He blinked at her in surprise. “Do you, My Lady?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He was quiet for a long moment. “You know that I’m a simple barrister. There’s nothing exciting about my life.”
“I’m interested in you,” she said. “And only you.”
“Why? Especially when you could have any of the many gentlemen, all around you?”
“I’m not interested in any of them,” she explained. “They want to domesticate me. They want me to be a proper lady, and to give up my masculine pursuits.”
“And I like you, just as you are.”
“Yes,” she said, tilting her head to the side. “You seem to. Do you not?” She wanted to reach out to him, take his hand, but wasn’t sure.
He smiled. “I do, in fact.” It was exactly what she wanted to hear. “I can’t offer you much.” She reached out, taking his hand as she smiled.
“You offer me so much more than they ever could. Look me in the eye, and tell me that you feel nothing for me.”
He raised his eyes, meeting hers. Her heart was pounding in her chest. The way that he looked at her made her want him more.
She ached to be close to him—to give him everything. She had never felt this way about anyone before. It was like being lost in a storm—and wanting to be swallowed whole.
“Mr. Conolly, tell me.”
He laughed, looking down at his feet, kicking at the stone path with the toe of his boot. His eyes went to their hands, clasped tightly. When he said nothing, she stepped closer to him.
“I—” he began, but Annette called out.
“Lady Arabella! Where are you?”
She turned away from Mr. Conolly, to face her maid, standing on the terrace. Annette signed with her hands, indicating that there was someone coming. Arabella turned back to Mr. Conolly. “Think about it,” she said. “Please.”
“I doubt that I’ll be able to think of anything else,” he replied. She let go of his hand, turning away from him. As she walked toward the house, she could feel him, watching her.
Charles watched her walk away from him. He couldn’t believe the conversation that they’d just had. He couldn’t deny that he was attracted to her. He would never be able to deny that he wanted her. How could he not? To him, she was perfect in every way.
He thought of her, the day before—using her injury to get close to him. He thought of the way that she’d melted up against him. He thought of the smell of her hair…
He considered following her, but then thought better of it. So he walked the opposite way, deeper into the garden. As he walked, he could hear the sound of voices.
He realized that it was the Duke and Lord Drysdale, when Lord Drysdale mentioned— “So, we’ve both gotten letters?”
“Yes,” the Duke confirmed. “Also, Danbury has one.”
He was curious—why would they meet to discuss the letters without him? Quickly, he ducked behind an evergreen tree, which was thick with foliage.
“It has to be someone through Millgate,” the Duke said. “Potentially himself.”
“Why would he threaten us, though?” Drysdale asked. “His business thrives because of us.”
“We need to put distance between ourselves. For our safety,” His Grace said.
“Agreed. I will head out upon the morrow.”
“I am sorry, Drysdale. I was hoping that through proximity with my daughter, then perhaps a romance might flourish between the two of you.”
“Alas,” Lord Drysdale said. “It is not meant to be.”
“For that, I am truly disappointed. A marriage between our two families would have been a most advantageous match on both sides.”
“We cannot help where the heart chooses to love,” Drysdale said. “Or not love, as the case may be.”
The Duke responded, but Charles couldn’t hear what he said. They were moving away from him. His mind was a frenzy of emotions. The Duke of Tiverwell suspected that they were being threatened as a result of their club. Why would he have hidden that from Charles, then?
Who is the gentleman that they refer to as himself?
He began to walk back toward the house, his mind a whirl of disconnected thoughts.
Arabella and Annette returned to Arabella’s rooms. She had spent all of her energy, walking out to the garden. Her ribs ached, so she laid herself down on her bed, closing her eyes.
Annette had called her back in, when she had spied her father and Lord Drysdale, heading out into the garden around the side of the house. It seemed that the hedges were the place where many secret conversations were to take place that day.
She suspected that the Duke and Lord Drysdale were plotting. Her father was very keen on her marrying Lord Drysdale. She knew that her mother had attempted to advocate on her behalf—and failed.
“Can I get you anything, My Lady?” Annette asked. Arabella opened her eyes.
“No, thank you, Annette,” she replied. There was a knock on the door, and Annette went to answer it. Arabella saw that both of her parents had come.
“My Darling,” her father said. “I heard that you went out for a walk in the garden.”
“Fresh air did me some good, Pappa.”
“How are you feeling?” her mother asked.
“As well as can be expected,” Arabella replied.
Her parents shared a look between them. Arabella’s suspicions were immediately raised. Her mother sank down into the chair that had been pulled up beside the bed.
“Lord Drysdale has just told me that he’ll be leaving Tiverwell Manor tomorrow,” her father began.
“So soon? He only arrived a week ago,” Arabella said.
“Something has come up at Drysdale House, which he must attend to,” her father replied.
“Well, that’s too bad, but I suppose can’t be helped.” Arabella was not sorry in the least.
“We had hoped that the two of you might…come to an understanding,” her father said. “From the way that Lord Drysdale talks, it seems as though he’s given up hope.”
“Pappa, Mamma—I thought that the two of you have been adamant that I fall in love before I choose to marry.”
They both looked at each other, then at her.
“We would prefer it, certainly,” her mother said.
Arabella blinked. It sounded as though there was a “however” coming after that.
“We want to make sure that you’re provided for—that you have a home,” her mother said.
“Was Mr. Conolly unsuccessful?” she asked.
“Upon my death, I have decided that the London townhouse will go to Lord Norton. Your mother’s fortune will be divided from the entail, and your mother plans to retire to Bath.”
“Are you dying, Pappa?” she asked.
“No, sweetling, not for a while yet,” he said, even though he’d gone frighteningly pale.
“Why can’t I move to Bath with Mamma?” she asked.
“Arabella, it sounds to me like you’re planning not to marry at all,” her father said.
She sat there, staring at the both of them. “Why are you forcing me to marry?”
“It is what’s right, Arabella,” her mother said. “A lady must marry.”
Arabella sighed. Luckily, she was in fact, falling in love. “Very well,” she said.
She needed to meet with Mr. Conolly. She needed to get him to talk to her father. Things needed to be settled between them. Her parents looked at her in surprise.
Charles had been surprised when he’d opened his bedroom door to find Annette standing there. She said nothing, just held out the folded letter. He took it. She curtsied, and then left.
He opened the letter.
Mr. Conolly,
Please meet with me, at eleven of the clock, in the servants’ stairwell. I need to speak with you, urgently.
AMF.
He sat down on his bed, staring at the letter in his hands. If they were caught, he would lose the Duke of Tiverwell as a client, as well as many
other clients. To be caught meeting with the daughter of a Duke in the middle of the night was so improper it was…
He was going, he knew. She was young and impulsive. He would tell her that they needed to wait. She was seventeen. He well recalled how he himself had been at seventeen.
If he could convince her to wait—six months, a year—then they would have time, to get to know each other. To be assured that they were suited to each other. And, that she was willing to make the sacrifice that she would, were she to become his wife.
He walked over to the fireplace, picking up a match, striking it. He lit the letter, watching her words be devoured by flame. Charles was well aware of the danger of keeping illicit correspondence.
As much as he would have treasured it, he could not be caught with something of the sort. Just in case Lady Arabella changed her mind, and didn’t show up herself.
Chapter Ten
Her heart was pounding as she pulled on her black cloak. She pulled the hood up, over her hair. Underneath, she was still fully dressed. She merely waited, by the fire.
Dinner had felt like forever. She and Mr. Conolly had locked eyes several times. Those looks had said so much. She had found herself blushing, turning her gaze away.
To know that no one suspected them. To keep such a secret was positively delicious. She had no doubts that he would show up.
“It’s almost eleven, My Lady,” Annette said.
“Are you sure that you’re able to wait up?” Arabella asked. She would need assistance, unbuttoning her dress, particularly with the bruising to her ribs.
“I’ll be fine, My Lady. I won’t be able to sleep until I know you’re back safe.”
“Whatever could hurt me, Annette?” she asked.
Annette shook her head. “Idle fancy, My Lady. Perhaps I’ve read too many of Anne Radcliffe’s novels.”
Arabella laughed. “Perhaps you have.”
“Good luck, My Lady,” Annette said.
Arabella waved to her, then stepped out, through the door, closing it softly after her. The hallway was darkened, but she knew her way, as well as she knew the freckles on her nose.
She passed her parents’ rooms, and heard nothing. There was no light, spilling underneath the doors. Even Lord Drysdale’s rooms were silent and dark.
She entered the servants’ hallway, which was behind the walls. She moved through the darkness, into the direction of the East Wing, where Mr. Conolly was staying. As she walked, she heard footsteps, walking in her direction.
“Mr. Conolly?” she whispered.
“Yes, My Lady,” he replied.
As she neared him, she held out her hands, finding his in the darkness. She felt a draft of air.
“Careful,” she said. “There’s a staircase that way.”
“Should we dare a light?” he asked.
“We could,” she said.
There was the sound of a match, then light, as he lit a candle. The small flame flickered. She motioned to their right, where there was a bit of an alcove. They moved that way.
Once they were situated in the alcove, Lady Arabella took his hand again. He looked down at their clasped hands, his pulse racing. So much could go wrong if they were discovered here.
“Have you thought about what I’ve said?” she asked.
“How could I not? It’s all that I could think about,” he replied.
She raised his hand to her cheek. He cupped it in his hand. He brushed a curl back, behind her ear, drawing the tip of his finger over her soft skin.
His eyes were on her lips—pink, plump, slightly parted. He listened as her breath caught.
She was like a magnet—drawing him to her. Socially, they were on completely different planes, but there in the dark, they were two people, and they belonged together. She was his perfect match, in every way, but the one which mattered—the one which would mean that they could be together.
“Mr. Conolly?” she asked, her voice low, husky, in a way which caused his whole body to react.
He cleared his throat. “Yes, My Lady?”
The door, lower down, opened. Quickly, she blew out the candle. He pulled her back, into the darkness, wrapping his arms around her—one around her waist, the other hand around her shoulder. She melted up against him.
They listened to the sound of whomever it was. They were moving slowly, silently, up the stairs. Charles didn’t know what he would do, should they be discovered.
Who could be walking about the estate, this late at night? One of the servants, perhaps? The footsteps paused, on the floor just below them. A door opened, and then closed after them.
They both let out a sigh of relief. He let her go, then relit the candle. She looked up at him.
“I know that you want me to ask your father for permission to court you,” he said. “I think we should wait.”
“My parents are urging me to marry,” she replied.
“Six months,” he said.
“My eighteenth birthday,” she said.
“If you marry me, then you will be giving up this lifestyle to which you are accustomed,” he replied. “I can buy you a house in the country, but it won’t be as grand as this. You will be in charge of the household, but you will have to learn how to make money last. I am well off, but not extravagantly so.”
“I can do that,” she replied.
“You will not have a title,” he pointed out. “The ton will not consider you one of them. You will be Mrs. Conolly, and Madam. Not My Lady.”
“What’s the difference?” she asked.
“It’s a great difference,” he said. “One which the ton reminds me of, every time that I am in their presence, without fail.”
She exhaled, nodding. “All right. Six months. You’ll ask my father then?”
“The day after your eighteenth birthday,” he promised her.
“December the sixteenth,” she replied.
“Come. I will walk you back,” he said. “I don’t like not knowing who is walking about the house at this hour.”
Arabella and Mr. Conolly walked back toward her room in the pitch darkness. She was hyperaware of every move that he made. Her hand was tucked into the crook of his elbow.
When they arrived at the door to the stairwell, she whispered to him, “Annette awaits me at my room.”
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll watch your progress from here.” He raised her hand to his lips, brushing them across her skin. “Goodnight, My Lady.”
“Goodnight, sir.”
As she walked down the hallway, her skin felt heated up, where his lips had touched. After their talk, she felt better. Everything between them was decided.
Six months. She could understand why he wanted to wait. It would be a change, certainly. She could learn to economize. She would be fine giving up the ton.
She had no doubt that her father would see that they were in love, and that he could provide her a comfortable home.
Arabella opened the door to her room and slipped inside. Annette stirred in the chair by the fire, where she’d fallen asleep. She stretched.
“I apologize My Lady,” she said. “How did it go?”
Arabella beamed at her lady’s maid. “It’s perfect, Annette,” she said. “Everything’s perfect.”
In the darkness, the boy worked quickly. He had never in his life been in a large, fancy house such as this. He had been told about the servants’ corridors, by one of the fancy maids, who had mistaken him for someone else.
He had been hired by Nemesis, to leave a very specific message. He dipped his hands in the paint, smearing it across the walls of the Duke’s large, fancy room.
Nemesis had been looking for someone who could slip into places, unnoticed. Someone who was able to get things done. For this, the boy was perfect. The only problem had been his illiteracy. For weeks, the murderer had prepared him for this, making him form the letters, over and over again.
Now, the boy knew them by heart. He did not know what they meant, though. He me
rely knew that it was imperative that he get them right.
Nemesis had his sister. If he didn’t get them right, then Nemesis would kill her. He finished, stepping back to view his handiwork. All of the letters, done correctly. Since his arms were small, they were oddly-shaped, which made the effect even more unsettling. That, and the fact that the paint was dark red—like heart’s blood. The blood that came, when someone was bleeding to death. The boy shuddered at the effect.
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