What You Deserve (Anything for Love, Book 3) (4 page)

An odd feeling of panic flared. “Has she remarried?”

“No. She has been a widow these last two years.”

“Two years!” Instant relief was marred by shock. Two blasted years and no one saw fit to write to him in France. His mother had some explaining to do. Andrew hadn’t written to him either. Tristan had always suspected his brother admired Isabella. Perhaps he had thought to use the opportunity to press his advances. Was that why she spoke of him so highly?

“Forgive me. I would have found a more tactful way to tell you had I known.” Chandler glanced across the ballroom. “That is why I was surprised you questioned her motive for coming here.”

“So she does have a lover then.” He hadn’t thought the words would sound so bitter.

“No!” Chandler gave a humorous snort. “She is obviously here to see you.”

“But I told no one of my intention to attend this evening.”

“Then she must have followed you here.” Chandler’s roving eye ventured to two ladies hovering a few feet away. One was dressed as a shepherdess, the other in a grey nun’s habit, though her bold grin suggested her true character was far removed from the one she displayed. “Go and speak to her. I’m sure I can find something to occupy my time whilst you’re gone.”

The ladies whispered to one another, smiled seductively and then exited through the doors leading out onto the terrace.

“Unless you would prefer a little light relief,” Chandler continued. “You’re welcome to accompany me on a stroll through the garden. I hear one can often find all sorts of delightful creatures lingering in the shrubbery.”

“Your generosity knows no bounds,” Tristan said failing to suppress a grin. He had always found Chandler highly amusing. “But with your gargantuan appetite, I know it will be impossible for you to share.”

Chandler slapped him on the back. “You’re right, of course. I was simply being polite.” As Tristan moved to step away, Chandler caught his arm. “You know there are some who believe Lady Fernall murdered her husband. I’m not one of them, though I wouldn’t blame her under the circumstances.”

Without another word, Chandler left him alone with his thoughts. Circumstances? What circumstances? Chandler’s words hinted at something unpleasant. Anger flared. He would have murdered the man himself if he had proved to be abusive.

Suddenly overcome with a desperate need for answers, he craned his neck in a bid to locate her. Through the boisterous throng their gazes locked. Perhaps she had come to see him after all. Tristan pushed and shoved his way through the crowd in a bid to reach her. Upon witnessing his approach, she straightened and stepped forward.

“Tristan.”

“Isabella.” He inclined his head. “I am surprised you recognised me whilst I’m wearing a mask.”

“I would know your sculptured jaw and dimpled chin in a crowd of a thousand men.” The corners of her rouged lips curved up into a half-smile. “I see you still find Mr. Chandler’s company entertaining.”

“I have always admired honesty as opposed to the feigned modes of conduct one witnesses on a daily basis. Chandler speaks his mind, and so I find him rather refreshing.”

“Then perhaps we should follow Mr. Chandler’s example.” She glanced to her left. The couple next to her had forgotten their manners, forgotten that in society one did not squeeze a lady’s buttocks without fear of the consequences. Isabella swallowed visibly. “While it is obvious why a gentleman would wish to attend Mr. Chandler’s quaint little party, I presume you are wondering what brings
me
here.”

He was. But a far more pressing question fell from his lips. “Why did you not tell me Lord Fernall was dead? How is it I am the only person in London not to know you’re a widow?”

“I did not tell you because I presumed you knew.” She raised her chin though her stained lips trembled slightly. “I thought you still harboured ill feeling towards me and so chose not to mention it.”

Damn right he harboured ill feeling.

“I am not so cold and heartless that I would not have sent word to you.” Indeed, what would he have done had he known? He’d have been torn between wanting to offer his assistance and wallowing in satisfaction.

She stared at him for a moment. The faint line on her brow was the only sign that she doubted his words. “My husband died two years ago. The precise nature of his death is not something I wish to discuss in public.”

“Did you kill him?” He was not surprised by her sharp gasp. His mask afforded him the opportunity to be overly direct. He was glad of it. Living with the knowledge of her deceit had eaten away at him, and he refused to be her fool again.

“How can you ask me that?” She wrapped her gloved fingers around his wrist and pulled him further into the corner. “Regardless of what happened between us, surely you know I could never do such a thing.”

He did not have to glance down to know she still gripped his arm. Her touch always soothed him. He often felt like one half of a puzzle: not quite whole, lacking something he could not define. The sudden euphoria upon connecting with the other half stole his breath.

“I want to believe you,” he said. She had duped him once before. “But accidents happen. I have known people who have been forced to act violently in order to survive.” He thought of Anna Sinclair and her dealings with the mysterious comte. Had Isabella suffered abuse at the hands of her husband?

“Samuel never hurt me,” she clarified. “Not in the physical sense.” Her gaze shot to a point beyond his shoulder. “We cannot talk here. Walk with me, out in the garden. When you have heard all I have to say, then you may decide if you wish to help me.”

“Help you? Help you do what?”

She sucked in a deep breath. “I must find out who murdered my husband, for the same person surely murdered Andrew. Because I believe the same person is now haunting me.”

Chapter 4

“Haunting you?” Tristan’s eyes grew wide in a look of utter disbelief. “What on earth do you mean?”

“Shush.” She tapped her finger to her lips. She could trust no one. “Give me your arm. We shall stroll around the garden and take some air.”

Isabella breathed a sigh when he inclined his head. Entering Mr. Chandler’s house was a risk she’d had no option but to take. People would make assumptions. They would presume her desire to seek the company of dissipated gentlemen was indeed a motive for her to have murdered her husband.

Tristan raised a brow. “If we are recognised or discovered walking out in the garden alone we may find ourselves party to gossip.” Despite his cautionary tone, he held out his arm. He appeared more relaxed. No doubt Mr. Chandler possessed the skills necessary to penetrate his stone façade.

“Well, widows are known to be a little lax when it comes to morals.” She tried to sound amused, indifferent. “I have been whipped by vicious tongues many times.” The years had not made her immune to the pain, but she did not want to give him a reason to refuse. “You are yet to make any formal declaration to Miss Smythe. So, neither of us should have any cause to explain our being here.”

Placing her hand lightly in the crook of his arm, she waited for the sudden flutter of excitement in her stomach. It did not materialise instantly. It did not materialise at all. Her body felt numb, her heart empty.

“I was thinking only of you,” he said. “And I have no plans to make a declaration. Not to Miss Smythe. Not to anyone.”

Whilst she found his first comment touching, she chose not to challenge him for his second. It was common knowledge he planned to take a wife. But she did not want to argue with him. In a fit of anger, she would berate him over his failure to keep his promise to her all those years ago. If they had any hope of working together, it must remain in the past.

Navigating the crowd, Tristan led her out onto the terrace. “Perhaps it is not wise to linger here.” He gestured inconspicuously to the amorous couple frolicking in the shadows behind the open door.

Listening to the lady’s giggling and ragged breathing reminded her of how much she missed feeling loved and adored. And she could not concentrate on the conversation when the sound of happiness reinforced how terribly lonely she had become.

“No,” she said softly, “let us walk where we may have some privacy.”

A faint smile touched his lips. “I must warn you that we are bound to meet other couples whilst roaming about the grounds.”

She forced a reassuring smile. “It would not be a masquerade if we did not stumble upon at least one illicit liaison.”

Tristan inclined his head. “Indeed.”

They descended the five stone steps and followed the gravel path as far as the fountain. It occurred to her that the ornate object was perhaps too large for the space, but then she remembered the erotic lure of water. The trickling sound soothed the soul. Playful splashes flicked at a partner were often a prelude to something far more sinful. Indeed, she imagined Mr. Chandler lounging on the grass whilst watching a host of naked nymphs bathe in the stone feature.

“Shall we stop here?” Tristan asked. “There is a bench where we might sit.”

Her gaze drifted to the stone seat. Did he recall the hours spent sitting together in the garden at Kempston Hall as fondly as she did? Then again, she supposed his suggestion was purely logical. The grass was still damp from an earlier rain shower. Her slippers would be sodden by the time they returned to the ballroom, the black silk forever stained.

With a quick glance back over her shoulder, she nodded. “Perhaps it is best we do sit.” She feared her knees would buckle once she spoke of the burden she carried.

Tristan brushed the stone bench with his gloved hand. “There. That should suffice.”

“I am not sure where to begin,” she said as she sat down. Her heart was beating erratically at the thought of recounting her nightmare.

Sitting down beside her, he removed his domino mask and placed it next to him on the bench before brushing his hand through his mop of golden hair. “Perhaps you should start by telling me how Lord Fernall died and why there are some who believe you are responsible.”

She stared into his eyes as she tried to form a reply. Cerulean blue. Those were the words she repeated in her mind whenever she struggled to envisage the exact colour of his eyes. Cerulean — as soothing and just as seductive as a deep-blue sky in the height of summer.

She shook her head in a bid to focus on her answer.

“I found Samuel lying sprawled at the bottom of the stairs.” She tried not to stare into Tristan’s eyes when she spoke. If he was to comprehend the terrifying nature of the events, she could not be distracted. “It was three in the morning. I heard him open the door to his chamber, listened to the heavy, sluggish footsteps of a man in his cups or one still hovering in the realm of sleep.”

Tristan raised a brow. “You heard him? You did not share a bedchamber?”

The rigid muscles in her cheeks softened, but she could not quite manage a smile. “No, Tristan. We always slept apart.”

He raised his chin in response. “I see. Forgive me. Please continue.”

“The footsteps came to an abrupt halt. I heard a gasp and then nothing more.”

“Did Lord Fernall not cry out? Did you not hear a dull thud to indicate he had fallen down the stairs?”

She shook her head. “Other than a loud intake of breath, I heard nothing.”

“And so you went to investigate.”

“Yes.” It had taken her five minutes or more to rouse the courage, but eventually, she had peered out into the corridor. “I put on a wrapper and crept along the landing. The house was dark. The oak panelling only serves to make it feel even more oppressive, but still I ventured downstairs.”

“Did you see anyone else?”

“No. I was but five or six steps from the bottom when I noticed his body and realised he was dead.” She shuddered visibly as she recalled his grisly expression. “His face was ashen, the texture a powdery white. His hair practically stood on end. His body lay twisted and contorted like the corkscrew branches of a willow. Over the years, I have seen many distasteful emotions in his eyes, but I have never seen terror.”

Tristan shuffled uncomfortably, his clenched jaw a sure sign of agitation. “Had his heart given out? Did the fall kill him?” He gestured to her mask. “Would you mind removing your disguise? I find I cannot concentrate. I cannot absorb what you’re telling me when your face is obscured.”

His comment dragged her away from the morbid scene back to the present. She wondered if he doubted her account. Did he imagine she would lie about something so horrifying?

“Forgive me. I know when one intends to deceive it is often reflected in the eyes,” she said, although she had failed to notice it in Tristan’s. Forcing steady fingers, she removed her mask and placed it on the bench next to his. “You only need to look into mine to know I speak the truth.”

For some unknown reason, he gave a mocking snort. His assessing gaze drifted over her face, but he chose not to look into her eyes. “What was the cause of death?”

“Samuel suffered a broken neck. Apparently, death was instantaneous.”

Tristan rubbed his chin in silent contemplation. “Although you did not hear a sound,” he eventually said, “he could still have tripped and fallen. What makes you believe someone murdered him?”