The coachman rushed over to examine the body. “The man came out of nowhere. I never even got a chance to tug on the reins,” he said, as the crowd offered words of reassurance upon witnessing his distress.
“I doubt there is any point calling a doctor,” Lord Fernall said. “But we need to be sure he is dead.”
Tristan glanced at the body. Blood trickled from a wound on his head. Fellows’ eyes were open, wide, empty. Had there been even the smallest sign of life, it would have been accompanied by painful cries and groans. “He is dead. Of that I am certain.”
“What do we do now?” Isabella straightened but turned her back to the disturbing sight.
“I shall handle this,” Lord Fernall said in his usual authoritative tone. “Leave now. Mr. Blackwood will assist me.”
Suspicion flared. For a man who had shown nothing but disinterest from the moment they had knocked his door, Lord Fernall must have had an epiphany. Either that or he imagined Mrs. Forester would lavish him with attention when he described stumbling upon the distressing event.
“What will you say?” Tristan asked. It occurred to him that, whether Lord Fernall accepted the fact or not, Mr. Fellows was his brother and by rights, it was his responsibility to deal with the situation.
“My father saw fit to degrade the Fernall name. I will not add to my burden by revealing he was murdered by his illegitimate son.” Fernall cleared his throat. “Whilst I would like to wipe my hands of the whole affair, I see an opportunity to deal with things in a quiet, unassuming manner.”
“There are a number of witnesses who will say he simply ran out into the road.” Tristan glanced at the group whispering to each other and pointing at the body. “It was an accident. With such dense fog, no one will be surprised.”
“We will just be two more passing witnesses,” Lord Fernall replied. “That is if Blackwood here can hold his nerve.”
Tristan observed Mr. Blackwood whose countenance expressed nothing but relief.
“What happened to Mr. Fellows’ pistol?” Tristan asked. “There’s every chance someone heard the loud crack.”
“I have it.” Mr. Blackwood quickly opened the front of his coat to reveal the metal object tucked into the band of his breeches.
“Close your damn coat, man, before someone notices,” Lord Fernall whispered through gritted teeth.
“You will have to say you heard what sounded like a shot,” Tristan said, “suggest someone may have attempted to rob him in the park and that was why he was running.”
“We shall remain here and offer a statement.” Lord Fernall nodded. “But before you go, I would like your permission to burn the notebook. I trust that the information gleaned will be kept in confidence.”
Tristan had no desire to read of Samuel Fernall’s debauched lifestyle, nor did he wish to be in possession of an item that linked him to Mr. Fellows. Besides, the sooner they put the past behind them, the better.
“Under the circumstances,” he said, glancing once more at the crumpled body, “I doubt we shall have need of it. You may keep it providing Lady Fernall is in agreement.”
Isabella nodded. “It is of no use to me.” She tugged his arm and whispered. “What about the sketch?”
“Don’t worry.” Offering a sly smirk, Tristan tapped the breast pocket of his coat. “It is safe.” He turned his attention to Lord Fernall. “I shall call on you tomorrow to see how you fared.”
Lord Fernall inclined his head. “If I am not at home you may find me at White’s.”
They had taken but a few steps when Lord Fernall called out to Isabella. “If you still wish to remain at Highley Grange, then you have my word you will be left to live there in peace.”
She pursed her lips, remained silent for a moment. “Thank you, but I shall make my own arrangements. After all that has happened, I cannot envisage living there again.”
Lord Fernall made no protest. Indeed, a faint smile touched the corners of his mouth. “As you wish. You may forward any extra expenses you incur as a consequence to my man in Jermyn Street.”
Tristan clenched his jaw. It took all the effort he possessed not to curse the pompous lord and inform him Isabella would not need his charity again.
“Thank you,” she said politely. “But my current situation is adequate for my needs.”
As they walked away, Tristan decided it was time to address her current situation, to make her an offer he hoped she would not refuse.
As previously agreed, Dawes was waiting on the corner of Bolton Street. Tristan helped Isabella into the carriage, conveyed instructions to the coachman before climbing into the conveyance.
Tristan cleared his throat. “If I ever ask you to remain at home again, you have permission to curse me to the devil.” Guilt still ate away at him when he thought of Isabella greeting a murderer at the door.
“I think I would rather be abducted by Mr. Fellows than be forced to squat behind a bush with Henry Fernall.”