Tristan shuffled in his seat. “We cannot trust the authorities to act quickly enough. With Mr. Blackwood being the only witness, Mr. Fellows could easily find a way to manipulate him. Equally, the book may prove to be useless. No. I’m afraid we need a confession.”
She suspected he meant to say something far more sinister than manipulate but did not wish to frighten Mr. Blackwood any more than was necessary. “It will only be our word against his. If you don’t mind me saying, it is all very speculative considering we do not know what is written in the notebook.”
“We don’t need to know,” Tristan replied. “Fellows believes the book incriminates him. We will use it as a bargaining tool to force him to admit his crimes. And the word of two peers will help to bolster our cause.”
“Two peers?”
The carriage rumbled to a halt before Tristan could answer. Isabella wiped the window and peered at the imposing townhouse. The tall Doric columns supporting the portico looked familiar, as did the brass door knocker in the shape of a lion’s head.
“But this is Lord Fernall’s house,” she said, her high-pitched tone revealing her surprise.
“I … I have been overseeing the renovations to the upper rooms,” Mr. Blackwood informed. “I thought it a perfect place to hide the notebook. Should anything untoward happen to me, then I hoped Lord Fernall might one day stumble upon it and discover what really happened to his father.”
“I assume Lord Fernall knows nothing of this.” She sat back to give Tristan the opportunity to open the door. “Are we to inform him of our intentions or are we to sneak through the servants’ quarters in the hope we are not noticed?”
“We need Lord Fernall’s help.” Tristan opened the door and vaulted down to the pavement. He smiled as he offered her his hand. “I’m afraid we’ve no choice but to knock the front door.”
Chapter 21
They were shown into Lord Fernall’s study. Saunders went to rouse his master who had returned home but an hour before.
“I thought the butler was about to slam the door in our faces,” Tristan said pulling out the chair for her to sit. “That was until you introduced yourself.”
It was the first time she had ever been thankful for bearing the Fernall name. “I have been to this house many times, but I believe Saunders has only worked here for a little over a year.”
Tristan paced back and forth in the space to the right of her chair as they waited for Lord Fernall. He grumbled and sighed whenever he removed his pocket watch and glanced at the face. Mr. Blackwood hovered to her left, his breathing far too laboured for a man standing motionless.
“There is a perfectly good clock on the mantelpiece,” she said. Tristan’s fidgeting was starting to make her anxious. It did not take much to unnerve Mr. Blackwood. Indeed, she noted beads of perspiration on his brow, noted him wincing as he pressed his fingers to his temple.
Tristan tucked the offending item back into his pocket. “There is something about the ritual of checking one’s watch that appears to accelerate time.”
“It is all in the mind,” she countered.
The clip of brisk footsteps echoing through the hall captured their attention. Lord Fernall entered. The gentleman had obviously dressed in a hurry and had not quite managed to force his arm through the sleeve of his coat.
“What is the meaning of calling at such a late hour?” Henry’s irate gaze drifted over them as he fumbled with his attire. When his penetrating stare settled on Mr. Blackwood, a muttered curse fell from his lips. He turned to her. “Have I not already explained my reasons for acting as I did? There was no need to drag poor Mr. Blackwood from his bed.”
With a sudden wave of rage, Tristan stepped forward. “I should beat you to a pulp for what you have done to Isabella. What sort of gentleman terrifies a woman in her home?”
Henry’s face flamed berry red. “Not that I have to explain myself to you,” he began, “but I believed I was acting in Lady Fernall’s best interest.”
“Nonsense.” Tristan squared his shoulders. “You wanted to throw her out to make way for your mistress?”
Henry glanced at Mr. Blackwood. “This is hardly the place to discuss such matters. I did not drag myself out of bed for you to berate me for my failures.” He turned to face her. “I thought we had come to an agreement.”
She stood, purely because she refused to be spoken down to, even literally. “We are n
ot here to discuss the ghostly goings on at Highley Grange. We are here because we have proof that someone murdered your father, and we need your help to ensure justice is served.”
Henry frowned until his brows practically overhung his lids. He took two steps back, shook his head numerous times as though that would help to solve the problem with his hearing.
“Murdered?” he repeated. “Is this some sort of joke? Is this your way of exacting your revenge for me wanting you to leave Highley Grange?”
“It is all true, my lord.” Mr. Blackwood stepped forward, his hands clasped in front of him. “I witnessed the event. I saw the man who murdered your father.”
“Wait a minute.” Henry rubbed his temple. “You witnessed my father’s death and yet did not think to mention it before?”
“There was no proof, nothing but my word. I didn’t think anyone would believe me.” Mr. Blackwood looked to his feet. “It was cowardly of me to remain silent. I know that now.”