Dark Side of the Sun

by Addison Cain

  Unsure what to say, Arabella muttered, “Is that the kindness you speak of?”

  “He kept his word to me. He rushed back.” Lilly glowed, adulated. “Should I not be flattered?”

  Something about it seemed very wrong, and the wrongness was Arabella—what she’d allowed. The small amount of guilt that had been nagging at her for planning a trip to London she had not informed him of vanished. Thoughts of him vanished.

  Edmund, who had silently observed the exchange, asked, “Would you care for some air, your ladyship? The weather is quite fine today.”

  There was a gentleman, a kindhearted soul.

  “That would be lovely, Mr. Jenkins.”

  * * *

  Days of rough road and the jarring discomfort of a coach had left Arabella discontent. Magdala was at her side, certainly as uncomfortable, if not more so, yet she continued to keep her back straight, her countenance stoic. Payne had the worst of it, driving the horses through the mud of early autumn without breaking pace, yet he moved with diligence, uncomplaining on their mission.

  Hugh and Mary had been left behind, Arabella and Payne in agreement that neither of them should be exposed to the gossip and questions of outsiders or foreign servants. The stable boy was too innocent, having come through his troubles with the goodness Arabella lacked. Mary was just too easy a target, safer cosseted in the house where Hugh had been given the grand duty of guarding her.

  All of it had been arranged by Griggs. The house they were to take, the servants acquired for their short stay hand selected by the man for a specific purpose. They were to see her and talk about it. They were to spread the story of the wayward baroness rising from the flames—assuming Arabella played her part correctly.

  To say she wasn’t terrified would be a lie. It was the only reason she had not cursed at Gregory when he’d appeared the night before. Instead, she’d welcomed him with the fervor of rolling hips and ravenous kisses. He’d spun them over, lay under her, and let her take her frenzied pleasure in a way Arabella had not known a man and woman could join.

  Still, she had not told him of London, imagining him arriving the following night to find the house cold and dead. The thought made her clench as he thrust into her body, and she fell apart so beautifully even his hand over her mouth had not muffled all the noise. He’d crossed that void with her, groaning, grunting at her display, each pulse of his liquid release felt splashing against her womb.

  Looking down at him in that moment, taking in the twisted beauty of a man panting, his brow tight, she longed greatly to slap him. Instead, she had fallen to his chest to catch her breath, to rub her cheek on the coarse hair that highlighted unfashionable strength.

  Sleep had come, tangled as they were. When she’d woken with the rising sun, he was gone, but the bed was still warm as if his ghost remained behind. Sitting up, Arabella told herself that if she could face Gregory, if she could take him as she had, she could face the nightmare duty of being seen in London.

  That didn’t mean she wasn’t sick with worry the two days it took to reach their destination. Arabella had debated on bringing Magdala, having Payne step in to make the final decisions. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust the Spanish woman. It was that she was unsure if Magdala had any idea what they’d be stepping into.

  It seemed the Spaniard was up to the task. Already she was bossing her mistress about. “You need to eat, my lady. You did not touch a bite yesterday.”

  Of course she hadn’t, Arabella would have been ill all over the coach. At the inn, at the halfway point, even dinner could not be forced down.

  “I cannot.”

  “If you begin your visit weak... you begin your visit weak. Eat.”

  Arabella had swallowed a bowl of gruel, glaring at the fire, mouth sour. But the housekeeper could not coerce lunch or dinner even when they were settled in the fashionable London townhouse the following day. Morning came, sleep having evaded the baroness, but she stood with all the false regalness she could muster as Magdala acted lady’s maid and dressed her for a stroll.

  Everything was followed by the rules of etiquette Arabella had studied tirelessly for weeks. She took her meals separate from her staff, she condescended to all around her, and only spoke with Payne when he came to her sitting room in private.

  Once the door closed and it was them, only then could she breathe. “What have you heard?”

  “William Dalton knows you are here.” Payne allowed Arabella to hide her face against his knee as he spoke. “He is in Bath, at present. It is as Mr. Griggs believed. Your visit caught the new Baron unaware.”

  “There has not been a single invitation. What is the point of being here if I am not being seen?”

  “It’s only been two days, Arabella. Continue walking Hyde Park, ride Mamioro so others can see you sit the horse that killed your husband. When you dare the court at St. James’s tomorrow the stir will begin.”

  “Do you have any idea how much I’ve spent at the dressmakers for this trip? Even Magdala was staggered by the bill. We’re going to be eating nothing but horse oats when this is over and I am certain Mamioro will not share.”

  Payne chuckled, agreeing the Spaniard had proven her skill keeping Arabella up to date, preparing everything down to the last ribbon. Placing a hand on her shoulder, Payne was careful not to spoil her hair and let the woman take her rest, unsurprised when she fell asleep with her head on his knee, drooling a bit on his livery.

  * * *

  The ridiculous shape of the court dress was so difficult to move in it required study to do it well. Arms were trapped before the body at an awkward angle and more ostrich feathers had been shoved into the huge massive style upon her head then surely even an ostrich grew in its tail. Feeling ridiculous and nervous, Arabella paced, managing the weighty gown as she awaited Mr. Griggs’ knighted cousin, the elderly Sir Brant.

  A perfect stranger escorted her as if they were old friends, the odd pair drawing immediate attention from those who had known her and those who needed a moment to figure out why the name was so familiar.

  Arabella, grateful her extended train enforced slow steps, walked out amidst the noble sharks.

  The baroness did exactly as she had been coached, traversing the room as if she were the queen and they her court. Her title and name were declared to the king, and curtsying deeply, her eyes locked on the rheumy gaze of the unpopular, ailing regent. She kissed his ring. Rising, her gaze traveled to the middle-aged, painted, paunchy, prince and offered an elegant nod as expected.

  The introduction ended, her manners ideal, and then she moved aside for other more important newcomers to address their king.

  By the time she was in her carriage, Arabella could hardly remember what had passed in St. James’s Palace. Apathy became like armor. It stuck with her when the first invitation to Almack's Assembly Rooms arrived. It coated her every engagement. Left her unfeeling when gentlemen kissed her wrist, when she danced with them, daily private lessons with a renowned dance master sucking up every afternoon.

  It was only two weeks, but each day she lost a bit more of her fire. Arabella grew quiet, complacent, as her husband had expected. An exotic bird invited to be showy for guests longing to see the baroness—infamous now for the great black horse people came to Hyde Park in hopes to see her riding... who performed admirably, but with no feeling.

  Every day came notes from her solicitor designed to buoy her spirits, claiming her name was whispered about as if the public sat in awe of something they could not wrap their minds around. Every day, Arabella felt worse, and every night she lay awake looking for flaws in her actions, obsessing.

  For all of it, Magdala knew the powders and creams to keep the young woman handsome, the best way to dress her hair to highlight beauty and distract from exhaustion. It had come to a point where Arabella said nothing even to the Spaniard’s bossing, complained not at all, and would no longer look at the stranger in the mirror decked in pearls and turbans.

  Arabella was not
the only one who had difficulty recognizing herself. Ion stepped out of the dark as she walked home with Payne. The Romani man, the one who had scorned her at the fires, stared at her as if she were unreal.

  Looking into her lifeless eyes he grunted, “My lady.”

  Payne stood massive at her back, his posture and eyes threatening the strange man near his lady.

  “Payne, this is Ion,” Arabella felt a rare spark of hope, seeing Ion with his oiled curls and open shirt. “A friend.”

  “Friend enough to tell you William Dalton is coming for you. He is on a coach from Bath even now. I raced ahead, but he is only a few hours behind me.”

  This is what she had hoped for, a chance to outmatch her persecutor. “And what are his plans?”

  “To set fire to your home while you sleep.”

  Payne, his normally gentle voice nothing but violence, growled, “We leave tonight.”

  Arabella agreed, speaking as quickly as she could think. “I will tell my household I make for Bath, send out letters at once. It will turn Dalton around.”

  The Romani man narrowed his eyes. “I’ve heard how he’s spoken of you. You are right to fear him.”

  There was hardly a voice behind her frightened question. “What have you heard?”

  Ion stepped closer, his lips hovering at her ear. As he whispered nightmares, Arabella went pale, her eyes grew wet, and she began to tremble.

  When the gypsy had finished, she forced herself to ask, “To whom has he said... these things?”

  “I gather they were close friends of your late husband.” Speaking three horrible names, Ion left her, slinking back into the dark. “Sir Statham, Baron Witte, and the Marquise of Glauster.”

  Dread stopped her heart. Things were much, much worse than she had believed. Even Payne cursed under his breath, both of them knowing her time in London had been for nothing.

  The hasty journey back to Crescent Barrows did nothing to alleviate her terror. Arabella sat in a stupor, an utter failure. She ate nothing; she would not speak, only turned her head when that first breath of heather came to her through the coach’s small window. Near the outskirts of the moors, she banged upon the roof for Payne to stop the carriage. Before the coach was still, she tore out of the door, and unhitched Mamioro’s lead from the back.

  Astride her steed before Payne might stop her, she let out a yell and raced away at breakneck speed straight into the wastes.

  Payne watched her go, full of fear, having not rested the entire twenty hours they’d traveled, save to change horses.

  Stricken, Magdala demanded he go after her.

  There was nothing he could do. “I can’t catch her. Best let her run until she tires.”

  * * *

  That night, icy, driving rain came to Crescent Barrows, but their lady did not return.

  In desperation Magdala went to Mr. Harrow.

  The sweep of pejorative eyes was nothing to the venom in his voice when he found her at his door. “Well, if it is not the Imp’s hen. Come inside, Mrs. Magdala.” Gesturing at a chair in his parlor, he gave a snide smile. “Before my housekeeper comes tottering in with tea to eavesdrop, why don’t you tell me the ridiculous reason that must exist for you to come here and disturb my peace.”

  “I know you are dallying with her.” Magdala spoke with uncustomary passion.

  With a full, evil smirk, Mr. Harrow batted his eyelashes.

  Second guessing herself, Magdala shook her head and prepared to stand. “I should not have come here.”

  Assertion rang off the small room’s wall. Gregory grew mean. “Sit. Down.”

  Whatever game he had been playing was over, his expression now nothing but sinister.

  Magdala obeyed, confessing, “Lady Iliffe ran off hours ago.”

  Parroting her words from a month ago, he mocked, “It is her way.”

  “No.” Outright worry lined Magdala’s face. “This is different. She is upset, unwell...”

  Harrow growled, leaning toward her. “You will tell me why. You will tell me everything.”

  “I cannot,” she sniffed, “and even if I could, there is no time. It is dark, raining, and cold... the baroness is exposed. She did not even take a cloak. Where does she go?”

  Mr. Harrow’s elderly kitchen maid entered with the tea just as Gregory stood. Pushing past the laboring maid, he left the room, his coat flaring behind him. The old women could keep one another company, and both of them could burn for all he cared.

  Out in the rain, he crossed to the stables, climbing atop his piebald gelding. Amidst the rain soaked wilderness, with all the mud, it was impossible to see a trace of hoof prints. Yelling out for her and hearing nothing but wind in response, he drove forward.

  Cautious of sinkholes, his horse picked a path toward their rocky outcrop. By the light of his single lantern, the inky shine of Mamioro’s coat was invisible, but the sodden flap of the lady’s frock glimmered like a pale beacon.

  Arabella sat astride the demon horse, her face pressed to the monster’s neck where she sobbed so grievously her voice had been lost.

  Feverish and exhausted, she could hardly resist when arms came around her and pulled her from her beast. Still, she screamed as loud as a sore throat would allow. “No! I want to stay here. Leave me be!”

  Smoothing back saturated tendrils of blood-red hair stuck to her forehead, Gregory covered her shivering body with his great coat. Breathing into her hair, warming her arms with rapid rubs of his hands he said. “You foolish, stupid mess of a girl, do not weep so.”

  But she did not stop, and still she tried to reach out for her horse.

  Limp and soaked through, she hung like a rag, too lost in delirium to fight. He dragged her back to Crescent Barrows, her demon horse following behind, nickering often in complaint and nipping at Gregory’s arm. He kicked at the beast, racing over slippery grasses until the light of the hated stone warren broke through the storm. With Hugh looking on in worry, and Mary standing dumbly to the side, Gregory rushed Arabella, Baroness of Iliffe toward the fire.

  Magdala took charge. “Hugh, ride for the doctor. Mary, boil water.”

  The boy fled. Mary moved toward the kitchens.

  Mr. Harrow refused to let her go when the dark skinned Payne reached for his mistress. He did not win the fight, not after the hard ride with a struggling captive, not after the way Payne growled, “You are wet. You cannot warm her.”

  The brawny servant disappeared upstairs with the woman in his arms.

  When Gregory went to follow, Magdala gripped the sodden man’s arm. “You cannot be here when the doctor arrives. Return to your home. Lingering will cause gossip. The neighborhood will talk.”

  Furious, Gregory rounded on the woman. “What care I if they talk?”

  “Do you care so little for your reputation?” Blunt, Magdala hissed, “What of hers?”

  As if the very idea were foreign, ridiculous, Mr. Harrow narrowed his eyes. “I will stay.”

  “If you care for her, leave her to Payne.” Insistent, Magdala pressed, “He is the only person she might listen to. He’s the only one she’ll fight for.”

  Black eyes went to the stairs, Gregory ready to climb them in search of the sickly Imp. “I will stay.”

  “No.” A foreign voice came from the far side of the room. “You go.”

  Two heads spun to find Mary, still as stone holding a pot of boiling water. She did not blink, her eyes fixated on nothingness as she walked.

  Impatient with the continuous distractions, Gregory turned his sneer from maid to housekeeper. Roughly grasping Magdala’s wrist, he threatened, “I brought her to you. I found her when you could not. And I will seek you come morning, where you will tell me everything you know.”

  “I know nothing,” Magdala hissed, fruitlessly working to regain her wrist so she might rush to her mistress.

  “You know enough, even more than Arabella believes you do. And you will confess it to me willingly or I will bleed it from your withered bones befo
re I dump your carcass into a bog.” He tossed back the captured limb, turning before the blanching servant could speak.

  He left so angry the wooden door cracked from the weight of his abuse.

  * * *

  It was sunrise when the fever broke. Arabella felt herself lifted, cradled against a familiar shoulder. Bloodshot eyes opened and Payne was there, stroking damp hair from her face.

  “If you died, I would follow.” He frowned so greatly, his gaze unbearably sad. “Remember that.”

  Tears stung her eyes as they fell into her hair. It was hard to speak, but she tried. “I gave you Hugh to care for. You cannot leave him.”

  A hoarse baritone questioned, “Is that why you brought him here?”

  Perhaps... perhaps that was precisely why she’d called the scamp forward when she’d seen him huddled in the dark.

  Payne shook his head in disagreement. “Magdala could care for him better than I.”

  Wheezing, Arabella sobbed. “I failed in London... Dalton would have burned down the house and killed all those servants. I would have been counted as dead. No soul would think to look for me.”

  It would not do, Payne had to stop her panic. “This house is stone. Stone does not burn.”

  “He’ll come here. Dalton and the others will come here and they will hurt you. It’s over. We have to leave.”

  Their end did not have to be so grim. At the sound of approaching boots on the stairs, Payne laid her down, pulling the covers up to her chin. “We stay.”

  He retook his seat near the silent Mary just as the doctor came in to check his patient.

  Chapter 14

  “S o this is what you do with your days.”

  Caught by surprise, emerald eyes darted from the moors to the friendly face of Mr. Jenkins. She had expected to be seen by no one, hurriedly rearranging the state of her dress—clumsy fingers assuring all buttons were done up proper, and that the majority of her gown was covered by the split velvet of her coat.

  Edmund fought a light chuckle, amused to see her windswept braid uncovered by a bonnet and her gloveless fingers nervously toying with colorful ribbons tasseled at the end. “I had heard rumors your carriage passed through town four days back. You did not answer my letter, so I am thrilled to see you have indeed returned to us.”