Chapter 13
“I know I told you that I like to keep to country hours when I dine,” Isabella said greeting Tristan in the drawing room of the house in Brook Street, “but I did not expect to see you so soon. It is only five o’clock.”
“Forgive me.” Tristan raked his hand through his hair and brushed the dust from the shoulders of his midnight-blue coat. “In my haste to leave the house, I have not had a chance to wash or change my clothes.”
It had been a matter of hours since they had parted at Highley Grange, yet her pulse raced upon seeing him again.
“Then I shall have to see what I have done with my spare pair of breeches.” Her comment was an attempt to lighten the mood. From his rigid demeanour, she could see the tension in his shoulders, knew he was trying so desperately to suppress his anger. “Mrs. Taylor has gone to fetch the tea tray, but you look as though you might be in need of something stronger.” She waved to the settee. “Come. Sit down and tell me how you fared with your mother.”
From the depth of his frown, she suspected the worst.
“Before I do sit, I think I will accept your offer of something more potent than tea.” He scanned the drawing room, his gaze falling to the well-worn rug, to the pale yellow material covering the chair.
“I imagine it was once a rich shade of gold before someone decided to position it near the window,” she said, feeling no embarrassment. “T
he rent reflects the rather excessive wear to the furnishings.”
“At the monastery we sat on wooden benches, dined at a battered oak table, slept in a room with nothing more than a rickety metal bed. It was one of the happiest times of my life. It taught me that relationships with people are more important than relationships with objects.”
She could not help but look at him with admiration. “You were never one for frivolities. It was one of the things I loved about you.”
“Loved?” A smile touched the corners of his mouth. “You do not appreciate that quality now?”
“You know I do.”
She did not know why she had used the past tense. Perhaps it stemmed from a need for self-preservation. He had not abandoned her. There had not been anyone else. But yet too much had happened for them to continue as they were before. They were different people now, forever changed by circumstance.
“I cannot wait to discover what other qualities of mine you admire,” he said in a rich drawl.
“Oh, there are one or two,” she replied coyly. “More importantly, how fussy are you when it comes to spirits?”
He raised a brow. “Please tell me you are not still talking about the ghost.”
She laughed. “I am speaking about the brandy. I have no idea how long it has been sitting in the decanter.”
He walked over to the drinks tray, removed the stopper from the crystal vessel and sniffed the amber liquid. “It smells like brandy.” He poured a glass and took a sip, swirled it about in his mouth. “The good news is it tastes like brandy.”
“Well, that is a relief,” she said pleased that his mood had mellowed slightly.
He waited for her to sit on the settee before dropping down next to her. It took an immense amount of control not to bombard him with questions. Holding her hands in her lap was the only way to prevent her restless fingers from revealing her impatience for information. One of them needed to remain calm and composed. Judging by his thin mouth and the deep furrow that had marred his brow when he’d first arrived, his mother was the one who had deceived them.
Swallowing a mouthful of liquor, he shook visibly. “There is no pleasant way of saying this, and so I shall come straight to the point.” He sucked in a breath. “Andrew wrote the letter purporting to be from me and together with my mother conspired to deceive both you and my father.” The words were said too quickly as though to hold onto them would only serve to cause him more pain.
There was a brief moment of silence.
“It is as we suspected then.” The ache in her chest could be attributed to sadness as opposed to anger. She had come to forgive Andrew, value his friendship, yet his part in the charade tainted everything. “Did your mother say why they chose to ruin our lives?”
“I can only assume Andrew’s involvement stemmed from jealousy. Perhaps he imagined himself in love with you and so sought a means to force us apart.”
Andrew had always been very attentive to her, cared for her in a way an older brother might. “I know your mother wanted him to marry. He once told me she would never approve of the woman he had chosen. But he never gave me any indication he favoured me.”
Tristan gave a contemptuous snort. “Andrew preferred to use covert methods. He would have won your love as a friend first, lured you into a situation where you would have struggled to refuse him.” He paused, opened his mouth to speak but then shook his head.
“We have lived with other people’s lies and deceit,” she said in response to his hesitance. “Trust me enough to know that we may always speak freely to one another without fear of censure or reprisal. Honesty is the only way forward.”
He acknowledged her comment with a curt nod. “I fear, had Andrew discovered any information proving that your … that Lord Fernall was murdered, you would have been forever in his debt. A man capable of betraying his kin so easily is equally as capable of blackmail.”
Isabella sighed.