“Do … do you know her?” Tristan struggled to force the words from his mouth.
Chandler turned to look at him, his brows drawn together. “Are you telling me that you don’t? If so, I suggest you look a little closer. Indeed, her attendance here tonight is not a coincidence.” He turned his attention back to the lady on the stairs, rubbed his chin and said, “How interesting.”
Tristan blinked, narrowed his gaze and stared beyond the glittering mask and rouged lips. Her ebony hair was tied back in a loose knot at her nape. The style was simple. It reflected a relaxed attitude, a lack of vanity so opposed to the sensual aura she radiated. As he noted the narrow shape of her chin, the creamy hue of her skin, he felt the familiar tightening in his abdomen that only ever occurred with one woman. Whilst her eyes were hidden behind the delicate mask, he would stake his life that they were a dark, chocolate brown.
“Isabella.” He had not intended to say her name out loud.
“Indeed,” Chandler said with a hint of intrigue.
“What the bloody hell is she doing here?” Only one thought took prominence. Had she come to meet a lover? Jealousy slithered through him.
Chandler cast him a look of disappointment. “What do you think she’s doing here? Lord above, all that time spent sleeping with monks has affected your brain.”
“I was not sleeping with monks,” he snapped. He was not sleeping with anyone.
“Do not underestimate the power of the pious,” Chandler chuckled. “Their holy essence lingers in the shadows waiting to numb the senses of unsuspecting gentlemen.”
“Have no fear on that score. I am immune.” Tristan snorted. Chandler would be shocked to learn of all the things he had done whilst working for the Crown. “During my time in France, I committed many sins against the Lord. All in the name of justice, of course.”
His work with Marcus Danbury had resulted in countless fights and brawls, often with pistols and swords, occasionally resulting in death. His wild escapades had moulded his character, made him the man he was today. Not the preened, pretentious prig he saw in the mirror, but the man strong enough to fight for a cause.
“Well, I’m somewhat pleased to hear you finally found the courage to seek refuge in another woman’s arms.”
Tristan turned to him. He could not suppress the dark cloud descending. “There has never been anyone else. It has always been Isabella.”
“Holy heaven.” Chandler rubbed the back of his neck and exhaled. “There is a small part of me that is curious to know what it feels like to be that obsessed with a woman. Do you sleep at night? Does the intense feeling of longing ever subside?”
“No.”
“Good Lord! Then you’re in need of more than a drink.”
Tristan watched Isabella hovering on the opposite side of the room, waiting to see who she spoke to, but he struggled to keep her in his line of sight. “What is she doing here, Matthew?” He sighed as he brushed his hand through his hair. But the sudden urge to protect her grew fierce. “Lord Fernall is a blasted idiot. Why would he allow her to venture out on her own at night?”
“I’m confused,” Chandler said. “Are you speaking of her stepson? It does sound ludicrous that I should refer to Henry as such when they are practically the same age.”
Tristan frowned. “I was not speaking of Henry Fernall, but of her husband.”
Chandler slapped his hand to his chest and stepped back. “Her husband?” he repeated. “But Lord Fernall is dead. Surely you knew.”
There was a moment of stunned silence.
Tristan repeated the words over and over in his mind for fear he had misheard.
“Dead!” Tristan shook his head. “But you must be mistaken. My mother would have told me.” He had seen Henry Fernall at the theatre, but in the crush they had not had a chance to speak. “Someone would have mentioned the fact.”
Chandler shrugged. “People probably assumed you knew. As did I.”
Tristan stared out across the sea of heads to find Isabella still standing alone. Why the bloody hell hadn’t she mentioned it when she’d asked to speak to him in her carriage. Whilst he was annoyed that she had not had the decency to offer her condolences for Andrew’s death, he was guilty of the same crime.
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.