“You were heard arguing with Lord Fernall over money. You’re listed as a participant in the sordid parties he held at Highley Grange. You were seen breaking his neck and carrying him down the stairs.”
“All conjecture. You have no proof.”
“The notebook is proof,” Isabella said quietly.
“There are statements from peers, from the servants who tended your mother.” He gestured to Mr. Blackwood. “We can all attest to your guilt.”
Fellows glanced down at the pistol in his hand. “I think you forget that I hold the winning card in this game. If I am to hang for one murder, then I may as well hang for two.”
Tristan’s steely reserve wavered, but he held firm. “I suppose a man capable of murdering his own father is capable of anything,” he said, though the thought of doing away with his mother had some appeal.
“He was not my father,” Mr. Fellows snapped, suddenly appearing more than a little disgruntled. “My father was a decent, honest man, kind and considerate. He was not a debauched heathen who would sell his soul if he thought it would enhance his pleasure.”
“Pleasure was what my husband lived for,” Isabella said. “There were times when he drove me to despair, times when I thought to kill him myself.”
Fellows snorted. “I wish you had. It would have saved me the trouble.”
The comment was perhaps as close to a confession as they would get. It would be enough to convince Lord Fernall to make a statement.
“I know he had a way of belittling those around him,” Isabella said with an air of melancholy. “He had a way of making others feel worthless.”
“When I refused to participate in his dissipated games, he said I was too weak, spineless, that he was ashamed I was his son.”
“I understand.” She spoke softly: her tone held a musical quality like a soothing melody drifting on a breeze. “He once told me he was ashamed that I was his wife. When I questioned his own morals and values he told me he would tell all those he knew how inadequate I had proved to be, that I was a failure.”
Tristan’s heart ached for her. Although he knew she spoke in order to extract information from Mr. Fellows, he could sense the truth in her words.
“He was a spiteful, selfish prig. When I discovered the true character of the man, I begged him to keep the nature of our relationship a secret,” Fellows grumbled. “But he taunted me, threatened to tell all those he knew that I had a penchant for debauchery. He put his arm around me and said …” Fellows broke off on a curse.
“What did he say?” Isabella asked.
“He said that wickedness is in the blood.”
Well, Samuel Fernall had been right about that.
“Then you must prove him wrong, Mr. Fellows,” Isabella said with an air of determination.
“It is too late. I’ve no choice but to return to India.” Fellows pushed Isabella forward, jabbed the barrel of the pistol into her side. “Give the notebook to Lady Fernall.”
“What about my money?” Blackwood asked.
“You’ll get nothing from me. If I’m to move abroad, I must be frugal. Hand over the book.”
Tristan doubted Fellows would pull the trigger, but he would not take the chance.
“Give him the notebook, Mr. Blackwood.”
Blackwood grumbled and mumbled at his side. With trembling fingers, he held the book out in front of him.
A pained groan and a sudden shuffling from behind the bush captured their attention.
Lord Fernall shot up, punching wildly at the air.
Tristan muttered a curse.
“Forgive me,” Fernall said, his face twisted into a grimace. “Someone prodded me in the back with something sharp.” He gestured to a point over his shoulder. “The blighter pinched me on the arm.”
Someone? There was not a soul in the park.