by Adele Clee
“Trust me when I tell you I am determined to solve this mystery.”
His confident manner served to enhance his appeal. In their youth, it had been his carefree attitude to life that had fed her attraction. His bright, cheerful countenance had helped to ease the pain of her mother’s passing, forced her to seek out his company. Now, he was masterful without being overbearing. A raw and powerful masculine energy emanated from deep within. The overwhelming feeling of love and affection she still nurtured was now accompanied by a lustful yearning that sought to steal her breath.
She tried to swallow down her desire, suppressed the urge to say she needed him, needed him in every possible way. “What do you intend to do today?” she said, relieved to have asked a simple question without revealing the true nature of her inner thoughts.
“My priority will be to search both rooms at the end of the hall. I believe the answer to the mysterious haunting lies there.”
A smile touched her lips. “When I asked for your help, I did not realise you would be so thorough, so systematic in your investigation. Without wishing to sound patronising, I’m impressed.” It was a compliment, and she hoped he read it so.
“I do have experience when it comes to dissecting the criminal mind.” The glint in his eye told her that he welcomed her praise.
“It is pleasing to know you put your time in France to good use.”
His expression grew solemn. “Marcus Danbury taught me everything I know. He was more of a brother to me than Andrew ever was.”
To discuss his relationship with his brother would only serve to aggravate his sudden mood. “It might comfort you to know that Andrew was aware of his failings. But there will be plenty of time for us to talk later.” Indeed, an honest discussion about their past was long overdue. “But for now, we should focus on the task ahead.”
With a curt nod, he stood. “Would you like me to find the maid and have her attend you in here?”
She gave a weak chuckle. “I am capable of dressing myself, Tristan. The house already runs on minimal staff. But thank you for thinking of me. I shall return to my room. I would rather not appear overly dramatic in front of the servants.”
He inclined his head. “Then I shall be across the hall should you need me.”
“Mrs. Birch wishes to convey her apologies for the lack of variety this morning.” Isabella waved her hand over the silver serving dishes arranged neatly on the sideboard. “As I did not send word of our impending arrival she was rather unprepared.” She chose not to tell him she had caught the servants playing cards and drinking her sherry.
Tristan filled his plate with bread rolls and various slices of cold meat. “This is more than ample. At the monastery, meals were far from extravagant.”
They sat down on opposite sides of the table.
“You always speak of your time in France with such fondness.” She found herself smiling as she spoke. Perhaps because the mere mention of his life abroad always brought a playful glint to his eye.
He sighed. “The people there became my family. Marcus is a good man. You would like him. There is nothing pretentious about his character,” he paused before chuckling to himself, “although he can be incredibly stubborn most of the time.”
Isabella felt a strange pang in her chest. As a young woman, she would have done anything to make Tristan happy. To acknowledge that she had played no part in the life that he regarded with such affection, hurt.
“Well, I for one am grateful you came back,” she said, trying to banish the thought that he had chosen to leave her in order to find true happiness. “Your insight has been invaluable. Had it not been for you I would have touched the painted words smeared across the wall.”
He swallowed whatever he had in his mouth. “It is often easier to assess a situation when you are not emotionally involved. Fear forces one to be less objective.”
“Perhaps you’re right. I hear a noise and think of ghosts. You hear a noise and understand that there must be a logical explanation. I shall be relieved to discover the answer.”
He glanced down at the last slice of cold ham on his plate. “Give me five minutes and we shall go upstairs.”
Her heart skipped a beat at the licentious implication of his words even though she knew what he meant. “I’m intrigued to know what we will find. I cannot imagine how someone was able to dress my bed so quickly only to disappear with no trace of ever having been there.”
“Are you not eating?” he said nodding to her plate. She glanced down, realised she had hardly touched a morsel. “Anxiety has a way of suppressing one’s appetite.”
A broken heart and pining for a lost love made one dissatisfied, too.
He stood and placed his napkin on the table. “Then let us get to it. Once we have discovered the truth, I am sure you’ll be ravenous for dinner.”
Tristan sat on the bed in Lord Fernall’s room and stared at the words painted on the wallpaper. His initial observation had been correct. The luminous effect of the phosphorescent substance was diminished slightly by the daylight.
“But we would have seen or heard someone moving about in here.” Isabella glanced at him, her furrowed brow evidence of her confusion. “People do not just disappear.”
“I agree,” he said, rubbing his chin, “which means they found somewhere to hide during the process.” He paused briefly while he considered the possibility. The gap between the wooden bed frame and the floor proved too small. A child would struggle to fit inside the armoire. “Let us go and inspect your room.”
They walked across the hall and into her bedchamber.
“Perhaps they hid behind the drapes,” she said as they stood in the middle of the room and scanned their surroundings. “Whoever dressed my bed had but a few minutes to do so.”
“So, the aim is to frighten you into thinking the house is haunted, and that your life is in danger,” Tristan reiterated more for his own benefit. He noted the bookcase on the wall opposite the bed. “Do you read often?”
She followed his gaze to the shelves of leather-bound books. “No. Everything you see is as it was when I took up residence. Whenever my funds permit it, I stay at the house in Brook Street.”
Tristan struggled to suppress his irritated sigh. He did not approve of her flitting from one place to another. But in her refusal to marry him, she had denied him the right to pass comment.
“How long have you been experiencing the strange phenomena?”
Isabella tapped her lip as she gazed up at the ceiling. “Well, after Samuel’s death I remained at Grangefields for a time. Samuel constantly accused me of being Henry’s lover, so I was not surprised to discover he had made provisions for me to live alone here.”
The muscles in Tristan’s throat constricted, to the point he feared his words would sound more like a croak if he tried to speak. “Is … is there any basis for Samuel’s fears.” He swallowed deeply. “After all, you are the same age as his son.”
Isabella’s expression darkened. “Of course not. Set aside the fact that I am his stepmother, and consequently, any affair would appear incestuous in my eyes, but I cannot abide him. I find him rude and overbearing. He has gone out of his way to belittle and undermine me at every opportunity.”
Some men played the arrogant card when trying to entice a woman into their bed. “Hence the reason you rent a house when in London.”
She nodded. “Precisely.”
Perhaps Henry Fernall was smitten with his stepmother. Tristan’s gaze drifted over her ebony locks tied in a simple knot. The grey dress was just as drab as the one she had worn the previous day, yet she had an inherent appeal that fuelled the fiery passion raging within. Henry Fernall could not have failed to notice her. Indeed, what better way was there to lure a woman into your arms than by making her believe her house is haunted?
“So did these strange events begin as soon as you moved to Highley Grange?” Tristan attempted to clarify.
“I spent the first year after Samuel’s death either at Grangefi
elds or the house in Brook Street. Since then, whenever I have stayed here something untoward has occurred. During the last few months, the incidents have become more frequent, more terrifying, though I have never experienced anything along the same scale or magnitude we did last night.”
Tristan suspected his presence had motivated the culprit to put on a better show. He walked over to the window seat, checked to ensure the top panel was secure and did not conceal a secret hiding place, before dropping onto the cushion.
“Was your h-husband a voracious reader?” Tristan asked.
“Not that I am aware.” She glanced down at a nondescript point on the floor, twisted her foot back and forth in a ritual that revealed her slight embarrassment. “I doubt an interest in academia was at the forefront of his mind when he came here.”
“Oh, and why would you think that?”
She swallowed audibly. “The house was used for private parties. The sort ladies never dare speak about.” A weary sigh left her lips, the sound suggesting mental fatigue.
Isabella did not need to explain. Tristan knew men who spent many a night catering to their licentious tastes and lewd appetites.
“But you implied Lord Fernall had a problem in that regard,” Tristan said. God, he hoped it was true. The thought of the old lord failing to join with Isabella was the only thing keeping him sane.
“He … he did.” She swallowed deeply again. “He took his pleasure from … from watching others.”
Tristan jumped to his feet. His heart thumped loudly, the sound echoing in his ears. “Please tell me he didn’t make you perform—” Good God, he could not say the words.
“Heavens, no!” She waved her hands frantically in front of her. “I would rather die than suffer the humiliation. Besides, knowing I was his wife only served to exasperate his problem.”
So Lord Fernall enjoyed watching his guests partake in amorous liaisons. Tristan wondered if his friends were aware of his depraved habit. Had one of them taken their revenge by pushing him down the stairs?
Tristan took to walking about the room as it helped him to think clearly. “Perhaps he was murdered by a disgruntled guest,” he said revealing his suspicions.
“To my knowledge, the people who came here were all of a like mind.”
Good Lord. He glanced around the room, his mind concocting obscene images of portly, middle-aged gentlemen gathered around the bed. He shivered in disgust, raked both hands through his hair in a bid to erase the vision.
“So why have bookcases up here?” Tristan said in a mocking tone. “There is a perfectly decent library downstairs and by the sound of it no one had the slightest interest in reading once—” Tristan stopped abruptly. He folded his arms across his chest and stared at the books lining the oak shelves.
Isabella came to stand at his side. “What is it?” She placed her hand on his forearm. Even through the fabric of his coat, he found the sensation soothing. “Your eyes are so wide you look as though you truly have seen a ghost.”
“It never occurred to me before,” he said scrutinising the size and shape of the case. “But there are identical bookcases in both rooms at the end of this hall.”
“What is so strange about that?” she said.
“I don’t know of anyone who keeps this amount of books in their bedchamber.”
“Perhaps you have always been too preoccupied to notice.” Her playful tone held no hint of spite or jealousy.
Isabella followed him as he moved to examine the books. The case consisted of five shelves, all containing books of a similar size. Even whilst standing directly in front of it, there was nothing unusual. He turned and glanced at the bed, turned back to observe the row of books at eye level.
“Help me remove all the books on this row.” If his suspicion proved correct, they would only need to move the middle section. “Start with the ones in the centre.”
They had removed four books when Isabella gasped. “What is that?” She took a step closer and peered into the gap. “It’s a little window.”
“It’s a viewing screen.” Everything was beginning to fall into place. “I’m certain there will be a similar window cut out of the bookcase in the master chamber.”
With wide eyes, Isabella turned to him. “But … but that would mean there must be a space behind the wall. A space large enough for a man.”
“Not just a space. I imagine there is a hidden room that runs along the entire length of this wall.” He tapped the wall to the right of the case. The hollow sound confirmed his theory. “This has to be the way the ghost managed to move about without detection.”
She raised a brow. “You do not need to say it in a way that makes me feel foolish. You must admit, we were both alarmed last night.”
“Confused is the term I would use,” he said offering a grin. “Now, stand back and I shall see if I can find the way into the room.”
Using his shoulder and the weight of his body, Tristan attempted to move the bookcase. Remarkably, it did not even move an inch, nor did the books on the shelf slip or slide back and forth in the gap.
“Perhaps it is not a bookcase after all, but a door,” Isabella suggested as she witnessed him struggle. “Perhaps there’s a handle hidden somewhere.”
It was the only logical answer.
Tristan removed all the books to the right of the case, only from those shelves at hand height, and placed them in a pile on the floor. One book proved to be nothing more than an empty casing used to conceal a brass knob.
“Here we are,” he said, immense satisfaction evident in his tone. He turned the handle, resisted the urge to cheer as he eased the door from the jamb.
The long narrow room was sparsely furnished: a washstand, a few red damask chairs, a table with empty decanters, dusty glasses and partially burnt candles. There were no windows, no way for any natural light to filter through.
Tristan examined the other side of the fake bookcase. “Once in here, they only had to turn the handle to open the door. The hollow book casing meant we would not even notice anything unusual in the bedchamber.” He pointed to the door at the far end of the room. “Using both doors they were able to move freely between rooms.”
“But we were in our rooms last night. Surely we would have noticed someone coming in.”
Guilt flared. “Before coming into your chamber, I heard footsteps padding along the hall. I left my room and ventured all the way down to the staircase.” Like an unsuspecting fool, he had fallen for the simplest of traps. “Someone could have easily waited in one of the other rooms. They would have had ample opportunity to enter this concealed chamber through the door in my chamber.”
Isabella gazed about the secret room. “How could I not know it was here? Surely the servants are aware.” She visibly shivered. “Oh, and to think someone could have been watching me while I slept or bathed. I think I would rather it was a ghost.”
Feeling a modicum of guilt for finding pleasure in the thought of watching her bathe, he shook the vision from his head.
She appeared forlorn, her expression one of hopelessness. Tristan stepped towards her, took hold of her chin and forced her to look at him. “Sometimes reality is far more gruesome than any imagined horrors. But only the truth can free you from your shackles. Take comfort in the knowledge that we are making progress, that we will uncover every dastardly plot so you may live in peace and comfort.”
Isabella smiled weakly as she placed her hand over his. “Thank you, Tristan. Thank you for coming here to help me when I suspect it is the last thing you wanted to do.”
Being with Isabella was the only thing he had ever wanted. “Our investigation is far from over. I am afraid you will have to tolerate me a little while longer.”
“There is nothing sufferable about spending time with you,” she said in a tone that made the hairs at his nape jump to attention. “I enjoy your company. I always have.”
He felt the familiar pang in his chest, the familiar tug in his abdomen. Love and lust coursed
through his veins. For the first time in years, he did not want to hear the truth from her lips. To be set free was the last thing he wanted. Being bound to her was all he lived for. He did not care what her reasons were for marrying Lord Fernall.
One way or another, he would find a way to make her his again.
Chapter 10
The atmosphere in the drawing room thrummed with palpable tension.
Isabella sat with her spine straight, her chin raised, her mouth stretched thin as she stared at her servants’ solemn faces. They stood in a line, their hands held in front of them, their demeanour giving the impression they would be shot if they so much as blinked or breathed.
She glanced at Tristan standing in front of the fire with his hands clasped behind his back. His curt nod gave her the confidence to continue.
“Well, what have you to say?” When they failed to respond, she said, “Then I shall take your silence as an admission of guilt. As you have declined the opportunity to offer an explanation, you must all collect your things at once and leave this house immediately.”
It was an idle threat. The servants were in Henry’s employ. She could not simply dismiss them without consulting him first. Even so, Molly’s whimper gave her a little faith that they were all close to confessing.
“It’s not our fault, my lady,” Molly cried. “What else were we to do?”
Mrs. Birch nudged the maid. “Since Lord Fernall’s death, we have been warned not to mention the secret room. We were told not to remind you of the things that went on here.”
“It is not the secret room that concerns me.” One of the people in front of her had led a systematic campaign to frighten her out of her wits. “Which one of you covered my dress with wine and placed it in my bed? Which one of you sullied the wall with your cruel threats?” The sudden rush of anger forced her to her feet. “Which one of you sought to torment a lonely woman into believing her life was in danger?”
A sob caught in her throat and she swallowed it down.
Sedgewick bowed. “My lady, I am not to blame for these unfortunate events. My position in this household commands respect, and I would do nothing to hinder my position.”
