by Jane Feather
She made no reply and he heard the key turn in the door to his adjoining chamber. And now he was really angry. His voice, however, was very quiet as he said, “Arabella, open the door. Now.”
Arabella didn’t answer. She flung off her peignoir and got into bed, staring up at the embroidered tester.
Jack spoke again in the same low and even voice. “Arabella, if you do not unlock the doors instantly, I shall fetch the night porter and he will remove both locks. And they will stay removed.”
She sat up abruptly. Jack would not make idle threats and the humiliation of such a scene could not be borne. By either of them. “Damn you, Jack Fortescu,” she said, flinging aside the covers. She stalked to the door and turned the key, then marched to the other and unlocked that. Then she went back to bed and waited.
But Jack didn’t open the door. He said merely, “Thank you.” And that was the last she heard of him for the rest of the night.
Arabella didn’t hear her bedroom door open but Boris and Oscar did. They were sprawled on the end of her bed, crushing her feet, something they hadn’t done since Jack had shared her bed. She’d been comforted by their presence during the hours of a fitful sleep and groaned when they heaved themselves up with excited barks, leaping from the bed with a great skittering clatter of nails on the polished floor as they rushed to the door.
“You are a slug-a-bed,” a familiar voice declared. “A night on the tiles, Bella?”
“Meg?” Arabella came blinkingly awake. She struggled up against the pillows. “Meg,” she exclaimed with delight. “What are you doing here? How did you get here? What time is it, for heaven’s sake?” She stared at the mantelpiece, trying to see the tiny hands on the jeweled clock.
“It’s past ten,” Meg said, untying the ribbons of her bonnet. She stood laughing down at her friend. “What an indecently enormous bed . . . and why, I ask myself, are you sharing it with a couple of red setters?” She tossed the bonnet aside and leaned down to kiss Arabella. “I have missed you so.”
Arabella, now fully awake, returned the kiss. She said, “You don’t know how much I have missed you, Meg.” Sitting up fully she reached for the little bell on the night table and rang it vigorously. “First chocolate . . . how did you get here? I wasn’t expecting you for weeks. Jack said he’d write to your father, but I thought it would take forever and—” She turned as the door opened, and greeted her maid with a smile. “Oh, Becky, see who’s here. Miss Barratt has come for a visit.”
Becky, beaming, nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I know, ma’am. All over the servants’ ’all, it is. Welcome, Miss Meg.” She curtsied several times in her enthusiasm, deftly balancing a tray containing a steaming silver pot of hot chocolate, a platter of bread and butter, and two delicate cups. “Just like ’ome it’ll be, m’lady.” She set the tray on the night table. “Shall I pour, your grace?”
“No, I’ll do it, Becky,” Meg said, divesting herself of her cloak. “Lady Arabella will ring for you when she’s ready to dress.”
“Yes, Becky,” Arabella concurred with a grin. It was typical of Meg to sweep in and take charge. In the circumstances, Meg, fresh and glowing from the cold outdoors, was clearly more capable of taking charge than Arabella, still befuddled with sleep. And of course, Meg had the advantage of knowing how and why she’d arrived so speedily. Arabella, as yet, was quite in the dark.
“Let the dogs out, will you, please, Becky?” Meg instructed cheerfully, pushing the pair of adoring red heads away from her knees as she sat on the edge of the bed.
“Not so much as a backward glance,” Meg said in mock lament as Boris and Oscar abandoned their newly returned friend and shot out of the door at Becky’s invitation. “Faithless creatures.”
Arabella laughed and cast aside the coverlet. “Let’s go into the boudoir. I’m not lying in bed languid with my chocolate while you’re pulsing with energy and glowing with fresh air.”
“I’ll take the tray.” Meg carried the tray into the boudoir and Arabella followed, shrugging into a peignoir.
Arabella poured chocolate, handed a cup to Meg, and took her own with a piece of bread and butter to the chaise. “Very well, Meg, explain.”
Meg seemed to be bursting with energy. Holding her cup, she paced the elegant room, her eyes taking everything in, before she came to rest in front of the window that looked out onto the street. “Lord, I hadn’t expected to find London exciting.”
“But it is,” Arabella said, sipping her chocolate. Meg would tell her in Meg’s own good time. “It surprised me too.”
Meg looked around appreciatively. “Maybe it has something to do with the surroundings.”
“Maybe.”
Meg’s eyes narrowed. “A most elegant duke has a most elegant house,” she said. “And that negligee, Bella, is just about the last word in elegance.”
“Wait till you see the rest of my wardrobe,” Arabella said, regarding her friend now with a considering air. “If you’ve come to stay, Meg, and I assume at some point you’ll tell me if you have, then we have to do something about your wardrobe. Forgive my bluntness, but that traveling dress is so outmoded.”
Meg looked startled for a minute then she burst into laughter. “You. I never expected to hear the word outmoded on your lips, Bella.”
“Yes, well, you haven’t spent a great deal of time with my husband,” Arabella said rather dryly. She took a piece of bread and butter from the salver. “Meg, please . . .”
Meg smiled and alighted on the window seat. “On the subject of your husband . . . he sent a post chaise, postillions, outriders, and a most charmingly worded letter to my father requesting my presence in London because his wife was pining for her friend and my father would be doing him the greatest favor if he could possibly spare his daughter for a few months.”
“Jack sent a post chaise?” Arabella frowned into her cup. “But he said nothing to me.” Of course, her husband was adept at keeping secrets. This one, however, was a lovely one. A secret designed only to give her pleasure. She smiled.
“He didn’t tell you?” Meg was frowning. “You didn’t ask him to send for me?”
“I asked him to write to Sir Mark. It never occurred to me that he would do more,” Arabella said. She set down her cup and brushed a strand of hair away from her forehead. Last evening’s quarrel had lost some of its sting, but not its point.
A firm knock at the door interrupted them. “Yes?” she called with some impatience.
“May I come in?” Jack’s voice, cool as ever.
“Yes, of course,” his wife said. Jack did not make a habit of asking permission, although he would always give an alerting knock.
Jack entered the boudoir. In riding coat, britches, and glossy boots he was as immaculate as always. Not a hair of his head out of place, his complexion glowing from fresh air and exercise. His eyes, as always clear and penetrating, swept between Meg on the window seat and his wife on the chaise.
He bowed to them both. “Good morning, wife of mine. I bid you welcome, Miss Barratt.”
Arabella jumped up from the sofa. “Jack, why didn’t you tell me?”
He took the hands she held out to him and drew her close, brushing a kiss in the corner of her mouth. “I wished to surprise you . . . give you pleasure.”
She looked up at him, said sincerely, “You did. And I thank you.”
He lifted her hands to his lips, then released them and turned to Meg, who had also risen. “Thank you for making the journey, Miss Barratt. I trust it was not too arduous.”
Meg’s green eyes showed a flicker of amusement. “Thank you for making it so easy, sir. I swear that post chaise was as comfortable as a feather bed.”
“I hardly think so,” he murmured, kissing her hand. “But you are very kind.”
Arabella watched this byplay with her own amusement. Her husband and her friend were probably evenly matched when it came to games of this kind.
“Surprises are lovely, Jack,” she said with a smile. “But I would ha
ve liked enough notice to have prepared a guest chamber for Meg.”
“That’s already been done. Tidmouth has taken care of all the details. I suggested that Miss Barratt would be most comfortable in the Chinese apartments,” he said, reminding her of how he’d taken charge of the arrangements for their own wedding night.
“Yes, I would have selected them myself,” Arabella said. They were a lavish suite of rooms in an opposite wing.
“Then I suggest Becky shows Miss Barratt to her apartments and introduces her to Martha, who is to wait upon her during her stay.” It was so smooth, so courteous, so charming. Meg found herself swept from the room and Arabella found herself alone with her husband.
Jack smiled at her. “Pleased?”
“Yes, of course.” She returned the smile, albeit a little tentatively.
“Can we agree to forget last night?”
She frowned down at her bare feet. “I’m accustomed to my solitude . . . my privacy.”
“I’m willing to accept that.”
“I should be able to lock my door.”
“Not in anger.”
Arabella considered. She could find nothing to object to. “Very well,” she said. “Not in anger.”
Jack inhaled deeply. “Then can we agree to forget last night?” he asked again.
She nodded and went into his opened arms. The quarrel itself had been unworthy of its real reasons. Those were unforgettable.
Chapter 18
I don’t know why I’m not pregnant,” Arabella said, delicately misting a Jewel orchid in the conservatory later that afternoon. “We’ve been married since last August and it’s already May.”
“I don’t suppose it’s for want of opportunity,” Meg said with a grin, examining a heavily laden grapevine.
Arabella laughed. “No, most definitely not that.” She thought how easy it was to slip back into their old ways. They could almost be in the hothouse at Lacey Court, discussing their most intimate secrets.
“Even though I find you sharing your bed with the dogs,” Meg observed, a shrewd light in her green eyes.
“Jack went out riding early,” Arabella said, straightening from her task with a vaguely dismissive gesture that didn’t fool her friend. “Maybe I should consult someone, like that doctor, what was his name . . . oh, yes, James Graham,” Arabella said, moving the topic onto another tack.
“That quack!” Meg scoffed. “What did he call that place . . . that fertility center he set up? The Temple of Health and Hymen, wasn’t it?”
Arabella chuckled and bent to tamp some bark shavings around the roots of a newly transplanted bloom. “Yes, absurd. Didn’t he have people making love on electromagnetic beds . . . I’m sure I heard that.”
“And milk baths, don’t forget that.”
“Well, he went bankrupt years ago, so it’s not an option anyway,” Arabella said, flicking a speck of dust from a leaf. “But there’s a Dr. Warren who specializes in infertility, but not in quite such extreme ways. Perhaps I’ll consult him.”
“Does it really trouble you that much?” Meg gave her averted back a covert but close glance.
Arabella considered as she straightened once more. “Not really,” she said. “Not yet, at least. I have rather a lot of other things to worry about.”
“Such as?” Meg selected a laden vine and cut a handful of grapes with a pair of tiny silver scissors.
“Well, this business of Jack’s sister, for one. I don’t know how to handle it, Meg.” She shook her head in reluctant resignation and set down her misting bottle. “I really want to ask him outright. Tell him what I know and ask him what happened to her.”
“Then why don’t you? You’re not usually backward in coming forward.” Meg knew she was playing devil’s advocate here, but it was a role they both played for each other.
“Honestly?” Again she shook her head, folding her arms across her chest. “Honestly, Meg, I’m afraid to. I don’t know how he would react. If he retreats into that darkness he has, I can’t follow him there, and I will have lost all hope of ever getting to his secrets.”
“And you can’t get by without knowing them?” It was a rhetorical question. Meg regarded her friend with a little frown. “When you agreed to this marriage of convenience it seemed you couldn’t give a tinker’s dam about the ins and outs of your husband’s life and character. When did that change?”
Arabella shrugged. “I don’t know. It just did.”
“Did you fall in love?”
A slight touch of color bloomed on Arabella’s creamy cheek. “Perhaps,” she admitted.
Meg shook her head. “And I thought I was supposed to be the one inclined to throw bonnets over windmills.”
“Don’t mock,” Arabella protested. “It’s not helping.”
“No, sorry.” Meg looked at her friend gravely, all humor banished from her expression. “So it seems your only choice is to keep digging. I just hope . . .” She hesitated, then said with resolution, “I just hope you don’t acquire a piece of knowledge that you’d be better off without. There, I’ve said it. Now tell me to mind my own business.”
Arabella sighed heavily, her ebullience dimmed. “I wouldn’t do that, Meg. I’ve thought of that myself, but I still don’t seem to have any choice.”
Meg nodded. “Then there’s no more to be said. So that’s worry number one. What’s number two?”
“The abominable Lilly Worth.” Arabella began to walk with agitated step up and down the aisle, the flounces of her coffee-colored silk gown fluttering around her slipper-clad feet.
“I tell you, Meg, just the thought of the woman twists me in knots. She’s picture-perfect and says loathsomely malicious things in the most dulcet tones imaginable. I can’t understand what Jack even sees in her . . . she’s so brittle.”
Meg frowned. “Are you sure they’re still lovers?”
Arabella gave a short angry laugh. “Oh, yes. Just last evening she started lecturing me on my social conduct, right in front of Jack. She even said she and Jack had been discussing it. He denied it, but . . .” She shrugged and her step grew even more agitated.
“But you didn’t believe him?”
“I don’t know whether I did or not. Matters became rather confused at that point.”
“Ah.” Meg popped a grape in her mouth. “That explains the dogs.”
Arabella stopped her pacing. “Yes,” she said. “Exactly. We had a fight and I could kick myself for betraying myself.”
“You fought about his mistress?” Meg’s eyes narrowed.
“Ostensibly about Lady Jersey, but, yes, it was really about his mistress.” Arabella sighed again and passed a hand across her eyes. “Frances Villiers makes me as furious as Lilly Worth does. They’re both malicious and they both delight in crowing over the wives they’re cuckolding.”
“I thought it was men who did the cuckolding.”
Arabella dismissed this cavil with a wave of derision. “It comes to the same thing.”
“I suppose so,” Meg agreed, offering the bunch of grapes. “So you take out your fury at Jack’s mistress on the Prince of Wales’s mistress . . . is that it?”
“Pretty much.” Arabella selected a grape. “However, I do have some company when it comes to despising Lady Jersey. She’s amazingly unpopular, but everyone’s scared silly of her power over the prince, so nobody really says anything.”
“Mmm.” Meg nodded. “Well, perhaps you should leave Lady Jersey’s comeuppance to others and concentrate your energies on weaning your husband from the countess of Worth.”
Arabella exhaled in noisy disgust. “I could wring her neck.” She glanced at the silver watch pinned to the sash at her waist. “Lord, is that the time? Monsieur Christophe will be here any minute to do your hair. Let’s go to my boudoir.”
“I insist you let me pay for this,” Meg stated as she followed her friend out of the conservatory.
“Oh, give me the pleasure of generosity.” Arabella linked her arm through Meg’s.
“I’ve never had it before. Besides,” she added with a straight face, “if necessary I can always put my husband’s lessons to good purpose and win the sum at faro.”
“Oh, in that case,” Meg said, “how can I refuse?”
The coiffeur was already setting out the tools of his trade when they entered the room. He greeted Arabella with real pleasure. He had been the first of the duchess’s many protégés and she had expanded his clientele considerably. Her new hairstyles had drawn immediate complimentary attention and a host of would-be imitators who had flocked to Monsieur Christophe.
He subjected Meg to careful scrutiny, running his fingers through the self-willed red curls. “I think, if madame would be willing, that the short crop, shorter than ’er grace’s, would be most suitable for your ’air. It needs to be, ’ow you say, tamed.”
“A sage observation,” Meg said. “Do your worst, Monsieur Christophe.”
“My best, I ’ope, madame,” he said, looking a little hurt.
He began clipping while Arabella watched. After a minute, he said, “Oh, your grace, I am charged with ze thanks from Madame Sorreil for your kind offices to ’er daughter. Mademoiselle Elise is very ’appy with the family of my lady Bond.”
“I’m glad,” Arabella said sincerely.
Christophe delicately snipped at a ringlet above his client’s ear. “And I must tell you that we ’ave some newcomers . . . just arrived ’ere on a paquet from Le Havre, your grace. I will ask if any of them ’ave any information on the comtesse de Villefranche.”
“Thank you.” Arabella had been pursuing her inquiries among the artisans as well as the aristocracy, although she had little hope of discovering anything of the comtesse’s fate from Monsieur Christophe’s peers. They would have moved in such different circles, although, as she reminded herself, prisons were little respecters of social class.
“Eh, voilà.” The hairdresser snapped his scissors with an air of finality.
“Oh, Meg, that is spectacular,” Arabella exclaimed. “How different you look.”
Meg looked as surprised at the transformation as Arabella. The curls were now cropped close to her head, accentuating the angularity of her cheeks, but allowing her lively green eyes full play. She examined herself from every angle and said, “Well, I love it, but my poor mother will faint with shock.”
