What You Deserve (Anything for Love, Book 3)

by Adele Clee

  “Then go and get it this instant.” Henry’s frantic hand movements revealed his impatience.

  Mr. Blackwood scuttled from the room.

  They waited in silence.

  The tension in the air felt heavy and oppressive.

  Henry paced back and forth in a military fashion, whilst Tristan’s clenched jaw and disapproving stare conveyed an emotion that could best be described as menacing.

  Mr. Blackwood’s frantic steps could be heard racing through the hall, but he slowed to a walking pace as he entered the study. “Here … here it is.” He waved the small leather-bound book, first at Tristan and then at Henry, not knowing what to do. No doubt his loyalty to his employer would play a hand in forcing his decision.

  “The notebook belongs to Lord Morford,” Isabella said in a bid to bring clarity to the situation. “It is his by rights, regardless of where it has been kept.”

  The corners of Tristan’s mouth curved up into a discreet grin as their gazes locked. His blue eyes sparkled with a vitality that stole her breath.

  “Then give it to him,” Henry snapped as he shooed Mr. Blackwood away. “I am tired and in need of my bed.”

  Tristan took the notebook. He ran his fingers over the brown leather, placed his palm flat on the cover as though it still contained the essence of his brother. With a shake of the head, he flipped the book open and scanned the pages, stopped periodically and traced various words with the tip of his finger.

  She moved to his side, resisted the urge to touch his arm, to peer over his shoulder. Regardless of Andrew’s failings, it must hurt to read the words, knowing he would never have another opportunity to hear his brother’s voice.

  “Is it what we suspected?” she asked softly. “Is there anything we can use to support Mr. Blackwood’s statement?”

  Tristan looked up at her. It was not pain she saw in his eyes but rather a glint of satisfaction that suggested Andrew had been thorough in his investigation. “We have the times and dates of passage for numerous trips to India. We have a list of all the gentlemen who attended Samuel Fernall’s events at Highley Grange, one of whom is Mr. Fellows. We—”

  “Mr. Fellows?” Henry interjected. “The gentleman with the extravagant side-whiskers?”

  “Have you had dealings with the gentleman before?” Isabella asked. She could not imagine Henry participating in his father’s debauched games.

  Henry cleared his throat. “I know he attended various parties at the Grange. Upon my father’s wishes, I threw him out when he became … shall we say rather loud and uncooperative.”

  “Good Lord.” Tristan sucked in a breath as he studied one particular page.

  “What is it?” Isabella put her hand to her throat as she anticipated his reply.

  Tristan glanced up at Henry, pursed his lips as confusion marred his brow. “Are you aware of any other children your father may have sired?”

  Pulling himself up to his full height, Henry said, “I am the only heir.”

  “That does not answer the question.” Tristan cocked a brow in mild reproof. “You either know, or you don’t.”

  Henry’s arrogant façade faltered. “I am aware he was unfaithful to my mother, that he had numerous illegitimate offspring dotted about here and there.”

  “I was not aware,” Isabella said feeling a little disgruntled. She was surprised. Samuel had never felt the need to hide the licentious part of his character.

  Tristan handed her the notebook. “It makes for interesting reading.”

  With some hesitation, she flicked through the first few leaves. There were pages of times, dates, the names of ships travelling to Madras. Mr. Fellows had left for India mere days after Samuel’s death, returned a month before Andrew met his demise. There were pages of names, some peers, some she recognised. Andrew had taken statements from those whose dissipated antics were well known.

  To say Andrew had done a thorough job was an understatement.

  She turned the page and read the first few lines of what appeared to be a witness statement. Indeed, the time, date and location were recorded. “There is a testimony from a servant who worked for Mrs. Fellows. How on earth did Andrew get the maid to speak?”

  Tristan shrugged. “If you read on, you will see that the servant was tending to Mrs. Fellows just before she died. The nurse heard Mrs. Fellows tell her son that he was illegitimate.”

  Henry scoffed. “If you are about to say that Mr. Fellows is my father’s son, then I already suspected as much.”

  “What?” Tristan and Isabella said in unison.

  A folded piece of paper fell from the notebook onto the floor. Tristan picked it up.

  “I overheard an argument about money,” Henry informed in a matter-of-fact tone. “I assumed it was over a gambling debt. But no doubt Mr. Fellows sought financial compensation.”

  She turned to Tristan, who was busy scanning the paper. “Is it anything of interest?”

  Tristan stared at her though she could not gauge his mood. “It is certainly interesting, but it does not pertain to the case.”

  “May I see it?” She held out her hand, sensed his slight hesitation.

  “Certainly. I believe it belongs to you.”

  Isabella took the paper, peeled back the folds to find a sketch of a naked woman. Focusing on the woman’s eyes, she knew the figure was drawn in her likeness.

  Henry stifled a yawn. “If you have what you came for can I retire to my bed?”

  Tristan sucked in a breath. “Are you not the least bit interested in catching the man who murdered your father?”

  “Good Lord, no. It was only a matter of time before one of his dissipated guests finished him off.”

  Isabella was struggling to focus on the conversation. She did not care that Andrew had made the sketch. But she feared Tristan would question how his brother came to possess such insight.

  “I need you to come with us,” Tristan said. “Should Mr. Fellows elude us, he may come here. The man is dangerous and unpredictable. I would not be at all surprised to find that you and the delightful Mrs. Forester are the casualties of a horrific carriage accident. Then again, house fires are common and hide any evidence of foul play.”

  Henry gulped. “Why … why should Mr. Fellows care what I think?”

  “You’re a witness. You can attest to the argument, to the volatile nature of his relationship with your father. You had the notebook in your possession.” Tristan raised a brow. “Just think how grateful Mrs. Forester will be when she learns you captured a criminal in order to protect her.”

  Henry appeared to ponder the comment. “What would I have to do?”

  “Nothing. You just need to bear witness to the conversation. You may tell Mrs. Forester what you wish. I will not discredit your account.”

  There was a brief moment of silence.

  “Very well.” Henry inclined his head. “Give me a moment and I shall come with you.”

  While they waited for Henry to return, Isabella took the opportunity to speak to Tristan.

  “I had no idea Andrew had made this sketch,” she said taking his arm and pulling him to the furthest corner of the study.

  “You mean you did not pose for him?” There was not a trace of suspicion or anger in his tone.

  “Of course not.” She could not hide the panic in her voice. “Please tell me you did not think I would do such a thing?”

  A smile touched his lips. “In the first instance, I trust your word. In the second, it is evident that my brother has never seen you naked.” He moistened his lips as he stared at her mouth. “Your hips are far more curvaceous, your breasts are fuller, more—”

  “Yes.Yes.” She waved her hand in the air as relief coursed through her. “You do not have to go into detail.”

  He took her hand, threaded his fingers through hers. “I want you to do something for me.” His tone revealed a slight apprehension.

  “You know I would do anything you asked.”

  “I do not want you to
come to Green Park. I want you to wait for me in Brook Street.”

  She swallowed down the sudden pain in her throat. “But why? I will not be a burden.”

  His eyes grew bright, filled with affection. “You could never be a burden, but I cannot concentrate on the task if I am worrying about you.”

  “I don’t think I can bear to sit there waiting, not knowing what has happened to you.”

  “Nothing will happen to me. We will deal with Mr. Fellows and then put this all behind us. It will be over in a few hours and we shall spend the rest of the day making up for the years we have missed.”

  He looked so worried, so tormented, that she felt she had no choice but to agree. “I do not want to hinder you in any way. It would break me if you got hurt because you were looking after me.”

  Henry Fernall marched into the study. “Let us get this over with.”

  A hint of cologne drifted through the air; the woody aroma made her nose itch.

  “We are not going to meet royalty,” Tristan scoffed.

  “One should always leave the house looking their best.” Henry tugged at the lapels of his clean coat. “One never knows whom they might meet.”

  After spending a few minutes copying some of Andrew’s notes onto a separate piece of paper, they departed for Brook Street.

  During the five-minute carriage ride, no one spoke. Henry Fernall used the opportunity to take a quick nap. Mr. Blackwood spent the time nibbling his fingernails. Isabella sat next to Tristan. Beneath the satin folds of her gown, they held hands.

  Had Henry Fernall not agreed to accompany him, Isabella would have insisted on going, too. But she did not want to be a distraction, nor did she wish to spend time in Henry’s company.

  “Promise me you will be careful.” Isabella stood in the doorway of the house in Brook Street. She put her hand on Tristan’s chest in the hope it would bring some comfort. Her heart thumped wildly against her ribs. The time for complete honesty was upon them. “Now we have been reunited I cannot bear the thought of living without you.”

  Tristan closed the small gap between them. “You will never be without me.” He took her chin between his finger and thumb and stared deeply into her eyes. “I’m in love with you,” he said softly. “Indeed, I have never stopped loving you.”

  She almost choked on the surge of raw emotion bubbling in her throat. “You are the love of my life. You are my life. Hurry back to me.”

  Tristan smiled though she could see a flicker of apprehension in his eyes. “With any luck, I shall be back in a few hours and then we can put this business behind us and start again.”

  “Perhaps I should come, too.”

  With tender strokes, he caressed her cheek. “We have already discussed it a hundred times or more. I completely misread Mr. Fellows’ character. I have no notion what the gentleman is capable of, and so I need to know you are safe.”

  “I know. It is just that the time passes so slowly when you are waiting. I shall be beside myself with worry.”

  Regardless of the fact that they were standing in the doorway, he kissed her once on the mouth. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Chapter 22

  The carriage rattled along the streets on its way to Green Park. Blackwood held onto the leather roof strap, his trance-like gaze following the dark shadows outside as they raced past the window.

  Tristan studied Lord Fernall’s grim expression before checking his pocket watch. “Good, we should have time to take our positions before Fellows arrives.”

  Lord Fernall folded his arms across his chest. “Do you have a plan?”

  “Of course. Mr. Blackwood will demand an explanation for your father’s murder before he agrees to hand over the notebook. We will hide in the shrubbery until satisfied we have heard enough and then take him into custody.”

  Tristan had to admit it was a pretty poor plan. But, from experience, he knew success was often down to luck rather than strategy.

  Henry Fernall scoffed. “What? You expect Blackwood here to conduct a coherent conversation. The man is a quivering wreck.”

  Blackwood tore his gaze away from the window. “I … I have no choice in the … the matter.”

  Tristan dragged his hand down his face and sighed. Bloody hell. What had seemed like a logical solution to their problem now felt like the naive plot of a novice.

  “Have a little faith,” Tristan replied in a bid to rouse some confidence in his own ability to succeed.

  The carriage rumbled to a halt near the north gate. They alighted quickly, the grey blanket of fog proving to be an advantage as they hoped to be in position before Mr. Fellows arrived.

  “The tree is just inside the entrance,” Blackwood said pointing to an eerie shadow in the gloom. “They say many a passerby has stumbled upon a body dangling from a bough.”

  Lord Fernall muttered under his breath. “Do you always speak such gibberish?”

  As they approached the tree, Tristan felt the hairs on his nape jump to attention. A frosty chill shivered through him. The muscles in his abdomen grew uncomfortably tight. The natural flow of the earth’s rhythm felt disturbed. Many people said dogs could sense the ominous shift in the atmosphere, said that they whined and yelped to alert their owners of the invisible yet menacing presence.

  “Whilst it appears to look like any other tree in the park,” Tristan began, “I cannot help but feel repelled by it.”

  Blackwood stared up at the lowest branch. The wood was smooth in places, light in colour where the bark had worn away. “Do you know what they say about the Dead Man’s Tree?”

  “No,” Lord Fernall said with a sigh. “But I am sure you’re going to enlighten us with one of your bizarre tales.”

  “They say the spirits of the dead walk this path.” Blackwood’s voice was but an octave higher than a whisper. “Their sad souls linger. People have seen strange shadows, figures in shrouds, a man dressed as a cavalier wielding his sword.”

  Lord Fernall snorted. “And this morning they will see two fools crouching behind the shrubbery.”

  “Talking of shrubbery,” Tristan began as he checked his watch for the umpteenth time, “we should take our places.” He gestured to the row of shrubs four feet or so in front of the tree. “We shall hide here. Mr. Blackwood shall stand in front.”

  Despite a few moans and mumbles, they took their positions.

  “We look utterly ridiculous,” Lord Fernall complained as he knelt down next to Tristan. “I don’t know why I agreed to come.”

  “It is almost five. We will not have long to wait.”

  Minutes passed.

  Mr. Blackwood paced back and forth.

  A low groan breezed past Tristan’s ear. He turned to Lord Fernall. “You need to remain quiet.”

  Lord Fernall glanced back over his shoulder. “That was not me.”

  They waited.

  “Any sign of him?” Tristan whispered, eager to move from behind the large shrub. It was as though a dark and dangerous presence hovered over him, pressing him down into the earth.

  “No.”

  Tristan checked his watch. Fellows was fifteen minutes late.

  “I cannot feel my feet,” Lord Fernall grumbled. “How much longer must we crouch here like street urchins scouring for scraps?”

  “As long as it takes,” Tristan said through clenched teeth, trying desperately not to punch the arrogant lord for his indifference to their plight.

  Blackwood cleared his throat. “Wait. I think he’s coming.”

  Through a gap made in the foliage, Tristan witnessed Mr. Fellows approach. The hazy black figure appeared to float through the fog, the image growing more prominent as he came closer. At a distance, one could not detect his features. Indeed, he looked faceless. A nobody. A hulking soulless mass.

  Blackwood sucked in a breath, muttered a croaky curse.

  Good Lord! Tristan hoped the man could hold his nerve.

  As Fellows came closer, he noticed that the gentleman’s coat radiated a gold
en glow. Tristan blinked to focus. His heart flew up to his throat, thumped wildly in his neck until he struggled to breathe. What had looked like one huge distorted figure now proved to be that of two people.

  Isabella.

  Fellows came to a stop a few feet away from Mr. Blackwood. With his left hand, he held Isabella close to his body, aimed the pistol in his right hand at her stomach.

  “Ah, Mr. Blackwood. Forgive me if I kept you waiting. I am usually so punctual, but my hackney was forced to make a call in Brook Street to collect the necessary provisions.”

  The blood roared in Tristan’s ears. He blinked rapidly in an attempt to focus. Isabella appeared unharmed. Her lips were drawn thin, though it was not fear that flashed in her eyes; he saw anger.

  “Do … do you have my money?” Blackwood stammered.

  Fellows grinned. “Do you have my notebook?”

  Blackwood held up the brown book. “Let Lady Fernall go and we can make our trade.”

  Fellows chuckled. “I am afraid that will not be possible. If I am to leave on the next ship to Calcutta, then I must have some assurance you will not intervene. No, Lady Fernall will be coming with me.”

  Despite Lord Fernall tugging violently on the sleeve of his coat, Tristan could not contain his volatile emotions. “The hell she will.” Tristan marched around the overgrown bush to stand at Mr. Blackwood’s side.

  Fellows tutted. “I did wonder which bush you had chosen to hide behind. Do you take me for a fool, Lord Morford?”

  “Only a fool would think he could get away with murder,” Tristan countered. It was hard to take the man seriously when his side-whiskers filled his face. “How did you know I was there?”

  Fellows shrugged. “I followed Mr. Blackwood to Lady Fernall’s carriage. Even through the fog, I recognised her coachman sitting atop his box. As a gentleman, I assumed you would take the lady home before coming to our assignation. You really are rather predictable.”

  Tristan’s mind raced ahead. Fellows did not know Lord Fernall was hiding behind the bush. He said a silent prayer, hoping the lord’s reluctance to participate, coupled with his cowardly nature, would cause him to remain hidden.