What You Deserve (Anything for Love 3)

“You’ll have to ask his lordship. Mr. Blackwood is the one who passed on his instruction.”

“And what of the hound I hear howling outside my window at night?”

Mrs. Birch lowered her gaze. “It’s my nephew’s dog. Mr. Blackwood trained him to sit in the same spot by burying fresh meat.”

Isabella flopped down onto the gilt-framed settee. She was so tired. Since her mother’s death she had struggled to settle, struggled to call any place her home. Her life during the last five years had been an awful lie. A marriage of convenience simply to ease her pain, to prove a point. A loveless arrangement to a gentleman known for his rakish behaviour and utter lack of morals.

Isabella stared at her housekeeper. “Was there a point in all of this where you questioned if what you were doing was wrong?”

Mrs. Birch nodded. “Mr. Blackwood can be very persuasive. He insisted it was for the best. We could see it was causing you distress which is the only reason we went to such great lengths last night.”

Isabella could not even rouse the energy to pity them.

“You may all leave us,” she said in a tone as cold as her heart. “Resume your duties until I tell you otherwise. I shall confer with Lord Fernall and decide what is to be done here.”

The women offered a curtsy, Sedgewick a low bow, before retreating sombrely from the room.

Tristan came to sit beside her. “They were acting on instruction,” he said. “I’m afraid their loyalty lies with the gentleman who employs them.”

Isabella sighed; she was not so naive as to suppose it would be any different. “Perhaps they felt they were acting in everyone’s best interest. But it reaffirms my need to find an alternative place to reside. I refuse to be beholden to Henry.”

Tristan placed his hand over hers as they lay in her lap. “Do not be too hasty. We shall discuss the matter with Lord Fernall. Only then will you know how best to proceed.”

She looked up into his piercing blue eyes. “We? You intend to accompany me when I call on Henry?”

“If that is what you want.”

Emotions were a strange thing. Tristan had broken her heart, smashed it into a million tiny pieces. Now, every kind word and gesture went some way to help heal the damaged organ. Would it ever be whole again? Would she ever be capable of loving with the same passionate intensity?

“I do not know what to do.” She glanced down at the large masculine hand enveloping hers. His warm touch made her pulse race a little too rapidly; it also brought a measure of peace, serenity. “Perhaps it is best not to think about it too much. They say a calm mind is a path to wisdom.”

Tristan stood, walked over to the window are stared at the view beyond. “I suggest we stay here for the time being.”

Her heart fluttered up to her throat. “Stay here?”

“I am certainly in no rush to return to London. Give yourself another day or two before you call on Henry Fernall.”

He had promised to help her, and he had, but whilst they had solved the mystery of the haunting there was still the matter of murder to consider.

“The hauntings turned out to be nothing more than the work of an overbearing peer, but I am still convinced a murderer is lurking in our midst.”

He turned to face her. “One thing is clear. The feigned hauntings bear no relation to Lord Fernall’s death, or to Andrew’s death for that matter. Perhaps they were both accidents. Perhaps fear played havoc with your imagination.”

Isabella shook her head and clenched her jaw with a level of determination she rarely expressed. “You’re wrong. Andrew believed me. He made enquiries, spoke to a few gentlemen who knew Samuel well. He kept a notebook—”

“I’m certain Andrew would have said or done anything just to spend more time in your company.” His bitter tone sliced through the air. “Andrew always had an ulterior motive for everything he did.”

She came to her feet and closed the gap between them. “Why can you not accept that he had changed? Do not mistake me. I found it so hard to forgive him for dragging me away from you that night at the coaching inn.”

The mere mention of the night they eloped roused a host of painful memories. With the assistance of his coachman, Lord Morford had held Tristan at bay whilst Andrew had picked her up and bundled her into his carriage. She had cried until there were no tears left to shed. She had sworn never to forgive them for their treachery.

But loneliness and despair had overshadowed all other emotions.

“I will never forgive him.” Tristan’s expression darkened, and he narrowed his gaze. “But you do not need to pretend anymore. Andrew was your saviour, and that is why you were able to bear his company when I could not stand to look at him.”

“My saviour?” She struggled to understand his meaning. “Yes, he helped me when Samuel died, when I had no one to turn to for guidance and support. In doing so, I forgave him for informing your mother of our elopement. I forgave him for ruining my life.”

Tristan rubbed his neck as he gave a contemptuous snort. “I cannot believe I am about to defend my brother, but you are the only person responsible for ruining your life. Andrew did not force you to marry Lord Fernall.”