“I want my only daughter to inherit my estate,” he said. “Not Lord Norton, who is positively bacon-brained.”
Arabella laughed. She should have known that her father would seek to destroy the institution of primogeniture on her behalf.
“He’s obsessed with Fordyce,” he spat, his nose wrinkled in extreme distaste. “He’ll ruin my library.”
“Heaven forbid he get rid of your heathen literature,” the Duchess added, smiling. Arabella realized that they had already spoken of this.
“Indeed,” he replied, very seriously,
“Well, Pappa,” she said. “I thank you for your trust in my stewardship.”
“Of course, I trust you,” he said. “I’ve groomed you to be someone that I could trust.”
Arabella and her mother both shared a smile. Her father was no closer to death than Arabella herself was. The Duchess turned her gaze back toward the elaborate piece of embroidery that she was working on.
“Pappa,” Arabella said. “You must invite Mr. Conolly to dinner.”
“Why is that, sweetling?” he asked.
“Well, not only can you talk business, but it will show the ton that we support him,” she said. “You wouldn’t want all of his business to vanish, simply because everyone doubts his innocence. It’s a nasty rumor.”
Her father nodded, rubbing his chin with his hand. “You’re right,” he mused. “This unfortunate happenstance could have a bad effect on him.”
“With our support, it needn’t go any farther,” the Duchess agreed, shaking her head. “Poor Mr. Conolly. How dreadful to be wrongfully accused of such a heinous crime.”
“I’ll write him immediately,” the Duke declared. He strode over to the writing table, where he sat down and began to scribble on a piece of paper with a quill. The room was filled with the sound of the nib, scratching vehemently against the paper. He finished, sprinkling sand over the page. He sat back, clearing his throat.
“Never fear, Arabella,” he said, presumably guessing at her thoughts. “I’ll find you a Duke who will allow you to come and stay at Tiverwell, instead of his drafty castle in the North country.”
Arabella sighed. “Yes, Pappa.”
“You should marry for love,” her father went on. “But you should marry a Duke.” He wanted her to be able to live at the same luxury as she always had.
“I presume you’ll let me know when I’m in love with the right one, then?” She couldn’t keep the edge out of her tone.
“You’re not still mooning over Mr. Conolly, are you?” he asked. Of all the gentlemen in England, Arabella had the unfortunate luck to fall for her father’s barrister.
“No, Pappa,” she replied—it wasn’t, after all, a lie, as she wasn’t mooning over Charles—she was in love with him. What good would it do to tell her father that, though? Then her father would find a different barrister, which would mean that Arabella would never see Charles again. It was better to see him often, than not at all. No matter how much it ached.
Charles was sitting down to his luncheon. Mrs. Osbourne had procured him a chicken and roasted it to browned crisp perfection. There were carrots, in rosemary and butter. And freshly-baked biscuits, slathered with butter and marmalade. He dug in, hungrily.
“Mrs. Osbourne!” he said. “You’ve outdone yourself!”
“I’m glad you think so, sir.” She was a middle-aged woman, whom he had hired entirely on the merit of her cooking skills. “I figure that you need a good meal in you, what with the recent deaths.”
“That’s very kind of you,” he replied, then began to eat.
“It’s my job to make sure that you’re well fed, sir. You’ve a letter,” she said, placing it beside him. “Just arrived.”
“Thank you,” he said, recognizing the wax seal of the Duke of Tiverwell with a jolt. It would be a very long time before, he could think of the Duke without thinking of his daughter.
He filled his mouth with a bite of chicken, then broke the seal as he chewed. Unfolding the letter, he read:
Mr. Conolly,
I need your assistance—I would like to change my will, in addition to speaking with you on some other, urgent legal matters.
Additionally, I have heard the recent rumors, and I would like to ensure that all of the ton knows that you are innocent.
Do come and have dinner here at Tiverwell Manor, this evening, so we can prove to all that you are still the sterling advocate that we know you to be.
Regards,
The Duke of Tiverwell.
He sat, looking at it.
Tiverwell. Arabella will be there.
His heart raced. It would be good to see her.
If His Grace only knew the dark, lusting thoughts that Charles still harbored toward Arabella, he would never invite him over. He would stop conducting business through him at all.
He tucked into his meal. He would eat, send a response to the Duke, take a nap, then go to dinner. He knew that Arabella must have engineered this somehow. The Duke of Tiverwell might not allow them to marry, but he, like every gentleman in Arabella’s life, was wrapped around her finger, and she knew when to twist them tighter.
Chapter Twenty
Arabella was nervous, as she waited for Charles to show up. She’d dressed in her very best rust colored silk, which brought out the copper color of her hair. She wore her gold locket, on a black ribbon at her neck.
Everyone else was talking in low voices. Lord and Lady Tindall and the Lady Linton, and her daughter, Lady Eleanor were there, as was the Duke of Longmire, who walked over to her.
“My Lady,” he said, courteously. She curtseyed to him.
“Your Grace,” she replied. He was the sort of individual that her father wanted her to marry—a Duke, with the wealth of Croesus. Unfortunately, he was also a bore.
“You look lovely,” he commented.
When she smiled at him, her eye twitched. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She swallowed. The Duke of Longmire always said the right things, but they felt empty. He could have easily said the same thing to all of the other ladies in the room. As a matter of fact, he had.
The door opened, and Mr. Blankley peered inside. “Mr. Charles Conolly,” he announced. The sound of Charles’ name caused lighting to strike Arabella at the core. She turned.
Arabella’s eyes met his, across the room. Her skin tingled. There were dark circles pressed underneath his blue eyes, and he looked pale.
She walked over to him—the Duke, forgotten.
“Are you all right, Mr. Conolly?” she asked, remembering that they weren’t alone, and the entire room was watching them, right then.
He bowed. “I’m much better than I was, My Lady,” he replied.
She curtseyed, still holding his gaze. Something passed in between them. He nodded, a little, as if to assure her that he was fine. She felt herself relax. Here he was, unharmed, whole. She could relax, if only a little.
If only we could slip off, unnoticed.
She had so much that she wanted to ask him—all of it, completely improper in front of the gathered company.
“Mr. Conolly,” her father said, from just behind Arabella. “Welcome.”
“Thank you for having me over for dinner,” he said, his eyes finally leaving Arabella’s.
“Come, have something to drink,” the Duke said, slipping easily into the guise of gracious host.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” he murmured, bowing his head. As he moved past her, his eyes met hers again. Arabella fell into step beside him. She didn’t care who was watching. She was going to show them that Charles was trustworthy—blamed through no fault of his own—he had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Rumor was a nasty thing, one which the ton dealt with like a kind of currency.
“Are you well, Sir?” she asked. She tried to communicate with her gaze.
He blinked. The hint of a smile played at the corners of his lips. She warmed to him, like a flower, facing the sun as it moved in its arc through the sky.
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“I am, My Lady.”
“Good. We were all so worried about you, Mr. Conolly,” she said, really meaning, I was worried half to death. He smiled, and she knew that he guessed her meaning.
“We were,” her mother agreed. “We all knew it to be a rumor, and nothing more”
“Unfortunately, it’s a story that I’m well acquainted with, Your Grace.”
Arabella’s heart went out to him. His father, she knew, had been executed for a crime he didn’t commit.
Her heart was racing. She needed to speak with him, after dinner. As he was surrounded by the other guests, and they began to ask him questions, the Duke of Longmire sidled up beside her.
“He’s innocent, then?” he asked—he looked annoyed. It wasn’t often that a Duke was upstaged by a simple London barrister.
He’s going to have to get used to it if he’s planning on sticking around.
“Of course, he is,” she replied, stoutly.
After a long, enjoyable dinner, the others retired to the parlor for drinks and cards. Charles watched Arabella, walking away from him. The Duke of Longmire followed her, moving to stand by her side. Charles was used to gentlemen taking Arabella away from him.
It was something that he was going to have to become accustomed to. Before, it had been bearable because he knew that he had her heart. But the Duke of Tiverwell had turned down his suit. Now, she was free to pursue the Duke of Longmire.
“Come, Mr. Conolly,” the Duke said. “I’d like to speak with you for a moment.”
“Of course, Your Grace,” Charles replied.
Arabella glanced back at him, before reaching the door to the parlor. The look was filled with longing, which just about pierced him to the core. Even without her rapier, she could disarm him with a glance.
The Duke of Longmire stopped, too. His face fell out of a grin, and he scowled at Charles.
Turning away, he followed the Duke to his study, closing the door after them. It was a dark room, decorated in forest green. The furniture was all mahogany, large and built to be impressive. He stood, waiting to be offered a seat. He couldn’t help but recall the last time that he had been in that room.
“Sit, please,” the Duke said, taking a seat in one of the green velvet armchairs.
He sat, as ordered.
“I want to revise my will,” the Duke said. “I want to get rid of the entail, so that my only child inherits everything.”
“It’s going to be tricky,” he replied. “But it can be done.” It would be very near impossible. As a lady, Arabella could not inherit the title, nor the county seat that went with it. However, Charles could likely find a way that the Duke would be pleased—he just needed to figure out what that would be.
The Duke smiled, nodding. “Very good.”
“May I ask why?”
“I’ve raised my daughter like I would have a son, were I so lucky,” the Duke replied. “Thus, she should be my heir.”
Charles nodded. “And, when she marries? Will her husband inherit what is yours? I’ll need to ensure that the documents are worded correctly.”
The Duke clearly hadn’t thought of this. He shook his head. “No. It must all go to Arabella.”
Charles nodded, folding his hands in his lap. He knew that the gentlemen of the ton found Arabella to be rather daunting, as she was. Independently wealthy, the heir of a Duke—nearly unheard of. But Charles was successful because he made things happen which others could not. The ton rewarded him richly for it.
“And the Dukedom? Along with the title?” This was the one thing that Charles was unsure of. Titles were passed on to male heirs, and male heirs only.
“You can do it, can’t you?” the Duke asked.
“Your current male heir is going to bring it to court, and you know it,” he pointed out, as gently as he could.
“But we can fight it, can’t we?” He had gotten up and was pacing his study. The Duke was a large and imposing figure, stalking the room like a caged lion.
“We could,” Charles replied, carefully. “But wouldn’t it be easier to have Lady Arabella inherit your money and the London townhome, then just give him the title and county seat…as an appeasement, of sorts?”
“Absolutely not.” He sliced at the air with his hand, in a swift and abrupt chopping motion.
“Your Grace?” Charles raised an eyebrow. “I feel it incumbent upon me to tell you that this is going to be an extensive court battle. One which you may likely end up losing, due to society’s obsession with primogeniture.”
“Out of the question! It all must go to Arabella,” the Duke insisted.
Charles knew what he was expected to say. “As you wish, Your Grace,” he said. It would be a hefty paycheck for Charles, even if the hours that he’d be putting into it would be long and arduous.
The Duke beamed at him as he sat back down in his seat. He began drumming his fingers on the arms of the chair. He seemed—tightly strung.
“Is something the matter, Your Grace?” Charles asked. After all, concerns about wills and inheritance were often precluded by fears of sudden death.
“It’s these murders, Mr. Conolly,” the Duke replied. “The Earl of Diggar and the Viscount of Drysdale were both dear friends of mine.”
“Are you worried for your own safety?” Charles asked.
“I am,” he admitted. “I would be stupid not to.” He blinked. “And you? Are you well? The rumor hasn’t ruined you, has it?”
“Many of my clients have cancelled their appointments,” Charles admitted.
The Duke was nodding, his brow furrowed.
“Thank you for showing your support for me,” Charles said. “I very much appreciate it.”
“Of course! We were having a dinner, so naturally…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “Horrible, awful business. Two funerals in one week…”
“I should be on my way home,” Charles said. He knew that he would need to appear at both, so as not to appear the guilty party.
“Quite right,” the Duke said. “We’re all so glad that you could come.”
“Certainly,” Charles replied, following him to the door.
“Show Mr. Conolly out,” the Duke told the butler.
Mr. Blankley led him down a hall, which was darkened. At the end of the hallway, Arabella stood, a candle in hand, lighting up her face. She was dressed in a winter coat, his own slung over her arm.
“My Lady,” the butler said, bowing stiffly. Arabella smiled, handing him a few folded bills.
“I trust that I’ve bought your silence, Mr. Blankley,” she said. She had slipped out of the parlor, unnoticed. She would return as soon as she’d spoken to Charles.
“Yes, My Lady,” he replied, eyeing Charles. “Please don’t do anything rash.”
“Not to worry. I just need a word in private with Mr. Conolly,” she assured him.
“Very well, My Lady.” Blankley was frowning. No doubt he didn’t like being included in Arabella’s plans.
Charles stared at her in surprise, and she winked at him, blowing out the candle, and setting it down on a side table. She handed him his coat, which she’d nicked from the downstairs hallway.
“Come,” she said, taking him by the hand, weaving her fingers in with his.
“Arabella,” he hissed, although he didn’t let go of her hand. It gave Arabella hope that he still harbored feelings for her, despite her father’s resounding rejection. “It isn’t proper—your father will have me drawn and quartered.”
“I’ll handle Pappa,” she whispered. “I need to speak with you, Charles.”
She watched his eyes soften at the use of his name. “Quickly.”
She took him by the servants’ stairwell, which was always pitch black. She knew the way well, even though it smelled strongly of the damp.
It took them to a door, which opened into the garden in the back of the house. It was full night, by then. A few lanterns were lit, but they had the shadows to protect them. He still had not let go
of her hand. Her heart beat in her chest, and her skin warmed at his touch.
There was frost, covering the hedges, and the cold seeped through her coat and her lightweight slippers. Luckily, the wind was down. She shivered.
Once they were a good distance from the house, she turned toward him. In the moonlight, she could just make out his features. Their breath steamed in the winter air.
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