Arabella beamed at him. “Take care of my father whilst we are gone, Mr. Conolly—won’t you?”
“You have my word,” Charles stated gallantly. “He will be well taken care of, My Lady—never fear.”
“Listen to the two of you!” her father roared, with a laugh. “As if I’m old and doddering about! I could fence the both of you, at the same time, with one of my hands, tied behind my back.”
Arabella winked at Charles, who waved, then held the door open for the Duke.
“Come, Mother,” she said, slipping her hand into the crook of her mother’s arm. “We have much to do.”
The two ladies walked along the street, their footmen following behind. When Arabella glanced back, her father had entered the office. Charles was just glancing at her. Her pulse thundered.
If anyone could convince her father to change his mind, it would be Charles. She hoped that he would be able to do it, soon. When she turned forward again, she saw that the sidewalk was thickly crowded in front of them.
“Let’s cut through the alleyway,” Arabella suggested.
“Let’s do,” her mother agreed.
Arabella frowned. There seemed to be a dark, rust-colored stain, running down the gray stone of the alley. It began as little drips, but then, there was quite a lot of it. She gasped, as she saw a gentleman, lying face up.
The Duchess of Tiverwell screamed, her hand like a vise on Arabella’s arm. Only then, did Arabella realize that they knew the gentleman.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Charles sat down behind his desk, while the Duke of Tiverwell made himself comfortable in the armchair on the opposite side. Charles folded his hands. He’d planned out what he was going to say to the Duke.
“You mean to go through with it, then?” he asked.
“Yes. Why not? It’s mine to leave to whomever I wish,” the Duke stated. He was not a gentleman whose wants were ever questioned. He was scowling a little.
“Can I ask you a question, Your Grace?” Charles asked. He’d given the matter a lot of thought.
“Of course,” the Duke replied, nodding once.
“Are you fully prepared for the scandal that this may cause?” he asked, folding his hands in front of him on his desk blotter. “Bear with me, for a moment. Your cousin who is set to inherit is currently in possession of a title of his own. A lesser one, but he is likely looking forward to becoming a Duke, and coming into possession of Tiverwell Manor. He will fight it, if done behind his back.”
“Are you saying that you don’t want to bring it to court?” The Duke frowned thunderously while he waited for Charles’s response.
“What I’m saying is that we handle the matter outside of court—quietly and in a dignified manner,” Charles said. “And one which does not pit family against family.”
The Duke was silent for a moment. Charles waited, watching as a slow smile spread across the Duke’s face.
“What would I do without you, Mr. Conolly?” he asked. “How are you going to convince him, then? Lord Norton is as stubborn as a brick wall, and less intelligent, besides.”
“That’s where we’ll need to make some—” He was cut off at the sound of the door to his offices slamming open with a loud bang.
“Help!” a man yelled. Fear caused Charles to be up and running down the hall in moments. The Duke was right behind him.
The two footmen were helping Arabella and the Duchess through the door. All four of them were pale, their eyes wide in fear. Charles felt sick as he saw how terrified they were.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, taking Arabella by the arm, leading her to a chair. The Duke did the same for the Duchess.
“The—the Earl of Danbury,” Arabella said in a low voice as she sank down into the chair. “He’s been murdered. We found him, lying in the alleyway, just up the road.”
The two ladies had come upon the body when they cut through an alleyway on their way to the Duchess’s preferred millinery.
The Earl of Danbury was sprawled on his back, his eyes still opened. He had been stabbed in the chest, then left there. One of the footmen had gone to fetch the constable, under the Duke’s order.
Charles sat down beside Arabella. “Are you well?” he asked her. “Can I get you anything, My Lady?”
She shook her head. “No. I’ve just had a fright.” She looked around the front waiting room of the office. She had never been there before. It was filled with a few comfortable armchairs, with a fireplace.
When she glanced over at her father, he was frighteningly pale. He stood staunchly beside her mother, who was crying.
“Dear Lord Danbury!” the Duchess was saying as she dug about in her reticule for a handkerchief. “We’ve only just had the Earl of Diggar’s funeral! And Lord Drysdale’s is this week.” She was becoming even more hysterical. She grabbed at the Duke’s sleeve. “What if you’re next?” she asked, tearfully as she shook out her frilly handkerchief, clutching it to her lips.
Arabella watched her father’s face. He looked terrified. She had never, in her life, seen her father frightened of anything before. He caught her looking at him. Visibly, he relaxed, putting on a brave face. “Not to worry, my dear,” he told her mother. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen.”
Arabella wanted to ask him how he was sure of that, but the door opened.
One of the Constables peered inside the door. “We just wanted to let you know, that we’ve found the body. We will stop round your townhome later, to take your statements, Your Grace, and My Lady.”
“Do you really have no suspects?” Arabella’s father demanded.
The young constable paled, as he shook his head. “None, Your Grace.”
“I’ll have a word with the Prince Regent about this,” her father thundered. “The state of the London Constabulary is appalling!”
“Come,” Charles said, gently. “I’ll see you all out to your carriage.”
Arabella didn’t realize that she was clinging to his hand, until she was up in the carriage, and she was forced to let go of it. Her eyes met his. How desperately she wanted him to come, too.
“I’ll stop by later to see how you’re doing,” he offered, sensing what she wanted.
“That won’t be necessary,” her father said curtly. Arabella’s face fell.
“As you wish, Your Grace,” Charles said, stepping back and closing the carriage door. He held Arabella’s gaze, shrugging to her. He looked worried.
The carriage pulled away. She kept her eyes on him, until the carriage pulled out of sight. She turned to her father.
“Why do you treat him like that?” she asked. “He was just being kind.”
He frowned at her. “I saw the way that you clung to him,” he replied. “I thought I made it clear.”
“Crystal,” she snapped.
“Please!” her mother said, cutting in. “Can you not argue! A gentleman has been murdered!”
Arabella turned her gaze toward the window, ignoring her father for the rest of the ride. Her thoughts were disordered, and they raced about like horses which had run away.
She recalled the day when Black Jack had thrown her. How she had clung to Charles. She ached for that kind of closeness to him. Sadly, she had no assurances that she would ever have it again.
Charles watched the sleek black carriage, pulled by the matched pair of equally sleek black horses. He was concerned for Arabella—that she had seen something so frightful. He returned to the office. Arthur had already gone inside of his own office.
Charles went inside of his office, closing the door after him. He glanced at his ledger. He had worked for all three of the victims so far.
The Earl of Diggar, the Viscount of Drysdale, and the Earl of Dansbury. They had all recently updated their wills. He had an odd feeling.
His gut was telling him that there was some sort of a link. He considered the other gentlemen of the ton, who had recently approached him in regards to updating their wills, or making sure that their estate plan
ning was all well in hand.
There was the Duke of Tiverwell, chief amongst them, demanding that Charles revise the laws of titles. But there were several others, requesting similar services, all of them gentlemen in their prime.
He’d thought nothing of it, before because it was simply what he did, there had been nothing suspicious about it. He began to make a list, making note of those who had recently come to him for the same service. He tried to think if any of them seemed anxious at all.
The Duke of Tiverwell certainly was. He had clearly been shaken when his wife and daughter had found the Earl of Danbury. Initially, he’d thought the Duke upset due to the death of his friend.
What if he’s upset because he believes himself to be next?
Furthermore, what if the killer was trying to set Charles up to take the fall for him? Charles needed to do something—to protect himself, as well as his clients.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The tension in the carriage on the way back to their home was tense. Arabella could have cut it with a knife. It pulled up in front of the house. The Duke got out, then assisted the Duchess out.
Arabella didn’t wait for her father to help her. She got out then began to walk up the front steps behind her mother.
“Arabella?” her father asked.
“Yes, Pappa?” She turned to face him.
“A word, please?” He gestured with his chin, toward the upstairs where his study was located. The Duchess was already crossing the downstairs parlor, where she would sit, comforting herself with a cup of tea.
“Certainly,” Arabella said, following him to his study. As soon as the door was closed, he turned.
“I thought that I told you—” he began, angrily.
“Not to marry him,” she finished for him. “But that doesn’t mean that I can’t treat him with the same respect that I would give another Gentleman.”
“He’s not—”
“Of the ton. That appears to be his only offense.”
“Arabella, please. See this from my perspective,” her father insisted.
“Oh, I do, Father,” she replied bitterly.
“And how is that?”
“All my life, you’ve raised me to speak my mind,” she replied, remaining calm and collected. It wouldn’t do to lose her temper—not when her father was already close to losing his own. “When I do speak my mind, on something that truly matters, then you completely disregard it. You want me to ride like a gentleman, fight like a gentleman, and even speak and to think like one. But when I fall in love, then you forbid me from doing so. It doesn’t make sense.”
“There is a difference between marrying a lowborn individual, and someone with a bloodline,” her father said. “If only you would consider, seriously, someone like the Duke of Longmire!”
Arabella blinked.
I knew it.
“The Duke of Longmire? He’s as good as marrying a greeting card. He says all of the right things, but there’s nothing of substance to be had.”
“What’s wrong with that?” her father demanded. “Don’t ladies love a gentleman like that?”
“I am not just any lady,” she replied frostily. She looked her father in the eye, challenging him to say otherwise. He was smiling at her, fondly.
“At least consider him,” her father replied. “Give him a chance.”
“If I do, and I still do not like him, can I choose for myself?” she asked, seeing that there might be a way that she could convince him of Charles’s suitability.
Her father sighed, looking away from her. He was silent, clearly attempting to come up with a decisive riposte.
“That’s what I thought,” she snapped, standing up and letting herself out of the study. She stormed down the hall. Arabella had never felt so hopeless in her entire life. Her father had raised her to be confident. To feel like she was the one in control. But she wasn’t—nor had she ever been.
Charles knocked on Arthur’s door. “Come in!” Arthur called out. He was sitting at his desk. He had poured himself a few fingers of brandy, and was leaning back in his armchair, lounging.
“Care for a drink?” Arthur offered amiably.
“Yes, please.” Charles sank down into one of the armchairs. It was pleasantly warm inside of Arthur’s office. The fire crackled in the grate. The one in Charles’s office had gone out. The frosty air had cooled it.
Arthur popped up, moving over to the sideboard, where he kept a decanter and a few glasses, for when his rich, titled clients stopped by. He poured Charles a few fingers, bringing it over to him.
Charles sat down, crossing his legs. Arthur returned to his own seat, behind the desk.
“Quite a scare, old boy?” Arthur prompted him.
“It was,” Charles agreed. He took a sip, letting the oaky liquor slip down his throat, warming him. “You know, Arthur—they’re all clients of mine.”
Arthur frowned. “Do you think the murderer is trying to frame you?”
“It’s crossed my mind,” he admitted.
“So you’re in here to tell me that you’re planning to hire Alistair, then?”
“To get your advice,” Charles replied. “As both a friend and a professional.” He passed his list over to Arthur, who perused it. “These are all of my clients who have requested the same services as Lords Diggar, Danbury, and Drysdale. All of them have recently revised their wills. As though they knew that someone meant to murder them.”
“You think the murderer has sent them threats, perhaps?” Arthur asked, curiously.
“I do,” he said. “I know that Lord Drysdale and the Duke of Tiverwell have received threats of an epistolary nature. Not to mention, there was a threat painted on the wall of Tiverwell Manor, during the summer.”
Arthur sat, staring at the list for a very long moment. He squinted, clearly deep in thought. Charles waited patiently, taking a good swallow of his drink to steady himself.
“I have the name of a private detective whom I trust implicitly,” Arthur replied at last. “I think you two should have a chat.”
“Do you think he’ll be able to solve this more easily than the constables will?” Charles asked.
“To put it simply, yes,” Arthur replied with confidence. “The Constabulary are a bunch of bumbling nincompoops. Who knows how long it will be until they start suspecting you again. You’d be delivering yourself up, tied with a neat bow. You must protect yourself. You’ll need this person on your side. He’s an Earl himself, for what it’s worth.”
Charles nodded. It couldn’t get much better than that. “All right. What’s his place of business?”
“He works out of his home,” Arthur replied, digging around in his desk, then coming up with a small card. He handed it over, and Charles glanced at it.
Lord Alfred Honeywell, Earl of Dunsmore, Private Detective.
“Thank you, Arthur.” Charles had heard of Lord Dunsmore. He was renowned for his exploits, as well as his rather impressive list of successes.
Arthur was right, though. Charles would need a gentleman of the ton to back him up. He had the feeling that the Duke of Tiverwell was not himself. Nor would he remain an ally, should Charles be blamed. It was clear—His Grace was terrified.
Arthur raised his glass in a salute. “That’s what I’m here for, old friend.”
Arabella had finally calmed down, when Mr. Blankley came to get her. She followed him down to the parlor, where the constable waited to get her statement.
“My Lady,” the constable said. “I’m Constable Mills. I’ve only just spoken to your mother, and gotten her statement.” He was an older man, with bushy white eyebrows, and a moustache. He was on the portly side, almost as if he’d been stuffed into his uniform.
“Where is she?” Arabella wondered. It would be good to have her there, to back up what Arabella said.
“The Duchess has gone up to her room,” Blankley replied. “She’s feeling…indisposed.”
“I see,” Arabella said, taking a seat. She g
lanced over at Blankley, who stood at attention by the door.
“Your butler may remain here,” the constable said.
“Thank you, that would be preferable,” Arabella replied.
“So, Lady Arabella,” Constable Mills said.
She looked at him, wondering how these things were done.
“Your statement, please.” He had a pad of paper, and a pen, for notes. He held the pen, poised over the blank sheet. Arabella took a moment to collect her thoughts.
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