What You Deserve (Anything for Love 3)

She flapped her pristine white handkerchief. “Well, where did you go?”

“Does it matter?”

“Matter? Good heavens. You left your betrothed in the company of another gentleman, of course it matters.” She placed her hand to her chest. “I fear my heart cannot stand the strain.”

He was suddenly grateful he had not sat down. To jump out of the chair in a burst of anger would surely bring on one of her migraines.

“Miss Smythe is not my betrothed. Whilst she is quite amiable, I have no intention of marrying a woman who speaks of nothing but sewing.”

“Sewing! The lady is accomplished in many things. I’m sure if you went to the trouble of spending an entire evening in her company you would discover that her talents know no bounds.” His mother nodded as though agreeing with a comment he had yet to make. “Yes. Yes. You must spend the afternoon with her. Take her for a ride in the park, to Gunter’s or wherever you young people go for amusement. I shall send a note and arrange it on your behalf.”

Tristan sighed, purely to suppress a smirk. “I’m afraid my afternoon with Miss Smythe will have to wait. I must ride to Kempston as a matter of urgency.”

“Kempston? Kempston! How long will you be gone?”

Tristan shrugged. “Three days, assuming all goes well. Perhaps a little longer.” He considered journeying to France and saying to hell with it all.

“Three days?” Her handkerchief slipped from her fingers as she flapped her hands in annoyance. “Can’t Mr. Henderson deal with things? What do you pay the man for if he cannot cope with simple problems?”

“Whatever the problem, I must leave in the morning.” It was wrong to distrust one’s mother, but he chose not to reveal his time of departure for fear he would wake to find his wrists and ankles tied to the bedposts.

“But you can’t go. You’re needed here. Our situation is dire. I cannot cope without you.”

He refused to let his mother use her grief for Andrew’s passing as a means to control him. “I am needed at Kempston Hall,” he reiterated firmly. It crossed his mind to broach the subject of Lord Fernall’s death, but he did not wish to rouse her suspicions.

“And what am I to tell Miss Smythe when she calls tomorrow afternoon to take tea?”

Tristan coughed into his fist to suppress a chuckle before feigning a serious expression. “Tell her you’re interested in the alterations she has made to her bonnet. That way I doubt she’ll even notice my absence.”

Tristan strode towards the study expecting to feel a wave of guilt for not agreeing to his mother’s petty demands. But instead, his body felt lighter; there was a playful spring to his step, and his wide grin stretched from ear to ear. He hadn’t felt this good in months.

With a contented sigh, he entered the study.

Mr. Fellows stood. He had not given Ebsworth his hat. Instead, he held it in front of him, fed the rim back and forth through nervous fingers.

“Mr. Fellows.” Tristan inclined his head. “I must admit it is rather late to be making a house call. Luckily, I am in a good mood. Now, what can I do for you?”

“Forgive the intrusion, my lord. I know we have not been introduced, but I am recently acquainted with Lady Morford, and am here on an errand of sorts.”

Tristan raised a brow. “An errand? Given the hour, I assume it is a matter of considerable importance.” Under any other circumstances, he would have been intrigued, had he not known Mr. Fellows enjoyed playing nursemaid to Miss Smythe.

“I suppose it could have waited. But when my mind is occupied I fi

nd I simply must act.”

“As we are barely acquainted, I assume you speak on behalf of another.” He did not have time to waste and so chose to come directly to the point.

“Indeed.” Mr. Fellows prised his fingers from his hat and brushed a hand through his wild mop of black hair. “I wish to discuss Miss Smythe, though she is unaware of my presence here.”

Tristan waved for him to sit. The night had brought many strange and shocking revelations, and he needed a drink. “Would you care for refreshment?” he said gesturing to the range of crystal decanters on the side table. “Brandy or port?”

“I’m afraid I must abstain.” Mr. Fellows perched on the edge of the chair. “But please, do not refrain on my account.”

Tristan poured himself a drink and dropped into the chair opposite. “Now, have you come here to chastise me for my treatment of Miss Smythe or to enquire as to my intentions towards her?”

Mr. Fellows blinked several times, his expression revealing an element of shock. The muscle in his cheek twitched. “Erm … both.”

Tristan raised his glass in salute. “Then let me start by saying I respect your honesty. I suspect your concern stems from an admiration for the lady.”