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.”