What You Deserve (Anything for Love, Book 3)

by Adele Clee

  A feminine screech sliced through the air, making them both jump to their feet. She grabbed Tristan’s sleeve as her frantic gaze scoured the mass of green foliage and tall shrubbery.

  Had the wailing widow followed her to London?

  Tristan placed his hand over hers. “It is nothing to cause alarm. It is just a few amorous guests lurking behind the hedgerow.”

  The heat from his hand penetrated her gloves. The friendly gesture was remarkably soothing. Indeed, for a moment she almost forgot she was utterly alone in the world.

  She was about to speak when Mr. Chandler sauntered out from behind the topiary hedge. A lady in the guise of a shepherdess hung from one arm. A dishevelled nun, wearing a grass-stained grey tunic, clutched the other.

  “You were right to decline my offer,” Mr. Chandler called out as the trio strolled back towards the house. “When a man is starving, the last thing he ought to do is share his meal.”

  Tristan turned to her and snorted in amusement. “Chandler is a rogue though I cannot help but like him.”

  “He does appear to have a certain appeal. I’m sure you would have preferred to frolic in the bushes with his companions than hear my morbid tale.” A pang of jealousy caused a pain in her chest. Rather than feel disgruntled, she welcomed the feeling for it meant her heart wasn’t completely dead.

  “Whilst I enjoy Chandler’s company, we have very different views on courtship.”

  Once, she had presumed to know Tristan’s character. But she would not make the same mistake again. “Well, you do not have to explain yourself to me.”

  An uncomfortable silence filled the air.

  “You were telling me about the terrible things you witnessed at Highley Grange,” he eventually reminded her.

  A host of inconceivable images flashed into her mind. “Have you ever seen a ghost? Have you ever seen a spectre disappear before your eyes?” The gravity of her situation lent for a more direct approach.

  Tristan jerked his head back in astonishment. “No. But I am of the mind that the living are far more terrifying than the dead.” He offered his arm. “Shall we walk? It is not a conversation to have whilst people are lingering in the bushes. By its very nature, the topic would see us both locked away in Bedlam.”

  She threaded her arm through his. They followed the path around the perimeter of the manicured lawn, until the music spilling out from the ballroom became quieter, less of a din.

  “The living may be more terrifying,” she said, “but at least one can form a rational opinion of what they see. With the dead, one cannot apply the same logic.” Indeed, she still struggled to find an explanation for what she had witnessed. “I saw an image of a woman dressed in a white shroud. She stood at the end of a long corridor, pointed her bony finger at me and whispered for me to ‘get out’. I buried my head in my hands and when I found the courage to look up she was gone. Suppressing all fear and by sheer strength of will, I took a candlestick in hand and wandered down the empty corridor. I checked all the rooms but found no one.”

  Tristan inhaled deeply. “That does not mean that this woman in white was a ghost. The mind is a precarious thing. Bleak thoughts bring on bouts of melancholy. One’s mood can affect one’s interpretation.”

  Was he implying she had imagined the whole thing?

  “What, you believe my fragile emotions played some part in how I perceived the situation?”

  He glanced heavenward. “Look up at the sky and tell me what you see. Be specific, detailed.”

  Isabella stared at him for a moment. It was an odd request. But he had listened patiently to her story, and so she chose to afford him a similar courtesy.

  She glanced up at the night sky but struggled to concentrate knowing he was watching her. “The sky is dark,” she began.

  “Be more specific. Describe exactly what you see.”

  “Very well.” She huffed as she craned her neck. “I see a cold black canopy. I see a … a crescent moon shaped like a farmer’s scythe: pointed, sharp, the blade a perfect arch. I see bright stars smothered by dark, ominous-looking clouds.”

  When she lowered her gaze, he was facing her.

  “Then you see sadness and despair,” he said, his sorrowful tone evoking those feelings. “Our perception can alter our view of reality. Your mind has convinced you that there are evil spirits at work, and so everything you see is twisted in order to confirm and support your theory.”

  She shook her head. “But what of the items that disappear from my dressing table? What of the widow’s wails that wake me at night? What of the hound? I lie hidden behind the bed drapes imagining the terrifying sight beyond. I know if I find the courage to venture to the window, the beast will be sitting on the grass staring up at me. I know his beady black gaze will lock with mine as he bares his teeth, snarls and growls.”

  “Isabella.” He put a hesitant hand to her cheek. Her throat grew tight, the lump so large she could hardly breathe. It took a tremendous effort not to close her eyes and take comfort from his touch. “I would lay odds the servants are responsible for the pilfering. No doubt the dog belongs to a local farmer. There is no devil at work. A ghost is not responsible for causing your anxiety. But if one considers your husband’s death, coupled with these odd events, then the obvious conclusion is that someone did intentionally cause him harm.”

  “Andrew thought so, too. Now he is dead.”

  Tristan’s hand slipped from her cheek. “Andrew fell off his horse.” His tone carried a hint of frustration. “It was an accident. A foolish one perhaps, but an accident all the same.”

  She raised her chin defiantly. “An accident that occurred within ten minutes of him leaving Highley Grange.”

  “Highley Grange?” A deep frown marred his brow, and she sensed him withdraw. “But my mother informed me he died on the road near Hoddesdon.”

  “Yes. The Grange is less than half a mile from Hoddesdon.”

  Tristan stepped back. He winced, rubbed the back of his neck over and over as though trying to ease an aching muscle. “You’re certain of this?”

  “A gentleman who was travelling to Cambridge stopped to help him. He took one look at Andrew and knew he had broken his neck.” An icy chill ran through her as she recalled the memory. “Choosing not to move the body, he rode to the Grange to fetch help, what with it being the only house on that stretch of road. I sent Sedgewick into Hoddesdon to bring Dr. Monroe.”

  Tristan dragged his hand down his face. “Andrew was an accomplished rider. Was there any explanation for the accident? My mother has been too distraught to discuss the finer details.”

  “No. I recall someone mentioned they had found a dead fox on the road. It was suggested the creature startled the horse which consequently led to Andrew falling. His death was ruled an accident. The doctor dealt with everything. He informed the necessary authorities. We were required to give a brief statement. That was all.”

  Muttering a string of curses, Tristan turned away. “Why the hell has no one told me any of this?” He paced back and forth; the sharp sound of crunching gravel underfoot conveyed frustration.

  “I can only assume you’re right. Your mother cannot bear to talk about that night.” Isabella did not want to revisit the night, either. “Having lost one son, securing an heir seems to be her only focus. Perhaps having something else to think about has helped to ease her grief.”

  He threw his hands in the air. “Despite the need to protect her feelings and honour her wishes, I will not rest until I know the truth.”

  The tension thrumming in the air about them was almost tangible.

  She so desperately wanted to ease his torment, thought of laying her hand on his chest to calm the heart she suspected thumped wildly within. But she kept her arms close to her side.

  “I have not been back to Highley Grange for a month.” She could not envisage going back there again. “I am renting a house in Brook Street and—”

  He swung around. “You’re unaccompanied whilst here i
n town?”

  As a widow, it was quite acceptable. “I did not want to stay with Henry.” Samuel’s son and heir regarded her with disdain. He made no secret of the fact he disapproved of her marriage to his father. “And I knew if I wrote to you, you would not travel to see me.”

  “Perhaps not.”

  As they had not spoken since the night he had informed her they could only ever be friends, she would not have asked to stay in Bedford Square, either.

  “I cannot afford to remain in town indefinitely. I must return h-home—” The sob almost choked her when she tried to suppress the sound. It was selfish of her to cry when he was the one who had lost his brother in so cruel a way. “I know I must go back, Tristan, but I am frightened.”

  Without a word, he caught her wrist and pulled her to his chest. “I will help you find the person responsible for these crimes,” he said as he held her close. “You will go home, and you will live without fear. I promise you that.”

  The hard shell around her heart splintered and cracked. She closed her eyes and inhaled the spicy masculine scent that made her head spin. She let the heat radiating from his body soothe her cold, tired limbs. Encompassed tightly in his arms was the only place she had ever felt safe.

  He stepped back, cupped her face with both hands. “I will help you,” he repeated. “We will begin by returning to Highley Grange. Pack your things tonight. In the morning, I will meet you in Hoddesdon, opposite the Blue Boar Inn.”

  “You’re … you’re coming home with me?” Isabella swallowed as she imagined them spending their days strolling in the garden, and their nights huddled around the fire.

  He nodded. “Mention it to no one.”

  That would not pose a problem. She had no friends amongst society.

  “But what will you tell your mother?”

  He shrugged. “I’ll say I'm going to Kempston Hall on business.”

  An overwhelming sense of gratitude swelled in her chest. “Do you mean it? I cannot thank you enough, Tristan. After all that has happened, I never expected—”

  He placed his finger on her lips. “Let us not speak of the past anymore. It will only hinder our progress. Let us accept that we share the same goal, accept that we can work together as friends.”

  There was a time when she would have told him to go to the devil. But she needed him. She always had.

  “You do realise that in offering your assistance you could potentially be risking your life.”

  “We do not know that for certain,” he said confidently. There was not even a flicker of doubt in his dazzling blue eyes. “Until we can establish a motive for murder we cannot be sure of anything.”

  When he heard the widow wailing, when he saw the bloodhound slobbering, then he might take a different view.

  “We should return to the ballroom.” She glanced back at their masks lying on the stone bench. “I have much to attend to if I am to leave in the morning.”

  He inclined his head. “I suggest we meet at nine. There must be at least thirty coaches passing through Hoddesdon every day on their way to Cambridge. I should like to avoid meeting anyone who might recognise me.”

  “Nine?” she raised a brow. “But you would need to leave London before six. Is that not far too early for you?”

  “At the monastery we often rose before dawn. Sometimes we never slept at all.”

  “Why?” She smiled in amusement. “Was it some form of penance? Were you forced to confess your sins and say your prayers?”

  “No, Isabella. We did what we had to do to stay one step ahead of the smugglers and murderers.”

  Chapter 5

  “I shall wait opposite the Blue Boar Inn, near the ancient oak tree.” Tristan opened the door of Isabella’s carriage and waited for her to settle into the cushioned seat.

  Anyone listening would have presumed they were planning a secret rendezvous. A lovers’ tryst. A frisson of excitement coursed through his veins. The exquisite emotion brought with it a memory of when they had met under an old cedar tree. That afternoon, she had climbed into his conveyance to set out on an adventure, a quest for the freedom to express their love.

  “I shall meet you there at nine.” She lurched forward, placed her hand lightly on his arm as he held on to the door. “Thank you. Perhaps tonight I might finally be able to sleep.”

  He forced a smile to disguise the distress her touch evoked. How would he fare spending a few days in her company? When all was done and settled, would she put him out of his misery and explain her reason for marrying Lord Fernall? Would the truth ease years of excruciating torment?

  “Until tomorrow.” He inclined his head, grateful that his mask concealed any evidence of his chaotic emotions.

  “Until tomorrow.” She sat back against the squab and gave a curt nod.

  Tristan closed the door firmly, called up to the coachman to convey her destination. The carriage lunged forward, picked up a gentle pace. He removed his mask, stood and watched as it turned the corner and disappeared from view. But he continued to stare at nothing for a few moments longer.

  The friendly pat on his shoulder jolted him back to the present.

  “I must say I did expect you to leave with her.” Chandler stood at his side and stared into the distance, too. “You are both free to conduct a discreet liaison.”

  In truth, he could think of nothing he would rather do. Things would have been so different had they only just met.

  “We are friends, nothing more.” It hurt to say the words. He wanted to believe them. But something inside refused to acknowledge all hope was lost, refused to accept that was the extent of their relationship. “Everything else is in the past.”

  “Is it? I’m not so certain.”

  Tristan whipped around to face him. “She married another man,” he said through gritted teeth. He had to unleash his pent up anger on someone.

  Chandler shrugged, unaffected by his volatile mood. “But he is dead, and you are very much alive.”

  “Am I?” He had been dead inside for five years.

  Chandler appeared confused by his reply. “You’re letting resentment cloud your judgement.”

  “Are you telling me you wouldn’t feel the same way if you were in my position?”

  “I have no notion how I would react. I have never loved a woman the way you love her.”

  Chandler’s words were like a barbed arrow to his heart. Amidst the bedlam of the emotional battle raging inside he tried to make sense of his feelings. He had loved Isabella for as long as he could remember. Whilst bitterness had forced him to suppress the feeling, love still flourished deep within.

  “Is it so obvious?” he asked with some amusement. To laugh was just another way of coping.

  “You had the opportunity to dally with a shepherdess whose wicked tongue can bring any lost lamb to heel.” Chandler raised his hand as a means of preventing any interruption. “Don’t say you were only thinking of my interests. There are plenty of ladies here eager to spend time in my company.”

  “Plenty?” Tristan snorted, although he knew Chandler was never short of female companionship. “You always were a conceited devil.”

  “There is a vast difference between conceit and confidence.” Chandler smiled as he raised a brow. “I am confident in my ability to please. Now, shall I give you some advice?”

  Tristan waved for him to continue. “Please do.”

  “Look beyond what you believe to be true. Ask yourself why a woman would turn her back on the man she loves in order to marry a cold-hearted blackguard.”

  Was that to be the extent of his friend’s wisdom? Tristan had thought about nothing else for the last five years. The permanent pounding in his head was testament to that. “The answer is obvious. She married for money and status. At the time, I was but the second son of a viscount.”

  “You make it sound as though you were a pauper.” Chandler frowned. “Do you truly believe Isabella would have chosen a title and money over love?”

  �
��No. I do not.” Tristan closed his eyes briefly as he recalled the moment he learnt of her duplicity. “That is what shocked me most of all.”

  “I fear not all is as it seems. When a person’s actions appear illogical, there is always a vital piece of information that has been overlooked.”

  Suspicion caused his heart to race. “Do you know something more? Is there something you’re not telling me?”

  Chandler shook his head. “Of course not. But I excel in observing people and their habits. I know the face of a woman capable of deceit. I know greed. I know the actions of a woman whose interests are purely self-serving.”

  “But you do not know the face of a woman in love,” Tristan countered. “Perhaps I misread her affections. Perhaps she realised it was not love she felt.”

  Chandler gave a mischievous grin. “I don’t want you to think my debauched antics in any way have affected my preferences in the bedchamber, but you are a remarkably handsome man.” Chandler gripped Tristan’s shoulder and squeezed. “I do not know what you have been doing in France, but I imagine your body resembles the marble statues of Greek gods so often displayed in museums. You’re kind and generous, loyal to a fault. What is not to love?”

  Tristan laughed, though was somewhat bemused by his friend’s compliments. “Had I not known of your voracious lust for women I might have been worried.”

  “Whilst I often go to great lengths to shock and cause outrage, I come out in an ugly rash whenever I brush against a gentleman’s bristly chin.”

  It had been months since Tristan had laughed so hard. He made a mental note to spend more time with Chandler.

  “I am off to Bedfordshire on estate business for a few days, but I have a feeling I may be in need of your company upon my return.” Indeed, a few days spent with Isabella was sure to be a torturous affair. “Do you still frequent White’s?”