by Adele Clee
“What deception? You make it sound so distasteful. You were simply not suited. Someone had to intervene. You were young and hopelessly naive.” She raised her chin and stared down her nose in a look of disgust. “Andrew did what he thought was best.”
“Andrew was a jealous, spiteful prig who would sell his soul if it served his own end.”
His mother sucked in a ragged breath. “How dare you speak ill of the dead.”
A fiery rage coursed through him. “Then let us speak about the living. Let us discuss the part you played in it all,” he said in a tone just as hostile.
“That’s enough.” His mother stood and banged her hand on the table. “I’ll hear no more of it. I insist you leave this house at once.”
Tristan smirked. “I’m afraid this is my house. If anyone is to leave here, it will be you.”
He felt a faint flicker of remorse. This was not the relationship he wanted to have with his mother. His thoughts turned to Isabella, a woman with no one to care for her, a woman whose life had been ruined out of jealousy and spite.
“Leave? And where do you expect me to go?”
“Perhaps a visit to Ripon will help with your recovery. Catherine would relish the company.” Indeed, his sister and her husband could share the burden.
“Ripon? Ripon!” She glared at him with burning, reproachful eyes. “That woman has poisoned your mind. Just as she did all those years ago. Just as her mother did before her.”
So incensed was she that she spoke in riddles.
Tristan jumped to his feet. “Before I call for Ebsworth and instruct him to have Anna pack your trunk, tell me what you hoped to gain by your interference.”
There was a brief moment of silence. The air about them swirled with an uncomfortable tension. “I would have permitted you to marry anyone of acceptable standing, anyone but her.”
“But why, when she made me happy?”
“Because she is rotten to her core.” His mother waved her hand in the air. “I suppose the girl cannot help her lineage.”
Part of him wished he had not been desperate for an answer. The vitriolic comments falling from his mother’s mouth only served to make him despise her all the more. “If you felt that way, why take her into your home?”
“I was not given the choice. Your father made a promise which he refused to renege. The man was loyal until his last breath.”
“Andrew said that our father acted in good faith, that he believed he was serving Isabella’s best interests when he took her away.” The lies were falling easily now. For his own sanity, he needed to believe in the goodness of one of his parents.
His mother sat down in the chair. “I’m sure it will please you to know that your father cared for Isabella and would have done anything to see her happy. Hence the reason for the letter. Hence the reason I arranged for Lord Fernall to approach him.”
“But you could not have arranged anything with Lord Fernall. You knew nothing of our elopement until the day we left Kempston. There would not have been time.”
She sneered. “I was not blind, Tristan. I could see what she meant to you. I spoke to Lord Fernall months before as I knew it was only a matter of time before you did something foolish. Of course, I did not expect you to behave so recklessly. I thank the Lord your brother came to me after dinner that night else God only knows where you would be now.”
He would be happy, in love with his wife, a doting father to his children.
“The depth of your betrayal is sickening.”
“My betrayal?” she scoffed. “I am the victim of the worst kind of deceit.”
“What could possibly be worse than a mother betraying her son?”
“A husband betraying his wife,” she said bluntly.
Tristan jerked his head back. “You expect me to believe my father was capable of such treachery. Are there no depths to your cruel comments and vile accusations?”
“Why do you think your father agreed to take Isabella as his ward? He would have done anything for Vivien. I have lived in that woman’s shadow most of my life. Her death should have brought me some peace, but instead, it brought nothing but pain. I lost my husband. I refused to lose my son.”
Time stopped for a moment.
The trauma and heartache amounted to nothing more than a woman’s bitter jealousy?
Tristan dropped into the chair. “But by the very nature of your actions you have lost me anyway,” he whispered solemnly as he stared at a nondescript point beyond her shoulder. Could such a deep-rooted resentment cloud a person’s judgement to the point they felt justified in all wrongdoing? “So, what are you saying? Was Isabella’s mother my father’s mistress?”
“Of course not,” she blurted with a look of utter astonishment. “Your father was a gentleman, an upstanding member of society. He would never have degraded me in such a manner.”
Tristan shook his head which only served to aggravate the pounding in his temple. “Then I do not understand your issue.”
“Love, Tristan. Love. I had your father’s kindness and respect, but I did not have his love. Do you know what it feels like to love someone so deeply yet know that you will never experience the same level of devotion?”
“It is devastating,” he said remembering all the lonely nights when he questioned Isabella’s reasons for leaving him. “I think you forget that I have spent five years grieving for a love I thought lost to me. Your actions denied me all that you longed to have for yourself.”
Anger still simmered inside. All the pain and heartache had been for naught.
“What are five years compared to a lifetime?” she replied in a tone brimming with self-pity.
There was little point trying to rationalise with a woman whose crippled heart brimmed with nothing but resentment.
“I am going out.” He jumped to his feet. “You will write to Catherine and ask if you can come to Ripon. Leave the open letter on my desk as I cannot trust a word that falls from your mouth. Some time away may bring some clarity to your thoughts. The tedious carriage ride will give you time alone to consider if my father would have been so respectful to you had he been aware of your devious plot. Would any husband love a wife capable of such callous disregard for others?”
He stormed out of the room, resisted the urge to go back and demand an apology. The woman was so absorbed with herself she was oblivious to her own misdeed.
He was halfway along the hall before he heard her tottering behind him.
“Tristan! Tristan. Are you going to Brook Street? Does this mean you do not intend to offer for Miss Smythe?”
Chapter 13
“I know I told you that I like to keep to country hours when I dine,” Isabella said greeting Tristan in the drawing room of the house in Brook Street, “but I did not expect to see you so soon. It is only five o’clock.”
“Forgive me.” Tristan raked his hand through his hair and brushed the dust from the shoulders of his midnight-blue coat. “In my haste to leave the house, I have not had a chance to wash or change my clothes.”
It had been a matter of hours since they had parted at Highley Grange, yet her pulse raced upon seeing him again.
“Then I shall have to see what I have done with my spare pair of breeches.” Her comment was an attempt to lighten the mood. From his rigid demeanour, she could see the tension in his shoulders, knew he was trying so desperately to suppress his anger. “Mrs. Taylor has gone to fetch the tea tray, but you look as though you might be in need of something stronger.” She waved to the settee. “Come. Sit down and tell me how you fared with your mother.”
From the depth of his frown, she suspected the worst.
“Before I do sit, I think I will accept your offer of something more potent than tea.” He scanned the drawing room, his gaze falling to the well-worn rug, to the pale yellow material covering the chair.
“I imagine it was once a rich shade of gold before someone decided to position it near the window,” she said, feeling no embarrassment. “T
he rent reflects the rather excessive wear to the furnishings.”
“At the monastery we sat on wooden benches, dined at a battered oak table, slept in a room with nothing more than a rickety metal bed. It was one of the happiest times of my life. It taught me that relationships with people are more important than relationships with objects.”
She could not help but look at him with admiration. “You were never one for frivolities. It was one of the things I loved about you.”
“Loved?” A smile touched the corners of his mouth. “You do not appreciate that quality now?”
“You know I do.”
She did not know why she had used the past tense. Perhaps it stemmed from a need for self-preservation. He had not abandoned her. There had not been anyone else. But yet too much had happened for them to continue as they were before. They were different people now, forever changed by circumstance.
“I cannot wait to discover what other qualities of mine you admire,” he said in a rich drawl.
“Oh, there are one or two,” she replied coyly. “More importantly, how fussy are you when it comes to spirits?”
He raised a brow. “Please tell me you are not still talking about the ghost.”
She laughed. “I am speaking about the brandy. I have no idea how long it has been sitting in the decanter.”
He walked over to the drinks tray, removed the stopper from the crystal vessel and sniffed the amber liquid. “It smells like brandy.” He poured a glass and took a sip, swirled it about in his mouth. “The good news is it tastes like brandy.”
“Well, that is a relief,” she said pleased that his mood had mellowed slightly.
He waited for her to sit on the settee before dropping down next to her. It took an immense amount of control not to bombard him with questions. Holding her hands in her lap was the only way to prevent her restless fingers from revealing her impatience for information. One of them needed to remain calm and composed. Judging by his thin mouth and the deep furrow that had marred his brow when he’d first arrived, his mother was the one who had deceived them.
Swallowing a mouthful of liquor, he shook visibly. “There is no pleasant way of saying this, and so I shall come straight to the point.” He sucked in a breath. “Andrew wrote the letter purporting to be from me and together with my mother conspired to deceive both you and my father.” The words were said too quickly as though to hold onto them would only serve to cause him more pain.
There was a brief moment of silence.
“It is as we suspected then.” The ache in her chest could be attributed to sadness as opposed to anger. She had come to forgive Andrew, value his friendship, yet his part in the charade tainted everything. “Did your mother say why they chose to ruin our lives?”
“I can only assume Andrew’s involvement stemmed from jealousy. Perhaps he imagined himself in love with you and so sought a means to force us apart.”
Andrew had always been very attentive to her, cared for her in a way an older brother might. “I know your mother wanted him to marry. He once told me she would never approve of the woman he had chosen. But he never gave me any indication he favoured me.”
Tristan gave a contemptuous snort. “Andrew preferred to use covert methods. He would have won your love as a friend first, lured you into a situation where you would have struggled to refuse him.” He paused, opened his mouth to speak but then shook his head.
“We have lived with other people’s lies and deceit,” she said in response to his hesitance. “Trust me enough to know that we may always speak freely to one another without fear of censure or reprisal. Honesty is the only way forward.”
He acknowledged her comment with a curt nod. “I fear, had Andrew discovered any information proving that your … that Lord Fernall was murdered, you would have been forever in his debt. A man capable of betraying his kin so easily is equally as capable of blackmail.”
Isabella sighed.
She didn’t want to believe it of Andrew but in her heart knew Tristan spoke the truth. “You have given a possible motive for Andrew’s treachery, but what is your mother’s excuse for such diabolical behaviour?”
He drained his glass, placed it on the octagonal mahogany table next to him before taking her hand in his. “She thought that my father was in love with your mother. She knew it was a purely platonic relationship, but bitterness taints my mother’s thoughts and feelings. Even now, she feels justified in her methods to keep us apart.”
The truth was like a knife to her heart.
Surely it amounted to more than an act of jealousy.
“Your father visited both my parents many times over the years,” she said in an attempt to make sense of it all. “He gave my mother support when my father died, promised to care for me if ever I was left alone. Never once did I think there was anything more to their relationship.”
Tristan patted her hand gently. “My father was a loyal husband by all accounts. I think that is what hurts my mother the most. True love is rare, precious. She craved it, avoided anything that reminded her of her failings.”
“Please tell me you do not pity her.” The sudden surge of anger caught her by surprise. “There is no justification for what she did to us.”
He gripped her hand tightly. “You mistake me. I am merely trying to establish her thought process. I will never forgive her for her meddling.”
A light tap on the door announced Mrs. Taylor’s arrival with the tea tray. The housekeeper placed it carefully on the side table.
“Thank you, Mrs. Taylor,” Isabella said. “You may leave us. I shall pour.”
My mother’s actions did not bring her the peace she so desperately sought,” Tristan said as Mrs. Taylor closed the door behind her. “Indeed, it pains her to think of what I did whilst in France.”
“She drove you away. What did she expect you to do?”
Tristan shrugged. “No doubt she assumed I would find someone else to marry.”
Isabella’s heart lurched at the thought. “Then I am grateful you decided to work for a living instead.”
“You know, with my penchant for work, perhaps we should go into business together.”
“A viscount in business?” She chuckled, relieved to have moved on to another subject. All talk of ghosts, murder, and deception, made her heart feel heavy. “What sort of business?”
His wicked grin caused her stomach to flip. “Wouldn’t you like to spend your days working with me? We could open an agency that deals in the solving of mysteries. Of course, the working hours would be long.”
“Don’t tell me, we would be required to spend our nights together, too,” she said, eager to respond to his playful tone.
He moistened his lips. “Ghosts rarely appear during the daylight hours. I thought you would know that.”
As ridiculous as the idea sounded, she welcomed any opportunity to spend more time with him. “I suppose we would have premises where we would greet prospective clients, rooms above to rest when we cannot keep our eyes open after a hectic night.”
“A hectic night,” he repeated, his voice silky smooth. “You make work sound so appealing.”
It did sound wonderful and exciting. “Well, we have one more mystery of our own to solve before we can even begin to think of doing so in a professional capacity,” she said in a bid to quash all unrealistic thoughts. Daydreams, whilst entertaining, only served to bring disappointment. “But I have been thinking. Now we know the haunting has nothing to do with Samuel’s death, and that I was never in any real danger, there is a part of me that wonders if his falling down the stairs was an accident after all.”
“On the surface, that is what it would seem.” He nodded when she gestured to the tea tray. “I am inclined to think the same about Andrew’s accident, too. However, we have nothing to lose by asking a few questions, or by prying a little into Lord Fernall’s affairs.”
With a firm grip on the china saucer, she handed him his tea. “So you still agree we should be seen out togeth
er?” There was a nervous hitch in her voice that she could not suppress. “You do not care what people think?”
“There is no need to sound so terrified at the prospect. You’re a widow. I am not beholden to anyone. We may do as we please. By God, we have waited long enough to spend time in each other’s company.”
“Whilst no one knows of our attempted elopement, there will be gossip. People will assume I am your mistress.” The thought caused a sensual beat between her thighs. It had been so long since she had felt the intoxicating thrum of desire. The last time was in her youth. In her innocence, the feeling had not burned with the same intensity.
“Does the thought offend you?” His heated gaze drifted slowly over her face, scanned her grey dress as though it was made from the finest gossamer and proved utterly scandalous.
“I am used to sly whispers as I walk by, used to turned up noses and direct cuts. To be thought your mistress carries more prestige than to be known as the wife who tolerated her husband’s obscene parties, or a wife capable of murder.”
“Whilst I recognise the compliment infused within your words, know that I could never demean you in such a way.”
What was he saying? Did he not want her? Did he not feel the same urgent need clawing in his belly? Would he ever learn to love her again, love her enough to make her his wife?
An awkward silence ensued.
The nature of their relationship was complex. Once, they had loved each other deeply. It had been a pure love. Sweet. Hardly innocent. She had given herself to him on the night before they had eloped. The moment of their joining had roused feelings of utter bliss. Now, despite believing her heart was but a pit of cold, charred embers, the fiery flickers of desire sparked and burned anew.
Perhaps they could fall in love again. All she could do was hope.
“Well, we will ignore the gossips,” she said feeling a renewed sense of determination to win his heart. “After a wretched few months, we deserve some enjoyment.”
