“I have always suspected foul play,” Isabella said lifting her chin. “But my opinion was partly based on the suspicious incidents occurring at the Grange.”
Tristan cleared his throat. “In a bid to settle Lady Fernall’s fears my brother conducted an investigation. He wrote everything down in a notebook which Mr. Blackwood retrieved upon my brother’s death and which is now hidden somewhere in this house. The murderer wants it, and has arranged to meet Mr. Blackwood in order to make a trade.”
Henry’s eyes grew large and wide as his curious gaze scanned the room. “You left the notebook here?” he snapped. “Good Lord. There is a criminal on the loose, and you left an incriminating piece of evidence in my house.” Henry rubbed the back of his neck. Judging by the flash of fear in his eyes he appeared grateful his head was still firmly attached to his body. “And are you here to reclaim this book?”
Mr. Blackwood shuffled from one foot to the other. “It is hidden under the boards in what will be the new master chamber. We must take it with us.”
“Then go and get it this instant.” Henry’s frantic hand movements revealed his impatience.
Mr. Blackwood scuttled from the room.
They waited in silence.
The tension in the air felt heavy and oppressive.
Henry paced back and forth in a military fashion, whilst Tristan’s clenched jaw and disapproving stare conveyed an emotion that could best be described as menacing.
Mr. Blackwood’s frantic steps could be heard racing through the hall, but he slowed to a walking pace as he entered the study. “Here … here it is.” He waved the small leather-bound book, first at Tristan and then at Henry, not knowing what to do. No doubt his loyalty to his employer would play a hand in forcing his decision.
“The notebook belongs to Lord Morford,” Isabella said in a bid to bring clarity to the situation. “It is his by rights, regardless of where it has been kept.”
The corners of Tristan’s mouth curved up into a discreet grin as their gazes locked. His blue eyes sparkled with a vitality that stole her breath.
“Then give it to him,” Henry snapped as he shooed Mr. Blackwood away. “I am tired and in need of my bed.”
Tristan took the notebook. He ran his fingers over the brown leather, placed his palm flat on the cover as though it still contained the essence of his brother. With a shake of the head, he flipped the book open and scanned the pages, stopped periodically and traced various words with the tip of his finger.
She moved to his side, resisted the urge to touch his arm, to peer over his shoulder. Regardless of Andrew’s failings, it must hurt to read the words, knowing he would never have another opportunity to hear his brother’s voice.
“Is it what we suspected?” she asked softly. “Is there anything we can use to support Mr. Blackwood’s statement?”
Tristan looked up at her. It was not pain she saw in his eyes but rather a glint of satisfaction that suggested Andrew had been thorough in his investigation. “We have the times and dates of passage for numerous trips to India. We have a list of all the gentlemen who attended Samuel Fernall’s events at Highley Grange, one of whom is Mr. Fellows. We—”
“Mr. Fellows?” Henry interjected. “The gentleman with the extravagant side-whiskers?”
“Have you had dealings with the gentleman before?” Isabella asked. She could not imagine Henry participating in his father’s debauched games.
Henry cleared his throat. “I know he attended various parties at the Grange. Upon my father’s wishes, I threw him out when he became … shall we say rather loud and uncooperative.”
“Good Lord.” Tristan sucked in a breath as he studied one particular page.
“What is it?” Isabella put her hand to her throat as she anticipated his reply.
Tristan glanced up at Henry, pursed his lips as confusion marred his brow. “Are you aware of any other children your father may have sired?”
Pulling himself up to his full height, Henry said, “I am the only heir.”
“That does not answer the question.” Tristan cocked a brow in mild reproof. “You either know, or you don’t.”
Henry’s arrogant façade faltered. “I am aware he was unfaithful to my mother, that he had numerous illegitimate offspring dotted about here and there.”
“I was not aware,” Isabella said feeling a little disgruntled. She was surprised. Samuel had never felt the need to hide the licentious part of his character.
Tristan handed her the notebook. “It makes for interesting reading.”
With some hesitation, she flicked through the first few leaves. There were pages of times, dates, the names of ships travelling to Madras. Mr. Fellows had left for India mere days after Samuel’s death, returned a month before Andrew met his demise. There were pages of names, some peers, some she recognised. Andrew had taken statements from those whose dissipated antics were well known.
To say Andrew had done a thorough job was an understatement.