What You Deserve (Anything for Love, Book 3) (15 page)

He smiled. The wild glint in her eye caused desire to flare. He had seen the same expression on the day they had eloped. A sudden and strange uneasiness settled over him. Their happiness had ended in catastrophe.

“There is every possibility the perpetrator will assume Andrew spoke to you of his suspicions,” he said, his cautious tone revealing a hint of anxiety. “Should people see us together, should it become known we are asking questions, we will be leaving ourselves open to attack.”

She stared at him, bit down on her bottom lip, her motionless eyes conveying she was deep in thought. “Until a few moments ago, I thought I had lost everything dear to me.” She shook her head. “I cannot let you risk your life.”

He sat back, rubbed his chin as he contemplated the situation. He thrived on solving puzzles. His escapades in France had served to make him stronger, given him a burning desire to see justice done.

“Let me speak to Henry Fernall, gauge his reaction.” He did not want to alarm her, but a man who would stoop so low as to terrify a lady living alone was capable of far more heinous crimes. “If the staged haunting proves to be an isolated incident then you may decide how we proceed.”

It would take an immense amount of control not to grab Fernall by the throat and wring his damn neck.

“Very well.” She nodded. “I must admit, even though I know Mrs. Birch is the woman in white I do not want to stay here on my own.”

If he had his way, she would never be alone again. But so much had happened. There were too many lies, too many people who had conspired to keep them apart. He feared that the love they once shared: a pure, honest and genuine emotion, would now be tainted by the pain of the past.

But as a man known for his optimism all he could do was hope that, somewhere beneath the mess and the chaos, their love was not lost but lay dormant like a bud waiting for the first glimpse of spring.

Chapter 12

“You’re home!” The grin on his mother’s face stretched from ear to ear. “How wonderful.” His mother turned to the petite Miss Smythe, who was in the process of sipping her tea. “Is it not a stroke of luck, my dear?”

Tristan bowed. “Good afternoon, Miss Smythe. How fortunate that you should be here.” Indeed, it saved him the trouble of calling on her. He turned his attention to her companion. “Good afternoon, Miss Hamilton.”

He resisted the urge to pat the beads of sweat from his brow. Yesterday, the thirty-mile journey had taken a little over three hours in the rain. Today, with the sun shining and the road not nearly as treacherous, he had managed to reduce his time by forty minutes. Of course, anger fuelled his desire to reach his destination promptly.

Both ladies offered the perfunctory greeting.

Miss Smythe smiled sweetly. He could almost hear the birds chirping their pretty song in response. “What a pleasant surprise it is, my lord.”

“Isn’t it just.” His mother placed her china cup on the saucer and clapped her hands. “Mr. Henderson does fret so. I often wonder as to the man’s capabilities. But then Lord Morford takes his responsibilities extremely seriously. No doubt his man simply needed a little expert guidance.”

Tristan groaned inwardly. He was surprised his mother had not presented his first lock of hair so they might marvel over its hue and softness as an example of utter perfection.

“I shall explain the nature of the problem once I have spoken to Miss Smythe.” Tristan inclined his head. “That is if the lady is willing to accompany me on a stroll around the garden.” He turned his attention to the lady in question. “Miss Hamilton may join us.”

He would insist his mother remained inside. He would not give her an opportunity to snoop.

“A stroll outdoors sounds like a marvellous idea,” his mother said offering a beaming smile. “I would join you, but I cannot afford to exert myself.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Miss Smythe’s lower lip quivered. Was the lady so timid she feared he might press his advances despite being in the company of Miss Hamilton? “A stroll would be lovely.”

Aware of his mother’s nose pressed against the glass of the terrace room window, Tristan escorted Miss Smythe away from the house. Miss Hamilton walked on a few feet ahead, under the guise of admiring the flowers in the lower borders.

“I love nothing more than to stand idly and smell the roses.” Miss Smythe bent her head, cupped a flower between two hands and inhaled deeply. “When it comes to painting, roses are my flower of choice.”

“I did not realise you enjoyed painting.”

“Oh, yes. I enjoy many things. I find one’s hobbies help to keep one’s mind alert.”

“Indeed.” She really was very sweet and would be the perfect wife for the right gentleman. “While a walk is good for the constitution, my motive stems from a need to speak to you privately.”

Her golden locks shimmered when caught by the sun’s rays; her pleasant smile made her appear pure, angelic. “I have been waiting for an opportunity to speak to you too, hence the reason for Miss Hamilton’s eagerness to hurry on ahead.”

Tristan swallowed. He hoped his intuition proved correct, and that the lady had no desire to hear a declaration of love fall from his lips. As a gentleman, he would allow the lady to address him first.

“You have my full attention,” he said, aware that he should be courteous enough to intimate as to the nature of his thoughts. Should his observations prove wrong, it would save the lady any undue embarrassment. “But first, let me apologise for my mother’s interference. She is often determined to get her way despite the odds.”

Miss Smythe smiled. “Well, I am sure there is no harm done. Since making your acquaintance, I have found you to be rather astute. As such, I do not think it will surprise you to learn that I believe we are far too similar to make a good match.”

Relief shot through him like a lightning bolt and he suppressed a satisfied grin.

“Too similar?” he asked purely as a means of clarification. To his mind, they did not share any commonalities.

“We are both far too amiable,” she said. “You are kind and considerate, and I fear we would soon tire of one another.”

He had struggled to be himself in her company. His impeccable manners made him nauseous. Perhaps she had no desire to discuss sewing and instead wanted a gentleman who did not nod and agree with everything she said.

How ironic.

“I know my aunt and uncle will be terribly disappointed,” she continued, “but I must follow my heart.”

“I fear you are right,” he said in the same affable way. It would not do to let her know he was far removed from the man she believed him to be. “My mother will be disappointed, too, of course. But we shall remain friends. Know that should you ever need assistance my door will always be open.”

He had no idea why the words left his lips. He could only surmise that it had something to do with Isabella. Had there been someone else to offer her support she might never have married Lord Fernall.

“That is generous of you, my lord. One never knows what fate has in store for us. And while I doubt such a need should arise, I shall take comfort in the knowledge that I may approach you for advice.”

Tristan considered mentioning Mr. Fellows, but he did not want to pry. Besides, Mr. Fellows was the epitome of amiable, and now he doubted they would suit at all. “Well, I suppose I should go and break the news to my mother.”

“Then I shall bid you a good day, my lord, and quickly take my leave.” Miss Smythe inclined her head. “I find your mother does not take disappointment well. Indeed, she can be rather persuasive in her methods when she is of a mind to get her way.”

Tristan smiled. Miss Smythe was far more perceptive than he had given her credit.

Tristan waited for Miss Smythe to depart before returning to the terrace room. Miss Smythe’s placid temperament had served to mellow his mood, albeit somewhat temporarily. One wrong word from his mother and he would struggle to keep his anger at bay.

“Well?” His mother sat forward, gripping the padded arms of her favourite chair. “Did you find her agreeable?”

Tristan sat down in the chair opposite. He wanted to rant and rage, but experience had taught him that the element of surprise, coupled with a calm reserve, worked to unnerve one’s quarry.

“She is a delight,” he said honestly.

“I knew if you would only give her a little time you would soon see the merits of her character.”

“Indeed. I am confident Miss Smythe has the necessary attributes any gentleman would admire.”

His mother gave a contented sigh. “I am truly thrilled, and what a marvellous stroke of luck you were able to return home so promptly. I hope Mr. Henderson showed some remorse for wasting your time.”

He straightened, stared at the woman he knew was responsible for five years of pain and misery. “Albeit short, my trip was not a complete waste.” His time at Highley Grange had proved enlightening. “But urgent business brought me back to town.”

“Oh, Tristan,” she said chuckling weakly. “You may be honest with me. You came back to see Miss Smythe. I often find tiresome journeys give one the opportunity to think without distraction. I have made many wise decisions whilst rattling about the countryside in a carriage.”

Wise decisions? Was that the term she used for ruining lives. “Have you ever made a decision you have later come to regret?”

She seemed a little surprised by the question. Her head wobbled as she nodded and shook it at the same time. “One must have the courage to stand by one’s principles. Regret is for the weak, for those who like to wallow in sentiment.”

“I suppose you’re right.” He gave a mocking snort. “My time in France taught me to fight for justice, to fight for those downtrodden and mistreated. A mind plagued by excessive bouts of sentimentality is of no use in the field.”

She flapped her hand in the air and squeezed her eyes shut. “Let us not talk of your terrible time abroad. I cannot bear to think of you running about with those heathens.”

“The point I am making is that I do not regret my time there. And you know why I left, why I had no choice but to leave Kempston, to leave England.”

“Let us talk of something else.” In a fluster, she patted her hair, the base of her throat, her fingers refusing to remain still. “Have you arranged to meet Miss Smythe this evening?”

“I’m to dine with an old friend this evening. Miss Smythe intends to stay at home.” He felt no guilt for the small lie; it was nothing compared to the depth of his mother’s deceit.

“Well, perhaps it will give Miss Smythe an opportunity to pine for you. As a wise poet once said, ‘
always toward absent lovers love's tide stronger flows.
’ ”

Tristan considered the quote. During his time in France, there was not a day that passed when he did not think of Isabella. Even in a state of despair, he still longed to be near her. Knowing he would see her in a few hours made his heart race.

He forced a smile. “My friend is staying at a house on Brook Street. I doubt I shall be too late home.” Although if Isabella asked him to stay the night he would not refuse.

“I hope he is not staying too close to Mivart’s Hotel. I’ve heard it can be quite noisy at night.”

“You mistake me. I am not meeting a gentleman. I am dining with Lady Fernall.”

The colour drained from his mother’s face leaving her skin ashen, chalk-white. “Lady Fernall?”

“Indeed, I thought you might be surprised. I would have invited Isabella to dine here, but she informed me, only this morning, that you wrote to her to say she would not be welcome.”

His mother opened her mouth and snapped it shut. It took but a moment for her lower lip to cease trembling and for her to call on her steely reserve for support. “I have not been well enough to receive visitors.”

“Yet you received Miss Smythe and Miss Hamilton. You granted Mr. Fellows admission despite him calling at an ungodly hour. Isabella is a dear family friend.”

Her nostrils flared. “So dear a friend that her meddling resulted in your brother’s death.”

That was not the crux of her problem with Isabella. “Andrew fell off his horse. You can hardly blame Isabella for that.”

“Do you know how much time he spent there, pandering to her silly little whims?” Her white face turned a dark shade of red. “Your brother was besotted with her. Look where it got him.”

Jealousy dug its long sharp claws into his heart. He sucked in a breath, determined not to let his mother’s bitterness infect him too. “Andrew was so besotted he told Isabella everything that happened on the night father forced us from the coaching inn.”

His mother’s resolve faltered. She gulped numerous times as though she no longer knew how to breathe air, opened her mouth to speak but the fragments of words were incoherent. “Isabella will say anything to win your affections,” she finally countered.

“I know it was Andrew who wrote the letter to Isabella.” It was a wild guess. There had been nothing feminine about the strong abrupt pen strokes. It was possible Andrew could have deceived their mother. But instinct told him she was just as guilty. “He confessed to his part in the deception, and now it is time to confess to yours.”

“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.”