What You Deserve (Anything for Love 3)

Tristan laughed, though was somewhat bemused by his friend’s compliments. “Had I not known of your voracious lust for women I might have been worried.”

“Whilst I often go to great lengths to shock and cause outrage, I come out in an ugly rash whenever I brush against a gentleman’s bristly chin.”

It had been months since Tristan had laughed so hard. He made a mental note to spend more time with Chandler.

“I am off to Bedfordshire on estate business for a few days, but I have a feeling I may be in need of your company upon my return.” Indeed, a few days spent with Isabella was sure to be a torturous affair. “Do you still frequent White’s?”

Chandler snorted. “Not since I was a snivelling pup. My tastes tend to lean towards the ruinous. There is a rather adequate sink of iniquity on James’ Street. Perhaps you might care to join me there one evening.”

Tristan’s experiences in France had taught him that gambling was a one-way road to debtors’ prison. “I’ll accompany you, but only as a spectator. I lack your skill when it comes to card games.”

“And my skill with women.” Chandler slapped him on the back. “What a shame you’re off to Bedfordshire. My advice regarding Isabella was to spend more time in her company. Only then will the truth become abundantly clear.” Chandler sighed. “Now, the night is still young. Shall we see if we can find that tempting shepherdess?”

Tristan shook his head. “I’m afraid I must decline. I must rise early in the morning if I’m to make it to Kempston at a reasonable hour.”

“Indeed.” Chandler gave a knowing smirk. “Well, enjoy your time in Bedfordshire. I certainly hope your business proves fruitful.”

It was midnight by the time Tristan returned home to Bedford Square, still relatively early by most gentlemen’s standards.

“Is Lady Morford in her chamber?” Tristan could not leave London without informing his mother that he had business at Kempston Hall. In the process, there were a few questions he had regarding the death of Lord Fernall.

“No, my lord. Lady Morford is waiting in the parlour. She asked to be informed the moment you returned.” Ebsworth waved gracefully at the door to their left. “And a Mr. Fellows is waiting for you in the study.”

Fellows? What the hell did he want at such a ridiculous time of night?

“You should have informed him I was not at home.” His sharp tone conveyed his irritation.

Ebsworth inclined his head by way of an apology. “Forgive me, my lord. But Lady Morford insisted I show the gentleman in.”

Tristan cursed silently. “Inform Mr. Fellows of my return and explain that I shall attend him shortly.” Anyone inconsiderate enough to call at a late hour should be made to wait.

Ebsworth bowed. “Certainly, my lord.”

Tristan strode to the parlour. He hovered outside the door in a bid to calm his ragged breathing. It would be a mistake to charge into the room and demand to know why the hell no one had told him of Lord Fernall’s death. There were many more burning questions, too. Why hadn’t she told him Andrew had been visiting Isabella when he died? And what the hell was his brother doing there in the first place?

With a shake of the head, he tapped the door and entered.

“Tristan. Is that you?” His mother lay stretched out on the chaise. In one hand, she clutched a lace-trimmed handkerchief; the other hand lay limply over her brow. “Ah, there you are.”

“Is it not a little dark in here?” He glanced at the solitary candle flickering in its holder on the side table. “We have no need to be frugal.”

“I find the light hurts my eyes.” She gave a woeful sigh.

“Ebsworth said you were waiting for me to come home.”

She raised her arm slowly, as though it weighed more than her entire body, and waved her handkerchief. “Help me to sit up, won’t you.”

Melancholy obviously had a debilitating effect on her. He assisted her in shuffling to an upright position, found a cushion to support her back.

“Mr. Fellows is waiting to speak to you,” she said. “He told me that you did not attend Lady Padmore’s soiree. Apparently, Miss Smythe was expecting to see you there and was frightfully disappointed to find you absent.”

Had Fellows come purely to chastise him for his thoughtlessness? He suspected the gentleman had only been granted entrance because of his eagerness to speak of Miss Smythe.

“I made no promises to Miss Smythe.” Whilst he felt the need for honesty, he did not want to antagonise a lady in mourning. “I decided to visit an old friend. His company proved to be rather entertaining, hence my decision to forgo Lady Padmore’s soiree.”

His mother’s eyelids suddenly appeared less hooded, and she cast him a look that conveyed an inner frustration. “But only two nights ago you left the Mottlesborough concert before the interval without saying a word to Miss Smythe. Your indifferent behaviour will leave a stain on her reputation. What must she think of you?”

Tristan pushed his hand through his hair. “Miss Smythe was in the company of Mr. Fellows. It would have been rude of me to interrupt.”