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Chapter Seventeen
Charles stood along the wall. He watched as the gentlemen and ladies of the ton mingled. It was Lord Drysdale’s engagement party to Lady Violet Fanning, daughter of the Earl of Bryndon. Lord Diggar had spotted him, and made his way over.
“Sorry I forgot about our appointment,” he said. “Is there any way that I can reschedule?”
“Absolutely, My Lord,” Charles said. “Let me know when you are coming.”
“Of course, of course,” Lord Diggar replied. He walked away—clearly, he was drunk again. Charles frowned. The Earl of Diggar had always been a bit of a drunkard, but he had been particularly bad of late.
Charles spied Arabella, watching him. He was concerned to find that she looked peaked, her eyes dark. He nodded to her, going over to the tea service to pour himself a cup. She sidled up beside him.
“Are you well, My Lady?” he asked in a low voice, keeping his eyes on the tea as he stirred it.
“As well as can be expected,” she replied. “I want to apologize for my father’s behavior.”
“I made the mistake of assuming that I was your equal,” he replied. “I will not do so again, My Lady.”
When he finally looked her in the eye, she looked as though she were about to cry. He glanced around, to find that they were wholly unobserved. Even the Duke of Tiverwell was deep in conversation with Lord Drysdale. Charles dared to take her by the hand.
* * *
Arabella had so much to say to him, but was wholly unable to. The touch of his hand, meant to reassure her only made it worse. She so craved his touch, and to have it. She sniffled.
“You are my equal,” she whispered.
“We’ll both have to move on,” he replied woodenly. It was a platitude—one that he didn’t mean.
“I won’t be able to,” she told him.
“You cannot mean to—”
“They cannot force me to,” she explained, cutting him off. “I cannot marry where I do not love.”
Her mother came over. “Mr. Conolly,” she said. “How are you?”
He let go of Arabella’s hand, as if he’d been burned. “I am well, Your Grace. I hope that you are, as well?”
“Yes, thank you,” the Duchess said. Her eyes spoke a warning to both of them. She had seen, and heard much. Perhaps, she had even been watching for such an eventuality as this.
“Excuse me, Your Grace, My Lady.” He gave Arabella a pained grin, then walked away. Arabella turned back toward the table, finding that he’d abandoned his tea.
“Arabella,” her mother said. “You cannot be seen speaking to him.”
“Did Father send you over?” she asked.
“No,” she replied. “But if he had, he would have been livid to see that he was holding your hand in public! Have you no shame?”
Arabella didn’t answer that. She couldn’t. She glanced at her mother. The Duchess was frowning in disapprobation, still waiting for an answer. Arabella turned and walked away, leaving her mother beside the refreshments. Somehow, she needed to survive the next few hours, watching Lord Drysdale and Lady Violet, as they looked absolutely happy.
* * *
Any moment now, Josias Montagu, the illustrious Earl of Diggar, will walk through that door.
The Murdered waited, in the shadows, by the door.
He won’t see me until it’s far too late…
The Murderer would never have been able to touch him while at home. Luckily, the Earl of Diggar had come to London on so-called “business.” Due to his numerous indiscretions, he wouldn’t be staying in his fancy Mayfair townhome. He was staying at a grimy inn, where no one he knows would see him.
