The boy let out a deep breath, then picked up the can. Moving quickly, he returned to the servant’s hallway, slipping back out of the sleeping household.
Once outside, he waited in the bushes. He waited for the sounds of the two men, who were keeping watch. They walked by the boy, talking so loudly that anyone could hear them coming. He waited, his hand over his mouth, to disguise his breathing. Once they were out of sight and hearing, he left the bushes, running quickly and quietly.
He cleaned his hands and face, out in the woods, then got back up on the horse that the murderer had supplied him with. He only had a day and a half to return. He was going to make it, he had to.
Arabella awoke the next morning, feeling as though she were floating on a cloud. Annette helped her dress, yawning as she did.
“I feel like it’s going to be a wonderful day,” Arabella declared.
“Even though you’re not to fence, My Lady?” Annette asked, doubtfully. Arabella, when not able to do something active, was on the disagreeable side.
“Even though I’m not to fence,” she stated, standing still so Annette could do up the buttons of her dress. The soft, lightweight silk swished delightfully about her legs.
“Being in love is the most beautiful feeling in the world,” Annette mused.
“Have you been in love, Annette?” Arabella asked, surprised that her maid hadn’t told her. She had thought that they were much closer than they were.
“I thought I was, My Lady,” Annette replied as she finished hooking the buttons which ran up Arabella’s spine. “I was mistaken.”
“I’m so sorry,” Arabella said, watching her lady’s maid in the mirror.
“It happens that way, sometimes, My Lady.” Annette shrugged with one shoulder, her gaze on the slippery silk-covered buttons. “All done, My Lady.”
Arabella turned, taking her maid’s hands in her own. “Well, I hope it works out for you, someday.”
Annette smiled at her. “Thank you, My Lady. Can I add some more curls?” She inspected the neat, high bun that she’d fixed earlier. There were a few curls, framing Arabella’s face.
“No, thank you. I’m heading down to breakfast,” Arabella declared, turning and then leaving her room. She walked downstairs, and even the house seemed different. Lighter, somehow.
She opened the door to the breakfast room. She gasped as her eyes took in—awkward, grotesque lettering, smeared across the painting of her great-great grandfather, in dark red.
Is that blood?
“By Winter, you die.”
Arabella screamed.
Chapter Eleven
The butler had brought Charles the news that he was needed in the Duke’s study, as soon as he was dressed: There had been a break in, and vandalism. The Constable had been called, but Charles was required. He hurried, putting on his clothes, and then rushing down to the second floor, where the Duke’s study was located.
The Duke and Lord Drysdale were in there. The mood in the room was funereal. Both gentlemen were seated—they looked rather pale. Charles suspected that the letters that both had received had something to do with the vandalism and the break in.
“What’s happened, Your Grace?” Charles asked.
“Have a seat, Mr. Conolly,” the Duke said. There was a decanter of brandy, and both of them had glasses, even though it was barely half past seven in the morning. Charles took the empty chair, sitting down, then waiting for the Duke to collect his thoughts.
“Last night, someone broke in,” the Duke began. “They have…painted a threatening message on the wall in the dining room, in red paint. My daughter found it this morning.”
“Is the Lady Arabella all right?” he asked, concerned for her welfare. It would be the first that she’d been made aware of any of it.
“Upset, mostly,” the Duke replied, his eyes staring at the top of his desk. Charles glanced between the two gentlemen. “I see no reason why she or my wife should learn about the letters. I think if we tell them that it was an isolated incident, the better.”
Charles didn’t agree. “Your Grace,” he began. “If their lives are in danger, shouldn’t they be made aware?”
The Duke fixed him with a stern glance. His pale eyes were cold. “What I tell or do not tell my wife and daughter is my concern, Mr. Conolly.” It was a rebuke.
Charles lowered his gaze. “As you wish, Your Grace.”
Lord Drysdale looked ill. “I must be on my way,” he said, standing up abruptly. “I must thank you, Your Grace, for your hospitality.”
“You’re welcome, Lord Drysdale,” the Duke said. “If there’s—anything else, please do let me know.”
“Of course.” Lord Drysdale left the room, shutting the door behind him.
Charles remembered back to the night before. He was certain that whoever had been in the servants’ staircase with him and Lady Arabella had been the individual responsible for the message. Perhaps, even the letters, as well. He knew, too—if someone requested an alibi, he didn’t have one—at least, one that he could admit to.
“Mr. Conolly?” the Duke asked, jolting Charles from his thoughts.
He raised his eyes. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“We must find the person responsible,” the Duke said. “I cannot subject my wife and daughter to fear like this.”
“Yes, Your Grace,” Charles agreed.
“I—I need you to return to London and begin to search. Meanwhile, I am going to take my family elsewhere. I have a cousin in the Lakes District. That should be far enough away from…whoever it is.”
“A smart choice, Your Grace,” Charles said.
“I will prepare a list of persons with whom I want you to make contact,” the Duke explained. “I want you to question them. Make utterly certain it was not them.”
“Very well, Your Grace.”
“Mr. Conolly?”
Charles looked at the Duke. “Please make absolutely certain that my Will is properly recorded,” he said.
“Yes, Your Grace,” Charles said. “We just need two witnesses.”
“I will have Drysdale and Danbury in here,” the Duke said.
“They will do perfectly well,” Charles replied.
Arabella was in her room, her mother and Annette were attending her, talking to her in soft voices. Arabella had never in her life experienced anything of the like.
However, she was now calmed down. She’d even had a cup of tea and a slice of toast.
Now that she’d had time to think, she had questions.
Who could this have been? Who do they want dead?
Her father had gone as pale as a sheet when he’d come running to see why she was screaming.
“Mamma?” she asked. “Who could have done it?”
“I don’t know, sweet. Likely, someone trying to cause mischief,” her mother assured her. “Certainly no one actually meant to do any of us harm.”
“They didn’t,” Arabella agreed. “Or they would have done so last night instead of redecorating the dining room.”
“Oh, Arabella,” her mother said, her hand going to her mouth.
She stood up. “I need to speak with Pappa,” she announced.
“He’s busy, sweet,” her mother said.
“I think I can help,” she replied.
“Darling, sit down, please,” her mother begged. “You shouldn’t go running about the house.”
Arabella gasped. “Do you think they’re still in here?”
“They might be,” her mother replied sternly. “Let’s stay here until the constable and his men are done searching.”
Arabella sighed, sitting back down. This was the worst part—she knew where the point of entry had been—the servants’ stairwell and corridors—but she couldn’t tell anyone.
Not without putting a stain on both her own and Mr. Conolly’s reputations. She knew—it wouldn’t do to ruin either one. Not when she meant to marry him.
Charles followed the Duke of Tiverwell out the front door of Tiverw
ell Manor. They walked in grim silence down the front steps. In the drive, there were two carriages—the sleek black barouche-landau for the family, as well as a less elegant and much smaller chaise to take Charles to London.
He glanced toward the back, where his trunk was being secured by a pair of the Duke’s footmen. When he turned, Lady Arabella was walking toward him. She was dressed for travel, in a green travelling coat and a straw bonnet.
“Mr. Conolly,” she murmured, holding out her hand, palm down. He pressed it in his, finding that she was hiding a piece of paper with her thumb. He took it, rolling his fingers along her palm as he bowed to her.
“Unfortunately, My Lady, I must bid you adieu before we have the chance to fence again.” He took his hand back, the rolled paper tucked safely away in his fist.
“A great misfortune,” she replied. “However, when I arrive in London for the Season, I will be sure to challenge you again.”
“Until we meet again in London, then.”
Her eyes said far more than she was able to say. He smiled, hoping that his own gave her similar assurances. By the incandescent smile that was spreading across her face, he had the feeling that they did.
“Mr. Conolly,” the Duke said, and Charles turned toward him abruptly. His Grace was tugging on a pair of gloves. Charles hoped he had not noticed the exchange between Lady Arabella and himself. “I will be in touch with further directions. Until then, please get in touch with Matthew Rapson.” He lowered his voice, so his wife and daughter could not hear.
“I will, Your Grace,” Charles promised. “As soon as I am in London.”
“Very good,” the Duke said, turning back toward his wife. “Come. We must be off.”
“Goodbye, Mr. Conolly,” the Duchess said.
“Goodbye, Your Grace,” he replied, bowing to her. The Duke helped her up into the carriage, then followed her. From the window, Lady Arabella waved to him.
He stood in the drive, watching as the carriage left, bearing Lady Arabella and her parents away. He looked down at the rolled piece of paper. He unrolled it, reading the note that was written on it.
My dear Mr. Conolly,
If you can endeavor to obtain a female to write your letters to me, then please write. Pretend that you are the Lady Emily Southrop. She is a good friend to me, and has agreed to assist us.
I await your letter.
Love,
Lady Arabella
His eyes lingered on the word, Love, which was causing his heart to beat faster. When he looked up, the carriage was just turning out of the drive and onto the road. He watched as it disappeared from sight.
He then walked over to the carriage that waited for him. He recalled arriving at Tiverwell Manor, only a short time ago—barely even a fortnight. He had been a different man, then. He had never been lucky enough to be in love, then.
Chapter Twelve
“A lady should never wear breeches,” Lord Norton was intoning. “A lady should be seen and not heard.” He was sitting on the settee opposite Arabella, looking for all the world like an egg, dressed in a frock coat and breeches.
“Then you might as well stuff them with batting and line them up on your settee like dolls,” Arabella replied, rolling her eyes.
While Farley Minton, Viscount of Norton, was not himself a lady, he certainly had a lot of opinions on them. He blinked at her in surprise, but unfortunately, recovered.
“It is the province of gentlemen to be stewards of ladies,” he replied, setting his teacup down. “If not to care for you, then why else do we exist?”
“What’s your point, My Lord?” she asked, wondering if he was rubbing in the fact that he was to receive all that should have been hers, were the world a fair place.
“My point, Lady Arabella, is that there’s no reason for you to be parading about in a pair of gentlemen’s pants!” he exclaimed, his round cheeks turning a shocking shade of puce.
“There is, in fact, a reason,” she replied. “It is that skirts are utterly inconvenient. There’s no reason for them.”
“Propriety,” Lord Norton said. Propriety, the sword upon whose point Arabella meant not to fall upon. Yet it was the weapon that every single gentleman of the ton meant to use against her.
Her father entered the room at that point. From the bemused look on his face, it was obvious that he had heard most of their argument from the sanctuary of the hallway.
“What’s going on in here, then?” he asked. “Are the two of you fighting again?” He had a handful of letters with him. He handed a few to Arabella. “The evening post has arrived, love.”
“Thank you, Pappa,” she said, standing up. She noticed one, which was in an unfamiliar hand, yet appeared from Lady Emily. Her heart pattered excitedly in her chest. It had been almost a full week, with no word from Mr. Conolly. Yet, she had known that a letter would come.
He’s not the sort of man to disappoint the lady that he loves.
She left the room, so that she could peruse Mr. Conolly’s missive in private. She had no doubt that it was going to be worth the six days that she’d anticipated it.
As the door closed behind her, she heard her father say, “My Lord, please do not presume to change my daughter’s mode of dress. She and I have an agreement, one which you shall not endeavor to persuade either of us on otherwise.” The sternness of his tone brooked no argument.
The door closed shut before she got her cousin’s reply. She hurried through the halls of Norton Manor, the estate where Lord Norton lived. It was a simple house—full of dark-colored walls and dark woods. There were a few religious-themed paintings on the walls. Most of them portrayed Christ in agony. She wondered if that was a comment on how her cousin himself felt.
She went to the dark-paneled room where she was staying. Norton Manor was such a gloomy place. She sat down on the bed, which was a massive oak four-poster.
She popped the seal, taking in the simple signet on it, which was an ES, which was rather well done of Mr. Conolly.
My Lady,
I have to admit, I’m not sure of what to say that my housekeeper, Mrs. Osbourne, will permit me to say in her hand. She’s very excited to hear that I am courting, albeit secretly, a lady. She says that it is my good fortune to have met you, and even better that you are amenable to receive my letters. She hopes, as well, that you like her hand. She has spent long years perfecting her letters, for just such an occasion.
Furthermore, it said in Mr. Conolly’s hand at the very bottom, I hope that you are well, and that you are able to write back. I look forward to your letter.
All the best,
CFC.
Arabella exhaled, closing her eyes, and holding the letter to her chest. She missed him. It was the most exquisite sadness that she had ever experienced. At the same time, she was anticipating such a meeting in London, that winter.
For she would turn eighteen less than a week after their arrival, and then, he had promised that if she hadn’t changed her mind, he would ask her father for his permission.
She knew that she would not change her mind, for the world. Opening her eyes and looking down at the letter, she smiled. Mrs. Osbourne sounded like a character. She loved how she had clearly shaped Charles’s missive. She looked forward to meeting Mrs. Osbourne. She had a good hunch that they would get along well. Immediately, she went to her desk to write back.
Charles was dressed in his double-breasted dress coat, in a midnight blue that was nearly black. Keeping the brim of his top hat low, he glanced about him. He was in a rough part of town. He could feel eyes upon him as he walked. He kept his hands in his pockets, covering his wallet with his hand.
He had no doubt that theft happened here often. The cobblestones were muddy, and there was trash everywhere. His eyes searched the buildings for a number. He paused, glancing at the sign.
Richard R. Gagney, Tanner.
There was an acrid scent on the air, which made Charles’s eyes tear up. This was it. He entered the tanner’s shop, at the
very front. It was filled with bolts of leather. It smelled strongly. He knew, out back, there were vats, filled with all manner of vile mixture, for curing the hides that were sold in the front.
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