“Let us talk of something else.” In a fluster, she patted her hair, the base of her throat, her fingers refusing to remain still. “Have you arranged to meet Miss Smythe this evening?”
“I’m to dine with an old friend this evening. Miss Smythe intends to stay at home.” He felt no guilt for the small lie; it was nothing compared to the depth of his mother’s deceit.
“Well, perhaps it will give Miss Smythe an opportunity to pine for you. As a wise poet once said, ‘always toward absent lovers love's tide stronger flows.’ ”
Tristan considered the quote. During his time in France, there was not a day that passed when he did not think of Isabella. Even in a state of despair, he still longed to be near her. Knowing he would see her in a few hours made his heart race.
He forced a smile. “My friend is staying at a house on Brook Street. I doubt I shall be too late home.” Althoug
h if Isabella asked him to stay the night he would not refuse.
“I hope he is not staying too close to Mivart’s Hotel. I’ve heard it can be quite noisy at night.”
“You mistake me. I am not meeting a gentleman. I am dining with Lady Fernall.”
The colour drained from his mother’s face leaving her skin ashen, chalk-white. “Lady Fernall?”
“Indeed, I thought you might be surprised. I would have invited Isabella to dine here, but she informed me, only this morning, that you wrote to her to say she would not be welcome.”
His mother opened her mouth and snapped it shut. It took but a moment for her lower lip to cease trembling and for her to call on her steely reserve for support. “I have not been well enough to receive visitors.”
“Yet you received Miss Smythe and Miss Hamilton. You granted Mr. Fellows admission despite him calling at an ungodly hour. Isabella is a dear family friend.”
Her nostrils flared. “So dear a friend that her meddling resulted in your brother’s death.”
That was not the crux of her problem with Isabella. “Andrew fell off his horse. You can hardly blame Isabella for that.”
“Do you know how much time he spent there, pandering to her silly little whims?” Her white face turned a dark shade of red. “Your brother was besotted with her. Look where it got him.”
Jealousy dug its long sharp claws into his heart. He sucked in a breath, determined not to let his mother’s bitterness infect him too. “Andrew was so besotted he told Isabella everything that happened on the night father forced us from the coaching inn.”
His mother’s resolve faltered. She gulped numerous times as though she no longer knew how to breathe air, opened her mouth to speak but the fragments of words were incoherent. “Isabella will say anything to win your affections,” she finally countered.
“I know it was Andrew who wrote the letter to Isabella.” It was a wild guess. There had been nothing feminine about the strong abrupt pen strokes. It was possible Andrew could have deceived their mother. But instinct told him she was just as guilty. “He confessed to his part in the deception, and now it is time to confess to yours.”
“What deception? You make it sound so distasteful. You were simply not suited. Someone had to intervene. You were young and hopelessly naive.” She raised her chin and stared down her nose in a look of disgust. “Andrew did what he thought was best.”
“Andrew was a jealous, spiteful prig who would sell his soul if it served his own end.”
His mother sucked in a ragged breath. “How dare you speak ill of the dead.”
A fiery rage coursed through him. “Then let us speak about the living. Let us discuss the part you played in it all,” he said in a tone just as hostile.
“That’s enough.” His mother stood and banged her hand on the table. “I’ll hear no more of it. I insist you leave this house at once.”
Tristan smirked. “I’m afraid this is my house. If anyone is to leave here, it will be you.”
He felt a faint flicker of remorse. This was not the relationship he wanted to have with his mother. His thoughts turned to Isabella, a woman with no one to care for her, a woman whose life had been ruined out of jealousy and spite.
“Leave? And where do you expect me to go?”
“Perhaps a visit to Ripon will help with your recovery. Catherine would relish the company.” Indeed, his sister and her husband could share the burden.
“Ripon? Ripon!” She glared at him with burning, reproachful eyes. “That woman has poisoned your mind. Just as she did all those years ago. Just as her mother did before her.”
So incensed was she that she spoke in riddles.
Tristan jumped to his feet. “Before I call for Ebsworth and instruct him to have Anna pack your trunk, tell me what you hoped to gain by your interference.”