What You Deserve (Anything for Love, Book 3)

by Adele Clee

  Mr. Blackwood shrugged. “I kept thinking, what if the scoundrel came back to Highley Grange? What if he thought to silence us all?”

  “Did you not think to tell the current Lord Fernall what you saw?” Isabella said.

  “At the time I had no proof. Besides, he is not an easy gentleman to talk to.”

  “And so you saw my brother fall from his horse?”

  Blackwood nodded. “He was dead by the time I got to him. I thought to get help, but then I remembered the notebook.” He hung his head. “I stole it from his saddle bag. When I heard the pounding of horse’s hooves I made it away through the woods.”

  Isabella sighed. “And you have been running ever since.”

  Tristan’s thoughts turned to Andrew’s notes. “Do you still have my brother’s book?”

  Blackwood simply nodded.

  “Why did you not think to bring it to me?”

  “How could I when it was the only thing keeping me alive,” Blackwood implored.

  Isabella sat forward. “The murderer knows you have the book?”

  “I don’t know what game Lord Morford was playing,” Blackwood said, “but after his death, the gentleman came back to Highley Grange. He knew of my involvement, and I have used the notebook to blackmail him into staying away.”

  “A gentleman you say.” Tristan had suspected a disgruntled guest was the likely candidate. “Has this gentleman not made some attempt to recover the book?”

  “One night, I returned to the gatehouse to find the place had been ransacked. I have been mugged twice in the space of a month. It is why I must move, why I cannot be seen to follow a routine.”

  Everything was beginning to make more sense. “Is that why you wanted Lady Fernall to leave Highley Grange? Is it because you fear what the gentleman might do in his desperation to find the notebook?”

  Blackwood nodded. “The gentleman is unstable I fear.”

  “And you are certain Lord Fernall did not simply trip and fall down the stairs?” Tristan had to ask the question. An innocent man would be just as determined to obtain slanderous material.

  “Lord Fernall did not fall down the stairs.” Blackwood’s eyes grew large and wide. “The gentleman came up behind him and snapped his neck as though it was nothing more than a twig.”

  “Good Lord!” Tristan could not hide his shock. It took a cold, callous man to behave in such a vicious manner. “And you bore witness to the crime.”

  “I shouldn’t have been in the house, but I’d taken Molly back to her room after … well … Mrs. Birch had locked the outer door leading to the servants’ quarters and so we’d come through the main hall. On my way back, I heard the boards creaking on the landing and so hid at the bottom of the stairs.”

  “Did you not hear a conversation?” Isabella asked. “Did the gentleman not give a reason for killing my husband?”

  “The gentleman crept up behind him. Lord Fernall was too slow to react. The gentleman caught his lordship before he hit the floor.”

  An eerie silence filled the room. Tristan presumed their minds were busy imagining the macabre scene.

  Blackwood suddenly jumped in his chair. “I do remember the gentleman saying something, though I thought both things odd at the time.”

  “Yes,” they replied in unison, hanging on Blackwood’s every word.

  “As he twisted Lord Fernall’s neck he said it was a little trick he had learnt in India. Then he threw Lord Fernall over his shoulder as though he was a sack of grain, carried him down the stairs and laid his body out on the floor. I hung back in the shadows, kept my hand across my mouth fearing he would hear me breathe.”

  “In India?” Tristan clarified.

  “Yes,” Blackwood replied. “And as he stood over the body he said that the Devil reaps what he sows. Then he walked out of the front door.”

  “India,” Tristan repeated.

  “Does that mean something to you?” Isabella asked.

  “It is just that I know someone who has recently returned from India,” he said rubbing his chin as the suspicious part of his mind grew more alert. “Perhaps it is simply a coincidence. After all, there must be many people who make such a journey.”

  “Samuel died two years ago. I doubt we are talking about the same person,” Isabella said confidently.

  She was right, of course. Besides, Mr. Fellows struck him as a man who lacked the strength to undo the knot in his cravat, let alone break a man’s neck with his bare hands.

  “How recently?” Blackwood said, chewing on his fingernail while he waited for a reply.

  “Excuse me?”

  “This person you are acquainted with, how recently did he return from India?”

  “I’m not sure. A few months ago.” Tristan shrugged. “I barely know the gentleman, but Mr. Fellows is far too affable—” He stopped abruptly, aware of the look of horror on Mr. Blackwood’s face. “What is it?”

  Blackwood gulped. “Mr. Fellows? But that is the name of the gentleman who murdered Lord Fernall.”

  Chapter 20

  “Do you think the plan will work?” Isabella rubbed the fine layer of mist from the carriage window with the tips of her fingers. She peered out into the dimly lit street, watched Mr. Blackwood’s hazy form disappear through a cloud of fog. “What if Mr. Fellows is not at home?”

  “Then Blackwood will leave a note for him to meet us in Green Park.”

  Doubt surfaced. “Mr. Blackwood scuttled away so quickly I do wonder if he will come back.” Indeed, the man had been fraught with fear at the thought of confronting a murderer.

  “Blackwood has nowhere else to go,” Tristan said with an air of confidence as he lounged back against the squab. “He has neither the funds nor the resourcefulness to hide indefinitely. And I have a feeling it will only be a matter of time before Mr. Fellows discovers where he has hidden the notebook.”

  Isabella sat back in the seat. Staring out of the window only served to make the time pass more slowly. “I have seen Andrew examining his notes numerous times during his visits to Highley Grange, but he refused to disclose the information. I know he told me he was making enquiries, but I did not imagine he would discover anything of interest.”

  “I must say I am rather intrigued to read what he has written. Hopefully, there will be something we can use against Mr. Fellows.”

  “We can only pray.” She dismissed the frisson of fear coursing through her. Should Mr. Fellows discover the extent of their involvement, they would be forever looking over their shoulders, too. “I shall be relieved to see an end to it all.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said with an amused grin. “I rather enjoyed our ghost hunting in the dead of night. I particularly enjoyed kissing away your fears. And watching you writhe restlessly in your sleep, that delightful cotton nightdress getting wrapped around your shapely thighs.”

  His playful tone helped to ease her anxiety. “You observed me sleeping?”

  “What else was I to do stuck in a rickety chair for hours?”

  “But you said you could sleep anywhere.”

  Tristan grinned. “I can unless there is a tempting beauty lying but a few feet away, calling out to me during her whimsical dreams.”

  Panic flared. “What … what did I say?”

  Tristan rubbed his chin as he stared thoughtfully at a point beyond her shoulder. “You said something about how pleased you were to have me home.”

  She narrowed her gaze. “Had I been talking about you I would have said something far more salacious, though I am pleased you found a modicum of pleasure whilst cramped in the chair.” Her most memorable moment had occurred a little later. “I much preferred our early evening activities. Who would have thought that a waltz in a musty drawing room could be so stimulating.”

  His heated gaze bored into her soul. “When we return to Brook Street we will have to work on improving our line.”

  Desire unfurled. “How can one improve on perfection?”

  “We could try a new da
nce. Something novel yet equally as satisfying.”

  Had they been alone, she was confident they would not have waited another second to fall into each other’s arms.

  With the highly charged feeling of unsated desire in the air, they fell into a companionable silence, though she suspected they were both lost in amorous thoughts.

  She could not help but stare at him. Tristan closed his eyes, his breathing slowing to a calm, relaxed rate. Mere days ago she thought they would never share a civil word. Now, they had indulged their deepest passions, shared their darkest desires. Joining with him had been the most precious, most fulfilling moment of her life.

  The sudden creak of the carriage door as it flew open dragged her out of her reverie.

  Mr. Blackwood clambered inside, his ragged breathing evidence he had run all the way back to the conveyance.

  “Did you speak to him?” Tristan straightened, closed the door and thumped the roof to alert Dawes of their intention to leave.

  The carriage lurched forward almost immediately.

  “Quick, you must h-hurry,” Mr. Blackwood stammered as he grabbed onto the edge of the seat to stop himself falling forward. “He cannot know we are together.”

  “You spoke to Mr. Fellows?” Tristan reiterated.

  Mr. Blackwood nodded vigorously. “Yes. Yes. He has agreed to meet me near the D-dead Man’s Tree in Green Park.”

  “The Dead Man’s Tree?” She had heard that the park was once a haunt for highwaymen, a place renowned for notorious duels. “That sounds rather ominous.”

  “Some refer to it as the Tree of Death,” Tristan said. “It is a popular place for those who wish to end their lives … prematurely.”

  Despite his tactful explanation, she recoiled as she imagined stumbling upon a stiff body swaying from a bough.

  “There is something so sinister about excessive facial hair,” Mr. Blackwood randomly said as he shivered visibly. “Mr. Fellows’ bushy side-whiskers give him a menacing aura. I swear, had I the notebook in my possession he would have broken my neck on the doorstep.”

  Isabella stared at Mr. Blackwood sitting opposite. Had the man never glanced in the mirror? Did he not know his eyebrows were just as strange and forbidding?

  Tristan cast Mr. Blackwood a sidelong glance. “Did you inform him you wished to make an exchange?”

  “Yes. He promised two hundred pounds for the book. I told him … I told him I planned to move away, that I have a cousin in Lancashire and had no desire to return to the city. I told him I am tired of hiding in the shadows.”

  “Did he believe you?”

  Mr. Blackwood shrugged.

  Tristan removed his pocket watch and angled the face towards the window. “It is just past three. Did you tell him to meet you at five?”

  “Yes, five as you suggested.”

  “Then you will need to tell us where you hid the notebook, Mr. Blackwood,” Isabella said. She understood his need for secrecy but time was of the essence. “We must retrieve it if we are to meet Mr. Fellows.”

  It was Tristan who spoke. “Er, Mr. Blackwood has told me where he has hidden the book. I have already informed Dawes of our destination.”

  “Oh.” No one had thought to mention it to her. “Is it far?”

  “No. Just off Grosvenor Square.”

  It suddenly occurred to her that Tristan had not mentioned what he intended to do once at Green Park. “If the notebook contains the proof needed to substantiate the allegations against Mr. Fellows, why do we need to meet him in the park? Surely it is best to go straight to the authorities.”

  Tristan shuffled in his seat. “We cannot trust the authorities to act quickly enough. With Mr. Blackwood being the only witness, Mr. Fellows could easily find a way to manipulate him. Equally, the book may prove to be useless. No. I’m afraid we need a confession.”

  She suspected he meant to say something far more sinister than manipulate but did not wish to frighten Mr. Blackwood any more than was necessary. “It will only be our word against his. If you don’t mind me saying, it is all very speculative considering we do not know what is written in the notebook.”

  “We don’t need to know,” Tristan replied. “Fellows believes the book incriminates him. We will use it as a bargaining tool to force him to admit his crimes. And the word of two peers will help to bolster our cause.”

  “Two peers?”

  The carriage rumbled to a halt before Tristan could answer. Isabella wiped the window and peered at the imposing townhouse. The tall Doric columns supporting the portico looked familiar, as did the brass door knocker in the shape of a lion’s head.

  “But this is Lord Fernall’s house,” she said, her high-pitched tone revealing her surprise.

  “I … I have been overseeing the renovations to the upper rooms,” Mr. Blackwood informed. “I thought it a perfect place to hide the notebook. Should anything untoward happen to me, then I hoped Lord Fernall might one day stumble upon it and discover what really happened to his father.”

  “I assume Lord Fernall knows nothing of this.” She sat back to give Tristan the opportunity to open the door. “Are we to inform him of our intentions or are we to sneak through the servants’ quarters in the hope we are not noticed?”

  “We need Lord Fernall’s help.” Tristan opened the door and vaulted down to the pavement. He smiled as he offered her his hand. “I’m afraid we’ve no choice but to knock the front door.”

  Chapter 21

  They were shown into Lord Fernall’s study. Saunders went to rouse his master who had returned home but an hour before.

  “I thought the butler was about to slam the door in our faces,” Tristan said pulling out the chair for her to sit. “That was until you introduced yourself.”

  It was the first time she had ever been thankful for bearing the Fernall name. “I have been to this house many times, but I believe Saunders has only worked here for a little over a year.”

  Tristan paced back and forth in the space to the right of her chair as they waited for Lord Fernall. He grumbled and sighed whenever he removed his pocket watch and glanced at the face. Mr. Blackwood hovered to her left, his breathing far too laboured for a man standing motionless.

  “There is a perfectly good clock on the mantelpiece,” she said. Tristan’s fidgeting was starting to make her anxious. It did not take much to unnerve Mr. Blackwood. Indeed, she noted beads of perspiration on his brow, noted him wincing as he pressed his fingers to his temple.

  Tristan tucked the offending item back into his pocket. “There is something about the ritual of checking one’s watch that appears to accelerate time.”

  “It is all in the mind,” she countered.

  The clip of brisk footsteps echoing through the hall captured their attention. Lord Fernall entered. The gentleman had obviously dressed in a hurry and had not quite managed to force his arm through the sleeve of his coat.

  “What is the meaning of calling at such a late hour?” Henry’s irate gaze drifted over them as he fumbled with his attire. When his penetrating stare settled on Mr. Blackwood, a muttered curse fell from his lips. He turned to her. “Have I not already explained my reasons for acting as I did? There was no need to drag poor Mr. Blackwood from his bed.”

  With a sudden wave of rage, Tristan stepped forward. “I should beat you to a pulp for what you have done to Isabella. What sort of gentleman terrifies a woman in her home?”

  Henry’s face flamed berry red. “Not that I have to explain myself to you,” he began, “but I believed I was acting in Lady Fernall’s best interest.”

  “Nonsense.” Tristan squared his shoulders. “You wanted to throw her out to make way for your mistress?”

  Henry glanced at Mr. Blackwood. “This is hardly the place to discuss such matters. I did not drag myself out of bed for you to berate me for my failures.” He turned to face her. “I thought we had come to an agreement.”

  She stood, purely because she refused to be spoken down to, even literally. “We are n
ot here to discuss the ghostly goings on at Highley Grange. We are here because we have proof that someone murdered your father, and we need your help to ensure justice is served.”

  Henry frowned until his brows practically overhung his lids. He took two steps back, shook his head numerous times as though that would help to solve the problem with his hearing.

  “Murdered?” he repeated. “Is this some sort of joke? Is this your way of exacting your revenge for me wanting you to leave Highley Grange?”

  “It is all true, my lord.” Mr. Blackwood stepped forward, his hands clasped in front of him. “I witnessed the event. I saw the man who murdered your father.”

  “Wait a minute.” Henry rubbed his temple. “You witnessed my father’s death and yet did not think to mention it before?”

  “There was no proof, nothing but my word. I didn’t think anyone would believe me.” Mr. Blackwood looked to his feet. “It was cowardly of me to remain silent. I know that now.”

  “I have always suspected foul play,” Isabella said lifting her chin. “But my opinion was partly based on the suspicious incidents occurring at the Grange.”

  Tristan cleared his throat. “In a bid to settle Lady Fernall’s fears my brother conducted an investigation. He wrote everything down in a notebook which Mr. Blackwood retrieved upon my brother’s death and which is now hidden somewhere in this house. The murderer wants it, and has arranged to meet Mr. Blackwood in order to make a trade.”

  Henry’s eyes grew large and wide as his curious gaze scanned the room. “You left the notebook here?” he snapped. “Good Lord. There is a criminal on the loose, and you left an incriminating piece of evidence in my house.” Henry rubbed the back of his neck. Judging by the flash of fear in his eyes he appeared grateful his head was still firmly attached to his body. “And are you here to reclaim this book?”

  Mr. Blackwood shuffled from one foot to the other. “It is hidden under the boards in what will be the new master chamber. We must take it with us.”