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Chapter Eight
As soon as they arrived back in front of Tiverwell Manor, Charles dismounted. He reached up, helping Lady Arabella down off of the horse. A groom took the horse as Charles assisted Lady Arabella to the house.
She was silent, her cheeks flaming bright red. Their eyes met. He presumed that it was because she’d lost control of her horse, in front of Lord Drysdale, who even then, was looking rather smug as he sat on top of his horse. He went to say something to her, but was interrupted.
“Arabella!” The Duchess was pale, running toward them, her husband close behind her. “We’ve sent for the physician.”
“Mr. Conolly, we can take her from here,” the Duke said.
“Thank you for your help, sir,” Arabella said, smiling up at him.
“Of course, My Lady,” he said, bowing as he gave her over to the care of her parents.
He remained where he stood. The sound of boots, crunching in the gravel of the drive, caused him to turn. Lord Drysdale stopped beside him.
“You realize that she’s not as hurt as all of that?” he asked Charles.
“What?” Charles frowned.
“She got up on your horse of her own moving,” Lord Drysdale replied. “She landed in a patch of soft, high grass. My guess, Lady Arabella’s posturing. But why?”
“You don’t mean…” He couldn’t finish the thought. If it were true, then her father would certainly put a stop to it. He thought of their earlier conversation—What if your place was by my side?
That I should be so lucky.
“I can see it, as plain as day,” Lord Drysdale said. “I would give my right arm to have a lady like that interested in my suit. However, she’s clearly taken by you.”
Charles blinked at him. “It can never…” he trailed off.
“Come. Walk with me,” Lord Drysdale said, kindly. For a gentleman finding out that the lady that he was so ardently pursuing was interested in someone else, Lord Drysdale seemed to be taking it rather well.
Charles nodded, and the two of them strolled out in the direction of the stables. He buried his hands in his pockets. While many gentlemen had false pockets on their coats, Charles had paid the seamstress extra to give him actual, functioning pockets, instead of sticking them in the coat tails.
“It’s my intention to marry, and soon,” Lord Drysdale said, at last. “I may have…some indiscretions which need covering. I’ve heard that you did something of the like for Lord Diggar the other night at the ball.” It seemed that, despite Charles’s own discretion, Lord Diggar was not one to keep things secret. No matter—it sounded as though Lord Drysdale wanted to obtain his services.
“I have,” Charles said. “What manner of indiscretions, My Lord?”
“That’s the thing, Mr. Conolly—I have no idea.”
Charles blinked at him in surprise. “I do not follow, My Lord.”
The Viscount pulled a letter out of his pocket, and handed it to Charles. He unfolded it, reading its contents.
Dear Lord Drysdale,
You know who I am, and that you have wronged me.
You will be dead by winter’s end—though, you will not see me coming.
Charles read it through twice. It felt like a riddle. The handwriting was well-formed, clearly by someone who had been educated.
“And you have no idea who this may be?” he asked Lord Drysdale.
“Not one. There was the seal—now broken—it was black wax, with an odd signet.”
“Can you draw it for me, from memory?” Charles asked.
“For certain. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”
