by Mia Vincy
No answer.
“Freddie?”
“I don’t know.”
“You don’t know what?”
“Whatever you were saying.” She smiled dreamily. “I wasn’t listening.”
“I am talking about your future.”
“Everyone is always talking about my future. I will live in Sir Walter’s house, or your house, or my faceless future husband’s house. Install me wherever you please; I’ll be a good doll. How does the acrobat do that? I think I’ll ask.”
This time, Guy let her rise and drift away. He should have anticipated her response. Once he was her guardian, they could start anew.
Which meant he must deal with Sir Walter.
When he stood, heads turned, people still loitering in the hope of talking to him. As much as he appreciated the honor shown him by the Prince Regent in throwing this party, and the opportunity to renew acquaintances and strike up new ones, it was Sir Walter he needed to meet. Scanning the crowd for someone to help him identify Sir Walter, he only realized he was looking for Arabella when he didn’t see her.
Guy rubbed his eyes and tilted his head to study the sky. No stars here, just London’s habitual smoke. During his travels, he had become fascinated with stars. Perhaps he would buy himself a great big telescope and study astronomy. Another thing to help him rebuild his life.
An exuberant voice drew his attention away from the heavens.
“My dear Lord Hardbury! I am excessively delighted by your return!”
Marvelous. Another of Guy’s would-be bosom friends. This time, it was an average-sized man around fifty, with a pink bald patch, neat goatee, and wide smile that revealed a gold-capped tooth.
“We have so much to discuss, my lord,” the newcomer added, beaming.
Guy put the pieces together. “Sir Walter Treadgold, I presume. I was just looking for you. Thank you for making it easy.”
“Always your servant, my lord.”
This bit of nonsense made Guy laugh. “If only that were so, my dear sir! You might have bothered to reply to my letters. In the meantime, your solicitors have surely advised you that I am filing a petition to gain legal custody of my sisters.” He leaned toward him. “I trust you are excessively delighted by that too?”
Not for a heartbeat did Sir Walter’s smile slip, as he rubbed his hands together and nodded agreeably. “Let us not spoil this lovely evening by discussing tedious legal affairs. My greatest wish is that you and I might be friends.”
“And my greatest wish is that I become my sisters’ legal guardian.”
Sir Walter sighed in apparent commiseration. “If only it were that easy! A man’s will is a powerful legal document. If the Court of Chancery will not overturn your late father’s will, there is nothing I can do.”
“Yet if the court finds you are mismanaging their trusts…”
“My lord!” Sir Walter’s jaw dropped. “Whatever can you mean to imply? Why, your father trusted me to take care of things as he did.”
“Precisely my concern, given my father’s habitual corruption.”
The insult had no effect. Sir Walter merely scratched his chin thoughtfully. “Actually, my lord, I might be able to offer a solution to our little problem.”
“It’s our problem, now, is it?”
“You’ve met our Matilda, I believe?”
“Who? Oh, Miss Treadgold. The frilly one.”
“She is my niece, by way of my dear departed brother, but she is like our daughter, just as Lady Frederica is now. Our Matilda is most charming and impeccably behaved.”
“Is she?”
“She has been tireless in assisting with my numerous charitable institutions.”
“Has she?”
“And she plays pianoforte beautifully.”
“Does she?”
Sir Walter’s expression was entirely without guile. “I hear you are seeking a bride. Permit me to remind you that your late father’s will names three properties that will become yours if you marry Miss Larke, and mine if you marry anyone else. If you were to marry our Matilda, I would include those properties in her dowry. I would also assist you to become guardian of your sisters.”
“So my sisters would also form part of your niece’s dowry.”
Sir Walter stopped short, then spluttered and laughed and spluttered some more. “You mistake my meaning, my lord.”
“Oh, I don’t think I am at all mistaken. What did you get your knighthood for, Sir Walter? Not for subtlety, clearly.”
And so it went. If Guy married Miss Treadgold, he’d get what he wanted—and become this man’s puppet instead of his father’s.
“You will require friends, my lord,” Sir Walter said, unperturbed. “I am willing to be a friend to you.”
“You and everyone else in Britain.”
“And my son, Humphrey, is a fine young gentleman. Why, he could be like a brother to you! Perhaps you could put in a word for him, sponsor him at your club.”
Guy had to laugh. He almost missed Arabella. She made demands too, but did not do it under the guise of friendship or love.
“My dear, dear Sir Walter, listen: You are up to something, you little scamp, and I mean to find out what. If you want us to be friends, allow me to see my sisters.”
Sir Walter threw up his hands. “My lord, whatever can you mean? You can see your sisters any time you like. When you call on Matilda or take her for a drive, then—”
“Sounds like a jolly game, you scallywag, but I don’t want to play,” Guy said, and walked off into the crowd.
Chapter 4
The military review was sheer perfection. Thousands of red-coated soldiers marched in exquisitely straight columns, their uniforms matching right down to the gleam of their brass buttons, their boots and muskets clacking in harmony.
It was the most peaceful sight Arabella had ever seen.
The columns of ten thousand soldiers would stretch a mile or more, Lord Sculthorpe had earlier informed Arabella and Mama, as he competently maneuvered his carriage through the crowd gathering on Wimbledon Common to watch the Duke of York present the regiments. The promise of a fine day and a grand spectacle—complete with a military band, cavalry charge, and a glimpse of the Royal Family—had drawn some hundred thousand people to the massive Common. All sorts were in attendance, from workers to bankers to aristocrats: a boisterous, cacophonous mass of humanity, in the midst of which Arabella finally found a moment alone.
It had been a trying week of social gatherings, as Arabella was besieged by felicitations on her engagement. “Congratulations,” everyone said, as though she had accomplished something more onerous than simply living to adulthood and saying the word “yes.” For bonus agony, Lord Sculthorpe would appear at her side, charming, affable, and never missing an opportunity to drop a light touch somewhere on her person, say something affectionate, and sicken her with a leer. Arabella had to bear it, along with the stream of good-natured comments about his lordship’s devotion.
Just as she had to bear his solicitous inquiries about her well-being this morning, when they relinquished his open carriage to Mama and her friends and took a stroll through the crowd.
“You look tired, Miss Larke, if you’ll forgive my blunt speech,” he had remarked. Saying nothing of nights spent staring into darkness, she had offered the standard complaints about London’s weather, at which dashing Lord Sculthorpe dashed off to find her a drink. For such were her mighty powers: Sculthorpe would take her property, own her body, and control her behavior, but never mind that, because she could send him to fetch a glass of lemonade.
But she still had this: the ability to forget her plight in the thrilling exactness of military maneuvers.
Only when the soldiers came to a perfectly timed stop did Arabella drag her gaze away—to find herself looking at Guy, who was studying her with an expression of puzzled amusement.
He stood with one booted leg slightly in front of the other, hands clasped behind his back, broad shoulders stra
ight in his blue coat, hat tipped back on his head. Even the insouciant ease of his stance could not mask his bold vitality.
When their eyes met, a slow smile spread over his face. Arabella fired off the kind of withering look that sent other men scuttling for the drinks trolley. So what did Guy do, but saunter to her side.
The sunlight revealed faint lines around the corners of his eyes, which were as green as summer, with an intriguing depth. He displayed a lean hardness at odds with his easy smiles: a man prepared to tackle any challenge and enjoy himself while he did it.
“You appear to delight in the regiments,” he said. “Your expression is nothing less than rapt.”
Because it was Guy and she didn’t care what he thought, Arabella replied with the truth. “It is very soothing.”
He laughed, a fearless chuckle that danced down her spine. “Only you could find the presence of ten thousand armed men soothing.”
Still smiling, his eyes whisked over her. Naturally, she had honored the occasion with a stylish, military-inspired outfit. It was blue, with epaulets, frogging, and braids, topped by a tall-crowned hat like a shako. The ornamentation was quite useless, of course, but it made a good impression; in Arabella’s world, that was half the battle.
“It pains me to admit it,” Guy said, looking remarkably unpained, “but military-style attire suits you. I wonder why they have not yet made you commander-in-chief.”
“I wonder that myself. If only I had all these soldiers at my command, marching in unison.” She shifted her parasol to her other shoulder, all the better to shoot him a look. “Do suggest it to the Duke of York when you see him next. I would happily take his place.”
“Perhaps your betrothed would mention it, given that he is a war hero.”
And there went her blessed peace. Curse him.
“You sound bitter, Guy. Surely you are not jealous that Lord Sculthorpe did something useful while you were off sulking over your lost sweetheart.”
Guy merely shook his head. He was vexingly difficult to provoke. “On the one hand, I think you and Sculthorpe are a good match. On the other, men must be lining up to marry you and I cannot imagine why the deuce you would choose a man like that.”
A man like what? she longed to ask. What does he mean when he calls me his virgin? Why does it repel me so? What will he do to me? Will you tell me? Will someone please just tell me?!
But she could never say that. She could never show anyone her fear, especially not Guy.
Irritation surged through her. Her hands gripped her parasol, tightening with a furious impulse to tear at him—tear at his golden skin and smiling eyes and broad chest—because she had attempted to ask for help and he had refused to listen, because she had no right to anger, because he owed her nothing. It wasn’t Guy’s fault she had to marry Sculthorpe, but it was his fault he was so cheerful and confident and attractive, and that, surely, was sufficient grounds for a grudge.
He didn’t seem to notice. Of course not: She had a lifetime’s training in hiding her thoughts, and she drew on it now to quash the emotion. Emotions were useless and pointless.
Just like Guy, really.
“Come now, Lord Sculthorpe is adorable,” she drawled. “He puts me in mind of a lapdog. I’m inclined to teach him to do tricks.”
“If there is any woman who can make a man jump through hoops, it is you.”
“Thank you.”
“Not a compliment.”
“Hm.”
A rifle salute drew her attention back to the soldiers. Inexplicably, Guy lingered.
“If you did have all those guns under your control, what would you do?” he asked.
“You would be the first against the wall,” she said automatically.
That was untrue. Sculthorpe would be the first against the wall. Guy would be the second. Or she could make them face the firing squad together and save on bullets. What a fiscally responsible commander-in-chief she would be.
“Careful.” Guy sounded cheerful despite her death threat. “You wouldn’t want your betrothed to catch you flirting with me.”
She stared at him. “Flirting? I threatened to have you shot.”
“Which coming from you surely counts as flirting. Such sweet nothings! I’m very flattered.”
“You’re very annoying. Did you come here solely to provoke me?”
“Pretty much.” His eyes narrowed as he studied her, shaking his head slightly. “But why Sculthorpe? Although I must admire your efficiency, snaring him minutes after I turned you down. You couldn’t be a marchioness so you settled on becoming a baroness. Does he know he was your second choice?”
Sculthorpe was so far down her list of choices, he didn’t appear on it at all. If only Guy had listened to her, then she could have bought time until Hadrian Bell returned, and now it was too late.
“You have it the wrong way around,” she said, haughtily turning away from him to study the crowd. “You were merely practice, to be sure I got it right when it actually mattered.”
Through the crowd, a flamboyant emerald-green bonnet snagged her eye, the headdress of a woman who wanted to be seen. It was Clare Ivory—renowned for her wit, her beauty, and for the fact that she had once been respectable, a gentleman’s daughter whom Guy Roth had wanted to marry, until she threw it all away by having an affair with Lord Sculthorpe and becoming a courtesan.
Guy was standing so close that Arabella sensed his new tension.
“I had to encounter her sooner or later, I suppose,” he murmured.
“The woman who broke your heart and made you run away,” Arabella said. “Did it never strike you as a trifle extreme, leaving the country for eight years? You do realize that the standard cure for heartbreak in a young man is overindulgence in poetry and drink.”
“I was no good at it.”
“At drinking or at writing bad poetry?”
“Either.” He sighed. “Alas, I was an utter failure as a tormented youth. I was rather looking forward to becoming brooding and pale. I even fancied I might become a rake.” He glanced at her sideways. “Women would have found me irresistible, of course.”
“Of course. The poor darlings could not have withstood the lure of your tortured soul.”
“Naturally I’d have broken their hearts.”
“For which they would adore you all the more.”
“Unfortunately for me, I have a debilitating fondness for daylight, company, and physical activity. Besides, the world has so many interesting things to see and people to meet that I kept forgetting to be heartbroken and miserable.”
Arabella suspected that Guy was telling partial truths to conceal his true feelings, but she said nothing. The conversation was surprisingly enjoyable; besides, a truce presented a chance to discuss Freddie.
“Is Freddie here?” she ventured. “I have not seen her.”
“I don’t know. Blasted Sir Walter is still playing his game of hide-and-seek.”
A chill shivered over her. “Guy, this isn’t a game. You must take care of Freddie. I might be able to find them but—”
“So now you are a Bow Street Runner.”
“Sir Walter is not an honest man. If he is—”
“Embezzling from their trusts? Yes, Arabella, I know.” His flippant manner had vanished, replaced with a hard seriousness. “I have several men investigating that possibility, and Sir Walter knows it, which is why he has disappeared. He is playing an excessively delightful little game, but I am adequate for the task without you meddling.”
“If it concerned only you, I’d happily abandon you to your misguided arrogance, but it is Freddie who will pay the price.”
“You don’t know everything, Arabella.”
“Neither do you.”
Somehow, in their quarrel, they had turned to each other, their faces so close that the fringe on Arabella’s parasol cocooned them both. If only she could grab his ears and force him to listen. Arabella had not been able to save herself, but she could still protect Freddi
e.
Yet she had nothing more than suspicions about Sir Walter’s plans for Freddie. If only she could investigate Sir Walter and find proof. Perhaps Mama might be persuaded to invite the Treadgolds to Vindale Court? Sir Walter would imagine himself safe there, because Papa would not receive Guy now, and once the Treadgold family was at Arabella’s house, she could—
Guy’s laughter disrupted her thoughts. Startled, she saw that he had stepped back to study her. Something about his easy gusto was irritating.
“What?” she snapped.
“There are thousands of people here, an army, and a military band, and yet still I can hear your brain whirring with schemes. I remember how you used to…”
He trailed off, his gaze sailing past her. His amusement faded. Arabella did not have to turn to understand the cause. All her effort went into preparing herself, so as not to flinch when Lord Sculthorpe laid a hand on her sleeve.
Guy’s eyes flicked to where Sculthorpe’s gloved hand rested on Arabella’s arm. Remembering herself, she slipped her hand into the crook of Sculthorpe’s elbow. Maybe after their marriage, her skin wouldn’t crawl with revulsion, but it would warm and tingle as it had when pressed against Guy.
“There you are, my dear,” Sculthorpe said, not looking at her. “Hardbury.”
Without a word, Guy pivoted and walked away.
Lord Sculthorpe chuckled, apparently tickled by Guy’s reaction. “His lordship just gave me the cut direct. He does have his petticoats in a tangle.” His voice dripped with scorn. “Look at him now: still drooling over that whore.”
Arabella said nothing, not interested in Sculthorpe’s nonsense. Much more intriguing was the unfolding encounter between Guy and Miss Ivory: They froze mid-step like a pair of warring tomcats, until Miss Ivory whirled away in a swish of jewel-green skirts, and Guy escaped in the opposite direction.
What a jolly little cotillion this was, with the four dancers that they were: Guy had been promised to Arabella as a child, but he threw her over so he could marry Clare Ivory, who threw him over when she was seduced by Sculthorpe, who was now marrying Arabella. Then Miss Ivory went off to be a courtesan, and Sculthorpe went off to war, and Guy went off to tour the world, and Arabella stayed right where she was. It sounded like a nursery rhyme. Maybe Arabella would compose one. It would give her something to think about in her marriage bed, while Sculthorpe was engaged in the onerous business of relieving her of her virginity.
