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“So now you are a Bow Street Runner.”
“Sir Walter is not an honest man. If he is—”
“Embezzling from their trusts? Yes, Arabella, I know.” His flippant manner had vanished, replaced with a hard seriousness. “I have several men investigating that possibility, and Sir Walter knows it, which is why he has disappeared. He is playing an excessively delightful little game, but I am adequate for the task without you meddling.”
“If it concerned only you, I’d happily abandon you to your misguided arrogance, but it is Freddie who will pay the price.”
“You don’t know everything, Arabella.”
“Neither do you.”
Somehow, in their quarrel, they had turned to each other, their faces so close that the fringe on Arabella’s parasol cocooned them both. If only she could grab his ears and force him to listen. Arabella had not been able to save herself, but she could still protect Freddie.
Yet she had nothing more than suspicions about Sir Walter’s plans for Freddie. If only she could investigate Sir Walter and find proof. Perhaps Mama might be persuaded to invite the Treadgolds to Vindale Court? Sir Walter would imagine himself safe there, because Papa would not receive Guy now, and once the Treadgold family was at Arabella’s house, she could—
Guy’s laughter disrupted her thoughts. Startled, she saw that he had stepped back to study her. Something about his easy gusto was irritating.
“What?” she snapped.
“There are thousands of people here, an army, and a military band, and yet still I can hear your brain whirring with schemes. I remember how you used to…”
He trailed off, his gaze sailing past her. His amusement faded. Arabella did not have to turn to understand the cause. All her effort went into preparing herself, so as not to flinch when Lord Sculthorpe laid a hand on her sleeve.
Guy’s eyes flicked to where Sculthorpe’s gloved hand rested on Arabella’s arm. Remembering herself, she slipped her hand into the crook of Sculthorpe’s elbow. Maybe after their marriage, her skin wouldn’t crawl with revulsion, but it would warm and tingle as it had when pressed against Guy.
“There you are, my dear,” Sculthorpe said, not looking at her. “Hardbury.”
Without a word, Guy pivoted and walked away.
Lord Sculthorpe chuckled, apparently tickled by Guy’s reaction. “His lordship just gave me the cut direct. He does have his petticoats in a tangle.” His voice dripped with scorn. “Look at him now: still drooling over that whore.”
Arabella said nothing, not interested in Sculthorpe’s nonsense. Much more intriguing was the unfolding encounter between Guy and Miss Ivory: They froze mid-step like a pair of warring tomcats, until Miss Ivory whirled away in a swish of jewel-green skirts, and Guy escaped in the opposite direction.
What a jolly little cotillion this was, with the four dancers that they were: Guy had been promised to Arabella as a child, but he threw her over so he could marry Clare Ivory, who threw him over when she was seduced by Sculthorpe, who was now marrying Arabella. Then Miss Ivory went off to be a courtesan, and Sculthorpe went off to war, and Guy went off to tour the world, and Arabella stayed right where she was. It sounded like a nursery rhyme. Maybe Arabella would compose one. It would give her something to think about in her marriage bed, while Sculthorpe was engaged in the onerous business of relieving her of her virginity.
“Ah, I have shocked you, Miss Larke,” Sculthorpe said.
Arabella turned.Shocked, am I?she didn’t say.Do tell me what I am feeling. You seem to know it so well.
He offered the glass of lemonade, so Arabella took it and sipped. It was unpleasantly weak and tepid, but it kept her safe from speaking her mind. Perhaps that was why she had enjoyed chatting with Guy: His opinion meant nothing to her, so she could say what she pleased.
“You will forgive me,” Sculthorpe went on. “My language is not always appropriate for the company of a lady. But you are marrying a military man, and I am plainspoken and direct. I call a spade a spade. And a whore a whore.”
And a virgin a virgin, Arabella didn’t say.
“But you are a practical woman, and I am grateful I need not guard my tongue with you. This is why we are such a good match. We have that in common.”
What we have in common is that we both wish to own me,Arabella didn’t say.
He was looking at her expectantly, so she offered a small nod that seemed to please him. Not that her response mattered; he would interpret it as he wished anyway.
“I trust you are not exhausting yourself with the wedding preparations,” he said. “You must take care of yourself, until I can take care of you.”
“Our wedding is not until spring. We have plenty of time to make the arrangements.”
“Did your father not write to you about our change in plans? I am to follow you to Vindale Court, where your parents will host a betrothal ball. The banns will be called in the following weeks, and we’ll be wed soon after Michaelmas.”
Arabella thought irrelevantly of the Michaelmas goose, fattened and roasted and laid out on every table in England that could afford it, with a blackberry pie to follow. September was one of her favorite months, when they trooped out under blue skies and orange leaves to pick blackberries and nuts, ahead of Michaelmas at the month’s end. She and Mama always prepared a feast for the tenants and villagers, before the winter began. She wondered if they would manage that this year, with a wedding as well.
