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Were there such things as male harlots? Perhaps Clare Ivory could find her one.
But no— Something this important could never be entrusted to a stranger. She intended to marry Sculthorpe, and did not want to spend the rest of her life looking over her shoulder. The ideal man was someone whose discretion was assured.
She was still considering her options when Mama emerged from the crowd.
“You’re looking very bright-eyed, all of a sudden,” Mama said.
“The soldiers are terrifically invigorating. I say, let’s invite Sir Walter and Lady Treadgold and their family to Vindale Court. Apparently, they have left town, but if anyone can find them, you can.”
Mama said nothing, questions in her eyes.
“I have taken an interest in Miss Matilda Treadgold,” Arabella explained airily. “And of course I adore Freddie.”
“Very well. Young ladies are always a welcome addition to a party.”
Arabella started to walk on, only to falter at a flash of green. Clare Ivory. Mama looked at her and said nothing. As always, there was no withstanding Mama’s silence.
“I was only talking to her,” Arabella said.
“Take care, my dear.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Take very good care.”
Chapter 5
Aclandestine meeting was actually rather diverting, Guy was pleased to realize, as he prowled around the drawing room in his deserted house at midnight, glass of wine in hand.
It was not the thrill that had induced him to accept Clare’s request for a meeting, though; it was curiosity. Clare’s note had surprised him, when it arrived the day after the military review. They should talk, she wrote. She would make no demands or trouble, she promised. No one must ever know; she would come at night and he should send all the servants away.
The secrecy struck Guy as unnecessarily dramatic, but he was intrigued and amused enough to play along.
Curious, too, because years later, Guy still didn’t understand what had happened, and almost nobody dared mention Clare Ivory in his presence.
Mainly he was embarrassed by his youthful foolishness. How smitten he had been, from the first moment he saw Clare. How ardent, in his youthful declarations of love. And how fervent, after that final, dreadful fight with his father, when he had traveled all night to beg Clare to elope, only for her to confess that Sculthorpe had seduced her and left her to her ruin.
Still, he had offered to marry her; still, she had refused. He had left without asking why, because he had been young and proud and feared he might weep, and he could not bear for the woman who broke his heart to see him weep. Instead, he had challenged Sculthorpe, earned a beating for his trouble, then boarded the first ship out of England, barely able to see through his swollen eyes.
When he heard the sounds of the front door opening and the sole servant murmuring, Guy’s roaming had brought him to the writing desk. He set down his glass, arranged the green silk banyan over his shirt, and leaned back against the wall to await Clare’s entrance.
A light knock sounded. The door opened silently. A person glided in and shut the door without a sound.
The person was not Clare. A shapeless cloak disguised the intruder’s figure, its hood shadowing the face, but Guy did not need to see the face. Clare was smaller and rounder, with a bounce in her step. This figure moved like water and was tall enough to be a man.
Well, well, well. It seemed Clare was still playing games, and Guy had walked into a trap.
He eased a letter opener off the desk, as the figure turned her—his?—head. In a bound, Guy had the blade pressed to the intruder’s chest.
“You seem to be lost, my friend,” he said. “What are you: assassin or thief?”
“Worse.”
The figure threw back the hood. It was indeed worse.
It was Arabella.
She was without adornment, without expression, regarding him as coolly as if they were in a daytime crowd. As if it were not unacceptable—indeed,unthinkable—for an unaccompanied lady to call on a gentleman at any time, let alone at night.
