A Dangerous Kind of Lady

by Mia Vincy

  “Do we need to put it back?” Holly asked. “Joan said she found it tucked away.”

  “Lord Hardbury must see this,” Arabella said. “Hopefully Sir Walter won’t notice it’s gone, as he won’t need it until his son arrives.”

  Guy would have to listen to this. Arabella had lost everything, but at least she could save Freddie. Now, she needed only to get through the ball, and then see what she could salvage from the debris of her life.

  “I am not worthless and I shall not apologize,” she muttered.

  “Pardon, miss?” Holly asked.

  “I think I shall go for a ride.”

  Chapter 12

  Guy chose to watch the dancing like a wallflower, while he waited for Arabella to arrive at her betrothal-ball-with-no-betrothal. For one thing, he had forgotten half the dance steps; for another, the ball made him feel like a foreigner in his own land.

  There was something so quintessentially English about this kind of ball. Lemonade and supper, flowers and foliage, orchestra and gleaming chandeliers. White gowns, white gloves.

  And an old bore rattling away at his side.

  “…our Humphrey has distinguished himself in Ireland, so you’ll find him of value…” Sir Walter was saying.

  No doubt it was Guy’s fate to spend his life with some self-important chap attached to his side, spouting obsequious opinions and unsolicited advice. Not unlike Mr. Larke and his parrot.

  Maybe Guy should get a parrot. More stimulating conversation, at least.

  “I’m returning to London tomorrow,” he interrupted.

  The morning after that midnight encounter, Guy had ordered his valet to pack—until a startling realization had compelled him to stay. Freddie needed protection, Arabella had warned; not Ursula, only Freddie.

  Now he stood in this merry, musical crowd only so he could seek Arabella’s explanation while in a public place, not because he wanted to hear Sir Walter blather on about how they were family or soon would be or some nonsense like that.

  Damn. What a failure of strategy, giving the impression he was courting Matilda. It had not tempted Sir Walter to confess any sins. Quite frankly, diplomacy and subterfuge were a waste of time.

  Guy would leave the next day.

  Arabella would leave the next day too, he had heard, to travel to her grandparents’ house. Only to be expected, the guests agreed, best for a lady after such a disappointment.

  A disappointment? Whatever Arabella had experienced with Sculthorpe, Guy was sure it was not a disappointment.

  Perhaps he would ask her, when he spoke to her. He would exorcise the feel of her in his arms and leave tomorrow with a clear head.

  “…and our Matilda has saved the waltz for you, my lord. Lady Treadgold says the dance is not quite proper, but—”

  “I don’t know how to waltz. England didn’t waltz when I was last here.”

  “If only you had said! Our Matilda would have been happy to…”

  But Guy never heard his next words, because Arabella had arrived. She drew every eye. Guy drifted away from Sir Walter, drawn into her orbit.

  How had he ever imagined she might need help? Most likely, Sculthorpe had realized how much there was to her, her splendor and strength, her intelligence and complexity, and done the smart thing and run away.

  Guy would do the smart thing and run too—he would not surrender to this infatuation; he would not allow this woman to manipulate him—but first he had to look at her.

  Just…look at her.

  Her gown was the pale blue of a summer twilight, dotted with crystals that reflected the candlelight like stars. More crystals glittered in her pile of dark hair. White gloves stretched to her elbows, and a fan dangled from one wrist.

  She was a mass of contradictions; perhaps that was her appeal. He never could resist a challenge, or a riddle that needed to be solved. But resist it he must: this urge to take her in his arms, to offer to move the Earth, that she might have whatever she asked.

  He imagined her pursing her lips to think, then tapping him with her fan.

  “Now you mention it,” she’d say, “I am in need of a titled husband. Marry me. Oh, and bring me the king’s head on a silver platter while you’re at it.”

  Not a chance.

  Yet he could not tear his eyes from her, as she glided through the crowd toward him, snapped open her fan, and regarded him with her desert-sky eyes.

  “I wish to talk to you,” she said shortly, already turning away. “Meet me on the terrace.”

  He disciplined his feet, which were much too eager to obey. “What are you scheming now?”

  She turned back. “If you meet me on the terrace, I can tell you without us being overheard. It is a private matter.”

  “No.”

  “Everyone will be able to see us.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Good grief, Guy. You behave like a coy virgin being coaxed into debauchery by a wicked rake. What on earth do you imagine I intend to do? Tear off your cravat and ravish you right there on the terrace? And force us both into a marriage that neither of us wants?”

  Except she did want that marriage. She had been angling for it ever since his return. Yet her haunted look the other night… All these pieces of her did not add up.

  “I must show you something,” she added briskly. “I am leaving tomorrow, as are you, and we must speak first.”

  “I do not trust you,” he said. “You are unscrupulous and hungry for power.”

  Emotion flashed in her eyes; he would swear it was hurt. He hated that he hurt her, but if he did not protect himself, he would be inviting her to hurt him.

  A snap sounded, like something breaking, and her face shuttered, cold and aloof.

  “Never mind. I shall send a servant. I need some air. This conversation is tedious. ’Tis as well we need never speak again.”

  He reached for her hand. She jerked away and instead he caught the fan looped around her wrist. For three ridiculous bars of the waltz, they formed a comical statue, until she let the fan slip from her wrist as he let it slip from his fingers. It clattered to the floor between them. She glanced at it disdainfully. She would not stoop to pick it up. A lady never did.

  “Running away, Arabella?” he said.

  “Don’t be absurd. I never run away. I simply make a timely exit.”

  And exit she did, sweeping across the ballroom and out onto the terrace.

  A footman scooped up the fan and dropped it onto Guy’s outstretched palm. The fan looked fragile. One delicately carved stick was broken.

  Careful of the fracture, he eased the fan open; the silk was painted like twilight to match her gown. He closed it again, gently, as much as the broken stick allowed. When he glanced up, guests were gawking at him; his glower made them look away. Speculation must be rife, with Arabella’s broken engagement, and Guy, the big, brash marquess who had already spurned her, now acting like a slavering, devoted swain.

  After tonight, they would not see each other again, not for months or even years. He would attend house parties over autumn and winter, and if that did not find him a bride, he’d find one when society gathered in London in the spring. The next time he saw Arabella, he would be engaged or even married; she would look right through him, but by then this mad infatuation would have passed and he would not care.

  After everything, they needed a farewell. He was not doing her bidding. He was simply returning her fan, and bidding her adieu.

  Arabella did not acknowledge Guy when he joined her on the terrace. She was studying the night sky as intently as if it had flaws and she was personally appointed to fix them. Gooseflesh gathered on her upper arms, on the inches of bare skin between her long gloves and short sleeves. If she were Matilda Treadgold, she would shiver pointedly and he would offer his coat, an intimate offering she would demurely accept. But this was Arabella Larke, and she stood tall and tense and ignored the cold. He was of a mind to offer his coat anyway, just to make her snarl.

  “Y
our fan,” he said.

  She unfurled a gloved hand. Without touching her, he laid the fan across her palm.

  “It’s broken,” he added.

  She made that dismissive sound in the back of her throat and returned to studying the sky. Before, it had been overcast, but she had frightened the sky into a picturesque scene, with ribbons of silvery cloud floating around the bright three-quarter moon.

  He would not take back his unkind, ungracious words, because they were true; Arabella was those things, but he could tell her she was other things too. Things he could not yet imagine. That behind her eyes lay a whole solar system, to be discovered by the man who was brave enough or foolish enough to look.

  Before he could speak, a footman arrived and handed Arabella a piece of paper. She thanked him, and once they were alone again, she held out the paper to Guy.

  “This was taken from Sir Walter’s belongings. He is not yet aware it is gone.”

  “You are stealing now too.”

  “I am always seeking new skills.”

  Unfolding the paper, he found enough light to read it by. The meaning was clear on the first read, but still he read it twice more: a special license permitting the immediate marriage of Freddie to Sir Walter’s son, Humphrey.

  “Freddie knows nothing of this,” Arabella was saying. “But it explains why Sir Walter has hastily recalled his son, and why they make no effort to find her a husband. You were seeking his scheme; that is it.”

  “How did you know?”

  “If I were Sir Walter and I wanted to get my hands on your sister’s wealth, that’s what I would have done.” She raised one brow. “Those of us who are unscrupulous think like that.”

  Guy slipped the license into a pocket. “We have evidence that he embezzled from his charitable organizations. We were seeking embezzling.”

  “Why steal Freddie’s wealth when he can get it legally by marrying her off to his son? I wasn’t certain until we found that. Had you listened to me in London, you could have asked the archbishop directly, as I cannot, and I would not have had to take up stealing.”

  “Do you want an apology?”

  “Guy, the list of impossible things I want is so long there is no room for anymore. Just make sure that Freddie is not forced into a match against her will for someone else’s benefit.”

  He shook his head in frustration. “But I have no legal power to stop the marriage while Sir Walter is her guardian. The only way I can gain custody is to prove mismanagement.”

  “Which this is.” She rapped his chest hard with her fan, her own frustration clear. “There have been numerous court cases in which Chancery removed guardians for arranging an unequal and improper marriage for their wards. Your solicitors were negligent in failing to mention them. Humphrey Treadgold is Freddie’s inferior in every way, in status, wealth, connections. This, you numbskull, is evidence of mismanagement, because Sir Walter is using his guardianship for his son’s benefit and to Freddie’s disadvantage.”

  “How do you know the case law?”

  “I read it. I can read. Or is that a crime now too?”

  “You’re irritable.”

  “I’m always irritable.”

  “No. This is different. What is the matter?”

  “That is none of your concern. You have made your opinion of me perfectly clear.” Her speech was fast, her manner hard. “Use this, Guy. Stop being honorable and think like a criminal instead. Practice being unscrupulous, if you can.”

  Suddenly, belatedly, he understood. “There are discrepancies in Ursula’s trust but the accountants couldn’t see where the items had gone. He’s likely funneling Ursula’s wealth to Freddie, so that his son might take it all.”

  His brain raced. The archbishop’s office would have a record of this license. Tomorrow, he would write to his solicitors, or directly to the Vice Chancellor.

  “That’s why you invited Sir Walter and his family here: to seek proof,” he said. “I accused you of using them as bait to lure me. Why didn’t you correct me?”

  “You seemed so pleased with yourself, I hated to disillusion you.”

  She never did defend herself, he realized. Every accusation he made, she accepted the charge, even if it wasn’t true. That pride of hers would be her undoing.

  “Please accept my apologies. I should have listened to you.” He thumped the balustrade. “Damn it. I’m meant to protect Freddie and I got it wrong.”

  Her tone was unusually gentle as she said, “You did not see your sister as a piece of property to be passed around or used as a pawn in marriage. That does you credit. It is nothing to regret.” After a pause, she added, “But perhaps next time, you will listen to me.”

  “Listen? You were trying to get me to marry you.”

  “I never wanted to marry you.”

  “Ever since you were a child—”

  “I boasted, yes. When I was nine, Miranda Olivares Lightwell—Cassandra DeWitt’s half sister, if you recall—she declared that I was too tall and skinny, so I retorted that at least I was going to be a marchioness one day, which was more than anyone could say for Miranda or anyone else. Then I kept saying it. Did you never make empty boasts when you were a child?”

  “At the Prince Regent’s party. You said you wanted us to get married. You bribed the jesters and tied me to you. Then at my house—”

  “You never heard a word I said, did you?”

  “Well, if you would stop speaking nonsense.”

  She stared at him, her eyes burning. He thought again of the broken fan, that little snap. For all her restraint, Arabella was not without feeling, but she had learned to bury her emotions so deeply they erupted with fury whenever they had a chance.

  “I’m listening,” he said.

  “Engaged, you blockhead!” she snapped. “I asked you to tell my father you meant to marry me. I never said anything about actually doing it. An engagement could have benefited us both. If you had listened, I would have explained that I meant a temporary arrangement so I could avoid marrying Sculthorpe and you could demonstrate to the court your ability to provide a stable home for your sisters. But never mind, Sculthorpe is gone and you never needed me to stand in for a bride.”

  Guy tried to remember what she had said, but he only recalled what he had heard. Until this moment, he had believed those to be the same.

  “But…” He struggled to pull the pieces together. “Why did you come to me that night in London?”

  She shook her head and said nothing.

  He tried another tack. “An engagement generally precedes a wedding.”

  “But a wedding need not follow an engagement. An engagement indicates a commitment, but it can be broken relatively easily, and it is socially acceptable for a lady to do so. Once or twice, anyway. My connections, reputation, and wealth are such that I could weather a more ferocious scandal than most.”

  “What is the point of feigning an engagement?”

  She consulted the sky, giving him the angle of her jaw, the length of her throat, the curls around her ear.

  “Because after you announced you would not marry me, after I spent years avoiding marrying Papa’s other choices by insisting I wait for you, he threatened to cut me off if I did not wed immediately, and he refused to wait until I presented a man of whom we both approve.”

  “You exaggerate. Your father would never disinherit you.”

  “It’s already done,” she said softly. When she turned back to him, her expression was unreadable. “Almost. His new will has only to be signed and notarized. And as for my famous dowry, which has fortune hunters across the world drooling… Well.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Do you think I am leaving tomorrow because my grandmother wants company? I am being cast out. I stand here only because Papa wanted me to face my shame at my betrothal ball. Pride goeth and all that.”

  Guy steadied himself with a hand on the balustrade, the stone cold through his glove. He stared at the gardens until the lights from the hanging lantern
s blurred.

  Arabella’s position had seemed as stable and enduring as this stately family home in which they stood. She claimed her place in the world with such self-assurance that he had never even considered it might be precarious.

  Clare had been right: Arabella had indeed become the defining symbol of Guy’s struggle to free himself from his father’s control. Then, what with Mr. Larke writing to insist Guy marry her, and Arabella bribing the jesters to force Guy into conversation…

  He had made assumptions and leaped to conclusions, unable to hear her message over his own determination to never do anyone’s bidding again. He had failed to see how she was being controlled too.

  This explained— He rubbed his temples. Still the pieces did not add up. Marriage to Sculthorpe would have secured her future. Why the devil would she have risked everything by coming to Guy that night in London? And why insist that same night that Guy get engaged to her, when she was already betrothed? What the hell had Sculthorpe done?

  Before he could ask, her eyes skewered him once more. “Vindale Court is my birthright, as Roth Hall and the marquessate are yours. Had my brother survived, it would have been his. But he did not survive, and I am tired of being punished for that.” She briefly considered her broken fan before continuing. “There is no legal reason I should not inherit, and Papa intended to bequeath me everything, so the family legacy would pass to his grandsons. But now I am old and he is desperate, and he would rather leave the estate to a stranger than to his own daughter.” She shook her head. “Of course you think I exaggerate. When you fight with your father and disappear for eight years, you can resume your position as if nothing ever happened, because your birthright is enshrined in law. You cannot imagine knowing that you might lose everything simply because you are not as they think you ought to be. Yes, I have behaved badly,” Arabella added. “But when the alternative is being pushed around like a pawn? I may be ‘unscrupulous’ and ‘power hungry,’ but curse you, I am no one’s martyr.”

  He had no idea what she saw in his face, but she must have misread it because she looked almost disgusted.