“I find Miss Smythe to be brimming with warmth and grace. She is kind and good-natured and deserves a gentleman who appreciates such attributes.”
The gentleman appeared smitten. Tristan knew that feeling well.
“Then let me ease your fears. I find Miss Smythe … enchanting, but I have no desire to pay her court. It is my mother who wishes me to marry. I have yet to give the matter any consideration.”
The night was improving rapidly. Mr. Fellows would declare his intentions. His mother would stop pestering him, and Miss Smythe could spend her days talking incessantly about her hobbies.
All he had to deal with now was a potential murderer, a phantom in a white cloak and a wild dog thirsty for blood.
“It … it is out of character for me to be so forward,” Mr. Fellows informed. “But I noticed you left the Mottlesborough concert with a lady and hoped your interest lay elsewhere.”
A mild sense of panic flared.
Had Fellows found the quartet tedious and let his gaze wander or was it his intention to use a veiled threat to bolster his position?
“The lady is an old friend, nothing more.” Tristan did not wish to give him food for the ravenous gossips. He was tired and needed to bring the conversation to an end. “I’ll be out of town for a few days. On my return, I shall ensure Miss Smythe understands my position. In the meantime, have my assurance that you may pursue the lady with my blessing.”
Mr. Fellows stood. “I thank you for seeing me at such a late hour. I feared a measure of hostility but am pleased you understand my intention is purely to see Miss Smythe happy.”
Tristan came to his feet. “As is mine,” he said. “I’m conscious that my mother may have coerced the lady into believing we would make a good match, and so my absence will help to provide some clarity.” Besides, he had a feeling Priscilla Smythe admired Mr. Fellows greatly.
“Are you off on a jaunt?” the gentleman asked with a hint of enthusiasm.
Tristan gave an indolent wave. “I’m afraid not,” he said walking Mr. Fellows to the door. “I’m away to Bedfordshire on estate business.”
Mr. Fellows inclined his head. “Then accept my apologies again for disturbing you at such a ridiculous time of night. And let me say that while one’s responsibilities can be rather laborious and mundane, I grant that you may find a modicum of merriment and pleasure.”
Tristan suppressed a grin. There was nothing mundane about spending time with Isabella. He wondered what the next few days would bring. Would he learn to forgive her duplicity? Would he experience the sweet taste of her lips once again?
“Thank you, Mr. Fellows,” he said feeling eager to retire to his bedchamber, though he doubted he would sleep. “I am hopeful some aspects of my trip will prove pleasing.”
Chapter 6
The painted sign of the Blue Boar Inn creaked as it swung violently back and forth on its iron hinge. Despite being nestled safely inside the confines of her carriage, Isabella gripped the seat as a blustering north wind rocked the conveyance.
“Good Lord,” she muttered as pebble-sized raindrops pelted the window. For the umpteenth time, she glanced through the viewing pane behind. The road was deserted. The relentless downpour continued to bombard the overflowing puddles. Black clouds threatened thunder. “Oh, Tristan. Where are you?”
A part of her hoped he had stopped to take shelter; it did not matter that he was late. A part of her longed to see his mud-splattered face just to know all was well.
The carriage swayed again. This time, the motion was instigated by the coachman whose gruff commands suggested he was struggling to settle the horses.
Lowering the window an inch, she called up to Dawes, “Can we wait a few more minutes?”
“Yes, my lady.” Dawes muttered something about the thunder, but she struggled to hear him for his words were whisked away by the wind.
Odd irrational thoughts flitted through her mind. Was the storm an ominous warning to stay away? Were the ghosts of Highley Grange out to prevent her impending return?
The sudden rap on the window made her jump. Her hand flew to her mouth, slipped to her chest when she realised it could be Tristan.
She thrust forward, lowered the pane a fraction more and blinked away the droplets of water. “Tristan?”
The figure perched upon the chestnut stallion wore the collar of his greatcoat high, his hat tilted forward to obscure his face. His commanding presence stole her breath. “How far is it to Highley Grange?”
Isabella would know Tristan’s voice anywhere, although she wasn’t sure if he was speaking to her or Dawes.
“Less than half a mile, my lord,” came her coachman’s reply.
Tristan turned to her. Rain poured from the brim of his hat. “Close the window. I’ll meet you there.”