by Adele Clee
Chandler snorted. “Not since I was a snivelling pup. My tastes tend to lean towards the ruinous. There is a rather adequate sink of iniquity on James’ Street. Perhaps you might care to join me there one evening.”
Tristan’s experiences in France had taught him that gambling was a one-way road to debtors’ prison. “I’ll accompany you, but only as a spectator. I lack your skill when it comes to card games.”
“And my skill with women.” Chandler slapped him on the back. “What a shame you’re off to Bedfordshire. My advice regarding Isabella was to spend more time in her company. Only then will the truth become abundantly clear.” Chandler sighed. “Now, the night is still young. Shall we see if we can find that tempting shepherdess?”
Tristan shook his head. “I’m afraid I must decline. I must rise early in the morning if I’m to make it to Kempston at a reasonable hour.”
“Indeed.” Chandler gave a knowing smirk. “Well, enjoy your time in Bedfordshire. I certainly hope your business proves fruitful.”
It was midnight by the time Tristan returned home to Bedford Square, still relatively early by most gentlemen’s standards.
“Is Lady Morford in her chamber?” Tristan could not leave London without informing his mother that he had business at Kempston Hall. In the process, there were a few questions he had regarding the death of Lord Fernall.
“No, my lord. Lady Morford is waiting in the parlour. She asked to be informed the moment you returned.” Ebsworth waved gracefully at the door to their left. “And a Mr. Fellows is waiting for you in the study.”
Fellows? What the hell did he want at such a ridiculous time of night?
“You should have informed him I was not at home.” His sharp tone conveyed his irritation.
Ebsworth inclined his head by way of an apology. “Forgive me, my lord. But Lady Morford insisted I show the gentleman in.”
Tristan cursed silently. “Inform Mr. Fellows of my return and explain that I shall attend him shortly.” Anyone inconsiderate enough to call at a late hour should be made to wait.
Ebsworth bowed. “Certainly, my lord.”
Tristan strode to the parlour. He hovered outside the door in a bid to calm his ragged breathing. It would be a mistake to charge into the room and demand to know why the hell no one had told him of Lord Fernall’s death. There were many more burning questions, too. Why hadn’t she told him Andrew had been visiting Isabella when he died? And what the hell was his brother doing there in the first place?
With a shake of the head, he tapped the door and entered.
“Tristan. Is that you?” His mother lay stretched out on the chaise. In one hand, she clutched a lace-trimmed handkerchief; the other hand lay limply over her brow. “Ah, there you are.”
“Is it not a little dark in here?” He glanced at the solitary candle flickering in its holder on the side table. “We have no need to be frugal.”
“I find the light hurts my eyes.” She gave a woeful sigh.
“Ebsworth said you were waiting for me to come home.”
She raised her arm slowly, as though it weighed more than her entire body, and waved her handkerchief. “Help me to sit up, won’t you.”
Melancholy obviously had a debilitating effect on her. He assisted her in shuffling to an upright position, found a cushion to support her back.
“Mr. Fellows is waiting to speak to you,” she said. “He told me that you did not attend Lady Padmore’s soiree. Apparently, Miss Smythe was expecting to see you there and was frightfully disappointed to find you absent.”
Had Fellows come purely to chastise him for his thoughtlessness? He suspected the gentleman had only been granted entrance because of his eagerness to speak of Miss Smythe.
“I made no promises to Miss Smythe.” Whilst he felt the need for honesty, he did not want to antagonise a lady in mourning. “I decided to visit an old friend. His company proved to be rather entertaining, hence my decision to forgo Lady Padmore’s soiree.”
His mother’s eyelids suddenly appeared less hooded, and she cast him a look that conveyed an inner frustration. “But only two nights ago you left the Mottlesborough concert before the interval without saying a word to Miss Smythe. Your indifferent behaviour will leave a stain on her reputation. What must she think of you?”
Tristan pushed his hand through his hair. “Miss Smythe was in the company of Mr. Fellows. It would have been rude of me to interrupt.”
She flapped her pristine white handkerchief. “Well, where did you go?”
“Does it matter?”
“Matter? Good heavens. You left your betrothed in the company of another gentleman, of course it matters.” She placed her hand to her chest. “I fear my heart cannot stand the strain.”
He was suddenly grateful he had not sat down. To jump out of the chair in a burst of anger would surely bring on one of her migraines.
“Miss Smythe is not my betrothed. Whilst she is quite amiable, I have no intention of marrying a woman who speaks of nothing but sewing.”
“Sewing! The lady is accomplished in many things. I’m sure if you went to the trouble of spending an entire evening in her company you would discover that her talents know no bounds.” His mother nodded as though agreeing with a comment he had yet to make. “Yes. Yes. You must spend the afternoon with her. Take her for a ride in the park, to Gunter’s or wherever you young people go for amusement. I shall send a note and arrange it on your behalf.”
Tristan sighed, purely to suppress a smirk. “I’m afraid my afternoon with Miss Smythe will have to wait. I must ride to Kempston as a matter of urgency.”
“Kempston? Kempston! How long will you be gone?”
Tristan shrugged. “Three days, assuming all goes well. Perhaps a little longer.” He considered journeying to France and saying to hell with it all.
“Three days?” Her handkerchief slipped from her fingers as she flapped her hands in annoyance. “Can’t Mr. Henderson deal with things? What do you pay the man for if he cannot cope with simple problems?”
“Whatever the problem, I must leave in the morning.” It was wrong to distrust one’s mother, but he chose not to reveal his time of departure for fear he would wake to find his wrists and ankles tied to the bedposts.
“But you can’t go. You’re needed here. Our situation is dire. I cannot cope without you.”
He refused to let his mother use her grief for Andrew’s passing as a means to control him. “I am needed at Kempston Hall,” he reiterated firmly. It crossed his mind to broach the subject of Lord Fernall’s death, but he did not wish to rouse her suspicions.
“And what am I to tell Miss Smythe when she calls tomorrow afternoon to take tea?”
Tristan coughed into his fist to suppress a chuckle before feigning a serious expression. “Tell her you’re interested in the alterations she has made to her bonnet. That way I doubt she’ll even notice my absence.”
Tristan strode towards the study expecting to feel a wave of guilt for not agreeing to his mother’s petty demands. But instead, his body felt lighter; there was a playful spring to his step, and his wide grin stretched from ear to ear. He hadn’t felt this good in months.
With a contented sigh, he entered the study.
Mr. Fellows stood. He had not given Ebsworth his hat. Instead, he held it in front of him, fed the rim back and forth through nervous fingers.
“Mr. Fellows.” Tristan inclined his head. “I must admit it is rather late to be making a house call. Luckily, I am in a good mood. Now, what can I do for you?”
“Forgive the intrusion, my lord. I know we have not been introduced, but I am recently acquainted with Lady Morford, and am here on an errand of sorts.”
Tristan raised a brow. “An errand? Given the hour, I assume it is a matter of considerable importance.” Under any other circumstances, he would have been intrigued, had he not known Mr. Fellows enjoyed playing nursemaid to Miss Smythe.
“I suppose it could have waited. But when my mind is occupied I fi
nd I simply must act.”
“As we are barely acquainted, I assume you speak on behalf of another.” He did not have time to waste and so chose to come directly to the point.
“Indeed.” Mr. Fellows prised his fingers from his hat and brushed a hand through his wild mop of black hair. “I wish to discuss Miss Smythe, though she is unaware of my presence here.”
Tristan waved for him to sit. The night had brought many strange and shocking revelations, and he needed a drink. “Would you care for refreshment?” he said gesturing to the range of crystal decanters on the side table. “Brandy or port?”
“I’m afraid I must abstain.” Mr. Fellows perched on the edge of the chair. “But please, do not refrain on my account.”
Tristan poured himself a drink and dropped into the chair opposite. “Now, have you come here to chastise me for my treatment of Miss Smythe or to enquire as to my intentions towards her?”
Mr. Fellows blinked several times, his expression revealing an element of shock. The muscle in his cheek twitched. “Erm … both.”
Tristan raised his glass in salute. “Then let me start by saying I respect your honesty. I suspect your concern stems from an admiration for the lady.”
“I find Miss Smythe to be brimming with warmth and grace. She is kind and good-natured and deserves a gentleman who appreciates such attributes.”
The gentleman appeared smitten. Tristan knew that feeling well.
“Then let me ease your fears. I find Miss Smythe … enchanting, but I have no desire to pay her court. It is my mother who wishes me to marry. I have yet to give the matter any consideration.”
The night was improving rapidly. Mr. Fellows would declare his intentions. His mother would stop pestering him, and Miss Smythe could spend her days talking incessantly about her hobbies.
All he had to deal with now was a potential murderer, a phantom in a white cloak and a wild dog thirsty for blood.
“It … it is out of character for me to be so forward,” Mr. Fellows informed. “But I noticed you left the Mottlesborough concert with a lady and hoped your interest lay elsewhere.”
A mild sense of panic flared.
Had Fellows found the quartet tedious and let his gaze wander or was it his intention to use a veiled threat to bolster his position?
“The lady is an old friend, nothing more.” Tristan did not wish to give him food for the ravenous gossips. He was tired and needed to bring the conversation to an end. “I’ll be out of town for a few days. On my return, I shall ensure Miss Smythe understands my position. In the meantime, have my assurance that you may pursue the lady with my blessing.”
Mr. Fellows stood. “I thank you for seeing me at such a late hour. I feared a measure of hostility but am pleased you understand my intention is purely to see Miss Smythe happy.”
Tristan came to his feet. “As is mine,” he said. “I’m conscious that my mother may have coerced the lady into believing we would make a good match, and so my absence will help to provide some clarity.” Besides, he had a feeling Priscilla Smythe admired Mr. Fellows greatly.
“Are you off on a jaunt?” the gentleman asked with a hint of enthusiasm.
Tristan gave an indolent wave. “I’m afraid not,” he said walking Mr. Fellows to the door. “I’m away to Bedfordshire on estate business.”
Mr. Fellows inclined his head. “Then accept my apologies again for disturbing you at such a ridiculous time of night. And let me say that while one’s responsibilities can be rather laborious and mundane, I grant that you may find a modicum of merriment and pleasure.”
Tristan suppressed a grin. There was nothing mundane about spending time with Isabella. He wondered what the next few days would bring. Would he learn to forgive her duplicity? Would he experience the sweet taste of her lips once again?
“Thank you, Mr. Fellows,” he said feeling eager to retire to his bedchamber, though he doubted he would sleep. “I am hopeful some aspects of my trip will prove pleasing.”
Chapter 6
The painted sign of the Blue Boar Inn creaked as it swung violently back and forth on its iron hinge. Despite being nestled safely inside the confines of her carriage, Isabella gripped the seat as a blustering north wind rocked the conveyance.
“Good Lord,” she muttered as pebble-sized raindrops pelted the window. For the umpteenth time, she glanced through the viewing pane behind. The road was deserted. The relentless downpour continued to bombard the overflowing puddles. Black clouds threatened thunder. “Oh, Tristan. Where are you?”
A part of her hoped he had stopped to take shelter; it did not matter that he was late. A part of her longed to see his mud-splattered face just to know all was well.
The carriage swayed again. This time, the motion was instigated by the coachman whose gruff commands suggested he was struggling to settle the horses.
Lowering the window an inch, she called up to Dawes, “Can we wait a few more minutes?”
“Yes, my lady.” Dawes muttered something about the thunder, but she struggled to hear him for his words were whisked away by the wind.
Odd irrational thoughts flitted through her mind. Was the storm an ominous warning to stay away? Were the ghosts of Highley Grange out to prevent her impending return?
The sudden rap on the window made her jump. Her hand flew to her mouth, slipped to her chest when she realised it could be Tristan.
She thrust forward, lowered the pane a fraction more and blinked away the droplets of water. “Tristan?”
The figure perched upon the chestnut stallion wore the collar of his greatcoat high, his hat tilted forward to obscure his face. His commanding presence stole her breath. “How far is it to Highley Grange?”
Isabella would know Tristan’s voice anywhere, although she wasn’t sure if he was speaking to her or Dawes.
“Less than half a mile, my lord,” came her coachman’s reply.
Tristan turned to her. Rain poured from the brim of his hat. “Close the window. I’ll meet you there.”
Without uttering another word, he was gone.
She fumbled with the window, sat back in the seat and exhaled. Tristan would need a hot bath to warm his cold bones, a tonic to keep a chill off his chest. Please God, she hoped he did not come down with a fever. She could not have another man’s death on her conscience.
But Tristan was not just any other man.
Despite all that had happened, she could not lose him. To live in a world knowing he was no longer in it would be the end of her.
The carriage lurched forward. The coachman’s roars and cries were aimed to encourage the spiritless horses to push through the storm. They rattled on for ten minutes or more before she noticed them slowing, before each revolution of the carriage wheels seemed to take a tremendous effort.
They stopped. Jerked forward. Stopped again.
Her world tipped to the left, her sense of balance thrown off kilter by what she suspected was a wheel stuck in the mud.
Dawes climbed down from his perch and rapped on the window. “We’re stuck, my lady,” he called through the pane.
Isabella opened the door ajar. “Is it the wheel? Can you not free it?”
Dawes shook his head. “Not on my own, my lady. I need to fetch help.”
“How long will it take?” Being a gentleman, Tristan would wait for her to arrive at Highley Grange before entering her home. She could only hope he would take shelter in the stables.
“I can’t leave you here, my lady. It could take hours.” Dawes groaned and winced as a gust of wind almost took the door off its hinges. “I can free one of the horses from its harness, but there’s no saddle.”
The sound of a horse’s hooves squelching in the mud captured her attention. Tristan appeared, strong and commanding like a knight of old. Dawes stepped back.
“You’ll need to come with me.” Tristan gripped the reins with one hand and held the other hand out to her. “Do you have a cloak?”
“Yes. Give me a moment.” Isabella unfol
ded the garment lying on the seat next to her, threw it roughly around her shoulders before jumping down to the ground.
Mud oozed around her ankles, and she thanked the Lord she’d worn her sturdy boots.
“Give me your hand. You’ll have to sit in front of me.” Tristan leant down, wrapped his gloved hand around her forearm and hoisted her up to sit sideways. “Lean into me. Put one arm about my waist.” He turned his attention to Dawes. “We’ll send someone to you as soon as we reach Highley Grange.”
“Yes, my lord.”
“You should wait inside the carriage, Dawes,” she said feeling a pang of guilt for leaving the poor man behind in such treacherous conditions.
Dawes straightened the collar of his greatcoat and shrank down into its depths. “I’ll stay with the horses, my lady, but I thank you all the same.”
A loud clap of thunder roared through the heavens.
“We must go.” Tristan urged his horse forward and soon they were cantering along the road.
The wind whipped about them. She gripped onto him with all the strength she could muster. As the rain hit her face with the force of hail stones, she pressed her cheek to Tristan’s chest. It didn’t matter that his coat was sodden. Somehow it still felt warm and comforting.
They came to the crossroads where the stone memorial stood proudly on the grassy mound. “It’s left here, and just a minute or so more.”
Another boom of thunder crashed through the sky.
Water dripped from his hat onto her cheek. The droplets trickled down her neck, but still she huddled into him as they continued their journey.
“We’re here,” Tristan eventually said, his weary sigh breezing over her face as she looked up into his brilliant blue eyes. “Thankfully, the gates are open. My legs feel so numb I doubt I’ll be able to climb down.”
She had no desire to move. “You’ll need a hot bath to ease your stiff muscles,” she replied wishing they had another hundred miles to travel.
They rode up the long curved drive, designed specifically to give the impression that the surrounding land appeared far more extensive than it was in reality.
