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Nearly two hours later,Guy joined the family and guests in the drawing room. He had washed his face and hands and removed his soot-smeared coat, but ash streaked his breeches and he stank of sweat and smoke. Guy had stayed with the workers until the fire was extinguished, while a messenger went for the magistrate and doctor, and everyone else sat inside to wait.
They made a stunned, somber group, scattered about the room like ornaments. Arabella was perched on the window seat, the blue velvet curtains closed at her back. Her father frowned at the fire. Freddie and Matilda huddled together on the settee. Sir Walter was pacing, agitated; Lady Treadgold was completely still.
Every face turned as Guy entered with Lady Belinda.
“Sir Gordon Bell has inspected the site and wishes to interview everyone in his position as magistrate,” Guy announced. “Lady Belinda has gathered the staff in another room. The doctor has left and the—” Guy stopped at a sound like a mirthless laugh. “You wish to speak, Sir Walter?”
“Doctor,” that man repeated. “Not much use for one of those.”
Lady Belinda inhaled on a hiss. “Thank you for that insight, Sir Walter.”
She crossed to sit at her husband’s side, squeezing Arabella’s shoulder as she passed. Aware of his dirty clothes, Guy stayed off the furniture. He found it hard to be sorry that Sculthorpe had left the world, but stars above, what a godawful way to go.
Sir Gordon entered and addressed the room with the practiced eloquence of a former barrister, requesting everyone’s patience.
“There must be a formal inquest,” he finished, “especially as this concerns the death of a peer, though the circumstances seem clear.”
Sir Walter threw up his hands. “Clear case of arson. And clear who started the fire.”
Sir Gordon barely spared him a glance. “Lord Sculthorpe was a frequent smoker of cigars. Furthermore, the grooms had brought him whiskey and he was drinking. The most likely scenario is that he fell asleep while smoking and dropped his cigar on the hay.”
“But how did he light the cigar? Hm?” Sir Walter said. “I never saw him light a cigar himself.”
To be fair, Guy had never seen Sculthorpe light a cigar either.
“He liked having people serve him.” Arabella did not try to conceal her impatience. “Lord Sculthorpe picked up the habit when fighting in Spain. It is impossible that a soldier could not light his own cigar.”
“You would say that, wouldn’t you?” Sir Walter’s hand was shaking as he pointed an accusing finger. “When I said it’s clear who started that fire, I mean it’s clear it was she. Miss Larke.”
Stunned silence fell, all wide eyes and dropped jaws. Arabella looked so startled, Guy had to laugh.
Sir Walter turned on him. “Find this amusing, do you? You won’t want to marry her now.”
“The shock has addled your senses, old friend,” Guy said.
Sir Gordon looked uninterested. “That’s quite an accusation, Sir Walter.”
“An innocent man has died!” Sir Walter seemed truly distraught. “If you had witnessed her appalling behavior, sir! She meant to strike him. We all saw the violence in her face. It was shocking! Horrific! Unnatural!”
“Enough of this nonsense,” Mr. Larke snapped. “My daughter is a harridan, but I’ll not suffer you to accuse her of murder. It’s impossible. She was in her bedchamber with Lord Hardbury at the time. I was in the corridor when Hardbury came tearing out of her room, yelling up a storm. Followed by the girl.”
“They were in herbedchamber?Alone?” Lady Treadgold’s scandalized tones flew across the room, her words tumbling through air that crackled with embarrassment. Everyone’s eyes hastened to study something—anything—that wasn’t Guy or Arabella.
“No one else came out after them,” Mr. Larke said thoughtlessly.
Well done, Larke. Nice touch that, completely ruining your daughter’s reputation.
Lady Treadgold kept fulminating about disgrace and scandal and corrupting influences on young ladies, but she might as well have sung an aria for all Guy heard.
All he knew was Arabella, framed like a portrait against the backdrop of blue velvet curtains. Like a painting, she was completely motionless. Even her gaze was unwavering as it met his.
It was over.
The knowledge flared between them, like a thread of lightning connecting them across the room. No hope for discretion, not from Sir Walter and Lady Treadgold. Not from anyone. Word would spread.
Before this, Arabella might have managed to end their engagement with her reputation intact; a trifle tattered, perhaps, but wealth, connections, and demeanor could paper over a multitude of sins. But not with this fresh evidence of their intimacy. Not with her engagement to Guy so soon after Sculthorpe’s hasty departure. Not after Sculthorpe’s accusations, after her violence, after Guy had beaten him. Not with Sculthorpe lying dead somewhere on her father’s estate.
