by Adele Clee
Chandler nodded slowly as he absorbed the information. “And so now you wonder as to Henry’s motive. Now, you wonder if the accidents are in some way related.”
“Precisely. Do not mistake me. Isabella told me about her husband’s sordid parties.” God, he hated referring to Lord Fernall as her husband. “I can only presume to imagine what sort of things went on there.”
“You know I am always the first in line when it comes to seeking pleasure,” Chandler said, his mouth curling up into a wicked grin. “But I cannot understand what is enjoyable about hiding in a secret room to watch unsuspecting couples grunt and groan.”
Tristan jerked his head back, blinked rapidly, as he replayed Chandler’s words over again in his mind. “You mean you know about the secret room in the bedchamber?” He grasped Chandler’s elbow and pulled him into the alcove for he strained to hear whilst the orchestra were playing in full flow. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”
Chandler shrugged. “I did not think it important. It is certainly not a secret amongst the more dissipated echelons of the ton. It is why I was more inclined to believe he met his end at the hands of a disgruntled guest as opposed to his wife.”
Tristan raked his hand through his hair in frustration. “Lord Fernall was alone with Isabella when he died. There is no way to prove someone else was involved.”
“Had it not been for Henry’s involvement I would have told you to forget about Lord Fernall. You’ve spent five years pining for a lost love. Now you have found each other again you deserve to find some happiness.” Chandler sighed. “But even my inert instincts tell me something isn’t quite right.”
Tristan thought so, too. The niggling doubt in the back of his mind refused to be tempered. What if Andrew had discovered something sinister? What if he ignored his intuition and something untoward happened to Isabella?
“Have you heard any rumours regarding Henry Fernall?” Tristan had never been one to pay much attention to gossip.
“He doesn’t gamble. Well, we do not frequent the same establishments, and I have not heard tales of unpaid debt.” Chandler pursed his lips. “Mrs. Forrester is his mistress. Some say he is besotted with the woman, but I find he always has a look on his face that shows displeasure in most things.”
Relief flooded Tristan’s chest. He had feared Henry Fernall’s intention was to make Isabella his mistress. Why else would he have wanted her to live at Grangefields? Unless he intended to use Highley Grange for another purpose.
Chandler’s sharp and sudden intake of breath broke his reverie. “Well, well.” Chandler’s wide eyes focused on a point in the distance. “It appears you are not the only one to return from your trip thoroughly transformed.”
Tristan followed Chandler’s curious gaze, raising himself up on his toes as he scanned the tightly packed throng. A vibrant burst of yellow caught his attention as a few gasps of surprise drifted through the charged air.
“Most people believe yellow to be an ostentatious colour,” Chandler mused in a tone reminiscent of the night they had observed Isabella at the masquerade. “Some would say it suggests the wearer is rather pretentious and self-absorbed.”
The smile on Tristan’s face as he watched Isabella approach, masked the sudden rush of lustful desire. He had expected her to wear grey or some other equally dull colour. With her delicate curves encased in the smooth satin, she sparkled with a vivacious sensuality. The hairs at his nape sprung to attention. The tiny receptors sent tingles and shivers shooting down his spine.
“Are you not the least bit interested to hear more,” Chandler added in a bid to capture his attention.
“Come then. I know you are dying to give me your opinion.”
Chandler folded his arms across his chest. “I say it creates an air of excitement. It suggests a sensual vitality that robs a man of his breath.”
It certainly did that. The woman before him brought to mind images of scorching hot sunny days and lush summer meadows, yet his thoughts turned dark and downright wicked.
“She is utterly captivating,” he said as his heart hammered in his chest.
“Indeed,” Chandler agreed. “Does she know that you’re still in love with her?”
The question forced him to turn his head. “I thought you were a gentleman who shies away from any expression of sentiment.” Tristan refused to deny what he knew to be true.
Chandler shrugged. “I make the odd exception. You should know I am a man who rallies for the downtrodden. I’m a man who hopes some poor, destitute gentleman wins a fortune tonight that will irrevocably alter the course of his life. You and Isabella belong together. You always have.”
“I was lucky to have you to confide in all those years ago,” Tristan said. During the years spent at Harrow and Cambridge, Chandler had been his constant companion.
A gentleman in a green velvet coat approached. He gave a mumbled introduction before whispering in Matthew Chandler’s ear. The man nodded several times upon hearing Chandler’s reply before scurrying off into the crowd.
Tristan stepped forward as Isabella emerged to stand before him. He wanted desperately to take her hands in his and pull her close. “You look divine,” he said, aware that his breath came far too quickly. “I thought we said it would be wise to remain inconspicuous. You light up the room like a brilliant beacon.” He dabbed the corner of his mouth. “My excessive salivating will soon be cause for concern.”
Her broad smile caused another jolt of awareness. “It seems there is no longer a reason for me to hide behind a shroud of sadness. I have not worn this gown for years,” she patted the material at her stomach, “and am somewhat shocked to find I can fit into it.”
Chandler cleared his throat. “Excuse me for interrupting, but I must take my leave. The game is to start shortly.”
Tristan patted his friend on the arm. “Then I shall pray that the night brings good fortune.”
“Lady Fernall,” Chandler said offering a graceful bow. “After the bout of miserable weather, I am pleased to see the sun is shining once again.”
Isabella brushed her hand down the front of her satin gown. “It is a time to rejoice, is it not, Mr. Chandler?”
“Indeed it is.”
As Chandler moved away through the crowd, Tristan touched Isabella’s fingers discreetly. “I cannot begin to tell you how much I want you.” His rich tone conveyed the depth of his desire.
A faint blush touched her cheeks. “I thought we were not supposed to draw any undue attention to ourselves.”
He glanced at her vivid gown and smiled. He wanted nothing more than to forget about the Fernalls, his mother and everyone else who sought to keep them apart. To cover her body, to bury himself inside the only woman he had ever wanted, was the prominent thought in his mind.
“Then let us return to Brook Street, lock the door and say to hell with the world.” It was wishful thinking on his part, but the sudden hitch in her breath told him it was what she wanted too.
She smiled, raised her hand to touch his cheek but then stopped. “When we are done with this mess, when we can put it all behind us, then we will be free to begin again.”
“After all that occurred between us last night, perhaps we might skip breakfast and tiffin and move straight to dessert.”
Isabella batted him on the arm. “You really are so adorable when you’re in a playful mood.”
He feigned disappointment. “I don’t want to be adorable. Dogs are adorable. I want you to crave me with a passion that makes you giddy.”
She stared into his eyes; the heated look seared his soul. “If I made you party to my thoughts, we would achieve nothing this evening. But I will find a way to show my gratitude for all your help.”
Her words were enough to focus his mind on the task ahead. If it took all night, he would leave with answers. Then he could dedicate his time to more pleasurable pursuits.
“Then we must devise a plan of action,” he said rousing enthusiasm.
She bit down
on her bottom lip before saying, “I think I should be the one to talk to Henry. He noticed me arrive—”
“I should imagine everyone noticed you arrive. But perhaps I should speak to him. I’m impartial and so can be more objective.” He knew as soon as the comment left his lips that impartial was the last word he would use to describe the depth of his involvement.
“I disagree.” She raised her chin in protest. “One word from his arrogant mouth and I fear you will not be able to contain yourself.”
Isabella was right, of course. He wanted to throttle the man for terrifying a woman half out of her wits.
“Very well.” He nodded despite feeling some apprehension. “But focus on the reason he found it necessary to torment you. Tell him all you know about the hauntings but mention nothing of his father’s death.”
She nodded. “What will you do?”
“I shall hide behind a planter and watch you.”
“Oh, I will not be able to focus if I can feel your gaze upon me. You can trust me, Tristan. I shall not leave this room.”
He trusted her; Henry Fernall was another matter.
“Then I will wander about the ballroom. I may even go and watch the card game for a while, if they allow spectators.” Matthew Chandler would need someone of sound mind to drag him from the table before he lost everything he owned. Besides, Chandler was a fountain of knowledge when it came to the habits of his peers. No doubt he knew some juicy on dit that would prove enlightening. “But before you go, you should know Henry has a mistress, a Mrs. Forester. It might be important.”
“A mistress? How intriguing?”
“Apparently, he is thought to be besotted with her.”
“I assume she is a widow?” When he shrugged in response, she added, “Then our conversation might prove interesting.”
A sudden wave of anxiety gripped him. “If we cannot find each other in the crush, we should meet on the terrace.”
She placed her gloved hand on his arm. “Agreed.”
The heat from her palm brought a measure of comfort. “I shall wait for you,” he said as she turned to walk away.
He would wait a lifetime.
Chapter 16
Isabella found Henry Fernall conversing with a group of gentlemen in the corridor leading out of the ballroom. He had his back to her, but she would know his sloping shoulders anywhere.
Catching the attention of a portly gentleman as she approached, he inclined his head, the action causing Henry to turn around. His mouth curved fractionally at the corners, the weak expression of pleasure lasted for all but a few seconds.
After turning back to bid the men farewell, he walked towards her. “Isabella. You should have sent word you were attending this evening. I would have escorted you.” He scanned her gown with some curiosity. “I do not think I have ever seen you looking so radiant. Are you here alone?”
She chose to ignore his question. “I have just returned to town after a short spell at Highley Grange.”
His face remained as expressionless as an artist’s blank canvas. “I trust everything was in order. I’m afraid I have kept Mr. Blackwood busy with the renovations to the townhouse. Mrs. Birch knows to send word should any problems arise.”
“It is my recent visit to Highley Grange that forced me to seek you out.” She was rather proud that she had managed to remain so calm and composed. “I understand that now is perhaps not the best time to discuss the strange events that occurred there. But it is a matter of some importance, and therefore cannot wait.”
“Strange events? Has something untoward happened? Has one of the staff been taken ill?”
Oh, he really was exceptional when it came to deceiving others.
A commotion at the end of the long corridor captured their attention. A rather scrawny looking gentleman ambled out of the room to their right. He grabbed the arm of the chair propped against the wall outside but it failed to stop him from falling to his knees. Trembling fingers reached out to loosen the knot in his cravat. The man’s death-like pallor made her suck in a breath.
“Should someone not go over and help him?” she said in a sudden panic as people simply stared at the distressing spectacle. “It appears as though his heart has given out.”
Henry gave a disdainful sneer. “It is not his heart that’s weak but his morals.”
Tristan had mentioned a card game. Was this gentleman a casualty of the high stakes at play?
“I am certain those people standing gaping are guilty of some immoral act,” she said, for Henry was a hypocrite of monumental proportion. “Should we not show him some compassion?”
“Not at all. It serves the blighter right. No doubt he has just gambled his inheritance and lost. If he has any sense, he’ll pack a trunk full of valuables and be on the first ship to Boston.”
Isabella had heard many tales of ruination, but to witness it firsthand. The look of utter despair marring the fellow’s face reminded her of how reckless and foolish people could be.
A footman dressed in fine livery exited the room, lifted the man to his feet and escorted him to another room further along the corridor.
“I hope the footman will stay with him until he recovers,” she said, though she struggled to convey a hint of optimism.
“Judging by the look on his face, recovery is far from an option.” Henry shook his head and turned to face her. “Now, before the rude interruption you were about to explain the strange occurrences at Highley Grange.”
A busy thoroughfare was not the place to discuss the terrifying events he had orchestrated to frighten her. Nor would it do to be seen entering a room alone with him.
With a huff to express her frustration, she moved to the alcove opposite in the hope it would afford a little privacy. “I cannot stay at Highley Grange another night,” she said as he came to stand before her.
“After all that has gone on there in the past, I do not know how you can bear to cross the threshold.” Henry flicked the lock of brown hair from his brow in such a way as to convey his irritation.
“It is not the past that concerns me. I fear the place is haunted.” She scrutinised his face. Still, he showed not a single sign of guilt, not a glimmer of remorse for his wicked betrayal.
“Then you must come and live at Grangefields.” He made no mention of ghosts. Not even to scoff at the idea. Instead, his lips thinned in a look of reproof. “I do not know why you have not done so sooner. You would have a suite for your own personal use. You would be free to use the townhouse when I am not in residence if you would prefer it so.”
She wondered if he was about to offer her a golden carriage and a team of matching pairs. Why did he want her to leave Highley Grange so desperately? Perhaps a penchant for wild parties was in the blood. Perhaps he had inherited his father’s problem in the bedchamber.
But then she remembered his mistress, Mrs. Forester.
“What will I do when you marry? Surely your wife will not want a stepmother living in the house, particularly when we are the same age.”
He shrugged dismissively. “But I do not intend to wed. At least, not in the foreseeable future. You would be free to live at Grangefields without fear of being disturbed.”
How interesting?
She frowned. “Some people say your affection for your mistress, Mrs. Forester, is the reason you avoid the debutantes and have no desire to wed.”
It was though a sudden volatile wind had swept in to swirl ominously around them. Henry’s stone-cold expression sent a shiver racing through her.
“Where did you hear that?” he demanded, the tiny twitch in his cheek being the only visible evidence of anger. “Who told you such a thing?”
Isabella raised one shoulder in a casual shrug. “I heard in mentioned in the retiring room by a group of ladies at a ball a few days ago. I heard Mrs. Birch talking to Molly. Indeed, just this evening, two gentlemen were discussing your relationship with your mistress.”
Henry was a private man who could not abide people
prying into his affairs. The thought of being the topic of conversation amongst gossips would not sit well with him.
“Then you should know not to listen to those who have nothing better to do than prod and poke others for information.” His thin mouth curled down in a look of disgust and contempt.
Excellent! Any expression of emotion conveyed a weakened stance.
“So are you saying Mrs. Forester is not your mistress?” She raised a curious brow. “Are you saying they are all mistaken?”
“I refuse to discuss my private affairs with you or with anyone.”
“Well, I understand your concern when it comes to gossips. Equally, it would not do for others to discover that ghosts wander the corridors of Highley Grange. Not when you mean to sell.”
It took all the control she possessed not to snigger.
“Sell? Why on earth would you think I want to sell Highley Grange?”
“To pay off your mounting debts, of course.” She cast him her sweetest smile. “If only you would have told me that is the real reason for wanting me to move to Grangefields. As your stepmother, you must know I would have supported your decision.”
He detested her referring to herself as his stepmother. It suggested a level of superiority he refused to accept or acknowledge.
The faint sound of grinding teeth resonated from behind his pursed lips. He glanced back over his shoulder, looked to the left and then the right before giving her his full attention.
“I am not in debt. Do not dare think to compare me to the bunch of mindless degenerates sitting in that room.” He jerked his head in the direction of the door at the end of the corridor. “Whilst my father had many faults, his ability to deal with fiscal matters was not one of them. Only a fool would fritter away his inheritance.”
Isabella sighed. “Then it does not make any sense?”
