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Please assure me that you have an ironclad alibi for last night. Lord Drysdale was found dead in an alleyway near his home in Mayfair.
Arthur.
Charles refolded the letter, letting out a deep breath. Mrs. Osbourne could attest that he had been home. But she had, as she always did, retired to her room early. She could not account for his whereabouts between ten o’clock the previous night until seven o’clock that morning. Not for certain. The only thing that he could hope was that the constabulary had a different lead.
* * *
Arabella closed her eyes. Her elbow was on the arm of the settee, her cheek resting in the cup of her palm. Her parents were both involved in their individual pursuits—her father, with a letter. Her mother, with a bit of embroidery.
Arabella imagined what she would do, should Charles be arrested. Although, she hoped it wouldn’t come to that. She imagined storming the prison, riding a horse astride, her rapier in hand, to rescue Charles. She would remain on her horse, holding out her hand to him, hauling him up behind her. They would ride off, his arms wrapped around her midsection. Her stomach fluttered, her skin heating up at the idea—his body close to hers, fitting around her.
Then, they would both run away, and be married, without her father’s permission. Her mind drifted, as it often did. Charles leaning in to brush his lips against her temple. His fingers trailing over her skin…
“Arabella?” her father asked. She opened her eyes, turning toward him.
“Yes, Pappa?” she asked, the very picture of innocent femininity. Her father didn’t suspect the…interesting, yet slightly lustful thoughts of the very individual that he had forbid her from marrying. There was an Arabella that he didn’t know. Nor would he ever.
“I’ve quite gotten to the bottom of all these rumors that Mr. Conolly has committed the murders of our friends,” the Duke said. “Apparently, he has alibis for both instances.”
“Oh, good. I didn’t think him capable of committing such an act.” She kept her voice steady. Not one clue of her affection would slip from her lips. She was awash in relief. “Didn’t you require his services?”
“Indeed. I need him to revise the entail in my will.” The entail stipulated that the Duke’s estate would go to her cousin. Lord Norton and Arabella’s father were often at war amongst themselves.
Lord Norton didn’t approve of Arabella’s pursuits. He no doubt planned that she would not wed, and then still be around for him to bully into polite, feminine submission upon her father’s demise.
“How so, Pappa?” she asked, instantly curious.
“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 Icouldtrust.”
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.”
