“I suppose a haunted house provides the perfect opportunity to pilfer, for one can then blame it on the ghost.”
She chuckled. But a few days ago, she would have trembled in fear at the mere mention of haunted houses. “I don’t care about Henry’s missing possessions. But I care that Mr. Blackwood has taken my brooch. It belonged to my mother.” And she cared that Mr. Blackwood had played her for a fool. A sudden thought entered her head, and she gasped. “Do you think Mr. Blackwood stole from Samuel whilst working at Highley Grange?”
A debauched party would provide a perfect opportunity to steal from guests too inebriated to remember where they had put their snuff box.
“It is possible.”
She attempted to gauge what he was thinking. “But you are not convinced that is the case?”
“I did not say that. It is just impossible to prove.”
It was easy to prove if they found Mr. Blackwood in possession of stolen goods.
“I do know where we might find the scoundrel,” Isabella said with a hint of intrigue. “Mr. Blackwood has taken lodgings on Gerrard Street, above the drapers.”
Tristan leant forward. “Are you suggesting we pay the gentleman a visit?” There was a wild glint in his eye that forced her to question the sense of such a plan. “I must say I am rather impatient to hear him try to defend his actions.”
It was perhaps unwise to visit the home of a man who could have committed murder to protect his secret.
“I am confident we will not be in any danger.” She kept her tone even so as not to reveal her fear. There was every chance Tristan would insist on taking her home to Brook Street before heading off in search of Mr. Blackwood.
Tristan cleared his throat. “Perhaps you should wait—”
“No.”
He raised a brow. “I’ll not put you at risk. We do not know enough about the gentleman to make an informed decision.”
Isabella raised her chin. “We go together, or we do not go at all.”
“When I have dropped you at Brook Street, there is nothing stopping me from asking your coachman to take a detour on my way home.”
“But it is a mile in the opposite direction.” She moistened her lips, cast him her most sensual smile. “Besides, are you not staying the night with me in Brook Street? If you leave, I may be asleep by the time you return. There is every possibility the servants will fail to hear you knocking.”
Inhaling deeply, he sat back in the seat and folded his arms across his chest. “Good God, woman, you certainly know how to get your own way.”
The carriage rumbled to a halt on the corner of Gerrard and Wardour Street. The time was fast approaching midnight. There were but a few gentlemen ambling home, their inability to walk in a straight line proof of an evening spent in pursuit of pleasure.
Tristan stepped
down to the pavement. “Wait further along the street,” he called up to Dawes perched atop his box seat. “Wait near the turning into Gerrard Place.”
“Yes, my lord.”
He held out his hand to Isabella, savoured the frisson of awareness that always accompanied any physical contact.
“There is every chance Mr. Blackwood will not be at home,” Isabella said as she stepped down to join him on the pavement. “For all we know he has returned to Highley Grange. As I said, he does seem rather keen to avoid me, and our paths rarely cross.”
Tristan tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. They watched the carriage rattle away at a slow pace and disappear into the veil of mist. “Should that be the case, I suggest we make the journey to Hoddesdon tonight. We could catch him unawares, give him less of an opportunity to flee.”
“I agree. I am rather keen to find some closure,” she said with a sad sigh as she scanned the row of houses to their right. “I doubt we will ever know if Andrew’s death was an accident or not. But at least we will know what part Mr. Blackwood played in it all.”
They passed the tea shop, milliners, and piano-forte maker before stopping outside the drapers. Peering in through the small square window panes, Tristan could see the rolls of material displayed behind the counter. He stepped back and surveyed the windows on the two upper floors. All was dark. There was not even a faint flicker of candlelight.
Tristan glanced at the weathered black door to the left, which no doubt provided access to the rooms above. “The best we can do is knock on the first door we come to and hope they have heard of Mr. Blackwood.”
“One look at our attire and they will know we have not come to rob them.”
Tristan opened the door. It led into a narrow hallway, and they climbed the stone stairs to the first floor. “Will you recognise Mr. Blackwood when you see him?”