “The ghost? I think it is fair to say that Mrs. Birch is still of this world. What I fail to understand is why you saw fit to carry out Lord Fernall’s plans with such eagerness and commitment.”

  “It was for your own good, my lady.” Blackwood did not even attempt to deny his involvement.

  “My own good? Good heavens, I almost expired from fright.”

  Tristan patted her hands as they lay in her lap. “Lord Fernall has explained his reason for wanting the house vacated. Yet I do not see how, in any way, the outcome would prove satisfactory for Lady Fernall.”

  Mr. Blackwood pushed his hand through his hair and groaned. “While I am bound to act on my employer’s request, that was not the only reason I arranged to frighten my lady away.”

  “Then tell us your reason.” Tristan threw his hands up. “Good Lord, man, you owe the lady an explanation.”

  Mr. Blackwood shook his head. “What you don’t know cannot hurt you.”

  Damnation. The man spoke in riddles.

  “If you were so concerned for my welfare,” Isabella began, “then tell me why you saw fit to steal from me. I know you took valuable items from Highley Grange. I know you have my brooch.”

  With another pitiful groan, Mr. Blackwood buried his head in his hands. “I don’t have them anymore.”

  Tristan glanced at Isabella, noted the firm line of her jaw and knew she was struggling to suppress emotion. It was perhaps a little naive of her to assume the man had held onto something so precious.

  “Are you telling me you do not have my brooch?” she said in choked voice. “Well, what you have done with it?”

  “I’ve sold it, my lady.” He looked up, his frantic gaze flitting about the room, struggling to settle on anything. “I had to find the funds to allow me to relocate. I couldn’t take the risk of remaining in one place.”

  Isabella jumped to her feet. “You are not making any sense. Are you attempting to hide from your creditors? Have you gambled away a loan and now cannot repay. Heavens, will you not just explain yourself.”

  Tristan grasped her hand. He wanted to take her in his arms and make everything right. “Sit down, Lady Fernall. We must be calm if we are to discover the reasons behind Mr. Blackwood’s actions.”

  There was no doubt now that the man was guilty of theft. His confession was enough to see him hang. But to threaten him would serve no purpose. There was more to the story than what appeared on the surface. Reassurance was now their best plan of action.

  “We are here to help you, Mr. Blackwood.” Tristan squeezed Isabella’s hand as she sat down beside him. It, too, was a gesture of reassurance and trust. “But we must know the truth if we have any hope of solving our problems.”

  “I cannot say another word.” Mr. Blackwood stared at Isabella. “It is for your protection, my lady.”

  “Then let us ask our questions,” Tristan said, hoping to tease the information slowly from him. “And you may decide which ones you wish to answer.” He paused whilst he thought how best to proceed.

  “How long have you been stealing items from Highley Grange?” Isabella blurted before Tristan had a chance to speak. “I want a figure, nothing more.”

  “For … for just a few months. No longer than that. I swear.”

  The answer proved revealing.

  Mr. Blackwood had been stealing items since Andrew’s death, all to provide the money for him to hide away. A frosty chill shivered through him. Andrew may well have met his demise at the hands of another.

  “How long have you been using untoward methods to frighten Lady Fernall?” Tristan asked, although his constant use of Isabella’s married name was grating on him.

  “For six months, maybe more. Since his lordship requested me to find a way to persuade Lady Fernall to leave.”

  “And you did not object because, in the first instance, you are in Lord Fernall’s employ, and because you felt you were acting in the best interests of Lady Fernall,” Tristan clarified.

  Mr. Blackwood nodded. “That is correct.”

  “Were you responsible for frightening my husband during the few days before his death?”

  She was obviously referring to Lord Fernall’s accident with his horse and whatever had dragged him from his bed that night.

  “No, my lady. No.” Mr. Blackwood’s bottom lip quivered when he answered. “I had nothing to do with that.”

  “But you know who did?” Tristan spoke quickly in the hope of catching the man off guard.

  “Yes, but— no.”

  “I shall tell you my theory,” Tristan said as his mind clambered to piece together the relevant bits of information. “For the last three months, you have avoided any contact with Lady Fernall. Whenever she is at Highley Grange, you are in town. You say your actions stem from a need to protect her. It stands to reason then that you know something that would place her in danger.”

  Mr. Blackwood stared at him with wide eyes. He tugged at his cravat as though the tight knot was restricting the flow of air. “I knew if I spent time in your company, my lady, I would say something I would later regret.”

  By nature of his nervous disposition Tristan believed Blackwood would also struggle to hide his guilt for his part in the mysterious hauntings.

  “Why have you only shown concern for me these last three months when my husband has been dead for two years?” As soon as the words left Isabella’s mouth she gasped. “Good Lord. You know what happened to Lord Morford the night he fell from his horse.”

  Tristan shuffled uncomfortably. A hard lump f
ormed in his throat. “I am certain if we sat here long enough we would come up with the answers. You may as well explain yourself. As long as you do not divulge the culprit’s name you have nothing to fear.”

  Blackwood’s anxious gaze drifted back and forth between them.

  “There is every chance we have been followed here,” Isabella said. “Whilst we are running about blindly, the perpetrator will always be two steps ahead.”

  Mr. Blackwood dragged his hand down his face and sighed deeply. “I … I know who killed Lord Fernall—”

  “My husband was murdered?” Isabella shot to her feet. She clutched her throat and then dropped back onto the sofa. “I knew something was amiss. Was it his son, Henry Fernall?”

  “No, my lady. But don’t ask me for a name.”

  Tristan opened his mouth to speak, but it took a moment for him to form the words. “And did the same person murder my brother?”

  Mr. Blackwood shook his head. “Your brother’s accident happened just as they said. I was to ride with him back to London. But I was late and attempted to catch up with him near Hoddesdon.”

  Tristan dragged his hand down his face. Relief flowed through him. Nothing would bring his brother back but knowing his death was an accident was perhaps easier to bear.

  “I had told him about the night Lord Fernall died,” Mr. Blackwood continued. Now he had begun his story the words flowed freely. “I’d not wanted to tell a soul, but his lordship had a commanding way about him. He wanted me to go to London, to confront the gentleman responsible. But I avoided him, hid in the woods opposite the gates and watched him leave without me.”

  “Were you afraid to speak up?” Isabella asked, her tone soft, serene.

  “I’m the only witness. I didn’t want to reveal what I saw that night. But his lordship asked too many questions, prodding and probing until my mind was a jumbled mess.”

  Tristan suspected it would not take a great deal of effort to push the man to his limits.

  “But something made you change your mind,” Tristan said, “else you would not have attempted to follow my brother.”