What You Deserve (Anything for Love 3)

A smile touched the corners of her lips. “I would reside in Brook Street, of course.”

His heart swelled at the prospect of them working together. Once he had made his position clear to Miss Smythe, he would be free to pay court to Isabella. “If someone did murder Lord Fernall then we must lure them out of the shadows. Perhaps Andrew stumbled upon a piece of information, and the culprit was forced to silence him. Either way, being seen out together will soon confirm or quash the theory.”

She shuffled to the edge of the chair, her excitement evident in the way she clasped her hands to her chest. “We could go to balls, the theatre, stroll through Hyde Park at the fashionable hour.”

He smiled. The wild glint in her eye caused desire to flare. He had seen the same expression on the day they had eloped. A sudden and strange uneasiness settled over him. Their happiness had ended in catastrophe.

“There is every possibility the perpetrator will assume Andrew spoke to you of his suspicions,” he said, his cautious tone revealing a hint of anxiety. “Should people see us together, should it become known we are asking questions, we will be leaving ourselves open to attack.”

She stared at him, bit down on her bottom lip, her motionless eyes conveying she was deep in thought. “Until a few moments ago, I thought I had lost everything dear to me.” She shook her head. “I cannot let you risk your life.”

He sat back, rubbed his chin as he contemplated the situation. He thrived on solving puzzles. His escapades in France had served to make him stronger, given him a burning desire to see justice done.

“Let me speak to Henry Fernall, gauge his reaction.” He did not want to alarm her, but a man who would stoop so low as to terrify a lady living alone was capable of far more heinous crimes. “If the staged haunting proves to be an isolated incident then you may decide how we proceed.”

It would take an immense amount of control not to grab Fernall by the throat and wring his damn neck.

“Very well.” She nodded. “I must admit, even though I know Mrs. Birch is the woman in white I do not want to stay here on my own.”

If he had his way, she would never be alone again. But so much had happened. There were too many lies, too many people who had conspired to keep them apart. He feared that the love they once shared: a pure, honest and genuine emotion, would now be tainted by the pain of the past.

But as a man known for his optimism all he could do was hope that, somewhere beneath the mess and the chaos, their love was not lost but lay dormant like a bud waiting for the first glimpse of spring.

Chapter 12

“You’re home!” The grin on his mother’s face stretched from ear to ear. “How wonderful.” His mother turned to the petite Miss Smythe, who was in the process of sipping her tea. “Is it not a stroke of luck, my dear?”

Tristan bowed. “Good afternoon, Miss Smythe. How fortunate that you should be here.” Indeed, it saved him the trouble of calling on her. He turned his attention to her companion. “Good afternoon, Miss Hamilton.”

He resisted the urge to pat the beads of sweat from his brow. Yesterday, the thirty-mile journey had taken a little over three hours in the rain. Today, with the sun shining and the road not nearly as treacherous, he had managed to reduce his time by forty minutes. Of course, anger fuelled his desire to reach his destination promptly.

Both ladies offered the perfunctory greeting.

Miss Smythe smiled sweetly. He could almost hear the birds chirping their pretty song in response. “What a pleasant surprise it is, my lord.”

“Isn’t it just.” His mother placed her china cup on the saucer and clapped her hands. “Mr. Henderson does fret so. I often wonder as to the man’s capabilities. But then Lord Morford takes his respon

sibilities extremely seriously. No doubt his man simply needed a little expert guidance.”

Tristan groaned inwardly. He was surprised his mother had not presented his first lock of hair so they might marvel over its hue and softness as an example of utter perfection.

“I shall explain the nature of the problem once I have spoken to Miss Smythe.” Tristan inclined his head. “That is if the lady is willing to accompany me on a stroll around the garden.” He turned his attention to the lady in question. “Miss Hamilton may join us.”

He would insist his mother remained inside. He would not give her an opportunity to snoop.

“A stroll outdoors sounds like a marvellous idea,” his mother said offering a beaming smile. “I would join you, but I cannot afford to exert myself.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Miss Smythe’s lower lip quivered. Was the lady so timid she feared he might press his advances despite being in the company of Miss Hamilton? “A stroll would be lovely.”

Aware of his mother’s nose pressed against the glass of the terrace room window, Tristan escorted Miss Smythe away from the house. Miss Hamilton walked on a few feet ahead, under the guise of admiring the flowers in the lower borders.

“I love nothing more than to stand idly and smell the roses.” Miss Smythe bent her head, cupped a flower between two hands and inhaled deeply. “When it comes to painting, roses are my flower of choice.”

“I did not realise you enjoyed painting.”

“Oh, yes. I enjoy many things. I find one’s hobbies help to keep one’s mind alert.”

“Indeed.” She really was very sweet and would be the perfect wife for the right gentleman. “While a walk is good for the constitution, my motive stems from a need to speak to you privately.”