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“The constables asked that too,” she commented.
“It’s just—I saw him, only a few days prior to his death,” Charles said. “He didn’t seem to be frightened at all.”
She frowned thoughtfully, tilting her head to the side delicately. “He didn’t,” she agreed. “There were certainly a few times that I noticed him watching me, as if it were going to be the last time that he saw me.” She gasped, her hand going to her mouth. “Do you think he knew?”
“That’s my concern,” he said. “During the summer, he got a few threatening letters, during his stay at Tiverwell Manor. When I saw him at the beginning of the Season, he said that they’d stopped.”
“They must not have,” she replied, her eyes wide, as she stared off at the opposite wall. She thought for a moment, before looking at him. “Do you think, perhaps, the constables know?”
“They may have found the letters,” he replied.
“Or they may not have,” Lady Violet said. “What if he burned them?”
“Did he have a hiding place?” Charles asked. He planned to send the tip to Lord Dunsmore. It could be useful.
“Not that I know of,” she replied. “I loved him, but I didn’t know him all that well, yet.” She looked devastated. “I…have known him since I was a child. I always liked him, you know. That he finally looked my way…” She shook her head. “I thought that I was the luckiest lady in all the world.”
“I’m so very sorry for your loss,” he said.
“Everyone says that,” she commented. “You’re the first person who actually means it.”
“I know what it is to be in love,” he told her. “And to not be able to be with the one whom you love.”
“It’s a hard thing,” she replied. “Heartbreak, that is.”
Charles nodded. “That it is,” he agreed. He excused himself, and was shown out by the butler. Once out on the street, he decided to walk back to his office. As he walked, he thought of Arabella. He knew that, despite loving her, he needed to let her go.
Her life was drawing her in a different direction. Where Lady Violet Fanning and Lord Drysdale had been equals, Charles and Arabella were not. How lucky the other two had been, yet someone else had interceded. The murderer. Charles wondered at who it could be.
* * *
The Duke of Longmire didn’t waste any time. One of his grooms showed up at the front door of the Duke of Tiverwell’s townhome, only the next day. He had with him a dark bay Thoroughbred mare.
Arabella crossed her arms, looking out at the horse. She was lovely—her coat was shiny, and her legs were long and dainty. She couldn’t have been more than three years old. She tossed her head, her dark eyes taking in her new mistress.
“There’s a note, My Lady,” the groom said, holding it out to her.
“Thank you,” she said, unfolding it.
Dearest Lady Arabella,
I think the two of you will get along famously. Her name is Isis.
Regards,
His Grace, Alexander Carrington, Duke of Longmire
Despite herself, Arabella ran her hand over the mare’s articulated neck. She was a beautiful horse, with a delicate musculature. She didn’t hear her father’s approach until he spoke.
“She’s far more suited to you than Black Jack,” her father commented.
“Oh, Pappa,” she said, turning toward him. “We must send her back.”
“Back? After His Grace has clearly intended her to be a present?” He shook his head. “No, my dear. I think you should thank him, and keep her.”
“That would be tantamount to accepting his suit,” she replied.
“Would that be so wrong?” he asked.
