What You Deserve (Anything for Love 3)

Isabella gazed about the secret room. “How could I not know it was here? Surely the servants are aware.” She visibly shivered. “Oh, and to think someone could have been watching me while I slept or bathed. I think I would rather it was a ghost.”

Feeling a modicum of guilt for finding pleasure in the thought of watching her bathe, he shook the vision from his head.

She appeared forlorn, her expression one of hopelessness. Tristan stepped towards her, took hold of her chin and forced her to look at him. “Sometimes reality is far more gruesome than any imagined horrors. But only the truth can free you from your shackles. Take comfort in the knowledge that we are making progress, that we will uncover every dastardly plot so you may live in peace and comfort.”

Isabella smiled weakly as she placed her hand over his. “Thank you, Tristan. Thank you for coming here to help me when I suspect it is the last thing you wanted to do.”

Being with Isabella was the only thing he had ever wanted. “Our investigation is far from over. I am afraid you will have to tolerate me a little while longer.”

“There is nothing sufferable about spending time with you,” she said in a tone that made the hairs at his nape jump to attention. “I enjoy your company. I always have.”

He felt the familiar pang in his chest, the familiar tug in his abdomen. Love and lust coursed

through his veins. For the first time in years, he did not want to hear the truth from her lips. To be set free was the last thing he wanted. Being bound to her was all he lived for. He did not care what her reasons were for marrying Lord Fernall.

One way or another, he would find a way to make her his again.

Chapter 10

The atmosphere in the drawing room thrummed with palpable tension.

Isabella sat with her spine straight, her chin raised, her mouth stretched thin as she stared at her servants’ solemn faces. They stood in a line, their hands held in front of them, their demeanour giving the impression they would be shot if they so much as blinked or breathed.

She glanced at Tristan standing in front of the fire with his hands clasped behind his back. His curt nod gave her the confidence to continue.

“Well, what have you to say?” When they failed to respond, she said, “Then I shall take your silence as an admission of guilt. As you have declined the opportunity to offer an explanation, you must all collect your things at once and leave this house immediately.”

It was an idle threat. The servants were in Henry’s employ. She could not simply dismiss them without consulting him first. Even so, Molly’s whimper gave her a little faith that they were all close to confessing.

“It’s not our fault, my lady,” Molly cried. “What else were we to do?”

Mrs. Birch nudged the maid. “Since Lord Fernall’s death, we have been warned not to mention the secret room. We were told not to remind you of the things that went on here.”

“It is not the secret room that concerns me.” One of the people in front of her had led a systematic campaign to frighten her out of her wits. “Which one of you covered my dress with wine and placed it in my bed? Which one of you sullied the wall with your cruel threats?” The sudden rush of anger forced her to her feet. “Which one of you sought to torment a lonely woman into believing her life was in danger?”

A sob caught in her throat and she swallowed it down.

Sedgewick bowed. “My lady, I am not to blame for these unfortunate events. My position in this household commands respect, and I would do nothing to hinder my position.”

“What? Do your lofty manners prevent you from playing cards in the drawing room and drinking my sherry?” Isabella mocked.

Sedgewick’s cheeks turned berry red. “A regrettable incident that will not happen again, my lady.”

Isabella noted the piece of cloth tied around Molly’s finger. “I am told the paint smeared over the wall in the master chamber burns when it comes into contact with the skin. Is that not correct, Lord Morford?”

“It is, Lady Fernall. Perhaps we should consider your maid’s obvious injury to her finger as an admission of guilt.”

“No, my lady,” Molly cried holding up the offending article. “I scalded it yesterday when heating the water for his lordship’s bath.” Her frantic gaze shot to Mrs. Birch. “Tell them it wasn’t me who ruined the wallpaper. Tell them we had no choice but to do what Mr. Blackwood said.”

“For goodness sake, girl.” Mrs. Birch shook her head and with a grunt of resignation stepped forward. “Mr. Blackwood told us what we had to do.”

Tristan straightened. “Did Mr. Blackwood say why you were to terrify your mistress?” The muscles in his cheek twitched. Anger radiated from him, hot and fiery. “Make no mistake. What you have done here could be regarded as deception, deception with the intent to cause harm.”

The colour drained from their faces; their complexions turned ashen, their eyes wide with alarm.

“Causing my lady harm was never our intention.” Mrs. Birch cleared her throat and turned her attention to Isabella. “Mr. Blackwood said Lord Fernall resents his father for forcing you to stay in this house. Lord Fernall thinks you should reside at Grangefields, a more respectable abode. This house is no place for a lady.”

“Well, why did he not say so instead of devising such a ridiculous charade?”