“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.”