Forbidden Desires of a Seductive Duchess

A Steamy Regency Romance

Violet Hamers

Contents

A Thank You Gift

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Epilogue

Extended Epilogue

Preview: Wild Passions of a Mischievous Duchess

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Also by Violet Hamers

About the Author

A Thank You Gift

Thanks a lot for purchasing my book. It really means a lot to me, because this is the best way to show me your love.

As a Thank You gift I have written a full length novel for you called The Duke she Desires. It’s only available to people who have downloaded one of my books and you can get your free copy by tapping this link here.

Once more, thanks a lot for your love and support.

With love and appreciation,

Olivia Bennet

About the book

She is ice and fire. The touch of her burns his hands like snow...

Though raised like every other well-bred Lady of the ton, Arabella Foster is certainly not one of them. And her unwavering determination to be involved in her father's ducal duties leads her straight into the path of one charming barrister...

Of common birth but with an ingenious mind, Charles Connolly has established his professional reign as London's most sought-after barrister. And yet, there's something that eludes him. His heart's greatest desire: Arabella Foster's hand.

A series of suspicious deaths of prominent noblemen shakes the foundations of London's high society. When Arabella's father receives a threatening note, all clues point to a single common thread: Charles Connolly.

With more than just his reputation on the line, Charles is determined to clear his name and win the favor of Arabella's father.

However, the world is a scary place when darkness falls, and unbeknownst to him, Charles just put himself in the gravest danger of them all...

Prologue

Ten-year-old Charles Conolly sat, staring into the fire. The flames danced and crackled before his eyes. If he closed them, their dance would penetrate the darkness that dwelt there. Eyes closed, eyes open, it didn’t matter—his father was still dead.

His feet hung out into space, as they did on every chair. He kicked them a little bit. He was frightened that the constable was there to take his mother from him, too. He’d had nightmares about it, ever since his father had been taken away. He was learning that nightmares were real. Even when he was awake, the horrible reality was still there.

Behind him, in the other room, his mother and the constable were talking in low voices. He tried to listen, closely.

“How is your son?” Constable Barnes asked. This was a trap—they pretended to be kind. Then, when a person relaxed…that was when they accused that person of something you hadn’t done.

“He’s stopped speaking, since…” his mother trailed off. She sighed. “Since the hanging. I shouldn’t have taken him, but I wanted him to see us, right before…”

Just the mention of it caused Charles to begin to shake. He’d closed his eyes, so he hadn’t seen the awful moment, or what came after. He’d heard someone, screaming. It had taken him a while before he’d realized that it was actually him.

“I have news, Ma’am,” the constable said. Charles’s small heartbeat quickened in fear. So, he was there to take Charles’s mother. His body tensed. What should he do? What could he do?

“Yes?” his mother said. Charles listened, even closer. He waited for the constable to deliver the bad news. Then, he would go in, do something to protect her.

“Another murder has occurred,” the constable began. “We were able to catch the true perpetrator. A man, who looks very much like your husband.”

“Oh, Oh God,” his mother gasped, bursting into sobs.

Charles’s stomach dropped. His small hands were tight fists at his sides. They had killed his father. He thought of his father, then—he had the same dark hair and blue eyes as Charles. Theodore Conolly had been a kind, gentle person. Someone who would have never hurt anyone. The constable kept talking.

“I’m sorry to say that your husband has been cleared of any wrongdoing in the whole affair,” the constable said. “We are…we are so sorry, Madam.”

A tear trailed down Charles’s cheek as he listened to his mother, crying in the other room. Charles stood up, then stalked angrily into the living room, where Constable Barnes was seated at the worn settee with his mother.

“You come to tell us this now?” Charles demanded. He might have been ten years old, but he had the full weight of righteous anger on his side. “You come to tell us that you hanged the wrong man?”

Charles was shaking, and he felt sick to his stomach. The constable looked at him with droopy eyes.

“I’m so very sorry—” he began.

“No, you’re not,” Charles snapped, cutting him off. “What are you going to do? Take my mother from me, too?”

“Charles!” his mother said.

He turned to his mother. She looked pale, faded, as if the life had been sucked out of her since his father’s arrest. Her cheeks were glistening with tears. “What? What is he going to do?” Charles demanded. “He’s taken Father from us! Because he made a mistake!” He turned toward Constable Barnes, who looked like he’d been slapped. “How are we supposed to live?”

“We’ve…we’ve raised some money,” Constable Barnes said. “To ensure that you are both taken care of. So that the boy can go to school.”

“Money? What good is money?” Charles snapped. “I want my father back! You took him from me!”

He glared at the constable, then turned and stormed out through the back door, letting it slam behind him. Charles stood on the back step, breathing heavily. He didn’t know what to do, or where to go. His mother would worry if he disappeared. Charles wasn’t allowed to go far. He sat down heavily on the back step.

His father, a good man, had been wrongly accused of murder. No matter how hard they had tried to convince anyone of his innocence, no one had listened. And they hadn’t been able to afford a barrister.

If only they’d had the money to afford one then. He decided in that moment, that he would become a barrister, himself. Then, he could help people like his father.

Chapter One

Seventeen Years Later

Now that Nemesis had gotten a taste for killing, a plan had begun to form. The list of names, upon whom the murderer wished to get revenge was long. Five gentlemen, all of whom had wronged the murderer over the past few years.

Since most of the gentlemen on the list were comfortably ensconced at their country estates for the summer, the murderer planned. No one had reported the first gentleman even missing, much less dead.

The murderer had spent the last few hours of dwindling light, scrawling letters to all of them. Threats, which would soon prove to be more than idle. The murderer wanted them all to be afraid, knowing that they were targeted.

My Lord,

You know who I am. You wronged me, severely. You will not see me coming, but you will feel my breath on the back of your neck, cold as January wind.

By winter’s end, you will be dead.

Regards,

It was easy enough to send a letter by post. Then, when winter came, all of the gentlemen would be there, in London—where the murderer would hunt them down, picking them off one by one.

The murderer wrote the letter’s recipient, Robert Follett. Duke of Tiverwell.

* * *

A butler stepped forward, to open the door to the carriage. Charles stepped out, looking around at the grand façade of Tiverwell Manor. It was a large country estate, with a massive, multi-story house of sandstone.

He was dressed in his best suit—he wanted to make a good impression on the Duke. He straightened his dark blue jacket, then pushed his top hat back a little. Charles had been invited out to the country by the Duke of Tiverwell, in order to arrange his affairs. Since he had never before worked for a gentleman of this caliber, he had agreed immediately.

The family stood out in front of the house, awaiting his arrival. Charles beamed at them as he stepped forward—Robert Follett, the Duke of Tiverwell cut a rather imposing figure. He was a gentleman of fifty, with salt and pepper hair.

“Mr. Conolly,” the Duke said, bowing a little. Charles bowed low.

“Your Grace. Thank you for sending the barouche-landau,” he said. “It was most kind of you.”

“It was the least that I could do, Mr. Conolly,” the Duke said, “since you agreed to come all the way out here to help me with my estate planning.” Charles had been referred to the Duke by the Earl of Danbury, another of his clients, who were mostly members of the ton.

The Duke turned to the lady at his side. “This is my wife, the Duchess of Tiverwell.”

She curtsied—she was an elegant lady, with her reddish-brown hair pulled back in a low chignon. She was dressed simply, in a cream and blue striped silk dress.

“Welcome to Tiverwell Manor, Mr. Conolly,” she said.

“You are most kind, Your Grace,” Charles replied, bowing again.

“And this is our daughter, Lady Arabella,” the Duke said. The Duchess moved, and then Charles saw her. He had heard much about Lady Arabella of late. She had debuted just the past winter. When it was found out that she rode astride, like a gentleman, and participated in archery and fencing, the whole of London had been talking about it.

“Please to make your acquaintance, My Lady,” he said. She was dressed in fencing gear, and was, at that moment, tugging off her gloves. A fencing foil—a sabre, to be exact, was tucked under her arm. She regarded him with intelligent honey-toned eyes.

“Pleased to make yours, as well,” she said, curtsying.

He bowed. When he raised his eyes, she was studying him closely, her head tilted to the side. She smiled.

“I imagine that you’re wondering why a lady is dressed in breeches?”

“Not at all, My Lady,” he replied, taking in her brown curls that framed her face, the freckles—cinnamon flecks across the cream of her skin. “I’m wondering at your use of the sabre over an epée, actually.”

“It’s a more solid weapon,” she replied, a look of pleasure crossing her pink, bow-shaped lips. “An epée is too flimsy for my taste.”

“It’s certainly a different fighting style,” he agreed.

“Do you fence, sir?” she asked.

“I do, My Lady,” he said. “I was captain of the fencing team while I was in school.”

“She wants to challenge you to a duel, Mr. Conolly,” the Duke of Tiverwell said, a note of extreme pride and fondness in his tone. “This is how she measures up all of her potential opponents.”

“I would be happy to accept, My Lady,” Charles said.

She beamed, with genuine delight. “Then I will hold you to your word, Mr. Conolly. I always fence at eight of the clock, nearly every morning.”

“Tomorrow, then,” Charles said.

* * *

After they had greeted Mr. Conolly, Arabella returned to her room, where her lady’s maid, Annette, helped her to change quickly. She always sat in on her father’s business meetings, and she was interested to hear what Mr. Conolly would have to say in regards to her father’s proposed plan.

Arabella had been pleasantly surprised by Mr. Conolly. It was rare for any male person, aside from her instructor, to fence against her. There was often a lot of hemming and hawing, and then a soft denial. They all found the prospect of being beaten by a lady daunting, even though they always proclaimed that they were being “chivalrous.” Mr. Conolly had seemed pleased by her offer.

Dressed in a yellow silk gown, she walked straight to her father’s study. On the other side of the door, she could hear her father’s booming voice, then listened as Mr. Conolly answered.

He seemed to be an intelligent and confident man. He interested her immensely. She had never met anyone of his like. That is, she had never met anyone who hadn’t been scandalized by her wearing breeches. She was curious to see if he was merely able to hide his shock better than everyone else.

She knocked on the smooth cherry wood door. “Yes?” her father called out. She opened the door, peering inside. Her father and Mr. Conolly were both sitting across from each other at the desk, which was a riot of papers and ledgers.

“It’s just me,” she said.

“Come in,” her father replied. He turned to Mr. Conolly—who did not miss a beat, Arabella noticed. “My daughter always sits in on my business,” he explained.

“Very good, Your Grace,” Mr. Conolly said, turning to Arabella. “We were just discussing the estate planning that His Grace had in mind.”

“Ah, yes,” Arabella said, sitting down in a chair. “He’s told me all about it.”

“I ran it all by her before I enlisted your services, Mr. Conolly,” the Duke explained.

“Excellent,” Mr. Conolly said. “It’s all rather simple to do—however, it involves filling out and filing certain documents. That will take time. Particularly since the first version of your will seems to be incomplete.”

Arabella hadn’t known this. She frowned at her father.

“Never to worry,” her father said, waving her off before she began to ask questions. “We hope that you will enjoy your stay at Tiverwell. The country has its benefits.”

“This is the first time that I’ve been fortunate enough to stay out in the country,” Mr. Conolly said. “I’ve always lived in the city, myself.”

“Not to worry, Mr. Conolly,” Arabella said. “We will make sure that you don’t spend the entire time in my father’s dusty study.”

“That’s very kind of you, My Lady.”

Her father cleared his throat. “My one question is, Mr. Conolly—will we have any pushback from my cousin?” He was, of course, talking about Lord Farley Milton, the Viscount of Landsdale, who would, upon her father’s death, receive the lion’s share of her father’s estate, as well as the title of Duke of Tiverwell.

“I will do my best to—ease the way, so to speak,” Mr. Conolly replied. “If he’s to inherit the title and the county seat, then that may be all of the incentive that he needs to remain quiet. Certainly, I can point out the benefits of allowing Lady Arabella and the Duchess to inherit the funds as well as the London townhome, as you propose.”

“There are also certain—priceless objects—which must remain with my daughter and wife,” her father explained. Arabella, cursed with being born female, would be nearly penniless. Unless she married well, or Mr. Conolly was able to change the will, specifically the entail which took away the lion’s share of the money.

Should it not be resolved, then she and her mother would receive a modest income upon her father’s death, and nothing more. The title of Duke, Tiverwell Manor, all of the money, properties, and even her mother’s considerable inheritance from her own father would go to Farley Minton, Viscount of Norton, who none of them liked.

“Which we’ll go through and detail in the document,” Mr. Conolly was saying. “As I work, it would be of great use if you could make a detailed and thorough list of the items of which you speak.”

Arabella let her mind wander, just a bit. They were discussing those objects which her father wanted to remain within the bloodline. This included several paintings, a few sculptures, a silver tea service…nothing that truly interested Arabella, aside from a Middle Ages broadsword, which her father kept over the fireplace in the library.

“You see, Mr. Conolly,” her father was saying. Arabella focused when her father turned a fond gaze in her direction. “My wife and I have raised our only child as both son and daughter to us both. We wish to make sure that upon my demise, she is treated as she has been raised.”

Arabella beamed at her father, then turned her gaze toward Mr. Conolly. Instead of looking shocked, he merely nodded, smiling.

“I will ensure that it is so,” he said.

“I must say,” Arabella said. “I’m very impressed at how you’re taking all of this.”

“It’s not my job to impose my opinions on the requests of my clients,” he replied. “However, I see no reason why a beloved daughter shouldn’t receive the things which her father wishes to give her.” He cleared his throat. “The only true problem that we may encounter is the entail itself. They are difficult to break; however, it has also been done.”

“They have, have they?” her father asked.

“Yes. The wife’s fortune has been successfully released from the estate,” Mr. Conolly explained. “The title and the county seat were not.”

Arabella smiled at him. Secretly, she was planning never to marry. She wanted to live like a gentleman—under her own power. She wanted never to have to submit to a husband.

“I think you’ve found a very sound advocate in Mr. Conolly, Papa,” she said, smiling at her father. She loved him, as any daughter who had been raised by a kind and generous father would. She just couldn’t tell him her plans. He would never understand the full weight of how her upbringing had formed her mind and her heart.

Chapter Two

As Charles made his way down for dinner, he found himself thinking of Lady Arabella. She was beautiful, yes. But she was also opinionated and intelligent. He was interested to make her acquaintance. It could never be more than that, but he was fine with that. He’d met so many daughters of gentlemen in his work. It was abundantly clear that none of them were anything like Lady Arabella.

As he walked, he glanced at the paintings in the hallway which stared out at him from their gilt frames. The carpet in the hall was soft and thick, muffling his footsteps.

When he arrived, the Duke, the Duchess, Lady Arabella, as well as another gentleman, were already down in the parlor, awaiting the announcement that dinner was ready. Charles glanced about the room. No matter how long he worked with the ton, their extravagant living situations still made his head spin.

His eyes went immediately to Lady Arabella, who was wearing a midnight blue silk gown which brought out the auburn of her hair. She looked positively bewitching.

“How do you find your rooms, Mr. Conolly?” the Duchess asked him.

“Very comfortable, Your Grace,” he replied. “Thank you.”

“This is the Viscount of Drysdale,” the Duke said, as a very austere, prim-looking gentleman walked over to them. “He’s here to enjoy the hunting. He will be staying here at Tiverwell Manor.”

“I’ve heard of your prowess in chambers,” Lord Drysdale said, smiling. “His Grace has been singing your praises.” He was a gentleman of no more than five-and-twenty. Charles had the hunch that he was actually there in pursuit of Lady Arabella. A hunt of the female kind.

“How kind of you, Your Grace,” Charles said. The Duke raised his glass of brandy in salute.

“It’s all well-deserved, sir.”

“I might have a case to discuss with you, myself,” Lord Drysdale replied, lowering his voice.

“I’d be very happy to assist you, My Lord,” Charles replied. This was how he made his client list—on the strength of recommendations from other clients.

“Mr. Conolly has agreed to fence me tomorrow,” Lady Arabella cut in.

“You’re going to duel a lady?” Lord Drysdale asked, clearly horrified.

“I shall,” Charles replied, feeling his hunch to be correct. Lord Drysdale seemed to be very confident, as he looked over at Lady Arabella. It was in a manner that was, already very proprietary.

“But—but—that’s obscene.”

“Not at all—for fencers, it’s practice,” Charles explained, calmly. “From what she’s told me, Lady Arabella is, at the very least, as trained as I am. It’s a fair fight.” He cleared his throat and then went on. “It would be an insult to the lady not to fence her, simply because she is a lady.”

Lord Drysdale frowned, but said nothing. He looked confused, as though he were wondering if he had been insulted, himself. Meanwhile, Lady Arabella was beaming at Charles. She mouthed the words, thank you. He nodded.

“Lord Drysdale,” Charles went on because he didn’t want the Viscount to believe himself slighted. He was a potential client, after all. “I’ve heard tell that you’re a master at whist. Would you be at all interested in a game, later?”

Lord Drysdale nodded, a small smile spreading across his face. “Of course, sir. Who told you?”

“The Earl of Diggar,” Charles replied. “He was just telling me last week that you gave him a solid thrashing at the Millgate Club.”

“And so I did,” Lord Drysdale said, proudly. The butler peered into the room at that moment.

“Dinner is served, Your Grace,” he said.

* * *

Arabella was thoroughly impressed by Mr. Conolly. He had gently put Lord Drysdale in his place, and then had softened it. He was clearly an expert in navigating the ton, without even being one of them.

Dinner was a long, drawn-out affair. Four slow courses, over which ton gossip was intimated by her parents and Lord Drysdale. She found herself sneaking glances over at Mr. Conolly.

Once, he caught her looking. He smiled, winking at her. She smiled, though she looked down at her plate. Her face heated as she blushed.

To be reduced to a blushing maid! Over a London barrister!

Dinner was over, at long last. The gentlemen and Mr. Conolly all left the room, retiring to her father’s billiards room, where they could enjoy their cards, cigars, and brandy in peace.

Arabella and her mother went into the drawing room, where they sat on her mother’s yellow brocade settee, sipping lemon cordial. The windows were thrown open, so that a cool, twilight breeze permeated the room.

“Mr. Conolly is an interesting sort,” her mother said, picking up her glass of cool lemon cordial.

“He is, indeed,” Arabella agreed, taking a sip of her own. It was sweet, with only the hint of sour.

“And what, pray tell, do you think of the Viscount?” her mother asked. Now that Arabella had debuted during the last Season, her mother had been suggesting eligible bachelors to her, as easily as though they were horses to be bought.

“No.” Arabella was firm. Lord Drysdale was kind enough, but he was about as interesting to her as pea soup, which was to say—not at all. Although he was a young gentleman, he acted as though he were older than her father.

“Of course.” The Duchess sighed as she smiled at her daughter fondly. “I knew you were going to be picky.”

“Mamma,” she said. “I cannot marry just anyone.” She couldn’t tell the Duchess that she meant not to marry at all. She had no plans on keeping any gentleman in suspense. She would quash anything before it happened.

“Your father highly approves of him. We were discussing his suitability earlier.” Arabella didn’t approve of them speaking behind her back in this manner.

“That’s because they’re both members of the same club,” Arabella explained. “They’ve bonded over cards and drink, which makes them believe that they share a deeper bond.”

“You’ve seen Drysdale House,” her mother said, raising an eyebrow. “It’s not very far from Tiverwell Manor in terms of comfort and luxury. Not to mention, it is only a five-hour journey.”

“Mamma, no.”

“Very well.”

“Mr. Conolly says that he will be able to secure the London townhouse for us,” she said. “As well as your fortune for our use, and even perhaps some of Pappa’s money.”

Her mother regarded her with suspicion. Arabella realized that she had accidentally hinted at her true thoughts. Her mother set down her glass of cordial, and folded her hands in her lap. When she spoke, it was with great care.

“Daughter of mine, are you planning not to marry? Because that’s what it sounds like you are contemplating, in light of your father’s planned changes to his will.”

“Mamma—” Arabella sighed. “If I marry—”

“If!” Her mother’s eyebrows shot up.

“If, yes—then it will be for love, and with a gentleman who will not seek to dominate me using propriety as a means to do so.”

“I would expect nothing less,” her mother said, smiling.

“Good,” Arabella replied, taking a sip of her cordial. She felt relieved. It had felt like they were about to argue—and they rarely did. Her mother’s excitement over having Arabella married was…a surprise to Arabella herself.

“So, I will help you to find said gentleman,” her mother announced. Arabella cringed. She had been hoping that her mother would relax and let Arabella do all of the worrying.

“He would have to be your equal,” her mother remarked thoughtfully. She picked up her glass of cordial, holding it aloft as she spoke. “You could never be happy marrying a gentleman who thought himself above you. Nor, could he be lesser, for you would never respect him.” Her mother nodded to herself.

“Does such a gentleman exist?” Arabella asked, doubtfully. She had never met a gentleman who was like that. She had presumed that he didn’t exist, nor would he ever.

“In a country such as ours? Of course, he does. We just have to find him.”

Arabella turned her gaze toward the window, which was now a square of dark blue, the same shade as her dress. She thought, for a moment, of Mr. Conolly. She shook the thought away. He wasn’t a gentleman. Her father would never approve. Yet, Mr. Conolly treated her as an equal.

Perhaps he’ll show his true colors tomorrow.

* * *

Charles sat, staring down at his hand of cards. The two gentlemen were deep in a discussion of affairs upon which he could have absolutely no opinion. This was the usual habit of the ton. They were wrapped up in their own business.

“Your Grace,” Lord Drysdale said. “I was wondering at your education of your daughter.” Charles perked up.

“What of it?” the Duke asked.

“She seems to have been educated like a gentleman,” Drysdale said. Charles mused to himself that Lord Drysdale indeed fancied himself the natural match of Lady Arabella. He had the feeling, though, that she was more than the Viscount could handle.

“She has,” the Duke stated.

“How is she to be a wife to a gentleman if she claims to be his equal?”

“What did she do to you, Drysdale?” the Duke replied, winking at Charles. He had to hold in a laugh.

“Just this morning, she—she argued that I was mistaken,” Drysdale said.

“Not used to being bested by a lady?” Charles asked.

“Are you, Mr. Conolly?”

“I have not met many ladies,” he commented. “Usually, I work with gentlemen. Although, why shouldn’t ladies speak their minds? Why shouldn’t they be educated? In my opinion, education improves the life of the mind.”

“It has long been my opinion that ladies should be educated, but not argumentative,” Lord Drysdale muttered.

“What’s the point of educating them if they aren’t allowed to speak their minds?” Charles asked, setting his cards face down on the table.

The Viscount was about to answer, but the Duke threw his head back, roaring with laughter.

“Oh, Mr. Conolly! I love how easily you make your point. No wonder you’re so successful in the court room.”

“Indeed, Your Grace.” While he might have been low-born, he had no plans to sit silently, listening to them just talk.

The Viscount merely looked perturbed.

“Well Lord Drysdale,” the Duke said. “If you still mean to court my daughter, you should probably take a leaf out of Mr. Conolly’s book. She’ll never submit to the will of a gentleman who means to make her second to him.” The Duke shook his head. “She’s not going to change, merely because she’s married.”

The Viscount flashed Charles a look that was filled with jealousy. Charles, not wanting to present himself as a threat to the Viscount’s suit— particularly when he never could be—shrugged.

“Perhaps, My Lord,” he suggested. “Why don’t you try treating her as your equal? See how it goes.”

The Viscount squinted, as he considered it. “Perhaps. After all, what have I got to lose?”

Chapter Three

The next morning, Arabella dressed in her fencing gear—a pair of breeches, with padding in the legs, a padded jacket, over a protective breastplate, and then she tugged the gloves on.

Her pulse was racing as she walked downstairs, Annette, as always, trailing behind her. Arabella was excited to duel Mr. Conolly. As promised, he was waiting for her, down in the salle, with her fencing instructor.

“Good morning, Fabrizio,” she said, greeting her instructor—a small, wiry man, who had been brought to England from Italy, by her father. She then turned to Mr. Conolly. “I see you’ve met Mr. Conolly.”

“I have indeed, My Lady,” Fabrizio replied.

Mr. Conolly, too, wore fencing gear. She couldn’t help but notice—he looked smart in the form-fitting, white suit.

“Good morning, My Lady,” he said, bowing.

“Good morning, Mr. Conolly,” she replied, sketching a curtsey. She walked over to where her fencing foils were kept. “I believe you said that you preferred the epée?”

“I do, My Lady,” he said. “Although, I am able to perform with sabre, if it would please you.”

She smiled at him. He was quite the smooth-talker. “What would please you, Mr. Conolly?” she asked, her voice a low purr.

He didn’t even bat an eye. “To make you happy, My Lady.”

“Sabre, it is.” She grabbed her sabre, flipping it, then catching it by the hilt.

“Very well,” Mr. Conolly said, bowing.

They both faced off, pulling on their helmets. He was a skilled fencer—he was pushing her to use lightning-quick touches. She parried him easily. Fabrizio and Annette watched on.

“Are you going easy on me, Mr. Conolly?” she asked.

“Merely warming up, My Lady,” he replied, jumping back as she executed an offense.

She began to attack him down low, forcing him to step back. He attacked her high, causing her to take a pace backward. She moved, as fast as a striking snake, down beneath his defenses, scoring a hit on his hip.

“Hah!” she yelled in triumph.

“Good hit,” he said.

“Thank you,” she murmured, pleased. Mr. Conolly was actually fencing her. That hit had been well-earned and fought for.

* * *

Charles had to admit it—she was good. Brilliant. She was about to beat him, fair and square. He wasn’t even going to claim that he was out of practice. Even if he hadn’t been, she would still be beating him.

He had scored only one hit, while she was about to make her third. He’d given it his best go, not letting her have it easily. She was absolutely ferocious with a sword.

Finally, she came in from above, something that she hadn’t done—hitting him just above the sternum.

He stepped back. “Third hit,” he said.

Fabrizio was clapping. “Bene. Bene, My Lady.”

Lady Arabella threw off her helmet, beaming as she stepped forward, holding out her hand to shake Charles’s. He took it, pressing it in his as he shook it firmly. “Your skill is excellent, My Lady.”

“Thank you,” she said. A strand of her hair had fallen loose, and the tip of it was stuck just beside her mouth. “Thank you for actually fencing me.”

“What? You think I’d let you win?” he asked with a laugh.

“No, but I’m glad you didn’t.”

“That was quite the duel,” Fabrizio said, clapping his hands. “I haven’t seen swordplay like that since I was on the circuit myself.”

“Thank you, Fabrizio,” Lady Arabella said, breathlessly. “Have you had breakfast, Mr. Conolly?”

“I have not,” Charles said, his stomach rumbling.

“Me either,” she replied. They put away their foils, then left their helmets on one of the benches.

They walked together, talking companionably as they went up to the breakfast room. Annette followed behind them. Ever present, yet always silently observing.

“So, Mr. Conolly,” Arabella said. “Have you often been in the country?”

“No, My Lady,” he replied. “I have not had the pleasure.”

“Then you must come riding with me soon,” she said. “Lord Drysdale will likely tag along, too, but there’s nothing as pleasant as a ride in the countryside.”

“I would be happy to, My Lady,” he said.

“Good. It’s settled then.”

She smiled at him as they neared the breakfast room. Her smile seemed to light up the dim hall. Light spilled in through the doorways, lighting her up from behind.

It wasn’t often that Charles felt as though he was being treated as an equal. However, he had certainly made an ally of Lady Arabella.

* * *

When Arabella and Mr. Conolly arrived in the breakfast room, her father was the only one still there. He liked to sit, reading the morning post and drinking tea. It was Arabella’s favorite room in the house, with lemon yellow and cream striped wallpaper, and large windows, through which light emanated.

“Well? How did it go?” her father asked, slipping the letter that he’d been reading into his jacket pocket.

“She’s a strong fencer,” Mr. Conolly said. “She beat me thoroughly.”

“He put up quite the defense,” Arabella added, as she sat down at the mahogany wood table. “Mr. Conolly is equally as strong.”

“Have you fenced much, Mr. Conolly?” the Duke asked.

“Yes, Your Grace, I was in the fencing club while at Cambridge.”

“Ah, I see.” The Duke smiled. “You didn’t let Lady Arabella win?”

“I wouldn’t dare, Your Grace,” Mr. Conolly replied, buttering a slice of toast, then biting into it.

Arabella grabbed a slice of toast from the rack, slathering it with marmalade and butter. She was pleased with herself. He certainly hadn’t let her win—she knew by now when someone was letting her win.

She poured herself a cup of tea, then ate with absolute relish. There was nothing so pleasant as toast and tea after a good bout of fencing.

“So, I take it you’ll be all ready to move forward with the estate planning?” her father asked.

“Of course, Your Grace,” Mr. Conolly replied.

“Very good.”

Arabella looked up at her father. He was frowning thoughtfully. He stared down at the white tablecloth. He drummed his fingers in agitation.

“Pappa?” she asked, watching him seem to shake off his thoughts. He looked at her. “Is something wrong?”

“Heavens, no. Nothing at all, my sweet.”

“All right.” She went back to her tea and toast. It was odd. For a moment, he had seemed…distracted. Worried about something. But now he was smiling.

“You know, she hasn’t beaten me at a duel yet,” he told Mr. Conolly.

“It’s true,” she agreed.

* * *

Charles and the Duke were cloistered in the Duke’s study. The sound of quills, scratching across paper was the only sound that filled the room. The Duke paused in his writing, to take a sip of the brandy that was near at hand.

Charles glanced up to find the Duke studying him. “Is something wrong, Your Grace?” he asked.

“Take a break, Mr. Conolly,” the Duke suggested.

Charles set his quill down, next to the paper. He sat back in his seat, folding his hands. He, too, had a glass of brandy, but he made it a habit not to drink until he had finished his work.

The Duke was taking his time broaching whatever was bothering him. Charles took a sip, letting the smooth, oaky taste of the drink permeate his tongue.

“I know that you’ve helped many gentlemen of the ton with their affairs,” the Duke began.

“I have been most fortunate,” Charles replied.

“Some of them with things of a very…private nature,” the Duke said.

“Yes. I have kept those matters utterly a secret,” Charles assured him, feeling like the Duke was about to reveal something equally private. “I will take those secrets to my grave.”

The Duke nodded, inhaling deeply. He had let his mask slip, if only a little. There was a haunted cast to his gaze. “Mr. Conolly,” he said, at last. “What if someone was being threatened—for the sake of argument, let’s say a letter, from an unknown source? What could be done?

“Presuming that the source was unknown, it would be best to find out who it is,” Charles replied. “I would suggest that a private investigator be hired. Once there is actual proof, charges could be brought formally.”

“What if both parties wanted to keep it a secret?”

“That, too, could be brought about in secret,” Charles replied. “Depending upon what it is that these threats are over.”

The Duke nodded. His gaze was on his desk. Charles had the curious feeling that the letters being discussed did in fact exist, and were in the top drawer.

“Your Grace, are you being threatened?”

“No, Mr. Conolly,” the Duke said. “I’m inclined to believe that it’s nothing, yet…” He smiled at him, then took a sip of his brandy. It seemed like he shook off whatever shadow rested on his shoulders.

Charles nodded. “If you find that it’s more than that then, please do tell me. I’m…rather talented at settling issues outside of court to my clients’ satisfaction.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Mr. Conolly. Thank you,” the Duke said.

Charles nodded, then returned his focus to the task at hand. He had found that the Duke’s previous will hadn’t been completed. It had been hastily done, and didn’t include most of the Duke’s property. Charles did not, however, forget the conversation that they had just had. The whole time, he kept an eye on the Duke, studying him.

Charles suspected that the Duke wasn’t an individual who frightened easily. Whatever had been sent to him had visibly shaken him, though. For Charles, it put the estate planning, and his desire to see his wife and daughter’s futures secured in a different light.

Chapter Four

Arabella spent the rest of the day, preparing for the small ball that their neighbors, Lord and Lady Dansbury, were throwing that evening. Annette helped her with the preparations.

Her hair was piled on top of her head, and she was tightly laced. The dress was put on over it. Arabella was dressed in a white crepe gown, which was edged in delicate white French lace. It was lightweight—perfect for a summer ball.

Annette stood behind her, observing her appraisingly. Annette was dark-haired and dark-eyed, with a genteel demeanor. She was Arabella’s right hand.

“Anything else, My Lady?” Annette asked.

“No, thank you, Annette. I am fully prepared to do battle,” she replied.

“How about your pearl necklace, My Lady?” Annette suggested.

“The drop pearl, on the golden chain?” Arabella asked, considering it. Annette nodded.

“The very one,” she replied.

“You’re a genius, Annette,” she said. “Do go and fetch it.”

She stared at herself in the mirror. Prior to her debut, she had been looking forward to the endless string of parties and dancing that it had meant. Arabella had always thought that they would be exciting and full of intrigue.

Now, though, she was beginning to find the combination of posturing and dissembling tedious. The ton was merely an endless masquerade, where one could never show one’s true face. She knew how they all talked about her, their noses raised as they discussed her preferences. She’d even had a feature in one of the gossip magazines.

Annette brought her the necklace.

“Perfect,” she said, the metal chain cool against her neck.

When she arrived downstairs, she found that Mr. Conolly was there, waiting by the door. He was talking to their butler, Mr. Franks, in an amenable tone.

As she walked down toward him, she saw the look on his face. Her heart beat faster, and her skin warmed, as he clearly reacted, his lips curving upward—parted a little. His blue eyes blinked, softening. He collected himself, bowing to her.

“You are the evening star, My Lady,” he said.

“That’s all rather pretty,” she replied warmly, her eyes catching Mr. Franks as he glanced away from them. “Is that your usual compliment for ladies?”

He laughed. “No, My Lady. They pay me no heed at all.”

“I believe you,” she said, as she realized it. She opened her mouth to tell him more, but they were interrupted by her parents as they swept down the staircase in a cloud of rich fabrics and sparkling jewels.

The carriage was brought around for them all. She peered out through the opened window, the wind cooling her face. When she glanced over at him, Mr. Conolly smiled at her.

She held his gaze for a moment, then looked back out of the window. Her pulse was racing, her mind a whirl of thoughts. He was common, yet so much more than that. Even then, in a carriage with her parents, as well as Lord Drysdale, it felt like it was just the two of them.

Her parents had always told her to follow her heart—to fall in love. Would they reconsider? She thought so. They had always done things differently than everyone else.

She gasped as the lights of Dansbury Hall blazed before them. She could see all of the carriages, lining the drive. From where they were, ladies and gentlemen poured out of the carriages, toward the door.

* * *

As was his usual thing to do when at a ton party, Charles stood near the periphery. Lady Arabella was clearly the jewel of Tiverwell County. She seemed to float around the dance floor. While the gentleman that she danced with might be leading, she was clearly the center of attention.

“Mr. Conolly!” Lord Danbury called out, waving to him to join the group around him.

“Lord Danbury,” he said, bowing to the grey-haired gentleman. Lord Danbury was dressed in a black silk coat, which had gold lining, with shiny leather boots, which came to the knee.

“So glad that you made it, sir,” Lord Danbury said, repeating his sentiments at the door. His pale blue eyes reminded Charles of Father Christmas.

“Thank you for inviting me at last minute, My Lord,” Charles said, repeating his own sentiments.

“Indeed, we had no idea that you made house visits!” Lord Danbury said, turning toward the gentleman and the two ladies in the group. “Mr. Conolly is a barrister. He even makes house visits!” He guffawed, then remembered himself. “Let me introduce you—Mr. Conolly, this is Lord Greyfield, his wife, Lady Greyfield, and Lady Catsmore.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance,” Charles said, bowing to them.

“With whom are you staying, Mr. Conolly?” Lady Greyfield asked. She was a golden-haired lady, dressed in cool grey silk. She had an ostrich feather, arching over her head grandly, and diamonds dripped from her neck. In her hand, she held a white lace fan.

“I am a guest of the Duke and Duchess of Tiverwell,” he replied.

“They are our nearest neighbors!” Lady Catsmore, a plump lady in a peach silk gown, said. She narrowed her eyes, turning toward Lady Greyfield. “They have always allowed their daughter to run amok.” She pursed her lips in disapproval.

“We thought for certain that once she debuted, she would give up wearing the breeches,” Lady Catsmore added.

“It’s unseemly, for a Lady,” Lord Greyfield stated. Like his wife, he was golden-haired. His chin receded into his neck, making him seem much older than Charles believed him to be.

“She’s the most fascinating lady of my entire acquaintance,” Charles remarked, feeling it absolutely necessary to defend Lady Arabella.

They all looked at him, as though he were a traitor. His anger was at a low boil. He had no patience for gossip. Especially when it was nasty. He didn’t care that they were of the ton or not.

“Yes, well, I imagine that you do not know very many ladies, Mr. Conolly,” Lady Catsmore said, snapping open her silk fan.

Charles smiled. He was well aware, however—he was not one of them, nor would he ever be. Regardless, he kept his chin raised, pretending that he didn’t know the cruel intent of her words.

“While that may be true, I do know that Lady Arabella has a good heart. Not to mention, she fences better than most gentlemen of my acquaintance. Excuse me,” he said, bowing to them, then walking toward the refreshments table.

His ire had risen, in the manner in which they spoke, reminding him of his place, as well as attempting to gossip about and defame Lady Arabella.

Let them talk. Fifty of them are no nearer to her equal than they are to becoming an angel.

He watched Lady Arabella as she curtsied to her dance partner. She turned toward him, her eyes casting about the room. She spotted him, there, amongst the crowd. Her face lit up.

It was the first time that he truly regretted that he was bourgeoisie and not of noble birth. She walked in his direction, fanning herself as she walked toward him. He held her gaze, his heart beating.

“My Lady,” he said, bowing. Desire for her was a dark wave, closing over his head. He felt both ecstatic and devastated.

“Mr. Conolly,” she replied, waving her fan to cool herself.

“You seem as comfortable on the dance floor as you are in the fencing salle.”

“Of course,” she replied. “Did you not know that dancing and fencing are nearly the same?”

“Indeed not.”

“Tonight, Mr. Conolly, I am wearing armor of a different sort,” she replied, holding one hand out, as if to tell him to look. He kept his eyes on hers.

“I’ve never thought of it that way,” he mused. Her white dress with the delicate lace would never have struck him as armor. Not in the usual sense.

“It’s often unknown to our supposed better halves,” she replied. “Yet, we ladies do battle on the dance floor.” She turned, so that they were both looking out over the room.

“With whom are you doing battle?” he asked. A cursory glance around the room made him see that none of the ladies were even looking at them. The Viscount of Drysdale was frowning a little in their direction, however.

“You’re presuming that the other ladies are my opponents,” she said. “But that’s an entirely wrong assumption. I want nothing to do with the gentlemen upon whom they have their eyes on.”

“My Lady,” he said. “Are you meaning the gentlemen?”

“Indeed, Mr. Conolly.” She exhaled, fanning herself.

“And what are you battling them for?” he asked.

“My independence,” she whispered, leaning in toward him. He could smell her perfume—rosewater.

“I can help you with that, you know,” he offered.

“You already are.”

When he turned to glance at her, she was watching him closely. He certainly regretted his place in life at that moment. She was stunning, and so, so strong-willed.

“I don’t think I’ll ever meet your like again, My Lady,” he said, watching her own desire for him, causing her eyes to take on a sultry tone.

In a moment, it was gone—she smiled at him. “Will you dance with me, Mr. Conolly? The next one is about to start, and I’ve got no one on my dance card for it.”

He couldn’t deny her anything, even if he’d wanted to. “Of course, My Lady. Though, I’m not very skilled at it.”

“It’s all right. This one is very easy,” she assured him. He offered her his arm, and she slipped her hand into the crook of it. Charles allowed her to steer him toward the center of the dance floor.

They took their places, facing each other, approximately five feet apart. “You see? It’s much like fencing,” she said. Charles was often ill at ease on the dance floor. That comment alone made him suddenly more confident than he had ever felt before. The music began.

* * *

Arabella stepped forward, toward Charles as the dance began. She then stepped away, as the steps ordered. This was, somehow, different. She faced him, once more, raising her hand to his.

Where usually there was nothing, she felt drawn to him. When their hands touched, it was like there was some sort of fire. She raised her eyes to his and saw her own desire mirrored in his.

It was almost unbearable—the feeling of being overjoyed, yet unable to do anything about it. As they went through the dance steps, she became more aware of all of his charms—the way his dark hair fell over his forehead; the way that his blue eyes sparkled when he laughed; the way that his lips were pouty, but still masculine.

She knew that she was in grave danger of falling in love with him, even after knowing him for less than a day. Her father, who had always told her that she should fall in love, would support it. Of course, he would.

The touch of Mr. Conolly’s hand against hers felt like more than a touch. There was a bit of a shock, of his skin against the flat of her palm. When she turned away from him, it was like turning away from the sun.

When the dance ended, she curtsied to Mr. Conolly. As her knees un-bended, she raised her eyes to meet his. In that moment, looking into the impossible blue of them, it seemed like there was no one else in the world.

She opened her mouth to tell him—something, anything, when someone else cleared his throat, behind her. “My Lady?” Lord Drysdale asked.

She tore her gaze away from Mr. Conolly. “Yes, My Lord?” she asked. The Viscount looked deeply unhappy. She felt badly for him. With any other lady, he would have been more successful. He wasn’t a bad sort of gentleman—he was just infinitely unsuitable for Arabella.

“I was wondering if you’d care for a raspberry cordial after your…exertions on the dance floor?” His eyebrows were raised.

“No, thank you, My Lord.” She turned back toward Mr. Conolly, but found that he’d disappeared, into the crowd. She wondered at that. She hadn’t had the chance to thank him for the dance.

As much as I felt, he must have felt, too.

Hope soared within her. To think—no, to know that she had met someone who felt about her as much as she felt about him must be some sort of blessed miracle.

“My Lady?” Lord Drysdale asked.

“Yes, My Lord?” she answered as she turned toward him.

“Come. We can walk the room,” he said, offering her his arm. She accepted it, slipping her hand into the crook. “It’s quite the crowd that’s turned up.”

“Indeed, My Lord.”

“I would love to throw parties such as this, at Drysdale House,” he said. “But I find that without the assistance of a Lady to oversee it, I am wholly unable.”

“I’m sure that the Dowager Viscountess of Drysdale could do it just as well,” she replied.

“Mother! Oh, no. She no longer has any inclination for it,” he said. “She much prefers simple family dinners and sitting of an evening in the parlor.”

“I’m sure if you asked, she would be very happy.” Arabella knew that Lord Drysdale was attempting to push his suit further. When she glanced over at him, he was smiling, yet his eyes were not. There was a desperation there, which made her feel guilty.

“My Lady,” he began.

“My Lord, I’m feeling a bit overwarm.” She smiled at him. “Kindly excuse me, My Lord.” She curtseyed, and then walked out to the terrace, pretending that she was very warm. She stepped out, walking right up to the rail. She exhaled, letting the cool evening breeze wash over her.

Chapter Five

Charles had stepped out onto the terrace after dancing with Lady Arabella to collect his thoughts. He knew that she hadn’t seen him. She had almost run from the ball, then was leaning over the terrace balcony.

“Are you—are you feeling well, My Lady?” he asked.

She spun around, her face lighting up when she saw him, standing beside the door. “Yes—very well. Just…warm.”

“Good,” he commented, getting ready to make his polite excuses before heading back inside.

“This is very inappropriate, Mr. Conolly,” she said, smiling.

“I’m well aware,” he said, clearing his throat. She seemed…pleased. “Since I now am assured that you are well, I will return to the party, while you stay here. I don’t want to offend my employer,” he explained, gently. “I…cannot afford to, My Lady.”

“I understand,” she said, her eyes going down to her hands. He turned to go, but she called him back. “Wait.”

He turned back toward her, drawn by the pleading in her voice. His heart was thundering in his chest. She was frowning.

“Is something the matter, My Lady?”

She seemed to be struggling with something. “You’ll duel with me again, won’t you?”

“Of course, My Lady.”

“Good.”

He bowed, then left. Charles didn’t know what to make of it. There could be nothing. Perhaps a bit of idle fancy.

It will fade, with time. Of course, it will. Of course.

As he entered the ball again, the Earl of Diggar, Josias Montagu, spotted him. “Mr. Conolly!” he said, gesturing him over. “Come here, come here!” he urged. The Earl of Diggar was a portly gentleman, his dark hair combed back from his florid face.

“My Lord, what’s the matter?” he asked. It was clear that the Earl was well into his cups. He was slurring his words, just a little.

“I require your services urgently,” he said, in a low voice. In his hand, he held a glass, filled with punch.

“Of course,” Charles replied.

“I lost my gold pocket-watch the other night,” he confided.

“Have you looked for it?” It seemed like something that Lord Diggar could have done using one of his servants, not his barrister.

“No, no—I lost it at a game of cards and I need it returned to me,” he explained. “My wife is already on to me. If she finds that I’ve lost it…at cards…” He sighed, then downed the contents of his cup. “It was her father’s. She had it engraved with my initials.”

“I see,” Charles said.

“If you can get it back tonight, I will pay you five times your usual hourly sum,” he urged.

“Who has it?” Charles asked.

“Lord Winterbourne.” Lord Diggar glanced across the room. Charles followed his gaze toward Lord Winterbourne, with whom Charles was acquainted. “If my wife sees it in his hands, she will be most upset.”

“Not to worry, My Lord,” Charles assured him. “I will have your property returned forthwith. How much are you willing to send him in exchange?”

Lord Diggar whispered to Charles, who nodded and then began to walk across the room, toward Lord Winterborne. Gentlemen did not settle their affairs between themselves. They hired men like Charles to do it for them.

* * *

As Mr. Conolly left, Arabella turned away, back toward the garden, which was lit up with torches. Her pulse was racing. She closed her eyes, imagining what could have just happened. Mr. Conolly, stepping in closer to her. Raising his hand to her cheek, pulling her in, closer. Lowering his lips to hers.

“My Lady?” a male voice said from behind her. “What are you doing out here?”

She turned to face the Earl of Diggar. One of her father’s good friends. “Just getting some air, My Lord.”

“Are you well?” The Earl of Diggar was a frightening gentleman, although solicitous. She wondered, often, if that was a front.

“Yes. Well enough to go back inside, My Lord,” she assured him cheerfully. She didn’t want to be alone out here. Not with him.

“Very good, My Lady.” He pulled out his pipe, and took her place along the balcony of the terrace.

Arabella walked back inside, regretting that she had to give up her place out on the terrace. She couldn’t stand the scent of tobacco smoke, however. The Earl of Diggar made her uncomfortable, to say the least.

She stood near the French doors to the terrace, her eyes traveling the room. It was filled with members of the ton, as well as some lesser personages of wealth, but not title.

She looked for Mr. Conolly, but didn’t see him. She finally spied him, deep in discussion with the Marquess of Winterbourne. He was smiling, she noted. As she watched, Lord Winterbourne pulled a golden pocket watch out of his jacket pocket.

Mr. Conolly took it, slipping it into his own. Lord Winterbourne said something, his face stern. Mr. Conolly nodded. Then, they both shook hands. Mr. Conolly walked back across the room. She moved so as to be in his path.

When he saw her, he smiled.

“My Lady,” he said.

“What, pray tell, just happened with Lord Winterbourne?” she asked.

“Unfortunately, that’s between me and my client,” Mr. Conolly replied. The smile fell from his face.

“Who is your client?” she asked.

He studied her for a moment. She kept her eyes on his, drawing herself to her full height.

“My Lady, if I told you my clients’ business, then I would be out of work,” he explained, gently.

She nodded. “Very well, keep your clients’ secrets.”

He sighed. “I wish I could, though. I’m sure that you would find it all very amusing.” He was softening it for her. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have to go and find my client.”

She nodded. Glancing around the room, her eyes met her father’s gaze. He had clearly just watched her exchange with Mr. Conolly. His head was tilted to the side, curiously.

He frowned thunderously. Then he turned away, to say something to Lord Greyfield. Arabella felt a chill rise across her skin. He had seen and realized much, she knew.

* * *

Charles returned the pocket watch to the Earl of Diggar, whom he found standing out on the terrace, smoking his pipe.

“Here you are,” he said, handing it to the delighted Earl.

“You’re a miracle worker, Mr. Conolly,” he said. “How much do I owe Lord Winterbourne?”

“Fifty pounds,” he replied.

“Good, good.”

“He expects it delivered to Winterbourne Manor tomorrow morning,” Charles said.

“I’ll send one of the servants,” Lord Diggar said, nodding. “I’ll have your fee sent, as well.”

“Thank you, My Lord.”

“No, thank you, Mr. Conolly,” Lord Diggar said, patting him on the arm, and then leaving the terrace.

Charles stood there, in the torch-light of the gardens. He could see gentlemen and ladies, walking through the hedges. In the darkness, he couldn’t tell who was who.

“Mr. Conolly,” the Duke of Tiverwell said.

Charles turned to him. “Your Grace,” he replied, bowing respectfully.

“I imagine that you know I mean to have Lady Arabella marry the Viscount of Drysdale.”

“I had surmised as much,” Charles agreed. Clearly, the Duke had seen something that he wasn’t happy about. It gave Charles an uneasy feeling.

“Whispers are making their way around the room, that you and my daughter are getting along very well…almost too well. I myself have noticed.”

“Your Grace, I apologize if I have overstepped,” he said. “There was gossip of Lady Arabella, which I could not stand silently by. I admit, I defended her.”

“Gossip?” The Duke raised an eyebrow.

“I’m sure you’ve heard some of it—about her donning breeches and such.”

The Duke nodded, the anger going out of him. “I apologize, Mr. Conolly. I might have presumed too much. On top of that, I saw the two of you speaking in the hall.”

“Nothing more than a discussion between two acquaintances,” Charles assured him, pretending like the Duke’s angry confrontation had not been a clear message—to keep from getting too close to Lady Arabella.

Charles kept smiling, even though he was seething inside. Charles would even admit—he was a proud man. He had risen far from his poor roots. He was the only child of a seamstress. While he may mix with the ton and do their bidding—it was never more clear that he was not one of them.

* * *

Arabella sat back against the blue velvet of the seat cushions in her father’s barouche-landau. The lanterns at the front were lit, throwing light on those inside—Arabella, her mother, her father, Lord Drysdale, and Mr. Conolly.

“What a success!” the Duchess proclaimed, breaking the heavy silence which had filled the interior of the carriage.

“Indeed, Mamma,” Arabella agreed.

“I saw you dance with nearly every gentleman there,” the Duchess said. “Lady Catsmore was saying how lovely you looked. Like an angel, she was saying. In all of that white!”

Arabella smiled. Her eyes went to Mr. Conolly, who was seated directly across from her. His eyebrows were drawn, the corners of his mouth downturned. He looked upset, then glanced away.

What could be the meaning of this?

“Lord Drysdale, does she not look like an angel?” the Duchess asked.

“She does, indeed, Your Grace,” the Viscount agreed.

“Thank you, My Lord,” Arabella said, noting how Mr. Conolly was not asked his opinion. She turned her gaze out of the window to her right. All she could see were darkened fields.

It was late—nearly three of the clock. She was exhausted. She supposed that Mr. Conolly was, as well. The change in his demeanor was so complete.

When the carriage arrived at Tiverwell Manor, her mother linked her arm in Arabella’s, ferrying her up the stairs. When she turned to look at him, his eyes met hers, sadly, it seemed.

Chapter Six

After eating a late breakfast the next morning, Charles went out for a short walk in Tiverwell’s gardens. He would be cooped up inside, working for the rest of the day, and wanted to take advantage of the fresh air while the sun was just making its way into the sky.

He walked through the flowers, wondering which was which. He had never lived anywhere with a flower-garden before. It was lovely. The smell was heavenly. He wondered if the back-yard of his own London home would support it. He figured not—it was more of a place of necessity. Mrs. Osbourne, his housekeeper, was the one who needed the space.

He saw Lady Arabella before she noticed him. Thankfully, she was accompanied by her lady’s maid. The girl regarded him coolly, with eyes so dark they were almost black. She wore a neat gray frock, and a starched white pinafore. Beside the bright auburn color of Lady Arabella’s dress, she seemed austere.

“Do you often walk out here?” he asked. Lady Arabella turned to face him.

“Of course,” she replied. “There’s nothing more calming than a good walk out in nature.”

“What don’t you do, My Lady?” he wondered.

“Well, I’m not much interested in embroidery,” she replied.

He laughed. “I daresay not.”

“Come. Walk with me,” she said, reaching out to take his arm. “As you can see, we are chaperoned by Annette.”

“I’d be happy to, My Lady,” he replied.

They walked in silence for a few moments. He was happy to have run into her like this. Her lady’s maid followed them, silent as a shadow. At the same time, he recalled the Duke’s comments the night before.

He tried to think of a proper subject to bring up. He had never had any lady pay much attention to him, like this. Usually, they studiously ignored him, only paying him polite attention, when necessitated. Lady Arabella gravitated toward him. He didn’t know what to think of it.

“So, Mr. Conolly,” Lady Arabella said. “What made you want to be a barrister?”

“I don’t talk about it much,” he told her. It was true—he didn’t. None of his clients knew. Only his good friend and fellow barrister, Arthur Hinkley, whom he had known since they were at university. “Can you keep a secret?”

“I most certainly can,” she replied.

“When I was ten, my father was arrested for a crime that he did not commit.”

“Oh?”

“Murder,” he said.

“Oh, my.”

He kept his gaze on the stone path upon which they were walking. “He was found innocent, only a few days after he’d been executed for it.”

“Oh, Mr. Conolly—that’s dreadful.” She was gripping his arm, tightly.

“It was then that I determined to become a barrister—so that I could fight for those who were unable to defend themselves.”

“But…you work with gentlemen to settle their affairs,” she pointed out.

“Touché, My Lady.” He cleared his throat. “Life doesn’t always go according to plan. I helped Lord Danbury resolve an estate matter about four years ago. On the strength of his recommendation, I have been assisting the ton with their affairs ever since.”

“Do you like it?” she asked.

“I do. I really do. I’ve been fortunate, while my father was not. The Constabulary gave my mother funds to ensure that I was properly brought up and educated, despite not having a father.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said, her fingers squeezing his arm. Before he really thought of it, he placed his hand on top of hers.

“Thank you, My Lady.”

Their eyes met. She smiled up at him. It wasn’t with pity, as was the usual reaction. It was as though they’d shared a moment, one which had put her, instead, on his side, just like when he’d shared the same information with Arthur.

“Over here,” she said, waving to him. “Do you see this?”

She pointed to a flower. It was bright red, with petals, bursting wide open. Somehow, he knew that it meant far more to her than a rose ever would.

“This is my favorite. Do you know why?”

“No. Why?” He didn’t even know what it was. He knew, though that she was sharing it with him, in an exchange of sorts.

“It’s an amaryllis. Its name comes from a shepherdess from Virgil’s Eclogues.”

“She casts a love spell, does she not?” It had been several years since he’d read it, back when he was in school.

“Indeed.”

“What does that have to do with you?”

“What power she had,” she replied. “To take one’s own future in her hands, and cast a spell.”

“I see,” he said.

“Do you?”

“Yes. Not to worry, My Lady. Your secret is safe with me.”

“What secret is that?” The corners of her mouth quirked upwards.

To the Devil with the Duke and his opinions.

“You’re an enchantress,” he replied.

Roses bloomed in her cheeks as she blushed. She laughed. “Mr. Conolly, accusing me of witchcraft!”

“My Lady—you’re used to feeling as though you have power—here on the grounds of your father’s estate,” he said. “Out there—in society—because you are a Lady, you do not have the same power that you would if you were born a gentleman.”

“True enough.” The smile had fled.

“Upon your father’s death, you will lose all of this. Your home,” he went on, keeping his tone gentle. “Thus, you must marry, and marry well, in order to have a home.”

She regarded him, closely. “What do you think I should do?”

“I think you should do what it takes to ensure your happiness,” he replied. “You deserve to be happy, My Lady.”

She was silent. He wondered what she was thinking. She was at times so talkative, and then at others so quiet and thoughtful. They walked to the end of the garden, and turned back toward the house.

“Mr. Conolly, I can’t help but notice that your demeanor changed last night,” she said.

“I was tired, My Lady.”

“Come now, Mr. Conolly. No secrets between us.”

He looked deep into her brown eyes. “I was reminded of my place, My Lady.”

She licked her lips, before she whispered. “What if your place was by my side?”

“That I should be so lucky,” he replied, sadly. “Come. Let me walk you back to the house.”

* * *

After walking through the gardens with Mr. Conolly, Arabella went in search of her mother. She found her in the withdrawing room, working on some embroidery.

“Good morning, Mamma.”

“Good morning, love,” the Duchess said, beaming at her only child. She finished pulling a bit of silk thread through the square of fabric that was in the hoop. She then set it aside.

Arabella peered at her mother’s work. It was, as always, incredibly detailed. It was of a bouquet of yellow primroses, tied with a blue ribbon, laid out on top of a simple wooden chair. Behind the chair, there was a window set into the wall. Outside of the window, there was a blue sky, hanging over a field of primroses.

“That’s beautiful, Mamma.” Arabella sat down beside her.

“Thank you, my dear. I thought I’d give myself a bit of a tricky thing to do,” the Duchess said. She looked up from her handiwork. “Have you come to discuss last night’s ball?”

“Certainly,” Arabella replied, dutifully. “Did you see Lady Danbury’s new gown?” Lady Danbury had been particularly excited about it. It was a black silk gown, with a gold lace overlay on the front of the bodice, as well as on the tiers of the skirt. The effect was stunning.

“The gold lace was to die for!” the Duchess said, placing her hand on her chest. “I saw that you were out on the dance floor as often than not.”

“I nearly wore out my slippers,” Arabella replied.

“Any of the gentlemen catch your eye?”

“Perhaps,” Arabella said.

“Tell me! Who is it? Do I know him?”

“You do, Mamma.”

“Arabella! I’m so pleased to hear!” her mother gushed. “You won’t say—” Arabella shook her head. “You’re such a sly thing. Very well. Keep your secrets.”

“I want to be absolutely sure before I say,” she replied. Her heart was knocking about in her chest. She had come very close to telling her mother that it was Mr. Conolly who had caught her eye.

“Very well,” her mother said. “I can wait, but not long. You know how bad I am with secrets.”

Arabella smiled. Her mother, as sweet as she was—was one of the biggest gossipmongers in the ton. “I do know, Mamma. That’s why I want to be sure before I say.”

“I understand. But I’m so, so very excited. Is he eligible?”

“He’s a bachelor, if that’s what you’re asking.” Her mind was full of what he’d said, out in the garden—that I should be so lucky. As though he believed that he wasn’t good enough. Surely her father would see that they were in love—or soon to be.

“Good, good. Is he handsome?” her mother asked.

“Extremely.”

“And does he dance well?”

“He does, indeed,” she replied, watching her mother squint as she tried to recall every gentleman that her daughter had danced with. The only relief to Arabella was that the one name she sought was not on her dance card.

* * *

Charles spent most of the day in the gloom of the Duke’s study. As he worked, his mind was continually returning to the garden, his talk with Lady Arabella.

What if your place is by my side?

His heart had nearly stopped. He had never met anyone like her. She was bold, but it was one of the things that he adored about her.

He finished all of the required documents, spreading sand over them to dry the ink. The Duke looked up from the ledger, where he was counting up sums.

“All finished?” he asked.

“I am, indeed,” Charles confirmed. “Here, Your Grace.” Charles brushed away the sand, then slid them over toward the Duke. “Read these over and then sign them. I will file them as soon as I return to London.”

“Excellent,” the Duke said. “You will stay with us a few days more?”

“I really should return to the city.” He was in grave danger of falling for Lady Arabella. He needed to put some space in between them, or else he was going to lose the Duke of Tiverwell as a client.

“At least stay a few more days,” the Duke urged. “You’ve worked so hard on this. A rest is what you’re owed, Mr. Conolly.”

“A barrister’s work is never done, Your Grace.”

“Mr. Conolly! When was the last time that you took some time to relax and enjoy yourself?” It was one of the foibles of the ton—believing that you were owed time to relax.

“I was ill the last time that I had a day’s rest,” he admitted.

“Then I insist! You’ve helped me, so thoroughly,” the Duke said. “And…and I may have need of you on some other matters…”

As he trailed off, Charles realized that the Duke was referring to what he had alluded to, the other day. He got the feeling that it was worrying him, but he had waited until Charles had finished with the estate first.

The Duke leaned forward. “Mr. Conolly, it would be a help if you could look over what I need to show you.”

Charles nodded. “A few more days,” he agreed. Even though instinct told him not to. How quickly would he be expelled from Tiverwell Manor, should the Duke find out about his feelings for his daughter, which may or may not be reciprocated?

“Take tomorrow off. Lady Arabella is going riding with Lord Drysdale. You should be of the party.”

“You won’t need me tomorrow?”

“Let me have a day to gather my thoughts,” the Duke replied. Charles nodded. He was curious to know what it might be. A letter, as he had intimated the other day? Several letters? Something else?

The Duke merely began to read through the documents, clearly having said as much as he planned to, for that day, at least.

Chapter Seven

Charles and Lord Drysdale met out in front of the stables the next day. The Viscount smiled at him. He was dressed impeccably, in a bright red riding jacket with gold buttons, which appeared to have been made of a wool and silk blend.

Charles himself wore another of his dark blue wool frock coats—he had several. None of which were specifically for riding, but would do, nonetheless. He’d purchased them for their simplicity.

“The Duke doesn’t have need of your services today?” Lord Drysdale asked, tugging on his kid riding gloves.

“Not today,” Charles said, pulling his own riding gloves out. “It sounds like I’ll be hard at work again tomorrow, though.”

“So you’ll be staying a bit longer?” the Viscount asked.

“It appears so,” Charles confirmed, surprised at how solicitous the Viscount was being.

“I wonder—would you be able to help me with something later on?”

“Of course,” Charles replied, having his suspicions confirmed. Usually, the gentlemen of the ton were only interested in him when they needed something.

Lady Arabella arrived then, wearing a pair of breeches, along with a pale grey frock coat, which had a yellow bow adorning it. On her head, she wore a top hat, and her dark boots came up to her knees. She cut a smart figure, Charles noted. Annette, her lady’s maid, was dressed in a simple riding habit. She trailed after Arabella silently.

“My Lady!” Lord Drysdale exclaimed, utterly scandalized. “You do not mean to ride astride!”

“I assure you, I mean to,” she replied, pulling her kid riding gloves on. “I always have. I don’t know why all and sundry expect me to start riding sidesaddle, merely because I have debuted!”

“When you marry, your husband will likely direct you to wear a riding habit and use a side saddle,” Lord Drysdale commented. Rage flickered over the lady’s features.

“If that is what my husband will order me to do, then I don’t think I’ll be marrying him to begin with,” she stated flatly.

“There’s simply no purpose for it.” Lord Drysdale, it seemed, was still trying to win her over, but was doing so in the worst way possible. She was clearly offended.

“There’s no purpose for a side-saddle,” she replied. “It makes jumping difficult.”

“Ladies are most certainly not meant to jump.” Lord Drysdale had forgotten Charles entirely. Arabella, meanwhile, looked right at him.

“I mean to,” she said, clearly expecting Charles to say something.

“Oh, look—our horses,” Charles commented, mostly to get them both to stop quarrelling. The grooms were leading them over. He was mildly surprised when Arabella was handed the reins to a spirited black Thoroughbred.

Charles, meanwhile, was given a large, yet even-tempered gelding. Charles eyed Arabella, who stared back at him, as though daring him to tell her otherwise.

“He’s a beautiful horse,” he said, watching her face light up with evident pride. She, like her horse, was clearly hot-tempered.

“Black Jack is my pride and joy,” she replied, appeased.

“He’s dangerous, for a lady,” Lord Drysdale muttered.

“Are you going to argue, or can we get to it?” Charles asked, pretending to be bored with the exchange.

“Mr. Conolly—you cannot support this?” Lord Drysdale asked.

“It’s not up to you, and it’s certainly not up to me,” he stated. “It’s between Lady Arabella and His Grace.”

Lady Arabella glanced over at him, a small smile spreading across her face. She nodded toward him. He smiled at her. As a barrister, Charles was used to solving arguments. He climbed up onto his horse’s back.

When Charles glanced over at Annette, she blinked at him. He was well aware that she saw and heard everything, then reserved her judgments for later, when she was alone with Lady Arabella. Of anyone, Charles felt like he related to her the most—after all, they were both there because the Duke of Tiverwell had hired them.

They all rode off, as a group, the lady’s maid and the grooms following after them, as chaperones. It was a brilliantly sunny day. The perfect day for a ride. In the city, sunny days just meant that the streets baked in the sun, causing a rather unpleasant smell.

In the country, it meant something else entirely. The air smelled fresh. Charles was immediately planning to purchase himself a home in the country. Nothing too elaborate. Just somewhere to go, when he needed a break from the city.

He had enough, after all. The ton paid him well for his services. He worked, tirelessly, all year. Why shouldn’t he take a break, sometimes? He watched as a flock of birds, wheeled through the sky.

* * *

Arabella rode confidently. Black Jack tossed his head. He was a large horse, but she had never lost control of him before. His gait was like a dream—smooth and even. Her anger with Lord Drysdale began to subside as she rode. She led the group. Mr. Conolly maneuvered his horse to ride beside her.

“Are you enjoying the view, Mr. Conolly?” she asked wryly.

He speared her with his gaze, raising his eyebrow. He had caught her double entendre. “Very much, My Lady. The view in the city is not at all the same.” There he went again—taking all of the fire out of her words. It was slightly infuriating.

“I see,” she said archly. She would get him to repartee.

“I do not often come out to the country,” he replied, still not taking her bait. Drysdale would. He was such a stick in the mud that he always objected to everything that she did.

“How about we take the path at a bit of a faster pace?” she suggested. “We’re almost to the picnic spot.”

“As you wish.”

She turned back toward the others. “We’re going to pick up the pace,” she said. They all nodded. She touched her heels to Black Jack’s sides. He sprung forward into a canter at the slightest touch.

She could hear the thundering of the others’ horses. Arabella loved the lope of her horse. He was spirited, like her. Beside her, Mr. Conolly rode his horse, she grinned at him. He returned the smile.

She felt indomitable—as though nothing could touch her. Up there, on the back of her large, fast horse—riding at Mr. Conolly’s side—nothing could touch her.

As they came around the bend in the road, a flock of birds were spooked, all of them lifting into the air from the depths of a gorse bush.

Black Jack startled, rearing back. Arabella clung on, wrapping her fingers into his mane. He began to buck, throwing her from the saddle. She fell, landing on the ground. Black Jack ran off. She watched, stunned. It had all happened so quickly.

* * *

“My Lady?” Mr. Conolly had dismounted, and was kneeling down beside her. Arabella was watching one of the grooms ride off, in pursuit of her horse.

There was pain, in her ribs, where she’d fallen. She winced, her hand going to it. Throbbing. She considered walking back, but then decided to just admit it.

“I’m hurt,” she said, gesturing. “My ribs. And my pride.”

“I’ll get you back, on my horse,” he offered. She nodded, ignoring Lord Drysdale, who was watching silently from his horse. Using one hand, he helped her up, onto her feet.

“She’s hurt,” he said to the others.

It was like her ribs had a heartbeat. She didn’t think there was a break. Regardless, she would have to see the physician—her parents would insist.

It was decided that one of the grooms would ride back to alert those in the house. That left Annette and one other groom to chaperone.

Mr. Conolly mounted his horse, then reached down, helping her up and onto his horse. Though it pained her to do so, she got up behind the saddle, to ride pillion behind him.

“If you need to lean on me, you may do so,” he said, low enough so that no one else heard.

She wrapped her arms around his waist, then leaned her cheek against his back. His jacket was rough against her skin. She felt herself melt into his solid warmth. She wasn’t quite as injured as all that. She wasn’t about to let on. She was near to him. She closed her eyes, enjoying the closeness. She might never get another chance to be near him like this.

She could feel the steady beat of his heart, smell the scent of his skin and his wool jacket. As the horse swayed underneath them, their bodies moved in sync. In her mind, she imagined that he was hopelessly in love with her.

Her eyes fluttered open—she realized that she was imagining him in love with her. Because she was in love with him. The jolt of it caused her to gasp. There could be no-one else. She was exactly where she was supposed to be, in that moment.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing, nothing at all,” she murmured, honestly.

“I’ve got you, My Lady.”

“Yes,” she breathed, her pulse racing. Could he tell? Did he know? She had no idea if it was visible to all. When she looked over at Lord Drysdale, he blinked, looking away.

Yes. She was being too obvious. Arabella needed to hide it—at least until she’d had a moment to clear things up with Mr. Conolly.

Chapter Eight

As soon as they arrived back in front of Tiverwell Manor, Charles dismounted. He reached up, helping Lady Arabella down off of the horse. A groom took the horse as Charles assisted Lady Arabella to the house.

She was silent, her cheeks flaming bright red. Their eyes met. He presumed that it was because she’d lost control of her horse, in front of Lord Drysdale, who even then, was looking rather smug as he sat on top of his horse. He went to say something to her, but was interrupted.

“Arabella!” The Duchess was pale, running toward them, her husband close behind her. “We’ve sent for the physician.”

“Mr. Conolly, we can take her from here,” the Duke said.

“Thank you for your help, sir,” Arabella said, smiling up at him.

“Of course, My Lady,” he said, bowing as he gave her over to the care of her parents.

He remained where he stood. The sound of boots, crunching in the gravel of the drive, caused him to turn. Lord Drysdale stopped beside him.

“You realize that she’s not as hurt as all of that?” he asked Charles.

“What?” Charles frowned.

“She got up on your horse of her own moving,” Lord Drysdale replied. “She landed in a patch of soft, high grass. My guess, Lady Arabella’s posturing. But why?”

“You don’t mean…” He couldn’t finish the thought. If it were true, then her father would certainly put a stop to it. He thought of their earlier conversation—What if your place was by my side?

That I should be so lucky.

“I can see it, as plain as day,” Lord Drysdale said. “I would give my right arm to have a lady like that interested in my suit. However, she’s clearly taken by you.”

Charles blinked at him. “It can never…” he trailed off.

“Come. Walk with me,” Lord Drysdale said, kindly. For a gentleman finding out that the lady that he was so ardently pursuing was interested in someone else, Lord Drysdale seemed to be taking it rather well.

Charles nodded, and the two of them strolled out in the direction of the stables. He buried his hands in his pockets. While many gentlemen had false pockets on their coats, Charles had paid the seamstress extra to give him actual, functioning pockets, instead of sticking them in the coat tails.

“It’s my intention to marry, and soon,” Lord Drysdale said, at last. “I may have…some indiscretions which need covering. I’ve heard that you did something of the like for Lord Diggar the other night at the ball.” It seemed that, despite Charles’s own discretion, Lord Diggar was not one to keep things secret. No matter—it sounded as though Lord Drysdale wanted to obtain his services.

“I have,” Charles said. “What manner of indiscretions, My Lord?”

“That’s the thing, Mr. Conolly—I have no idea.”

Charles blinked at him in surprise. “I do not follow, My Lord.”

The Viscount pulled a letter out of his pocket, and handed it to Charles. He unfolded it, reading its contents.

Dear Lord Drysdale,

You know who I am, and that you have wronged me.

You will be dead by winter’s end—though, you will not see me coming.

Charles read it through twice. It felt like a riddle. The handwriting was well-formed, clearly by someone who had been educated.

“And you have no idea who this may be?” he asked Lord Drysdale.

“Not one. There was the seal—now broken—it was black wax, with an odd signet.”

“Can you draw it for me, from memory?” Charles asked.

“For certain. I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.”

“If my suspicions are correct, then you may not be the only recipient of letters such as this.”

“Who else?”

“I was sworn to secrecy. However, I will speak with him and see if he will allow me to see his letter.” He studied the Viscount, who was clearly upset. “Not to worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this. Until we do, it’s best if you do not go anywhere alone.”

The Viscount nodded. “Good idea, sir.”

“This person may be looking for his chance to get you on your own,” he went on. “If he doesn’t have the opportunity, then we’ll prevent anything…untoward from occurring.”

The Viscount nodded. “Thank you, Mr. Conolly.”

“Of course, My Lord,” he said. “I’m so sorry that this has happened to you. Would it be all right if I keep this? If I show it to others, perhaps it will give them reason to reveal that they’ve received them.”

“Absolutely.”

Charles slipped the letter into his pocket. As they walked back toward the house, his mind was moving quickly. If the Duke of Tiverwell had a similar missive, then other gentlemen may have them as well.

If Charles could prove that a group of gentlemen were being threatened, then he would bring it to the attention of the local constabulary. They would have the means to investigate further.

* * *

The physician had examined Arabella, and declared that there were no broken bones. He had left instructions for her to remain in bed—no fencing, no riding, no strenuous activity for at least a week. Then, he’d left.

Arabella lay back on her pillows. She would have to forgo her fencing practice for a few days, but she would be back on her feet by the next day. She couldn’t stand being in bed for long—she couldn’t imagine being in bed for a week, when she wasn’t sick.

It had, of course, been worth it. She recalled the way that her body had seemed to hum with desire—like her veins were on fire. She recalled the hard, flat muscles of Mr. Conolly’s abdomen.

“My Lady?”

Arabella opened her eyes. Annette was at the door to the room. She had changed out of her riding habit, donning her usual gray frock and white lace-edged pinafore.

“Yes, Annette?” she asked.

“Do you need anything?”

“Come, sit down beside me.” She gestured with her chin toward the chair her mother had pulled up beside the bed.

Crossing the room, Annette sat down, and folded her hands in her lap. “Would you like some tea, My Lady?”

“No, Annette,” she replied. “Just sit with me.”

“As you wish, My Lady,” she replied.

“What is everyone else doing?” she asked. No one knew, but Annette was Arabella’s eyes and ears about the estate. While Annette might have been paid to be there, she and Arabella had a close bond.

“Mr. Conolly and Lord Drysdale are still out,” Annette replied. “Your parents are in the withdrawing room, taking some tea with the physician.”

“Where could Mr. Conolly and Lord Drysdale have gone?” Arabella wondered aloud.

“Not sure, My Lady,” Annette said. “I did overhear Lord Drysdale make an interesting comment to Mr. Conolly about how you weren’t as hurt as you pretended to be.”

Arabella’s face grew hot. “While true, I had hoped that no one had noticed.”

Annette smiled at her. “We all noticed, My Lady,” she said. “Do you fancy him, or do you love him, My Lady?”

“What am I supposed to do, Annette?” she asked. “I have the strongest feeling that he won’t have me because I’m a Duke’s daughter.”

“My Lady,” Annette replied. “Maybe he’s thinking you won’t have him because you’re the Duke’s daughter.”

“You’re right.”

“You won’t know unless you ask him, My Lady,” Annette pointed out sagely.

“What do I say?” She had never been in love before. She’d assumed that it would never happen. Now that it had, she felt like she was a glowing ball of light—and nerves.

“The truth, My Lady,” Annette replied. “Always the truth, unless with gentlemen.”

“Why’s that?” Arabella asked.

Annette looked her in the eye. “Gentlemen dissemble, My Lady.”

It was an odd remark. One which Arabella overlooked at the time. She was about to ask more, but Annette changed the subject.

“What do you mean to do?” she asked. “I can keep watch for you while you speak with him.”

“I suppose he’ll be in the garden,” she mused.

“Undoubtedly, My Lady.”

* * *

Charles and the Viscount returned to the house, where they parted ways. The Viscount was staying in the North Wing, while Charles was in the less ostentatious East Wing.

As he walked the halls, he was deep in thought. He suspected that the Duke had gotten a similar threat. He had been willing to wait, for His Grace to tell him on his own terms. But if he too was threatened, then he might be in grave danger.

He decided to go and see the Duke, present him with the letter that was sent to the Viscount. At the very least, he could get the Duke’s opinion on the veracity of the threat to the Viscount of Drysdale’s life.

He knocked on the door to the Duke’s study.

“Come in,” the Duke called out. Charles entered.

“Your Grace—how is the Lady Arabella?” Charles asked.

“She’s going to be just fine,” the Duke said. “I’ve only just spoken to the physician and he says that the worst she’ll have is bruising of the ribs. She’s had worse injuries from riding, quite frankly.”

“I’m glad she’s well.”

“Have a seat, Mr. Conolly,” the Duke said, gesturing with a hand. “Can I interest you in a drink?”

“Yes, please, Your Grace.”

The Duke produced a cut-crystal decanter, filled with brandy, as well as two glasses. He poured out a few fingers. “What brings you up here?” He raised an eyebrow.

“I—I wanted to discuss the matter which you alluded to, the other day,” Charles began.

The Duke stared at him for a long moment before nodding. He took a large gulp of his brandy, sliding the other glass over to Charles. “Very well.”

Charles took the Viscount of Drysdale’s letter out of his pocket, then passed it over the table.

The Duke blinked, then picked it up. He unfolded it, then read the direction. All of a sudden, he looked deeply ill. He set it down, pushing it back across the desk. Charles picked it up, putting it back into his pocket.

“Lord Drysdale, too.” The Duke was deep in thought, his fingers drumming on his desk.

“Did you get a letter like this, Your Grace?”

“Yes,” he replied, sitting back in his chair so the leather creaked. “It’s the same hand—the same wording.”

“Have you received any more?”

“No.”

“Do you know who it might be?”

“I had thought—I’d thought that it was a groom, who I had let go several months ago. He had been drunk, more often than not. He caused quite a scene when he’d left. He’d claimed that I had ruined him, for I sent him off with no letter of recommendation.”

“He has no ties to Drysdale,” Charles murmured.

“Not that I know of,” the Duke pointed out. “I had planned to ask you to go to him, smooth things over. I believe he’s living in London now.”

“I can still go to find him,” Charles said. “It may be worth following up.”

The Duke nodded. “Yes. I think that might be the best thing to do.”

“In the meantime, if there’s anyone that you could think of who may send you threatening messages…”

The Duke seemed hesitant, but then he shook his head. “No one,” he said, sighing. “What concerns me most is that this villain knows that we’re both in the same house.”

“You may not be safe here,” he pointed out.

“I’ll have the stable hands set up a watch,” the Duke said. “Make sure that Tiverwell Manor is protected at night.”

“Good idea, Your Grace,” Charles said. “Perhaps we should question Drysdale, see what he knows of this former stable hand.”

The Duke nodded, suddenly focusing on Charles. “I should really thank you, Mr. Conolly. If it weren’t for you, and how we all trust you, then this link wouldn’t have been discovered in such a timely manner.”

“You’re welcome, Your Grace. I’m happy to be of assistance.”

“I must ask you for your utter secrecy on this matter,” the Duke said. “I do not want to cause my wife or daughter any fear. Not yet.”

“Of course, Your Grace. You have my word.”

“Good. Good.” The Duke picked up his glass, raising it to his lips. Charles noted the slight shake of his hand as he did so. The Duke drank down all of the contents, setting the glass aside. “We don’t need all of the ton knowing about it.”

Charles could tell that the Duke was afraid. Whoever had done this had struck him where it hurt—at his home, where he’d thought himself and his family safe. Charles knew that the Duke was hiding something. He wondered what it could be. Charles had the feeling that whatever reason, the Duke was far more frightened that something secret would come to light.

Chapter Nine

Arabella was up and about the next morning. She and Annette agreed—no corset until her ribs were healed. So, she dressed in a comfortable gray muslin with bell sleeves. Annette arranged her hair in a low bun, creating a few loose curls to frame Arabella’s face.

She wanted to find Mr. Conolly. She had the strongest hunch that he would be found in the garden. Annette trailed after her. When they reached the terrace, Arabella could see him. He was by the amaryllis.

“Annette,” she said, her heart pounding. “Wait here?”

“Yes, My Lady.” Annette remained where she was, on the terrace.

Arabella crossed the garden, walking toward him. She kept her eyes on Mr. Conolly, seeing the moment he turned and saw her.

His eyes seemed to soften. “My Lady,” he said, bowing.

She curtsied to him. “Mr. Conolly.”

“Are you well?” he asked.

“I—I am,” she said. Now that she was about to tell him, she found herself nervous.

“Good, good,” he said, seeming distracted. He ran his fingers through his hair.

“I think about you, all of the time,” she blurted out.

He blinked at her in surprise. “Do you, My Lady?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “You know that I’m a simple barrister. There’s nothing exciting about my life.”

“I’m interested in you,” she said. “And only you.”

“Why? Especially when you could have any of the many gentlemen, all around you?”

“I’m not interested in any of them,” she explained. “They want to domesticate me. They want me to be a proper lady, and to give up my masculine pursuits.”

“And I like you, just as you are.”

“Yes,” she said, tilting her head to the side. “You seem to. Do you not?” She wanted to reach out to him, take his hand, but wasn’t sure.

He smiled. “I do, in fact.” It was exactly what she wanted to hear. “I can’t offer you much.” She reached out, taking his hand as she smiled.

“You offer me so much more than they ever could. Look me in the eye, and tell me that you feel nothing for me.”

He raised his eyes, meeting hers. Her heart was pounding in her chest. The way that he looked at her made her want him more.

She ached to be close to him—to give him everything. She had never felt this way about anyone before. It was like being lost in a storm—and wanting to be swallowed whole.

“Mr. Conolly, tell me.”

He laughed, looking down at his feet, kicking at the stone path with the toe of his boot. His eyes went to their hands, clasped tightly. When he said nothing, she stepped closer to him.

“I—” he began, but Annette called out.

“Lady Arabella! Where are you?”

She turned away from Mr. Conolly, to face her maid, standing on the terrace. Annette signed with her hands, indicating that there was someone coming. Arabella turned back to Mr. Conolly. “Think about it,” she said. “Please.”

“I doubt that I’ll be able to think of anything else,” he replied. She let go of his hand, turning away from him. As she walked toward the house, she could feel him, watching her.

* * *

Charles watched her walk away from him. He couldn’t believe the conversation that they’d just had. He couldn’t deny that he was attracted to her. He would never be able to deny that he wanted her. How could he not? To him, she was perfect in every way.

He thought of her, the day before—using her injury to get close to him. He thought of the way that she’d melted up against him. He thought of the smell of her hair…

He considered following her, but then thought better of it. So he walked the opposite way, deeper into the garden. As he walked, he could hear the sound of voices.

He realized that it was the Duke and Lord Drysdale, when Lord Drysdale mentioned— “So, we’ve both gotten letters?”

“Yes,” the Duke confirmed. “Also, Danbury has one.”

He was curious—why would they meet to discuss the letters without him? Quickly, he ducked behind an evergreen tree, which was thick with foliage.

“It has to be someone through Millgate,” the Duke said. “Potentially himself.”

“Why would he threaten us, though?” Drysdale asked. “His business thrives because of us.”

“We need to put distance between ourselves. For our safety,” His Grace said.

“Agreed. I will head out upon the morrow.”

“I am sorry, Drysdale. I was hoping that through proximity with my daughter, then perhaps a romance might flourish between the two of you.”

“Alas,” Lord Drysdale said. “It is not meant to be.”

“For that, I am truly disappointed. A marriage between our two families would have been a most advantageous match on both sides.”

“We cannot help where the heart chooses to love,” Drysdale said. “Or not love, as the case may be.”

The Duke responded, but Charles couldn’t hear what he said. They were moving away from him. His mind was a frenzy of emotions. The Duke of Tiverwell suspected that they were being threatened as a result of their club. Why would he have hidden that from Charles, then?

Who is the gentleman that they refer to as himself?

He began to walk back toward the house, his mind a whirl of disconnected thoughts.

* * *

Arabella and Annette returned to Arabella’s rooms. She had spent all of her energy, walking out to the garden. Her ribs ached, so she laid herself down on her bed, closing her eyes.

Annette had called her back in, when she had spied her father and Lord Drysdale, heading out into the garden around the side of the house. It seemed that the hedges were the place where many secret conversations were to take place that day.

She suspected that the Duke and Lord Drysdale were plotting. Her father was very keen on her marrying Lord Drysdale. She knew that her mother had attempted to advocate on her behalf—and failed.

“Can I get you anything, My Lady?” Annette asked. Arabella opened her eyes.

“No, thank you, Annette,” she replied. There was a knock on the door, and Annette went to answer it. Arabella saw that both of her parents had come.

“My Darling,” her father said. “I heard that you went out for a walk in the garden.”

“Fresh air did me some good, Pappa.”

“How are you feeling?” her mother asked.

“As well as can be expected,” Arabella replied.

Her parents shared a look between them. Arabella’s suspicions were immediately raised. Her mother sank down into the chair that had been pulled up beside the bed.

“Lord Drysdale has just told me that he’ll be leaving Tiverwell Manor tomorrow,” her father began.

“So soon? He only arrived a week ago,” Arabella said.

“Something has come up at Drysdale House, which he must attend to,” her father replied.

“Well, that’s too bad, but I suppose can’t be helped.” Arabella was not sorry in the least.

“We had hoped that the two of you might…come to an understanding,” her father said. “From the way that Lord Drysdale talks, it seems as though he’s given up hope.”

“Pappa, Mamma—I thought that the two of you have been adamant that I fall in love before I choose to marry.”

They both looked at each other, then at her.

“We would prefer it, certainly,” her mother said.

Arabella blinked. It sounded as though there was a “however” coming after that.

“We want to make sure that you’re provided for—that you have a home,” her mother said.

“Was Mr. Conolly unsuccessful?” she asked.

“Upon my death, I have decided that the London townhouse will go to Lord Norton. Your mother’s fortune will be divided from the entail, and your mother plans to retire to Bath.”

“Are you dying, Pappa?” she asked.

“No, sweetling, not for a while yet,” he said, even though he’d gone frighteningly pale.

“Why can’t I move to Bath with Mamma?” she asked.

“Arabella, it sounds to me like you’re planning not to marry at all,” her father said.

She sat there, staring at the both of them. “Why are you forcing me to marry?”

“It is what’s right, Arabella,” her mother said. “A lady must marry.”

Arabella sighed. Luckily, she was in fact, falling in love. “Very well,” she said.

She needed to meet with Mr. Conolly. She needed to get him to talk to her father. Things needed to be settled between them. Her parents looked at her in surprise.

* * *

Charles had been surprised when he’d opened his bedroom door to find Annette standing there. She said nothing, just held out the folded letter. He took it. She curtsied, and then left.

He opened the letter.

Mr. Conolly,

Please meet with me, at eleven of the clock, in the servants’ stairwell. I need to speak with you, urgently.

AMF.

He sat down on his bed, staring at the letter in his hands. If they were caught, he would lose the Duke of Tiverwell as a client, as well as many other clients. To be caught meeting with the daughter of a Duke in the middle of the night was so improper it was…

He was going, he knew. She was young and impulsive. He would tell her that they needed to wait. She was seventeen. He well recalled how he himself had been at seventeen.

If he could convince her to wait—six months, a year—then they would have time, to get to know each other. To be assured that they were suited to each other. And, that she was willing to make the sacrifice that she would, were she to become his wife.

He walked over to the fireplace, picking up a match, striking it. He lit the letter, watching her words be devoured by flame. Charles was well aware of the danger of keeping illicit correspondence.

As much as he would have treasured it, he could not be caught with something of the sort. Just in case Lady Arabella changed her mind, and didn’t show up herself.

Chapter Ten

Her heart was pounding as she pulled on her black cloak. She pulled the hood up, over her hair. Underneath, she was still fully dressed. She merely waited, by the fire.

Dinner had felt like forever. She and Mr. Conolly had locked eyes several times. Those looks had said so much. She had found herself blushing, turning her gaze away.

To know that no one suspected them. To keep such a secret was positively delicious. She had no doubts that he would show up.

“It’s almost eleven, My Lady,” Annette said.

“Are you sure that you’re able to wait up?” Arabella asked. She would need assistance, unbuttoning her dress, particularly with the bruising to her ribs.

“I’ll be fine, My Lady. I won’t be able to sleep until I know you’re back safe.”

“Whatever could hurt me, Annette?” she asked.

Annette shook her head. “Idle fancy, My Lady. Perhaps I’ve read too many of Anne Radcliffe’s novels.”

Arabella laughed. “Perhaps you have.”

“Good luck, My Lady,” Annette said.

Arabella waved to her, then stepped out, through the door, closing it softly after her. The hallway was darkened, but she knew her way, as well as she knew the freckles on her nose.

She passed her parents’ rooms, and heard nothing. There was no light, spilling underneath the doors. Even Lord Drysdale’s rooms were silent and dark.

She entered the servants’ hallway, which was behind the walls. She moved through the darkness, into the direction of the East Wing, where Mr. Conolly was staying. As she walked, she heard footsteps, walking in her direction.

“Mr. Conolly?” she whispered.

“Yes, My Lady,” he replied.

As she neared him, she held out her hands, finding his in the darkness. She felt a draft of air.

“Careful,” she said. “There’s a staircase that way.”

“Should we dare a light?” he asked.

“We could,” she said.

There was the sound of a match, then light, as he lit a candle. The small flame flickered. She motioned to their right, where there was a bit of an alcove. They moved that way.

* * *

Once they were situated in the alcove, Lady Arabella took his hand again. He looked down at their clasped hands, his pulse racing. So much could go wrong if they were discovered here.

“Have you thought about what I’ve said?” she asked.

“How could I not? It’s all that I could think about,” he replied.

She raised his hand to her cheek. He cupped it in his hand. He brushed a curl back, behind her ear, drawing the tip of his finger over her soft skin.

His eyes were on her lips—pink, plump, slightly parted. He listened as her breath caught.

She was like a magnet—drawing him to her. Socially, they were on completely different planes, but there in the dark, they were two people, and they belonged together. She was his perfect match, in every way, but the one which mattered—the one which would mean that they could be together.

“Mr. Conolly?” she asked, her voice low, husky, in a way which caused his whole body to react.

He cleared his throat. “Yes, My Lady?”

The door, lower down, opened. Quickly, she blew out the candle. He pulled her back, into the darkness, wrapping his arms around her—one around her waist, the other hand around her shoulder. She melted up against him.

They listened to the sound of whomever it was. They were moving slowly, silently, up the stairs. Charles didn’t know what he would do, should they be discovered.

Who could be walking about the estate, this late at night? One of the servants, perhaps? The footsteps paused, on the floor just below them. A door opened, and then closed after them.

They both let out a sigh of relief. He let her go, then relit the candle. She looked up at him.

“I know that you want me to ask your father for permission to court you,” he said. “I think we should wait.”

“My parents are urging me to marry,” she replied.

“Six months,” he said.

“My eighteenth birthday,” she said.

“If you marry me, then you will be giving up this lifestyle to which you are accustomed,” he replied. “I can buy you a house in the country, but it won’t be as grand as this. You will be in charge of the household, but you will have to learn how to make money last. I am well off, but not extravagantly so.”

“I can do that,” she replied.

“You will not have a title,” he pointed out. “The ton will not consider you one of them. You will be Mrs. Conolly, and Madam. Not My Lady.”

“What’s the difference?” she asked.

“It’s a great difference,” he said. “One which the ton reminds me of, every time that I am in their presence, without fail.”

She exhaled, nodding. “All right. Six months. You’ll ask my father then?”

“The day after your eighteenth birthday,” he promised her.

“December the sixteenth,” she replied.

“Come. I will walk you back,” he said. “I don’t like not knowing who is walking about the house at this hour.”

* * *

Arabella and Mr. Conolly walked back toward her room in the pitch darkness. She was hyperaware of every move that he made. Her hand was tucked into the crook of his elbow.

When they arrived at the door to the stairwell, she whispered to him, “Annette awaits me at my room.”

“Very well,” he said. “I’ll watch your progress from here.” He raised her hand to his lips, brushing them across her skin. “Goodnight, My Lady.”

“Goodnight, sir.”

As she walked down the hallway, her skin felt heated up, where his lips had touched. After their talk, she felt better. Everything between them was decided.

Six months. She could understand why he wanted to wait. It would be a change, certainly. She could learn to economize. She would be fine giving up the ton.

She had no doubt that her father would see that they were in love, and that he could provide her a comfortable home.

Arabella opened the door to her room and slipped inside. Annette stirred in the chair by the fire, where she’d fallen asleep. She stretched.

“I apologize My Lady,” she said. “How did it go?”

Arabella beamed at her lady’s maid. “It’s perfect, Annette,” she said. “Everything’s perfect.”

* * *

In the darkness, the boy worked quickly. He had never in his life been in a large, fancy house such as this. He had been told about the servants’ corridors, by one of the fancy maids, who had mistaken him for someone else.

He had been hired by Nemesis, to leave a very specific message. He dipped his hands in the paint, smearing it across the walls of the Duke’s large, fancy room.

Nemesis had been looking for someone who could slip into places, unnoticed. Someone who was able to get things done. For this, the boy was perfect. The only problem had been his illiteracy. For weeks, the murderer had prepared him for this, making him form the letters, over and over again.

Now, the boy knew them by heart. He did not know what they meant, though. He merely knew that it was imperative that he get them right.

Nemesis had his sister. If he didn’t get them right, then Nemesis would kill her. He finished, stepping back to view his handiwork. All of the letters, done correctly. Since his arms were small, they were oddly-shaped, which made the effect even more unsettling. That, and the fact that the paint was dark red—like heart’s blood. The blood that came, when someone was bleeding to death. The boy shuddered at the effect.

The boy let out a deep breath, then picked up the can. Moving quickly, he returned to the servant’s hallway, slipping back out of the sleeping household.

Once outside, he waited in the bushes. He waited for the sounds of the two men, who were keeping watch. They walked by the boy, talking so loudly that anyone could hear them coming. He waited, his hand over his mouth, to disguise his breathing. Once they were out of sight and hearing, he left the bushes, running quickly and quietly.

He cleaned his hands and face, out in the woods, then got back up on the horse that the murderer had supplied him with. He only had a day and a half to return. He was going to make it, he had to.

* * *

Arabella awoke the next morning, feeling as though she were floating on a cloud. Annette helped her dress, yawning as she did.

“I feel like it’s going to be a wonderful day,” Arabella declared.

“Even though you’re not to fence, My Lady?” Annette asked, doubtfully. Arabella, when not able to do something active, was on the disagreeable side.

“Even though I’m not to fence,” she stated, standing still so Annette could do up the buttons of her dress. The soft, lightweight silk swished delightfully about her legs.

“Being in love is the most beautiful feeling in the world,” Annette mused.

“Have you been in love, Annette?” Arabella asked, surprised that her maid hadn’t told her. She had thought that they were much closer than they were.

“I thought I was, My Lady,” Annette replied as she finished hooking the buttons which ran up Arabella’s spine. “I was mistaken.”

“I’m so sorry,” Arabella said, watching her lady’s maid in the mirror.

“It happens that way, sometimes, My Lady.” Annette shrugged with one shoulder, her gaze on the slippery silk-covered buttons. “All done, My Lady.”

Arabella turned, taking her maid’s hands in her own. “Well, I hope it works out for you, someday.”

Annette smiled at her. “Thank you, My Lady. Can I add some more curls?” She inspected the neat, high bun that she’d fixed earlier. There were a few curls, framing Arabella’s face.

“No, thank you. I’m heading down to breakfast,” Arabella declared, turning and then leaving her room. She walked downstairs, and even the house seemed different. Lighter, somehow.

She opened the door to the breakfast room. She gasped as her eyes took in—awkward, grotesque lettering, smeared across the painting of her great-great grandfather, in dark red.

Is that blood?

“By Winter, you die.”

Arabella screamed.

Chapter Eleven

The butler had brought Charles the news that he was needed in the Duke’s study, as soon as he was dressed: There had been a break in, and vandalism. The Constable had been called, but Charles was required. He hurried, putting on his clothes, and then rushing down to the second floor, where the Duke’s study was located.

The Duke and Lord Drysdale were in there. The mood in the room was funereal. Both gentlemen were seated—they looked rather pale. Charles suspected that the letters that both had received had something to do with the vandalism and the break in.

“What’s happened, Your Grace?” Charles asked.

“Have a seat, Mr. Conolly,” the Duke said. There was a decanter of brandy, and both of them had glasses, even though it was barely half past seven in the morning. Charles took the empty chair, sitting down, then waiting for the Duke to collect his thoughts.

“Last night, someone broke in,” the Duke began. “They have…painted a threatening message on the wall in the dining room, in red paint. My daughter found it this morning.”

“Is the Lady Arabella all right?” he asked, concerned for her welfare. It would be the first that she’d been made aware of any of it.

“Upset, mostly,” the Duke replied, his eyes staring at the top of his desk. Charles glanced between the two gentlemen. “I see no reason why she or my wife should learn about the letters. I think if we tell them that it was an isolated incident, the better.”

Charles didn’t agree. “Your Grace,” he began. “If their lives are in danger, shouldn’t they be made aware?”

The Duke fixed him with a stern glance. His pale eyes were cold. “What I tell or do not tell my wife and daughter is my concern, Mr. Conolly.” It was a rebuke.

Charles lowered his gaze. “As you wish, Your Grace.”

Lord Drysdale looked ill. “I must be on my way,” he said, standing up abruptly. “I must thank you, Your Grace, for your hospitality.”

“You’re welcome, Lord Drysdale,” the Duke said. “If there’s—anything else, please do let me know.”

“Of course.” Lord Drysdale left the room, shutting the door behind him.

Charles remembered back to the night before. He was certain that whoever had been in the servants’ staircase with him and Lady Arabella had been the individual responsible for the message. Perhaps, even the letters, as well. He knew, too—if someone requested an alibi, he didn’t have one—at least, one that he could admit to.

“Mr. Conolly?” the Duke asked, jolting Charles from his thoughts.

He raised his eyes. “Yes, Your Grace?”

“We must find the person responsible,” the Duke said. “I cannot subject my wife and daughter to fear like this.”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Charles agreed.

“I—I need you to return to London and begin to search. Meanwhile, I am going to take my family elsewhere. I have a cousin in the Lakes District. That should be far enough away from…whoever it is.”

“A smart choice, Your Grace,” Charles said.

“I will prepare a list of persons with whom I want you to make contact,” the Duke explained. “I want you to question them. Make utterly certain it was not them.”

“Very well, Your Grace.”

“Mr. Conolly?”

Charles looked at the Duke. “Please make absolutely certain that my Will is properly recorded,” he said.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Charles said. “We just need two witnesses.”

“I will have Drysdale and Danbury in here,” the Duke said.

“They will do perfectly well,” Charles replied.

* * *

Arabella was in her room, her mother and Annette were attending her, talking to her in soft voices. Arabella had never in her life experienced anything of the like.

However, she was now calmed down. She’d even had a cup of tea and a slice of toast.

Now that she’d had time to think, she had questions.

Who could this have been? Who do they want dead?

Her father had gone as pale as a sheet when he’d come running to see why she was screaming.

“Mamma?” she asked. “Who could have done it?”

“I don’t know, sweet. Likely, someone trying to cause mischief,” her mother assured her. “Certainly no one actually meant to do any of us harm.”

“They didn’t,” Arabella agreed. “Or they would have done so last night instead of redecorating the dining room.”

“Oh, Arabella,” her mother said, her hand going to her mouth.

She stood up. “I need to speak with Pappa,” she announced.

“He’s busy, sweet,” her mother said.

“I think I can help,” she replied.

“Darling, sit down, please,” her mother begged. “You shouldn’t go running about the house.”

Arabella gasped. “Do you think they’re still in here?”

“They might be,” her mother replied sternly. “Let’s stay here until the constable and his men are done searching.”

Arabella sighed, sitting back down. This was the worst part—she knew where the point of entry had been—the servants’ stairwell and corridors—but she couldn’t tell anyone.

Not without putting a stain on both her own and Mr. Conolly’s reputations. She knew—it wouldn’t do to ruin either one. Not when she meant to marry him.

* * *

Charles followed the Duke of Tiverwell out the front door of Tiverwell Manor. They walked in grim silence down the front steps. In the drive, there were two carriages—the sleek black barouche-landau for the family, as well as a less elegant and much smaller chaise to take Charles to London.

He glanced toward the back, where his trunk was being secured by a pair of the Duke’s footmen. When he turned, Lady Arabella was walking toward him. She was dressed for travel, in a green travelling coat and a straw bonnet.

“Mr. Conolly,” she murmured, holding out her hand, palm down. He pressed it in his, finding that she was hiding a piece of paper with her thumb. He took it, rolling his fingers along her palm as he bowed to her.

“Unfortunately, My Lady, I must bid you adieu before we have the chance to fence again.” He took his hand back, the rolled paper tucked safely away in his fist.

“A great misfortune,” she replied. “However, when I arrive in London for the Season, I will be sure to challenge you again.”

“Until we meet again in London, then.”

Her eyes said far more than she was able to say. He smiled, hoping that his own gave her similar assurances. By the incandescent smile that was spreading across her face, he had the feeling that they did.

“Mr. Conolly,” the Duke said, and Charles turned toward him abruptly. His Grace was tugging on a pair of gloves. Charles hoped he had not noticed the exchange between Lady Arabella and himself. “I will be in touch with further directions. Until then, please get in touch with Matthew Rapson.” He lowered his voice, so his wife and daughter could not hear.

“I will, Your Grace,” Charles promised. “As soon as I am in London.”

“Very good,” the Duke said, turning back toward his wife. “Come. We must be off.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Conolly,” the Duchess said.

“Goodbye, Your Grace,” he replied, bowing to her. The Duke helped her up into the carriage, then followed her. From the window, Lady Arabella waved to him.

He stood in the drive, watching as the carriage left, bearing Lady Arabella and her parents away. He looked down at the rolled piece of paper. He unrolled it, reading the note that was written on it.

My dear Mr. Conolly,

If you can endeavor to obtain a female to write your letters to me, then please write. Pretend that you are the Lady Emily Southrop. She is a good friend to me, and has agreed to assist us.

I await your letter.

Love,

Lady Arabella

His eyes lingered on the word, Love, which was causing his heart to beat faster. When he looked up, the carriage was just turning out of the drive and onto the road. He watched as it disappeared from sight.

He then walked over to the carriage that waited for him. He recalled arriving at Tiverwell Manor, only a short time ago—barely even a fortnight. He had been a different man, then. He had never been lucky enough to be in love, then.

Chapter Twelve

“A lady should never wear breeches,” Lord Norton was intoning. “A lady should be seen and not heard.” He was sitting on the settee opposite Arabella, looking for all the world like an egg, dressed in a frock coat and breeches.

“Then you might as well stuff them with batting and line them up on your settee like dolls,” Arabella replied, rolling her eyes.

While Farley Minton, Viscount of Norton, was not himself a lady, he certainly had a lot of opinions on them. He blinked at her in surprise, but unfortunately, recovered.

“It is the province of gentlemen to be stewards of ladies,” he replied, setting his teacup down. “If not to care for you, then why else do we exist?”

“What’s your point, My Lord?” she asked, wondering if he was rubbing in the fact that he was to receive all that should have been hers, were the world a fair place.

“My point, Lady Arabella, is that there’s no reason for you to be parading about in a pair of gentlemen’s pants!” he exclaimed, his round cheeks turning a shocking shade of puce.

“There is, in fact, a reason,” she replied. “It is that skirts are utterly inconvenient. There’s no reason for them.”

“Propriety,” Lord Norton said. Propriety, the sword upon whose point Arabella meant not to fall upon. Yet it was the weapon that every single gentleman of the ton meant to use against her.

Her father entered the room at that point. From the bemused look on his face, it was obvious that he had heard most of their argument from the sanctuary of the hallway.

“What’s going on in here, then?” he asked. “Are the two of you fighting again?” He had a handful of letters with him. He handed a few to Arabella. “The evening post has arrived, love.”

“Thank you, Pappa,” she said, standing up. She noticed one, which was in an unfamiliar hand, yet appeared from Lady Emily. Her heart pattered excitedly in her chest. It had been almost a full week, with no word from Mr. Conolly. Yet, she had known that a letter would come.

He’s not the sort of man to disappoint the lady that he loves.

She left the room, so that she could peruse Mr. Conolly’s missive in private. She had no doubt that it was going to be worth the six days that she’d anticipated it.

As the door closed behind her, she heard her father say, “My Lord, please do not presume to change my daughter’s mode of dress. She and I have an agreement, one which you shall not endeavor to persuade either of us on otherwise.” The sternness of his tone brooked no argument.

The door closed shut before she got her cousin’s reply. She hurried through the halls of Norton Manor, the estate where Lord Norton lived. It was a simple house—full of dark-colored walls and dark woods. There were a few religious-themed paintings on the walls. Most of them portrayed Christ in agony. She wondered if that was a comment on how her cousin himself felt.

She went to the dark-paneled room where she was staying. Norton Manor was such a gloomy place. She sat down on the bed, which was a massive oak four-poster.

She popped the seal, taking in the simple signet on it, which was an ES, which was rather well done of Mr. Conolly.

My Lady,

I have to admit, I’m not sure of what to say that my housekeeper, Mrs. Osbourne, will permit me to say in her hand. She’s very excited to hear that I am courting, albeit secretly, a lady. She says that it is my good fortune to have met you, and even better that you are amenable to receive my letters. She hopes, as well, that you like her hand. She has spent long years perfecting her letters, for just such an occasion.

Furthermore, it said in Mr. Conolly’s hand at the very bottom, I hope that you are well, and that you are able to write back. I look forward to your letter.

All the best,

CFC.

Arabella exhaled, closing her eyes, and holding the letter to her chest. She missed him. It was the most exquisite sadness that she had ever experienced. At the same time, she was anticipating such a meeting in London, that winter.

For she would turn eighteen less than a week after their arrival, and then, he had promised that if she hadn’t changed her mind, he would ask her father for his permission.

She knew that she would not change her mind, for the world. Opening her eyes and looking down at the letter, she smiled. Mrs. Osbourne sounded like a character. She loved how she had clearly shaped Charles’s missive. She looked forward to meeting Mrs. Osbourne. She had a good hunch that they would get along well. Immediately, she went to her desk to write back.

* * *

Charles was dressed in his double-breasted dress coat, in a midnight blue that was nearly black. Keeping the brim of his top hat low, he glanced about him. He was in a rough part of town. He could feel eyes upon him as he walked. He kept his hands in his pockets, covering his wallet with his hand.

He had no doubt that theft happened here often. The cobblestones were muddy, and there was trash everywhere. His eyes searched the buildings for a number. He paused, glancing at the sign.

Richard R. Gagney, Tanner.

There was an acrid scent on the air, which made Charles’s eyes tear up. This was it. He entered the tanner’s shop, at the very front. It was filled with bolts of leather. It smelled strongly. He knew, out back, there were vats, filled with all manner of vile mixture, for curing the hides that were sold in the front.

“What can I get you, My Lord?” the man behind the counter asked. He was a coarse-looking individual, dressed in plain clothes and a leather apron. He had mistaken Charles for one of the ton. Something which Charles meant to use to his advantage.

“I’m looking for a Matthew Rapson,” he replied, letting the man think him a lord, if only for the moment.

“What do you want to see Matt for?” the tanner asked, tilting his head to the side curiously.

“I’m a barrister,” he replied. “I need to ask him some questions in regards to a case.”

“One moment,” the man said, disappearing through a curtained doorway. Charles waited patiently, his hands still in his pockets.

The man returned with another coarse-looking young man, who looked no more than one-and-twenty at most.

“I imagine you’re here on behalf of His Grace?” Matthew Rapson asked. There was the slightest hint of anger in his tone.

“Yes,” Charles replied.

“He still mad? I told him I didn’t mean to do it,” he explained. “It was an accident.”

“Is there somewhere private that we could talk?” Charles asked, smiling at Rapson.

“Ain’t nothing I got to say that Mr. Gagney can’t hear,” Rapson replied, folding his brawny arms.

“You trust him?” Charles asked.

Rapson nodded. “I do. He’s been looking out for me in the time I’ve been here.”

Charles wanted Rapson to feel comfortable sharing information with him. He knew better than to intimidate him. It would get neither of them anywhere.

“There was a recent break in at the Duke’s estate in the country,” Charles said. “The Duke mentioned that you might have been upset at your firing.”

“I can tell you, now,” Mr. Gagney said. “He’s been here, working. He’s not left a single day since he’s started with me.”

“Have you sent the Duke any letters, of a threatening nature to his life?” Charles asked. The two eyed him in surprise. “I just need a simple yes or no. As soon as I’ve got it, I’ve done my job, and I can leave you be, Mr. Rapson.”

“I don’t wish him well, but I don’t wish him dead,” Rapson replied, shaking his head. When he said it, he looked Charles in the eye. Charles held his gaze, which was unflinching. Rapson wasn’t lying.

Charles nodded. “I believe you. Please understand that I needed merely to check. Since you have an alibi, I can assure His Grace that you are not at fault.”

“Anything else, then?” Rapson asked, visibly relaxing.

“Is there anyone whom you believe to have had reason to do something of the sort?” Charles asked. Now that they had rapport, perhaps Rapson could provide him with a clue.

“You said there was a break in?” Rapson replied. He was squinting as he thought.

“Yes. They painted a threat on the wall of the dining room.”

“What’d it say?”

“You’ll be dead by winter’s end,” Charles replied.

“Not much of a clue,” Rapson mused. “As you likely know from working for him, the Duke has wronged many. He believes that even God himself can’t touch him. He’s got enough money to make it seem so.”

“Anyone specific?”

“I’d start with the butler. He knows everything. He’s the one that arranges things for His Grace, if you know what I mean.”

“I will. Thank you for your help. The both of you.” Charles touched the brim of his hat. He pulled a business card from his pocket. “If anyone comes to mind, I would sincerely appreciate it if you could let me know.”

Rapson took the card, briefly glancing at it. He shrugged. “I can’t read,” he admitted, fully cementing Charles’s belief in his innocence.

Charles stepped back out into the street, which was crowded at that hour. As he walked, he considered what he’d heard. Matthew Rapson had been rather forthcoming. He had also been very honest. However, his claims were at odds with the Duke of Tiverwell that Charles was acquainted with.

Charles walked faster, pulling out his pocket watch to glance at the time. He was going to meet up with his friend, Arthur, at the Black Dog. He had just enough time to get over there, if he took a hansom cab.

* * *

The next morning, when the butler set the morning post down in front of her father, Arabella noticed that there was a letter in Mr. Conolly’s hand, on the very top of the pile. Her father did, too—he opened it immediately, his eyes taking in the contents.

She waited, expecting him to fill her in. He didn’t, however. He set it inside of his own jacket pocket. She frowned. “Pappa?” she asked, curiously.

“Yes, Arabella?” he asked, spearing a bite of eggs with his fork.

“What’s Mr. Conolly have to say?” she asked.

“He’s filed the Will,” he replied. “Lord Norton has been kind enough to agree to allowing your mother’s inheritance separate from the estate.” Arabella had suspected that that was the primary reason why they had come to Norton Manor, of all places. Her father was very talented at convincing people. He merely needed time and a good supply of brandy.

“Is there anything about the writing on the wall?” she asked, hazarding a guess.

“Don’t worry about that,” he told her. “It was probably a prank.”

“It doesn’t seem like it,” she said, studying him closely. What she saw in his face surprised her. His eyes widened in anger and annoyance.

“You have nothing to worry about,” he stated. “I’ve spent all of your life making it be so. Please, do not think of it.”

She looked away from him, as though he’d slapped her. When she glanced over at her mother, who had been silent the whole time, they both shared a look of surprise.

Arabella became suspicious. She pretended that she was focused on eating, although she barely brought the fork to her lips. Her father never kept things from her. Particularly things like the writing on the wall. He would keep that letter close. It would be best if she wrote to Mr. Conolly herself.

However, it would be quicker to sneak into her father’s rooms later, and find the letter for herself. With that decided, she focused on her breakfast, clearing her plate.

Chapter Thirteen

The Black Dog was busy. It was after-hours for most professions, and thus, it was filled with working men, playing cards and drinking ale. Sometimes, those of noble lineage would “slum” there, but for the most part, it was merely a place for a good time.

“So,” Arthur said, his hands wrapped around a tankard of ale. “How are things going with your lady love?” Arthur was a tall, lanky fellow with pale golden hair and watery blue eyes. He had the air of intelligence. He and Charles had been close ever since their first year at Cambridge University. Arthur, too, was a barrister, and he shared offices with Charles.

“All is well,” Charles replied. “I mean, as well as they can be when you have to have your housekeeper transcribe letters so that they are in a feminine hand.”

“How, pray tell, are you going to break it to the Duke?” Arthur asked, taking a sip of his ale. It left a bit of foam on his upper lip, which was covered in a thin golden mustache.

“Your Grace, I am asking you for permission to court and marry your daughter?” Charles said, making an attempt. Perhaps Arthur could help him.

Arthur made a face. “You should probably bring your finances as proof that you have money with which to support her.”

Charles wrinkled his nose. “That seems a bit—”

Arthur waved his hand in the air impatiently. “I know, but he likely thinks that you live in Cheapside.”

“He does not,” Charles replied. The Duke had sent him letters to his residence, a townhouse in a very nice middle-class neighborhood. He was located less than a street away from where many members of the ton lived, for Christ’s sake.

“That’s what they all think,” Arthur replied. He, too, worked for the gentlemen of the ton. He specialized in commercial law.

“You don’t think—” Charles broke off, a little horrified at what Arthur was suggesting.

“He’ll presume it,” he stated flatly. “You remember that time I looked at an Earl’s daughter the wrong way once. He caught me looking and told me that his daughter could never live in Cheapside.”

“Was that the Earl of Standish?” he asked, recalling the incident. Arthur nodded, taking another sip of his drink. “So, you think that I don’t have a chance?”

“Not in the slightest, my good friend,” Arthur replied. “Thinking logically, and I’m saying this because I do not want you to make a fool of yourself, that I think you’ve lost your mind.” He counted on his fingers as he listed. “Meeting in secret, writing letters in secret, declaring your love for each other in secret and without permission—”

“But I will get permission,” Charles pointed out. He wanted Arthur to be happy for him. Instead, he was arguing that he was being…of all things, silly. “The Duke allows Lady Arabella to do as she chooses. He’s told her that he wants her to marry for love.”

“Oh, no—you’re mistaken, my friend,” Arthur said. “Just like the rest of his kind, he will want his daughter to marry a gentleman. And, unfortunately, as well-off as you are, your blood does not run blue.” Arthur finished his drink. “Another?”

Charles nodded. Arthur raised his hand, gesturing for the barkeep to bring them two more ales. Charles finished the one that he was drinking.

“That being said, you could, perhaps marry the daughter of a lesser noble—a viscount, maybe—but a Duke’s daughter?” He grimaced and shrugged at the same time, looking for all the world like a gremlin. “You have a better chance at marrying one of God’s angels.”

“She’s better than an angel,” Charles replied. “She’s stubborn and outspoken, and she beat me at fencing, Arthur.”

“Then she is too good for you, by far,” Arthur mused. “I can see that you’ve lost far more than a fencing bout to her, though.”

Charles smiled. He had, in fact. The barkeep set down their drinks. Charles paid for the round. As he sipped his drink, he considered what Arthur had said. He might just be right.

He could only hope that Arabella knew her father as well as she claimed. She had been certain that he would see it her way. The unconventional means of her upbringing had given him cause for hope. But what if they were mistaken? Suddenly, he had an awful, creeping doubt.

* * *

Arabella waited for her father to go out. She posted herself in the drawing room that was near to the stairs. She left the door ajar. From there, she could hear anyone going out via the front door.

She heard the sounds of heavy boots, going down the stairs. She peered out, to see her father. He turned, catching her peeking out of the door.

“Where are you going, Pappa?” she asked. He smiled, their earlier, heated conversation forgotten.

“I’m headed out for a ride. Care to join me?” he asked.

“I’m going to take a rest,” she replied. “I want to have my energy for Lady Downton’s party.”

“Quite right, my sweet,” he said. She stood on the landing, listening as he spoke to the butler. When the door closed after him, she walked as quickly as she dared, up to the third floor.

If she ran into anyone, she would need to point them away from her father’s room. She had never encountered him being angry or secretive before. His annoyance at the breakfast table had frightened her a little.

She saw no one. She slipped into his room, to find his valet, putting her father’s frock coats away.

“My father was looking for you,” she said. He nodded, bowing to her.

“Thank you, My Lady.” He walked out, leaving her alone by the door. She waited until he was out of sight. She had never spied on her father before. To do so felt like it was completely out of line. Her heart was racing, her pulse loud in her ears.

She entered her father’s room, going over to his bedside table. She opened the drawer. Inside, there was a leather bible. She opened the front flap. There, she found a letter, but it was not in Mr. Conolly’s hand. She put it back, exactly where she’d found it.

She then noticed that the valet had left the jacket that her father had worn to breakfast, out to be cleaned. She placed her hand into the pocket on the inside, just over her father’s heart. She pulled out Mr. Conolly’s letter.

She unfolded it, her hands shaking a little in anticipation of answered questions. But what she read only left her with even more.

Your Grace,

I have spoken with Matthew Rapson, as well as his current employer. Rapson was in London at the time of the vandalism. His employer has given him a solid alibi. Not to mention, Rapson is illiterate. I do not believe him capable of the act in its entirety.

Rapson? She knew the former stable hand. Not well, however, he had always seemed very kind. That her father had suspected him was odd—she had been told that he’d left their employ of his own accord.

If you have any further leads for me to follow up on, I would be happy to do so. Rapson hinted that he was not the only employee to be upset with you. Do you know anything of this?

Enclosed is a bill for the time this week.

She unfolded the bill. Mr. Conolly had, apparently, spent three hours that week in following up leads for her father. Quickly, she folded both up and slipped them back into the pocket.

Arabella peered out of the room. The hallway was deserted, so she stepped out, making her way back to her own room, a few doors down. Annette looked up from where she was setting out Arabella’s dress for dinner later.

“My Lady,” she said, curtsying.

“Can I ask you a question, Annette,” she asked, sinking down into the armchair by the window. It was, like most of the furniture, upholstered in a dark crimson velvet.

“Of course, My Lady,” Annette replied. As she said it, her eyes widened. Arabella studied Annette closely. She was surprised to find her look so…nervous.

“Do you know of any servants who have been wronged by my father?” she asked, daring to ask.

“Do you mean who might have been inclined to write a message on the wall?” Annette asked, knowingly.

“Yes,” Arabella replied.

“Can it remain between us, My Lady?” Annette asked. “I don’t want to lose my job.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t utter a word,” she stated sincerely. “I merely want to get to the bottom of this. My father’s hiding something. I want to know what it is.”

Annette looked away from her. Arabella waited while her lady’s maid gathered her thoughts.

“To tell you the God’s honest truth, My Lady,” Annette said. “That list is far longer than I can account for.”

Arabella tugged on one of her curls. “Thank you for your honesty,” she said.

“Of course, My Lady,” she replied. “If you need, I can make a list.”

“Would you? It may help,” Arabella said. Annette nodded. “I can give it to Mr. Conolly, who seems to be looking into it.”

“Give me a few days,” she said. “So I can make sure I haven’t missed anyone.” She turned back to her work.

Arabella lost herself in thought, turning so that she was looking out the window, which overlooked the grounds of Norton. Far off, she could see her father, dressed in his dark riding coat. He was on one of Lord Norton’s hunters.

She was surprised at Annette’s response. Her father had always treated everyone with respect and courtesy. Annette hinted that there was a side to him that Arabella didn’t know.

As she watched her father’s figure, riding off into the distance, she wondered who he really was. She knew who she had thought he was—an upstanding gentleman, a father who kept no secrets from his beloved daughter…There was more than met the eye. She had doubts, and it was more than a little unsettling.

* * *

Charles opened up Lady Arabella’s next letter to find that she had been doing some digging of her own. Accompanying her usual full page of musings, there was a list, written in an unfamiliar feminine script. It was a list of names. Frowning, he read her message.

Dear Mr. Conolly,

I’ve recently found out that my father has requested that you look into the act of vandalism during your stay at Tiverwell Manor. He does not know that I know. However, I have asked someone in whom I place the utmost trust in her veracity. She has provided me with this list of servants who might fit the description of “wronged and potentially vengeful servants.” You will find it enclosed. If you could keep the source a secret, it would be profoundly appreciated.

Do tell me—how is the investigation going? The Duke is keeping his counsel to himself…

The letter went on at length, but Charles set it down before he read the rest. He had known that she would realize that something was up. She’d gotten more done than her own father had. As Charles perused the list of names, he wondered—why had the Duke himself not brought these names to his attention?

What is the Duke trying to keep hidden?

His eyes went through the list, finding Rapson’s name near the end. He had a hunch that the list was chronological. He knew without a doubt that it was from Annette, Lady Arabella’s lady’s maid.

Now, the thing he needed to decide was—to investigate the names on the list, or to keep it to himself entirely. Until there was need to. He opened the drawer of his desk. He pressed the hinge which opened up the secret bottom and slipped it inside.

There was nothing to suggest that it was anything other than a simple act of vandalism. Except for the letters. It nagged him. He had the foreboding feeling that they wouldn’t know until all of the ton was in London for the Season.

By then, it might even be too late. He looked down at her letter. Her handwriting was no stand-in for the actual lady. Charles wished that he could conjure her. They would then be able to discuss the whole thing at length.

He took out a sheet of paper. He then endeavored to tell her as much as he could, without breaking the secrecy that her father had requested. The letter was on its way to her within the hour.

Chapter Fourteen

Six Months Later

There’s a chill in the air, at last. The Murderer knows that the gentlemen on the list are getting ready to return to London. The Murderer is pleased. The boy did everything on the list, leaving messages in all of the gentlemen’s country estates. Both the boy and his sister were gone. Nemesis knew better than to leave loose ends, no matter how much they had begged.

The Murderer is ready. Passing by the Millgate Club, the Murderer noted that it was starting to have the beginnings of a crowd. During the summer months, when all of the gentlemen were away, there was the select few in town on business and out for a drink.

The Murderer scanned the gentlemen who were entering the club. The Murderer’s eyes landed on Lord Danbury, feeling the rush of anticipation. It was nearly time to put the plan into action. It was all about slowly tightening the noose. Waiting for the gentlemen to get so caught up in looking for the Murderer that they didn’t realize who it was until it was too late.

Another carriage pulled up in front of Millgate, and Lord Diggar climbed out. The Murderer was pleased. Now that Diggar was there in London, it could all begin.

The Murderer placed a hand into a pocket, feeling for the handle of the knife—the one which would taste blood. Its handle was warm, from sitting there in the Murderer’s pocket. Retribution was imminent.

* * *

Charles’s search for the writer of the letters had stalled, several months back. Since there had been no further communication, he figured that the individual responsible had likely gotten what they’d wanted—for the party at Tiverwell Manor to be frightened enough to leave. Perhaps, it had been someone living in the surrounding countryside.

Charles sat down at his dining room table. Mrs. Osbourne came bustling in a few moments later. She was a jolly woman, with curly gray hair. She was dressed in a simple gray frock, with a white apron over the top.

“Eggs and toast for you, sir,” she said, setting the tray down in front of him. On it, there was a rack, with two slices of golden-brown toast, a plate with three eggs and several slices of bacon.

“Thank you, Mrs. Osbourne,” he replied, taking in his breakfast with pleasure.

“I almost forgot,” she said, pulling a handful of letters out of her apron pocket. “Here’s the morning post.”

“Excellent,” he said, his eyes scanning the letters. He spotted one with the Duke of Tiverwell’s handwriting, his crest pressed into a blob of red sealing wax on the reverse side.

“I’m going to pick up a nice roast for your supper,” she went on. “You should ask Mr. Hinkley over.”

“I will,” he replied, smiling. Arthur ate supper over there often. He was living in some rooms over a pub at the moment. As a bachelor, Arthur wasn’t particular on his living situation.

“Very good, sir.” Mrs. Osbourne beamed at him, bustling off.

She was his only servant, but she kept his house run like a well-maintained clock. It was neat, orderly. Charles found that he only rarely had to worry about a thing. Mrs. Osbourne was on top of it.

As he dug in to his breakfast, he realized that with the addition of a wife, particularly one who was used to nice things, like Lady Arabella was, he would need to hire…more staff.

He glanced around the dining room. It was spare. The whole house was spare. As he considered it, he decided to let Lady Arabella do as she chose. He could start putting aside some money for her use.

She would, no doubt, want to keep Annette on.

Mrs. Osbourne would stay, of course. He wasn’t quite sure who else would be necessary. He didn’t have a horse or a carriage—he hired hansom carriages on the few times that he needed them. Arabella had a horse of her own, so he might have to hire a groom. There was an old stable out in the back of his townhouse. At the moment, it was sitting empty.

He set down his fork, breaking the wax seal on the Duke’s letter and unfolding it. He read it.

Dear Mr. Conolly,

My family and I are leaving the North in the next few days. By the end of the week, we will be residing in London for the Season. I plan to be settled in town by Thursday. Can you make sure that there is time set aside for me to come in? I have urgent need of your services. Say ten of the clock? Send me word at your convenience if this is amenable.

The Duchess sends her regards, as well as an invitation to our daughter, Lady Arabella’s birthday party. It will be held on Friday, at our townhome in Kensington…

The rest of the letter were particulars of the event. Charles folded the letter. Of course, he was going. Though Lady Arabella had assured him that she hadn’t changed her mind, he wanted to speak with her before he asked her father for his permission.

After his talk with Arthur, he was nervous. Usually, Charles wasn’t the type to have doubts. He didn’t doubt Lady Arabella, but he did doubt her father. He wanted to see her. The way that her eyes sparkled when she looked at him. He wanted to walk in to speak with her father with all of the confidence of a man who was in love—and loved in return.

* * *

As their carriage made its way through the familiar London streets, Arabella and her mother were making last-minute plans for her birthday party.

“We’ll need to make sure that there are extra chairs brought upstairs,” the Duchess said. “Have you decided what you’re wearing?”

“I think I’ll wear my lemon silk,” Arabella replied. It had recently been trimmed in cream-colored lace, to make it look newer. Arabella was rarely denied new things, but a few updates to a well-loved dress seemed a good exercise of economy, something that she would gladly learn on Mr. Conolly’s behalf.

“Yes,” her mother agreed. “You look well in yellow.” Her mother seemed to be doing an inventory in her head. “Will you need to borrow my diamond and pearl necklace?”

“It’s too heavy,” Arabella replied. It was like wearing an ox’s yoke.

“Yes, but it will look exquisite with the yellow silk…” Her mother trailed off, her eyes wide.

“I’ll wear my single drop pearl,” Arabella told her, looking over at her father. He wasn’t paying either of them any attention. His gaze was out the window, his eyes looking very distant. He looked as though he’d aged about a decade. His forehead was lined, and his hair had taken on a snowier appearance.

She remembered, then—the message on the wall. You’ll be dead by winter’s end. It had been for him, hadn’t it? And he knew it.

“Arabella?” her mother said, jolting her from her thoughts. She turned her gaze to her mother. “Will you need my ostrich-feather?”

She shook her head. “No, Mamma,” she said. “That’s not for me.”

“It’s fashionable,” her mother said. She was urgently attempting to get Arabella to make herself into a fashionable lady.

“With a feather, waving over my head to catch the eye of a young gentleman?” she asked. “I might as well wear a white flag on my head, warning them that I’ve surrendered.”

“He doesn’t have to be young,” her mother replied.

“So, any gentleman will do?” Arabella asked with a laugh.

“We’ve discussed this,” her mother pointed out. They had—as the Season had neared, her mother had been a flurry of preparations. Arabella now had five new dresses, along with a number of different accoutrements that her mother had deemed necessary. Her father had merely paid the bill, no questions asked.

Neither of them knew the best part—that Arabella was in love. And that Mr. Conolly had promised her that he would arrange things with her father. He would keep his word, too. The day after her birthday, he would ask the Duke for his formal permission to court and marry her. Arabella had no doubt in her mind that her father would say yes.

* * *

Charles himself was filled with happy anticipation. He’d received word from the Duke that he and his family were safely arrived in London. He had gone over his finances, setting aside a good amount for Arabella’s use, so that she could redecorate the house to suit her needs and sensibilities.

He made plans to hire a groom to care for her horse, as well as to keep Annette on. He was trying to decide whether to hire a butler, or to just keep Mrs. Osbourne on in her usual capacity as cook, maid, and butler. She was so efficient that he was inclined to give her a raise.

The day of the Duke’s appointment, Charles showed up at the offices early. He filled a cut-glass decanter with some of the good brandy, setting two clean glasses beside it on his desk. He set a roaring fire on in the fireplace, and then he waited. The Duke was on time.

“Welcome, Your Grace,” he said, bowing.

“Mr. Conolly,” the Duke replied. “It’s good to see you.” They shook hands, the Duke, patting Charles on the shoulder. The Duke looked strained. The lines on his face were deeper, and there were dark circles, pressed beneath his eyes. His hair had lightened considerably.

“Come in to my office,” Charles said. “Can I offer you a drink?”

“Yes, please,” the Duke said, taking a seat in one of the leather armchairs. Charles poured them both a glass.

He then sat down across from the Duke. “How was your journey?” As he studied the Duke, he noticed that he seemed aged since he’d last seen him.

“It was slow,” the Duke replied. “But, thankfully, uneventful.”

“Good to hear,” Charles said, realizing that this would soon be his father-in-law, if things went according to plan. “What can I assist you with?”

“I was wondering where you stood on the case with those letters?” the Duke asked.

“Well, I spoke with Rapson,” he replied. “I feel very confident that it wasn’t him. He did suggest a few leads that I could follow up on, if you’d like.”

“Yes,” the Duke replied, taking a sip of his brandy. “I’d very much like for you to do so.”

“Are you…concerned that someone means to harm you or your family, Your Grace?”

His Grace scowled darkly. “Why would you ask that?”

“Because if you are, then the Constabulary might be a good option…They’re well-equipped for criminal investigations.”

“For the moment, Mr. Conolly, I’d like to see if we can handle this quietly,” the Duke replied. “Your specific talent is to do so.”

“It is,” Charles agreed. Although he was an estate lawyer. His duties were supposed to remain in terms of property. Regardless, the gentlemen of the ton seemed to forget this.

“I’d like to keep this in the shadows…where it belongs,” the Duke stated.

“Yes, Your Grace,” Charles said. What else was he supposed to say? The Duke was going to pay his hourly wages. He would likely double it, too, as he had paid for the time that Charles had sat in the carriage, on the way to and from Tiverwell Manor, during the summer.

The Duke smiled for the first time since his arrival—it was like the sun peering out from behind the clouds. “Then we are on the same page.”

Charles nodded, then sipped his drink. He was good at handling things on the quiet. It was his particular talent.

“You’ve done very well at making yourself absolutely indispensable,” the Duke said. “I don’t know what I’m to do without your services.”

“You won’t have to find out, Your Grace,” Charles replied.

In more ways than one.

The Duke raised his glass. “Cheers, Mr. Conolly. To a magnificent partnership.”

“Agreed, Your Grace.” Charles clinked his glass against the Duke’s. He had a dark, foreboding feeling that his services were beginning to take a much darker turn than they had thus far.

However, this was to be his father-in-law. He needed him to require him. It would make his marriage to Lady Arabella that much easier to negotiate. After that, their discussion turned away from secretive matters, to ones of news of the gentlemen of the ton.

After the Duke had left, Charles felt far more confident in presenting the Duke of Tiverwell with his suit. As long as the gentlemen of the ton required him, he would have the money to support her as close to what she was used as a London barrister could.

Arthur peered out of his door. “That sounded like it went well,” he said. “Did you broach the subject of his daughter’s hand?”

“Not quite,” Charles replied.

“Ah,” Arthur said, woefully.

“You really think that it’s not going to go well?” Charles asked. “I mean, the Duke just said that he doesn’t know what he’d do without me.”

“What you can do for him,” Arthur pointed out. “Not for his daughter.”

“You’re being a spoilsport,” he replied. They had been friends for nearly a decade. Why couldn’t Arthur be happy for him?

“Your funeral, I suppose.” Arthur disappeared back into the depths of his office. Charles sat down at his desk, staring into the fire, which crackled in the grate.

Chapter Fifteen

Arabella walked down the staircase, dressed in her lemon-yellow silk gown, the silk falling luxuriously around her legs. Her hair was piled on top of her head in an elaborate chignon. Annette had gone out of her way, to make sure that Arabella looked elegant, for her big night.

Her gloved hands shook a little. Not because all of the attention would be on her. Not because the gentlemen and ladies of the ton would be gossiping about her habit of wearing breeches.

Mr. Conolly would be there. She was so looking forward to seeing him, after months of exchanging letters, and wishing for his presence, she was looking forward to basking in the light from his eyes.

“Arabella,” her father said. He and the Duchess were standing by the door, ready to greet their guests. He smiled at her—what felt like the first genuine smile in an age. “You look like a dream,” he said.

“Thank you, Pappa,” she replied.

“Your mother and I are…so proud of you,” he said.

“That we are,” the Duchess agreed.

“I love you, both of you,” she replied. “Thank you for throwing me this party.”

“Perhaps, tonight, you will dance with your husband to be,” her mother said excitedly.

“Perhaps I will,” she agreed.

The three of them were soon busy with their large influx of guests. Arabella made sure to smile at all, even the ones who looked at her sternly.

Finally, she saw him. His eyes were on her, the moment he stepped through the door.

“Mr. Conolly,” she said, holding out her hand. He took it in his, pressing it. She beamed at him.

“Lady Arabella,” he replied. “Happy Birthday.”

“Thank you,” she murmured.

“Mr. Conolly! Welcome!” her father said.

Mr. Conolly glanced at her once more. Something passed between them, that secret look that passes between two lovers, which says everything that they cannot say in front of others.

Arabella was ecstatic that he was there. She was impatient to speak with him. Unfortunately, there was still a long line of guests, trickling in through the door.

* * *

Charles made his way through the crowd inside of the Duke of Tiverwell’s townhome. It was a large space, with gleaming marble floors, and an elegant white silk wallpaper on the walls. Charles drifted past a large painting, depicting the Duke, riding on a large white horse. It was in a gilt frame. Beside it, in a smaller, less ostentatious frame, there was one of Lady Arabella, along with the Duchess.

As Charles looked around the crowd, he spotted Lord Drysdale, who was clearly trying to get his attention. He waved at Charles, urging him to come over. Charles waded through the crowd toward him.

“Mr. Conolly,” Lord Drysdale said. Charles returned his bow.

“How have you been, My Lord?” he asked, settling against the wall.

“I’ve been well, Mr. Conolly,” Lord Drysdale replied.

“Any further threats?” Charles asked in a low voice.

“None at all, sir.” Lord Drysdale smiled. “I now believe it to be some sort of mischief. Nothing more than a prank.”

Out of the corner of Charles’s eye, he noticed Lady Arabella. He knew it was her, by the bold flash of yellow, reminiscent of a gold finch among sparrows. He glanced her way. She motioned with her eyes, then walked out of the room.

Charles looked at Lord Drysdale who smiled at him. “Excuse me, sir. I must go and greet Lady Catsmore.”

Somehow, Charles had received Lord Drysdale’s approbation.

“If there is anything more, My Lord,” Charles said. “Do tell me. I think I may be able to help.”

“I will do so, Mr. Conolly.”

Charles watched the Viscount of Drysdale as he walked off. He then turned to go and find Lady Arabella.

As he left the room, he cast his eyes about. No one was paying him any mind. In the time that the ton had been gone from London, he had forgotten. He might have been indispensable to them, but he was not one of them. They would see him differently, very soon. If the Duke saw him as worthy of marrying the Lady Arabella, then they would have to see it, as well.

* * *

Arabella waited for Mr. Conolly, her heart pounding. Finally, she heard the sound of his footsteps, soft on the marble floors. She bit her lip, beaming as he turned the corner.

She took him by the hands. He looked about. “Lady Arabella, what if we’re seen?” he asked.

“Come, now,” she said. “You must call me by my name, Charles.”

“Arabella,” he said, and it was the most wonderful sound she’d ever heard.

“I believe you had something that you wanted to ask me?” she said.

He smiled, his expression softening as he looked at her. It made her pulse race in anticipation.

“Have you changed your mind?” he asked.

“No, never once,” she assured him.

“You know what you’ll be sacrificing?” He raised an eyebrow as he waited for her answer.

“I do,” she confirmed. “I don’t mind, Mr. Conolly. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

They had never said it, aloud—only written it. To have it said, and to hear it for the first time was a delicious, heady rush that went straight to her head like the finest champagne.

Arabella dared to place a hand on his chest. Charles covered her hand with his. Her skin heated at his touch. When she looked up into his eyes, she knew that he was going to kiss her. She went up onto her toes. Their lips met. The kiss was searching, full of longing, which was finally fulfilled. As he kissed her, he put his hand on her lower back, pulling her toward him. She gripped the front of his shirt.

When they separated, they stood there, looking into each other’s eyes. Charles took both of her hands in his. He didn’t seem to know what to say.

“Then that’s settled,” she stated happily, squeezing his hands.

“I’ll come and talk to your father tomorrow,” he promised, to her heart’s delight.

She handed him her dance card. “Here,” she said. “I’ve saved the second dance for you.” Unfortunately, the first one was with the Duke of Longmire—a new acquaintance of her father’s.

Charles smiled, penciling in his name on the second line, then handing it back to her. She slipped the ribbon around her wrist.

“Now,” she ordered. “We must return, separately, or they’ll all talk.”

He nodded, gesturing for her to go first. She returned to the party, beaming. She felt like everything was coming together. Tomorrow, all would be known. Then, she and her mother could begin to plan the wedding.

All her life, she had expected to drag her heels. Her mother had always assured her that when the time came, she would be excited. To find that her mother had been right! She couldn’t wait to tell her.

* * *

Charles waited a few moments, collecting himself. After that kiss, he was off-balance. It was rare for him to lose himself so thoroughly. His passion for her burned inside of him like a bright flame. She had told him, in her letters, that she had not changed her mind. To hear her say it, meanwhile watching the joy on her face was another thing entirely.

He was surprised at his luck. He was head over heels in love with her. Charles had never thought much about love. He had fully expected to be a confirmed bachelor, until late in life. Marry, simply for comfort…This was something else entirely.

“Mr. Conolly!” the Earl of Diggar was calling out to him.

“My Lord,” he said, happy to see him.

“It’s good to see you,” Lord Diggar said, patting him on the back. It was clear that the Earl was well into his cups. His face was just as red as his crimson velvet waistcoat.

“And, you as well, My Lord,” he agreed.

“I was wondering if I might stop by your office,” the Earl said. “Sometime this week.” He was frowning, keeping his voice low. “I have some affairs which need to be put in order.”

“Of course, My Lord,” Charles said, thinking back to his date book. “I believe I have an opening on Monday morning, at ten.”

“Make it Thursday,” he replied, raising his eyebrow, as though daring Charles to refuse him.

“Certainly, My Lord.” Charles’s eyes were following Lady Arabella, as she made her way through the crowd. She was like a star, emanating light.

“She’s quite a strange lady, is she not?” Lord Diggar asked, his own eyes following her.

“Not at all, My Lord,” Charles replied.

“Hmm,” Lord Diggar grumbled. “Not you too, then?”

“No, My Lord,” he replied. It would be best to keep it all a secret.

“I can see it in your eyes,” Lord Diggar said, smiling. “You’re quite taken with her.”

Charles smiled at him. He supposed if Lord Diggar and Lord Drysdale could see that they were in love, then the Duke of Tiverwell was likely expecting his visit tomorrow. He may have been expecting it since the summer.

“Good luck convincing the Duke of Tiverwell to agree to that,” the Earl muttered.

“And why shouldn’t a lady marry a man like me?” Charles asked, his emotions sinking as heavily as a lead balloon. The Earl laughed, a loud bark.

“No offense, dear man. I’ve known the Duke for most of my life,” the Earl replied. “He’s likely already got another Duke in mind for Lady Arabella. If I know anything, he’s the type of gentleman who has found a Duke who has something to give him. But I do wish you all the best, Mr. Conolly,” the Earl said, nodding. “I really, truly do.” His eyes seemed watery. He reached out, clapping him on the back. “You’ll end up on your feet.”

Charles watched as the Earl of Diggar made his way back toward the refreshment table, where he partook of another glass of brandy. Charles watched as Lord Diggar pulled out his gold pocket watch, looking at the time, then downing the entirety of the glass. He swayed, nearly dropping the watch in a nearby bowl of punch.

* * *

Arabella was all aflutter the next day. From the moment she opened her eyes, she was filled with a combination of nerves and excitement. She wondered what time Charles would show up, to speak with her father. She had Annette dress her in a pale pink muslin, which brought out the roses in her cheeks. She had her arrange her hair in perfect curls, framing her face, pulled back in a low chignon.

Then, she waited, sitting in the parlor with her parents. Her mother was still rehashing the night before. Overall, the ball had been a success. Arabella had danced the night away, keeping an eye on Charles. She’d caught him watching her, the weight of their shared secret stretching between them.

“How many times did you dance with Lord Carrington?” her mother asked.

“Twice,” she replied, dutifully. Any moment now, Charles would arrive, and then she would never have to discuss Lord Carrington again.

She would finally be able to speak freely of her love for Charles, and then they could make plans for the wedding.

The butler peered inside. “Your Grace,” he announced. “Mr. Conolly requests an audience with you.”

“Very well, tell him that I will see him in my study.” Her father looked stern, and he went a bit pale. Arabella looked down at her hands. She could barely contain her joy.

The door closed after her father. Arabella looked up at her mother, smiling brightly.

“What are you smiling about?” her mother asked, curiously.

“Mr. Conolly has come to ask Pappa if he can marry me,” she replied, excited to finally share her secret.

Her mother went pale. “Mr. Conolly? The—the barrister?” She set her tea cup and saucer down on the coffee table.

“Yes,” she said. “We’ve fallen in love, Mamma.”

“Oh, Arabella,” her mother said. “Your father cannot possibly say yes.”

“Why ever not? Mr. Conolly is very well off,” Arabella said, unable to believe what she was hearing.

“But you would be so reduced,” her mother said.

“He loves me, Mamma,” she argued. “And I love him.” Surely, her mother could see that if there was love, then there was no need to worry.

“That doesn’t matter,” her mother said, shaking her head so that her curls bounced against her cheeks. “That doesn’t matter at all.”

Arabella stood up. She felt a little sick. “I have to go to him,” she said. Perhaps her mother was wrong. It couldn’t be. Her father would see reason.

“Perhaps you should,” the Duchess said gravely.

Arabella ran from the room.

Chapter Sixteen

Charles was shown into the Duke’s study. He was nervous, but he hid it. He’d had lots of practice, in chambers. This was much the same.

“Mr. Conolly, what is the matter?” the Duke asked.

“Nothing, Your Grace,” he replied, clearing his throat. “I’m here on a more personal errand.”

“Very well.” The Duke sat down, gesturing for Charles to do the same. He was frowning in confusion.

“I am not a titled gentleman,” Charles began, going over the speech he’d rehearsed over the past six months. “But I am very well off, as a result of my work. I am able to provide for a wife, and to keep her comfortable.”

The Duke frowned even deeper, staring at Charles for a long beat before speaking. “What are you saying, Mr. Conolly?”

“I’m saying that your daughter and I have fallen in love,” he said. “And I’m asking for your permission to court her, with the intention of marrying her.”

The Duke was utterly quiet, his mouth hung open. Charles waited while he recovered. When he did, though, it was like a cannon had gone off.

“Get out,” the Duke hissed, standing up so abruptly that he knocked his chair over.

“I beg your pardon?” Charles asked.

“I never believed you to be a social climber, Mr. Conolly,” the Duke stated. “I have never been so wrong in my life.”

“I am not, Your Grace.”

“Then why, pray tell, are you romancing my daughter, without my permission?” the Duke demanded. He was going a deep shade of puce that was quite shocking.

“I am asking you for it, Your Grace” Charles replied.

“You could never be worthy of my daughter, sir,” the Duke stated coldly. “You are the son of ordinary, low people. You are a barrister. She is of noble blood.”

“I am well aware—” he began, but the Duke wasn’t going to let him finish.

“Clearly, you are not aware, or you would never have attempted to pursue her. How dare you?” The Duke was looking at him as though he were finally seeing him for what he was. But he was mistaken. Charles genuinely loved Arabella.

“It was my understanding—” he began again.

“How dare you presume that you are on such a level as my daughter? Do you presume that because she wears breeches and rides astride that she is low enough for you to catch?”

Charles stared at the Duke for a very long moment. Seeing nothing but rage, there in the Duke’s face, he then stood up. “I apologize, Your Grace. I can see that I was mistaken.”

“Yes. From now on, you come when you are called. No other time,” the Duke ordered, making a chopping motion with his hand.

Charles bowed to him, feeling the sting of that rebuke. To be spoken to like a dog was a low hit. He stepped out into the hall. The butler stood there, wide eyed. He said nothing, just led Charles to the door.

As he passed the parlor, Arabella came running out. She was pale, and looked as though she were going to cry.

“Mr. Conolly? What did he say?” she asked, reaching out for his arm. Charles didn’t dare touch her. Not there, in the house of her father.

He simply gave her a stern shake of the head, and then walked out the door that was held open for him. Charles walked quickly down the steps, then paused on the sidewalk. His hands were fists at his sides. He had expected to put up with a little bit of a fight from the Duke. But to have been treated in such a manner…

He shook his head, and then began to walk. It was, in all ways, much worse than he had imagined it would be. He might have lost both the Duke’s business as well as his good opinion.

She’s worth the risk, as well as the loss.

* * *

As Mr. Blankley, the butler, closed the door after Charles, Arabella ran up to her father’s study, knocking on the door. Perhaps she would be able to talk some sense into him. She hadn’t ever thought that he would say no…

“Come in,” her father called out.

When she entered, he was scowling darkly. He had a glass of brandy in front of him. As she stared at him, he took a sip of it, setting the glass down. He didn’t speak, merely waited for her to say something.

“What did you tell Mr. Conolly?” she demanded. Her hands were in fists at her sides.

“What did you expect me to say?” he replied.

“But, Pappa—we’re in love…”

“You mean to tell me that you’ve fallen in love with my barrister?” he demanded, angrily. She barely recognized him.

Who is this? This isn’t the father who told me that I should fall in love.

“Yes.”

“That’s as good as falling in love with the butler or the cook!” he roared in anger.

“You told me that I should fall in love before marrying,” she pointed out, more hurt than anything.

“With a gentleman of noble birth! At the very least, a Viscount,” he roared. She flinched a little, but stood her ground.

“Is there any way to convince you otherwise?” she asked.

“No.” He looked away from her. “Get out of my sight.”

“Very well then, if you do not change your mind in regard to Mr. Conolly, then I shall never marry.”

“You will do as I say,” he growled.

“I will not,” she retorted. She turned and left, making her way to her room, where she sequestered herself for the rest of the day.

* * *

Charles and Arthur were out at the Black Dog. He had called on Arthur as soon as he had left the Duke of Tiverwell’s. Arthur had the absolute class not to say I told you so. He bought Charles a round, then set the tankard down in front of him.

“Tell me,” he said, gently, then sat back to listen.

“I’ve never been so mortified in my entire life,” Charles said. “He told me that I will only come when called.”

“Like a dog!” Arthur raised his eyebrows. Then looked down at the tankard of ale between his hands. “At least he didn’t fire you.”

“No. He needs me too much,” Charles replied grimly.

“Well, there’s still time that he may change his mind,” Arthur said.

“Doubtful,” Charles muttered morosely. He stared into the depths of his tankard. He could see his reflection in the drink’s surface.

Arthur was silent for a long time. So long that Charles finally looked up. Arthur was studying him sadly.

“You really do love her, then?” he asked.

“I really do,” Charles said. He downed his entire drink.

“Have another,” Arthur suggested.

“I will, thank you,” Charles replied, waving to the barkeep.

Arthur sat and listened to Charles’s woes. Never once did he suggest that Charles find another more suitable woman or lady. He merely sat and listened. It was exactly what Charles needed. He didn’t think that he would be able to move past Arabella.

There is simply no one like her.

When they finally exited the Black Dog, they ran into Lord Drysdale.

“Mr. Conolly!” he said. “My dear man. I’ve just heard what happened at the Duke of Tiverwell’s.”

Charles was horrified. “Does all of London know?” he demanded, looking at Arthur, who stepped in.

“Dear Mr. Conolly is drinking to soothe his broken heart,” Arthur explained. “Please assure him, My Lord, that his mortification is not, in fact, known to all.”

“Oh, dear me, no,” Lord Drysdale assured him. “I merely stopped in to discuss a bit of business with the Duke.”

“It’s all right, dear friend,” Arthur assured him, patting Charles on the shoulder. Charles exhaled, relaxing a little.

“For my part,” Lord Drysdale said. “I’m very sorry to hear that he’s turned you down. I’ve seen you with Lady Arabella. It’s easy to see how truly the two of you light up when you’re together.”

“Thank you, M’Lord,” Charles said, slurring his words. He held out his hand, which the Viscount of Drysdale shook heartily. “I hope that you’re well.”

“I am. I’m courting Lady Violet Fanning,” he said. “We are to be married in January.”

“Good to hear,” Charles said.

“I imagine that I’ll have some estate planning to do,” Lord Drysdale said.

“I’d be happy to help, M’Lord,” Charles replied.

“Good. I’ll be in touch to schedule an appointment,” Lord Drysdale said, raising his hat. With that, he was gone, vanishing into the crowd.

“He’s a kind sort of gentleman,” Arthur remarked.

“The best,” Charles agreed, leaning on his friend.

“Let’s get you home,” Arthur said.

“I had been ready to let her fit up the house,” Charles said sadly. All of his plans, come to nothing, in the space of a morning.

“I know, old chum,” Arthur replied mournfully.

* * *

It had been three days since Charles’ failed visit to her father. In that time, Arabella had not broken down. She had not spoken to, nor looked at her father.

Dinner was a silent affair. The air was filled with the sound of cutlery clinking against plates. Arabella kept her gaze on her food. She only spoke to her mother, not that her father was saying anything to her.

“Lady Catsmore is considering purchasing a second chaise,” her mother said. “I told her that it was such a necessary expense.”

“What does second chaise matter?” Arabella asked. “But I suppose if you’ve married for money, and not love, then that’s all that matters to you.” She finally looked at her father. “Is that who you wish me to become, Father? Obsessed with buying more than one chaise? Until I die, and then I can use it to bury myself in?”

Her father looked at her. Cold fury was spread across his features. He said nothing. Clearly, the matter of Arabella falling in love with her father’s barrister was still smarting.

“I barely recognize you of late,” she said, turning her gaze toward her plate.

“How dare you sit at my table, and eat my food,” he stated, “while you speak ill of me.” There was no fury in his voice—the icy calmness of it was chilling.

“Do you wish me to starve, then?” she asked, looking him in the eye.

“It is because I do not wish you to starve that I turned down Mr. Conolly,” he replied.

She stared at him. She didn’t know what else to say. Charles was well-off. He had assured her as much. He worked for nearly every gentleman of the ton, and Arabella knew that they paid him well. How was he going to lose all of his money, when he was putting it away in the bank, to provide for her comfort?

“Arabella,” her father went on. “Can’t you see that it’s because I love you that I’m doing this? It’s because I want for you to have the same economic and social status to which you are used.”

“I just want to be with the man that I love,” she replied, trying to get him to see things from her point of view.

“He cannot offer you the life that a gentleman would,” her father replied. “We have raised you to be an independent thinker, but we have not raised you to live in a middle-class home on a middle-class income. You will struggle. While you may be able to mix with the ton, they will no longer count you as one of their own. You will be thrust out of your good standing in Society. It’s in your best interest that you marry someone who is, in every way, your equal.”

“I said as much to you during the summer,” her mother added. “You must marry a gentleman who challenges you.”

“You are the daughter of a Duke,” her father said. “You are to marry a Duke, and I will find a gentleman who is suitable—one who respects your interests and treats you with kindness. You will marry him, and there will be no more talk of marrying Mr. Conolly.”

Her throat felt tight. “How can you trust someone so implicitly with your own affairs that you believed to be after your money? Have you fired him, then?”

“No. I have not,” her father replied.

“Are you planning to do so, then?” she asked.

“No,” her father replied. “I will continue to retain his services. I will continue dealings with Mr. Conolly as I have been. However, you are never to be alone with him, ever.”

“Of course.” She could barely speak.

“You are not to communicate with him,” he went on.

“As you wish.” She stared down at her empty plate. She could see her parents’ point, as well as their fears. Comfort and luxury, as well as the power of a title were no small consideration. While Charles could offer her comfort, there would be neither luxury nor title.

Nonetheless, she was disappointed and heartbroken. Without her father’s approbation, there was nothing to be done. He would not be convinced. She would have to give him up. But she would not marry, not without love.

Chapter Seventeen

Charles stood along the wall. He watched as the gentlemen and ladies of the ton mingled. It was Lord Drysdale’s engagement party to Lady Violet Fanning, daughter of the Earl of Bryndon. Lord Diggar had spotted him, and made his way over.

“Sorry I forgot about our appointment,” he said. “Is there any way that I can reschedule?”

“Absolutely, My Lord,” Charles said. “Let me know when you are coming.”

“Of course, of course,” Lord Diggar replied. He walked away—clearly, he was drunk again. Charles frowned. The Earl of Diggar had always been a bit of a drunkard, but he had been particularly bad of late.

Charles spied Arabella, watching him. He was concerned to find that she looked peaked, her eyes dark. He nodded to her, going over to the tea service to pour himself a cup. She sidled up beside him.

“Are you well, My Lady?” he asked in a low voice, keeping his eyes on the tea as he stirred it.

“As well as can be expected,” she replied. “I want to apologize for my father’s behavior.”

“I made the mistake of assuming that I was your equal,” he replied. “I will not do so again, My Lady.”

When he finally looked her in the eye, she looked as though she were about to cry. He glanced around, to find that they were wholly unobserved. Even the Duke of Tiverwell was deep in conversation with Lord Drysdale. Charles dared to take her by the hand.

* * *

Arabella had so much to say to him, but was wholly unable to. The touch of his hand, meant to reassure her only made it worse. She so craved his touch, and to have it. She sniffled.

“You are my equal,” she whispered.

“We’ll both have to move on,” he replied woodenly. It was a platitude—one that he didn’t mean.

“I won’t be able to,” she told him.

“You cannot mean to—”

“They cannot force me to,” she explained, cutting him off. “I cannot marry where I do not love.”

Her mother came over. “Mr. Conolly,” she said. “How are you?”

He let go of Arabella’s hand, as if he’d been burned. “I am well, Your Grace. I hope that you are, as well?”

“Yes, thank you,” the Duchess said. Her eyes spoke a warning to both of them. She had seen, and heard much. Perhaps, she had even been watching for such an eventuality as this.

“Excuse me, Your Grace, My Lady.” He gave Arabella a pained grin, then walked away. Arabella turned back toward the table, finding that he’d abandoned his tea.

“Arabella,” her mother said. “You cannot be seen speaking to him.”

“Did Father send you over?” she asked.

“No,” she replied. “But if he had, he would have been livid to see that he was holding your hand in public! Have you no shame?”

Arabella didn’t answer that. She couldn’t. She glanced at her mother. The Duchess was frowning in disapprobation, still waiting for an answer. Arabella turned and walked away, leaving her mother beside the refreshments. Somehow, she needed to survive the next few hours, watching Lord Drysdale and Lady Violet, as they looked absolutely happy.

* * *

Any moment now, Josias Montagu, the illustrious Earl of Diggar, will walk through that door.

The Murdered waited, in the shadows, by the door.

He won’t see me until it’s far too late…

The Murderer would never have been able to touch him while at home. Luckily, the Earl of Diggar had come to London on so-called “business.” Due to his numerous indiscretions, he wouldn’t be staying in his fancy Mayfair townhome. He was staying at a grimy inn, where no one he knows would see him.

Earlier, the Murderer had watched the Earl of Diggar leave. He’d already been walking in the odd fashion of those who are on their way to being very drunk. That was when the Murderer slipped in.

The door opened, and Lord Diggar walked inside. He was ugly, on both the inside and the outside. His jowls sank into the collar of his expensive shirt. He was wearing a dark crimson velvet jacket. He glanced down at his golden pocket watch, then closed the door, swaying ominously.

In the darkness, Lord Diggar didn’t see the Murderer, who could easily smell him, though.

The Earl has been drinking. He’s made my work that much easier.

In the shadows, the Murderer moved quietly, standing behind him. The Murderer raised the knife to Lord Diggar’s throat. The Lord tensed. The smell of liquor and tobacco was strong. It was almost as if he had sat in a bath filled with them.

It makes my stomach turn.

“What do you want?” Lord Diggar demanded. “How did you get in here?”

“I think you know, My Lord,” The Murderer said. “I know you’ve gotten my letters.”

“Nemesis,” Lord Diggar whispered.

“Yes.”

“Money? I have…nearly three hundred pounds with me...”

“I only want your death,” the Murderer whispered in his ear, drawing the blade across Lord Diggar’s throat. A small amount of hot blood splattered across the Murderer’s hand and cheek. The Murderer let go, and the Earl slumped forward, landing heavily on his knees as he died. He made an odd, gurgling noise, then fell onto his face.

Reaching into his pocket, the Murderer took his fancy golden watch, wiping the bloody knife clean on the back of Lord Diggar’s expensive jacket.

Soft, luscious velvet, of course. Only the best for the Earl of Diggar, who is now food for worms.

Slipping the knife into an inside jacket pocket, the Murderer put the pocket watch into an outside pocket, like a gentleman would. The Murderer would never be a gentleman, in truth. The Murderer could pretend, just for the night.

The Murderer stepped out into the hall, which was dark, lit only by the light that spilled beneath the doors of the rooms. The Murderer could see shadows, from where persons walked about in the safety behind those doors.

No one has heard a sound that they find alarming.

It would be a while before Lord Diggar was noticed missing, but that is what happens when someone has a secret life. Sometimes, that secret life puts that person in the way of an avenger.

The Murderer walked down the stairs, glancing at the crowded pub, and then outside. The streets were full at that hour. Many people were rushing to and fro. Carriages raced by, sending up a spray of mud. The Murderer was unseen, veins filled with a quicksilver feeling—that rush that accompanied a successful kill.

As the Murderer walked through the street, a man collided with them.

“Watch where you’re going,” the Murderer hissed.

“Sorry,” he muttered, as he continued to rush.

There was a clatter as something fell. The Murderer presumed that it was the man’s. The man was just lucky that he wasn’t on his kill list.

When the Murderer reached the end of the street, they noticed that Montagu’s watch had fallen out of their pocket. Disappointment seared through Nemesis. It was supposed to pay for Nemesis’s new life. The one that Nemesis would have after the successful completion of the kill list.

Looking back, the crowd in the street moved along apace.

I can’t risk going back and being seen.

Usually, the Murderer was invisible to all. But now that an Earl lay murdered on the floor of his room at the inn, everyone would be visible, no matter their status. Nemesis kept walking.

There will be other trinkets, just as there will be other deaths.

Chapter Eighteen

A group of constables suddenly entered the Black Dog, where Charles was drinking with a group of friends. All of them were London barristers, and they met up once a week to drink. They would fight it out all week in chambers, then when Friday eve came around, they would all go out on the town together—friends. It was a rule with all of them not to talk shop. What was said and done in chambers remained there.

“I wonder what the fuss is about.” Charles muttered, watching as the group of dark-dressed constables climbed the stairs to the second floor of the pub, which served as an inn.

“Looks like something happened upstairs,” Arthur replied.

“We should get out of here,” Alistair Morton added. “Don’t want to be here if there’s a big to-do.”

“Agreed,” Arthur said, bringing his tankard to his lips, and tipping his head back to swallow the dregs.

They all got up, and then made their way to the door, Charles trailing along behind them. They all gathered on the street.

“Let’s head over to the Ox Bow!” Arthur Hinkley suggested. The whole group muttered their agreement. After a long day in chambers, the barristers were all out for a night of drink and debauchery.

“Come on, Charles,” Arthur said, patting him on the shoulder.

“Coming,” Charles replied, burying his hands into his pockets. Something caught his eye as he stepped out into the road, however. “One moment!” he called out, stepping toward the golden gleam. He bent down to pick it up.

It was a pocket watch—very expensive, with detailed engraving of feathers across the front. The chain was broken off—as though it had fallen from someone’s pocket. On the back, it was engraved with the initials, J.M.

Charles knew this pocket watch. It was the very one that he had convinced Lord Winterbourne to return to Lord Diggar, back at the Danburys’ ball during the summer. He looked around, trying to see if Lord Diggar was still around. Not seeing him, he put it in his pocket. As soon as he returned home, he would write to Lord Diggar, to let him know that he’d found it.

“Stop! You, there!” A gruff male voice came from behind him.

Charles turned toward it, finding two constables, standing there, scowling at him. They wore their high black caps, and their dark navy uniforms. Silver badges adorned their jackets, glistening in the light of the streetlamps. “Yes?” he asked. He’d drank just enough ale to give him a low buzz. One was older, portly—while the other appeared quite young.

“What did you just pick up?” The older of the two asked.

Charles pulled the watch out, presuming that they were searching for it, themselves. Perhaps Lord Diggar had contacted them himself. The older one accepted it, turning it over in his hand.

“J.M.,” he remarked. “As in, Josias Montagu.” The two constables shared a look. Charles frowned, suddenly on his guard.

“The Earl of Diggar is a client of mine,” Charles explained. “I was going to return it to him.”

“You know him?” The one raised a bushy eyebrow.

“He’s a client of mine,” Charles repeated, wondering what was going on. They were acting odd, almost as if they suspected him of something. “I’m his barrister.”

“You’re under arrest, Sir,” the constable said, gruffly.

“Whatever for?” Arthur demanded, cutting in to the conversation. Charles glanced over, to find that there was an entire crowd of drunken barristers standing beside him. It made him feel a little better, but not much.

“The murder of Josias Montagu,” the constable said, causing Charles to panic.

“But he was with us, the whole evening,” Arthur insisted. “We were in the Black Dog.”

“The Earl was murdered on the second floor of the Black Dog,” the younger constable said.

“Nice of you to cover for him, but we’re going to have to take him in,” the older constable replied.

Charles’s mind was reeling. The idea that Lord Diggar had been murdered…and that Charles was suspected of it…He couldn’t process—his head was spinning.

“You don’t have any reason, aside from the fact that he picked up the pocket watch from the street,” Alistair said. “He clearly found it—he didn’t take it off of Lord Diggar’s body.” Alistair was in criminal defense.

The constable scowled at Alistair, who stared back at him steadily. “Come on. You can’t actually place him on the second floor,” Alistair pressed, expertly. “He was down on the first floor, and I have an entire room full of people who can corroborate. Including the barkeep, who I know for a fact is stone sober.”

They all watched as the constable deflated. “We’ll take the watch as evidence,” was all that he said.

Charles and his friends all walked away. He turned to Alistair. “Thanks,” he said.

“It’s my job to assist those who are being wrongfully accused,” he replied. “I would make sure that you have alibis going forward. At least until the killer is caught.”

Charles nodded. He had a bad feeling about all of this. He was supposed to have met Lord Diggar at his office that week.

* * *

“Pleased to meet you, Your Grace,” Arabella said, dropping into a curtsy.

“And you, My Lady,” Lord Alexander Sutton, the Duke of Longmire replied. “I’ve heard much about you.” He smiled at her. He had brown hair, which did a bit of a wave as it fell over his leonine eyes. She noted the straightness of his aquiline nose and the shape of his lips—how they twisted in disapprobation.

She watched his eyes take in her cream-colored silk dress with its blue ribbons and French lace trim. Her hair had been arranged in a high elegant bun.

“Only good things, I hope.” She raised her eyebrow. The Duke was certainly attractive. She knew why he had been invited to her mother’s intimate little luncheon—her father approved of the Duke of Longmire.

Simply because he was an eligible bachelor and a Duke.

“Mostly. I’ve heard that you ride astride, My Lady.” He was frowning a little.

“And do you disapprove, Your Grace?” she asked arching her brow. This conversation was tiresome. She’d had it often, ever since she was a child, and she’d learned how to ride in this manner. It was her opinion that a side-saddle was useless.

He sputtered a little bit, like an elderly gentleman. His frown deepened and even then he was still handsome. “Well, um…”

Arabella smiled serenely folding her hands in front of her. She knew how to get rid of him. “Have you also heard that I am skilled at archery, as well as swordplay?”

“Are you really?” His eyes widened as his finely-shaped eyebrows shot upward.

“Indeed. I am also skilled at needlepoint, dancing, drawing, and can speak four languages, fluently.”

“How truly impressive,” he said. He was recovering, relaxing in to the conversation.

“Interesting,” she mused.

“What is that?”

“It sounded like you were all set to disapprove of me,” she replied. “Your Grace.”

“Apologies, My Lady,” he said. “I have never met your like.”

“I can tell.” She scowled at him, briefly, then beamed angelically. The Duke of Longmire blinked at her.

“If I may ask, why have your studies included so many masculine pursuits?” he asked, clearly preparing to fight for her.

Has Pappa already granted him permission?

The Duke of Tiverwell, the Duchess, and Arabella had only made Lord Longmire’s acquaintance the other day, at Lord Drysdale’s engagement party.

She opened her mouth to speak, when she was cut off.

“Because, Your Grace,” Arabella’s father said, cutting in. “My wife and I were only blessed with one child. My daughter has been raised as both son and daughter to us. She was interested in all of her pursuits. We decided to acquiesce.”

Her father beamed at the Duke of Longmire in a way that confirmed Arabella’s suspicions.

“My father can explain further,” Arabella said, curtsying. “Excuse me, Your Grace.”

She made her way over toward the table, where a large pot of hot coffee rested. She helped herself to a cup. It smelled divine.

At the other end of the table, just beside the plates of tiny petits-fours, two ladies were talking in low voices. “Did you hear?” Lady Linton, the Dowager Countess, was saying. “Constables stopped Mr. Charles Conolly last night. They questioned him out in the street.”

Arabella’s blood ran cold when she heard Charles’s name. She listened in, pretending to be very involved in adding sugar and cream to her coffee. She stirred it with a spoon, clinking against the porcelain of the cup.

“What is he accused of?” Lady Tindall asked.

“Murder,” Lady Linton said. Arabella’s mind seemed to go blank.

“Whose?” Arabella demanded, turning toward them. Both ladies looked at her in surprise. She, too, was surprised that she’d spoken.

“The Earl of Diggar,” Lady Linton replied.

“He couldn’t have,” Arabella stated firmly. “Mr. Conolly couldn’t have.” He wouldn’t have murdered the Earl of Diggar, either. The two of them got on remarkably well. Charles had assisted the Earl of Diggar on numerous occasions.

“It appears that Mr. Conolly can be placed at the scene of the crime,” Lady Linton said, shaking her head so her auburn curls bounced off of her cheeks. “To think that we’ve all trusted him.”

“What proof?” Arabella asked, seething with anger and fear.

“He had the Earl’s pocket watch in his possession,” Lady Linton replied.

“That’s hardly proof of murder.” Arabella wasn’t about to back down.

“It’s only what I’ve heard,” Lady Linton said, shrugging with one silk-swathed shoulder.

Arabella turned back to her coffee. She was horrified. She had seen Charles only a few days before, at Lord Drysdale and Lady Violet’s engagement party. He had seemed his usual self. She glanced over at her father, who was watching her reaction closely. There was an icy look on his face, as if to say, I told you so.

Her hands were shaking, so she carried her cup over to the window, where she could be alone. His disapprobation of Charles was well-known. The news certainly wouldn’t help to change it. Her father wanted Arabella to marry for love. Except, he had forbidden her from marrying Charles on account of that he was not of the ton.

She wouldn’t believe it. Couldn’t.

Charles? A murderer? Never.

She knew him, almost as well as she knew herself.

Arabella sipped her coffee, moving across the room, where she might have a few moments to collect herself.

She paused by the window. Outside, the sun was shining down on the street. There in Kensington, there were well-dressed ladies and gentlemen, out for strolls and riding in their fancy carriages.

Her mind was full; her heart was terrified. She’d known Charles since the past summer, and had become even more intimately acquainted with him through months of correspondence. She thought back to the first time that she had seen him.

He’d been dressed in a dark blue coat, which brought out the blue in his eyes. His raven black hair fell over his forehead, just so. She had been smitten, when instead of being utterly aghast at the fact that she’d been dressed for fencing lessons in a pair of breeches and a vest, had discussed her choice of rapier over epée.

They had secretly stolen moments together. It had been utterly improper. For Arabella, that’s what made it worth it. She would happily spend the rest of her life as a barrister’s wife, if it meant that she would be spending it with Charles.

Outside, on the street, a carriage pulled by two soot-black horses stopped in the road. Even though Arabella was forbidden from marrying Charles, she still loved him. She hadn’t wholly given up hope. Then, she was terrified for him. His father had been executed by mistake. Now that the son was in the same position, she was so frightened that she felt sick.

Chapter Nineteen

There were wrongs which needed to be redressed. The gentlemen of the ton never saw consequences for their actions. Nemesis acted, demanded, ordered the world, so that everything went accordingly.

The Murderer walked along the Thames, where a cold wind blew across the river. It smelled of dirt and muck. Nemesis wondered if any bodies had floated up. Nemesis peered down at the water, so dark it was almost black.

Anyone could be crushed beneath the solid tread of the ton’s well-heeled boots, and they would never think twice about it, so long as they had everything just as they wanted it.

No more.

I won’t let it happen to others, like it happened to me.

Over and over again. They were all the same, and in the end, they all must die.

The Murderer pulled the knife from the pocket, turning it so that the blade glinted in the light. That blade had been wetted by blood.

That night, it would drink more. The Viscount of Drysdale was the Murderer’s next appointment. He had plans to attend the theater that evening. The Murderer planned to waylay him whilst he walked back from there to his stately townhome.

“Tha’s a nice blade ya got there,” a man said, smiling at the Murderer. He was missing most of his front teeth.

The Murderer slipped it back into the pocket. “It does the trick,” Nemesis assured him with a smile.

* * *

Charles remained at home, for the next few days. In the wake of Lord Diggar’s murder, he knew that everyone was whispering. Most of his clients had cancelled their appointments. The tide of rumor was often a courtroom of its own. He stood in his parlor, in front of his window, looking out over the street. There was a parade of passersby, all of them going about their lives.

How truly fitting this is. Just like my father. Unjustly accused, and likely going to be executed, as well.

He knew better than to presume that his innocence would be found out.

It’s a good thing that Mother isn’t around to see this. She would have been beside herself.

His mother had passed on, five years prior. She’d seen him graduate from University, and begin his life as a Barrister. She’d become ill, passing away not long after. His father’s death had almost broken her. He knew that she had held on just long enough to see him safely to adulthood.

The same went for Arabella. At the very least, her father had denied him the permission to court her. Now, she wouldn’t have to worry about him. No scandal would touch her—as false as it was.

Yet, he knew, too—she had likely heard about it, and was worried. He recalled the last time that he’d seen her, at the Viscount of Drysdale’s engagement party. It was the only thing keeping him from losing his mind.

She had waited, until the very end, when everyone else was busy saying their goodbyes. He had been getting ready to leave himself, and was waiting for a footman to bring him his coat.

“I miss you, Charles,” she’d whispered to him. Their eyes had met. Hers were soft. The candlelight had made her chestnut hair glow like copper. The soft gray silk dress that she wore. Her lips which dreamed of often recalling their one stolen kiss at her birthday party.

“And I you, My Lady,” he replied, the familiar ache in his chest. She could never be his, no matter how much they both wished it. It was a hurt which would not go away.

“If only—” she’d begun.

“Don’t,” he had said, stopping her. His heart couldn’t bear the thought. He wasn’t a Duke. He was just a simple London barrister. He could offer her a comfortable home, but—he couldn’t offer her a title, or a vast array of wealth, as she was accustomed. She would be lowering herself, by marrying him.

She had smiled, holding out her hand for him to shake. He had done so, looking into her eyes, which were glistening with tears. She’d turned away from him, then walked away, disappearing into the crowd.

“Sir?” Mrs. Osbourne called out from the door, bringing him back to the present day. He turned around to face her. She held out a letter. “It’s from Mr. Hinkley, sir.”

“Thank you,” he said, accepting it. He looked up at her. She remained in the doorway. “Something the matter?”

“There’s been news,” she replied. “Lord Drysdale’s been found murdered, sir.”

Charles stared at her in shock. He couldn’t believe it. He looked down at the letter, quickly breaking the seal and unfolding it.

Charles,

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 I could trust.”

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.”

“You should marry for love,” her father went on. “But you should marry a Duke.” He wanted her to be able to live at the same luxury as she always had.

“I presume you’ll let me know when I’m in love with the right one, then?” She couldn’t keep the edge out of her tone.

“You’re not still mooning over Mr. Conolly, are you?” he asked. Of all the gentlemen in England, Arabella had the unfortunate luck to fall for her father’s barrister.

“No, Pappa,” she replied—it wasn’t, after all, a lie, as she wasn’t mooning over Charles—she was in love with him. What good would it do to tell her father that, though? Then her father would find a different barrister, which would mean that Arabella would never see Charles again. It was better to see him often, than not at all. No matter how much it ached.

* * *

Charles was sitting down to his luncheon. Mrs. Osbourne had procured him a chicken and roasted it to browned crisp perfection. There were carrots, in rosemary and butter. And freshly-baked biscuits, slathered with butter and marmalade. He dug in, hungrily.

“Mrs. Osbourne!” he said. “You’ve outdone yourself!”

“I’m glad you think so, sir.” She was a middle-aged woman, whom he had hired entirely on the merit of her cooking skills. “I figure that you need a good meal in you, what with the recent deaths.”

“That’s very kind of you,” he replied, then began to eat.

“It’s my job to make sure that you’re well fed, sir. You’ve a letter,” she said, placing it beside him. “Just arrived.”

“Thank you,” he said, recognizing the wax seal of the Duke of Tiverwell with a jolt. It would be a very long time before, he could think of the Duke without thinking of his daughter.

He filled his mouth with a bite of chicken, then broke the seal as he chewed. Unfolding the letter, he read:

Mr. Conolly,

I need your assistance—I would like to change my will, in addition to speaking with you on some other, urgent legal matters.

Additionally, I have heard the recent rumors, and I would like to ensure that all of the ton knows that you are innocent.

Do come and have dinner here at Tiverwell Manor, this evening, so we can prove to all that you are still the sterling advocate that we know you to be.

Regards,

The Duke of Tiverwell.

He sat, looking at it.

Tiverwell. Arabella will be there.

His heart raced. It would be good to see her.

If His Grace only knew the dark, lusting thoughts that Charles still harbored toward Arabella, he would never invite him over. He would stop conducting business through him at all.

He tucked into his meal. He would eat, send a response to the Duke, take a nap, then go to dinner. He knew that Arabella must have engineered this somehow. The Duke of Tiverwell might not allow them to marry, but he, like every gentleman in Arabella’s life, was wrapped around her finger, and she knew when to twist them tighter.

Chapter Twenty

Arabella was nervous, as she waited for Charles to show up. She’d dressed in her very best rust colored silk, which brought out the copper color of her hair. She wore her gold locket, on a black ribbon at her neck.

Everyone else was talking in low voices. Lord and Lady Tindall and the Lady Linton, and her daughter, Lady Eleanor were there, as was the Duke of Longmire, who walked over to her.

“My Lady,” he said, courteously. She curtseyed to him.

“Your Grace,” she replied. He was the sort of individual that her father wanted her to marry—a Duke, with the wealth of Croesus. Unfortunately, he was also a bore.

“You look lovely,” he commented.

When she smiled at him, her eye twitched. “Thank you, Your Grace.” She swallowed. The Duke of Longmire always said the right things, but they felt empty. He could have easily said the same thing to all of the other ladies in the room. As a matter of fact, he had.

The door opened, and Mr. Blankley peered inside. “Mr. Charles Conolly,” he announced. The sound of Charles’ name caused lighting to strike Arabella at the core. She turned.

Arabella’s eyes met his, across the room. Her skin tingled. There were dark circles pressed underneath his blue eyes, and he looked pale.

She walked over to him—the Duke, forgotten.

“Are you all right, Mr. Conolly?” she asked, remembering that they weren’t alone, and the entire room was watching them, right then.

He bowed. “I’m much better than I was, My Lady,” he replied.

She curtseyed, still holding his gaze. Something passed in between them. He nodded, a little, as if to assure her that he was fine. She felt herself relax. Here he was, unharmed, whole. She could relax, if only a little.

If only we could slip off, unnoticed.

She had so much that she wanted to ask him—all of it, completely improper in front of the gathered company.

“Mr. Conolly,” her father said, from just behind Arabella. “Welcome.”

“Thank you for having me over for dinner,” he said, his eyes finally leaving Arabella’s.

“Come, have something to drink,” the Duke said, slipping easily into the guise of gracious host.

“Thank you, Your Grace,” he murmured, bowing his head. As he moved past her, his eyes met hers again. Arabella fell into step beside him. She didn’t care who was watching. She was going to show them that Charles was trustworthy—blamed through no fault of his own—he had been at the wrong place at the wrong time. Rumor was a nasty thing, one which the ton dealt with like a kind of currency.

“Are you well, Sir?” she asked. She tried to communicate with her gaze.

He blinked. The hint of a smile played at the corners of his lips. She warmed to him, like a flower, facing the sun as it moved in its arc through the sky.

“I am, My Lady.”

“Good. We were all so worried about you, Mr. Conolly,” she said, really meaning, I was worried half to death. He smiled, and she knew that he guessed her meaning.

“We were,” her mother agreed. “We all knew it to be a rumor, and nothing more”

“Unfortunately, it’s a story that I’m well acquainted with, Your Grace.”

Arabella’s heart went out to him. His father, she knew, had been executed for a crime he didn’t commit.

Her heart was racing. She needed to speak with him, after dinner. As he was surrounded by the other guests, and they began to ask him questions, the Duke of Longmire sidled up beside her.

“He’s innocent, then?” he asked—he looked annoyed. It wasn’t often that a Duke was upstaged by a simple London barrister.

He’s going to have to get used to it if he’s planning on sticking around.

“Of course, he is,” she replied, stoutly.

* * *

After a long, enjoyable dinner, the others retired to the parlor for drinks and cards. Charles watched Arabella, walking away from him. The Duke of Longmire followed her, moving to stand by her side. Charles was used to gentlemen taking Arabella away from him.

It was something that he was going to have to become accustomed to. Before, it had been bearable because he knew that he had her heart. But the Duke of Tiverwell had turned down his suit. Now, she was free to pursue the Duke of Longmire.

“Come, Mr. Conolly,” the Duke said. “I’d like to speak with you for a moment.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” Charles replied.

Arabella glanced back at him, before reaching the door to the parlor. The look was filled with longing, which just about pierced him to the core. Even without her rapier, she could disarm him with a glance.

The Duke of Longmire stopped, too. His face fell out of a grin, and he scowled at Charles.

Turning away, he followed the Duke to his study, closing the door after them. It was a dark room, decorated in forest green. The furniture was all mahogany, large and built to be impressive. He stood, waiting to be offered a seat. He couldn’t help but recall the last time that he had been in that room.

“Sit, please,” the Duke said, taking a seat in one of the green velvet armchairs.

He sat, as ordered.

“I want to revise my will,” the Duke said. “I want to get rid of the entail, so that my only child inherits everything.”

“It’s going to be tricky,” he replied. “But it can be done.” It would be very near impossible. As a lady, Arabella could not inherit the title, nor the county seat that went with it. However, Charles could likely find a way that the Duke would be pleased—he just needed to figure out what that would be.

The Duke smiled, nodding. “Very good.”

“May I ask why?”

“I’ve raised my daughter like I would have a son, were I so lucky,” the Duke replied. “Thus, she should be my heir.”

Charles nodded. “And, when she marries? Will her husband inherit what is yours? I’ll need to ensure that the documents are worded correctly.”

The Duke clearly hadn’t thought of this. He shook his head. “No. It must all go to Arabella.”

Charles nodded, folding his hands in his lap. He knew that the gentlemen of the ton found Arabella to be rather daunting, as she was. Independently wealthy, the heir of a Duke—nearly unheard of. But Charles was successful because he made things happen which others could not. The ton rewarded him richly for it.

“And the Dukedom? Along with the title?” This was the one thing that Charles was unsure of. Titles were passed on to male heirs, and male heirs only.

“You can do it, can’t you?” the Duke asked.

“Your current male heir is going to bring it to court, and you know it,” he pointed out, as gently as he could.

“But we can fight it, can’t we?” He had gotten up and was pacing his study. The Duke was a large and imposing figure, stalking the room like a caged lion.

“We could,” Charles replied, carefully. “But wouldn’t it be easier to have Lady Arabella inherit your money and the London townhome, then just give him the title and county seat…as an appeasement, of sorts?”

“Absolutely not.” He sliced at the air with his hand, in a swift and abrupt chopping motion.

“Your Grace?” Charles raised an eyebrow. “I feel it incumbent upon me to tell you that this is going to be an extensive court battle. One which you may likely end up losing, due to society’s obsession with primogeniture.”

“Out of the question! It all must go to Arabella,” the Duke insisted.

Charles knew what he was expected to say. “As you wish, Your Grace,” he said. It would be a hefty paycheck for Charles, even if the hours that he’d be putting into it would be long and arduous.

The Duke beamed at him as he sat back down in his seat. He began drumming his fingers on the arms of the chair. He seemed—tightly strung.

“Is something the matter, Your Grace?” Charles asked. After all, concerns about wills and inheritance were often precluded by fears of sudden death.

“It’s these murders, Mr. Conolly,” the Duke replied. “The Earl of Diggar and the Viscount of Drysdale were both dear friends of mine.”

“Are you worried for your own safety?” Charles asked.

“I am,” he admitted. “I would be stupid not to.” He blinked. “And you? Are you well? The rumor hasn’t ruined you, has it?”

“Many of my clients have cancelled their appointments,” Charles admitted.

The Duke was nodding, his brow furrowed.

“Thank you for showing your support for me,” Charles said. “I very much appreciate it.”

“Of course! We were having a dinner, so naturally…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “Horrible, awful business. Two funerals in one week…”

“I should be on my way home,” Charles said. He knew that he would need to appear at both, so as not to appear the guilty party.

“Quite right,” the Duke said. “We’re all so glad that you could come.”

“Certainly,” Charles replied, following him to the door.

“Show Mr. Conolly out,” the Duke told the butler.

Mr. Blankley led him down a hall, which was darkened. At the end of the hallway, Arabella stood, a candle in hand, lighting up her face. She was dressed in a winter coat, his own slung over her arm.

* * *

“My Lady,” the butler said, bowing stiffly. Arabella smiled, handing him a few folded bills.

“I trust that I’ve bought your silence, Mr. Blankley,” she said. She had slipped out of the parlor, unnoticed. She would return as soon as she’d spoken to Charles.

“Yes, My Lady,” he replied, eyeing Charles. “Please don’t do anything rash.”

“Not to worry. I just need a word in private with Mr. Conolly,” she assured him.

“Very well, My Lady.” Blankley was frowning. No doubt he didn’t like being included in Arabella’s plans.

Charles stared at her in surprise, and she winked at him, blowing out the candle, and setting it down on a side table. She handed him his coat, which she’d nicked from the downstairs hallway.

“Come,” she said, taking him by the hand, weaving her fingers in with his.

“Arabella,” he hissed, although he didn’t let go of her hand. It gave Arabella hope that he still harbored feelings for her, despite her father’s resounding rejection. “It isn’t proper—your father will have me drawn and quartered.”

“I’ll handle Pappa,” she whispered. “I need to speak with you, Charles.”

She watched his eyes soften at the use of his name. “Quickly.”

She took him by the servants’ stairwell, which was always pitch black. She knew the way well, even though it smelled strongly of the damp.

It took them to a door, which opened into the garden in the back of the house. It was full night, by then. A few lanterns were lit, but they had the shadows to protect them. He still had not let go of her hand. Her heart beat in her chest, and her skin warmed at his touch.

There was frost, covering the hedges, and the cold seeped through her coat and her lightweight slippers. Luckily, the wind was down. She shivered.

Once they were a good distance from the house, she turned toward him. In the moonlight, she could just make out his features. Their breath steamed in the winter air.

“I was so terrified for you,” she whispered. “I knew that you were innocent.”

“What made you so sure?”

“Please, Charles. Don’t put up walls between us,” she begged. She couldn’t bear it.

“If I don’t, your father will have my head on a stake,” he said.

She laughed, although her throat became tight. “If I could convince him otherwise, then I would have it be so,” she told him.

In the darkness, he stared at her, sadly.

“Your feelings are unchanged, then?” he asked. Suddenly, she panicked. What if his had? Arabella had never considered that before. She decided to take the chance.

“Completely unchanged, Charles,” she assured him. “Yours?”

“I only love you even more, Arabella,” he said. ”Thinking of you is the only thing getting me through this.”

“What was?” she asked, curious to know.

“The thought that you were out here, alive and well,” he murmured, reaching up to touch one of the curls that framed her face. She caught his hand in hers, kissing it.

“I was thinking of you,” she murmured. “Always.”

He reached out, drawing her in close to him, one hand on her cheek, the other at her waist. Arabella’s breath caught. He leaned in, pressing his lips to hers. At first, the kiss was hesitant, searching—then, it deepened.

Arabella’s skin tingled deliciously. When she pulled away, she opened her eyes.

“What are we going to do?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” he replied, he was smiling at her. “Between the two of us, we’ll find a way to convince him, won’t we?”

A tear slipped down her cheek. This moment should have been a happy one. Instead, she was devastated.

“I’m so happy that you’re safe,” she said, her hand on his cheek.

He smiled. “I am safe,” he assured her. “Now, you need to go back inside, before you’re missed. Facing down an angry mob of nobles is a bit more than I can handle.”

“Kiss me once more?” she asked.

“Always,” he said, kissing her again. A joyful feeling went all of the way down to Arabella’s toes. If he asked her to, she would run away with him. He would never do that, though. Charles was the realist.

* * *

Charles made sure that Arabella made it back safely into the house. She reached the door, then turned back to look at him, one last time. He raised his hand in farewell, watching the smile that spread across her face. She waved back then disappeared behind the door.

He let out a deep breath that he hadn’t realized that he’d been holding.

His feelings for her were complicated. The kiss had both buoyed and devastated him. He was ecstatic to find that she still loved him. But there was a deep ache in his chest, accompanied by the knowledge that what they both hoped for might never come to pass.

He made his way out to the street.

All of the street lamps were lit. Finely-dressed people were bustling about, the light from the lamps causing jewels and silk to gleam in the night like stars. He joined the crowd, easily fitting in while dressed for dinner at the Duke of Tiverwell’s.

He still recalled the softness of her lips on his, a memory which caused his skin to heat pleasantly.

The Duke had been angry, when he’d found out about him and Arabella. He’d forbidden them from speaking privately, from marrying. He had promised the Duke what he could—that Arabella would never want for anything, and that he would love, honor and cherish her. The Duke had declared that it wasn’t enough.

The level of comfort that my daughter is used to is more than you will ever be able to give her, the Duke had said. She needs a Duke, or at the very least, an Earl or Viscount. A London barrister? Out of the question.

Charles had never in his life felt like he wasn’t good enough. Until the members of the ton deigned to remind him.

Completely unchanged, Charles.

She still loved him. It seemed impossible. According to her own father, he was barely one step up from a nobody. He was only around because he was useful. And the Duke certainly required his services, if he was to have the entail removed.

He was, unfortunately, going to have to convince the Duke to leave the title and the county seat as is. There were, however, certain things which he could work out.

Arabella—one of the brightest stars in London—loved him. A lowly barrister, who had come from simple, working-class folk. It seemed too impossible to be true.

Chapter Twenty-One

Before the Murderer killed a gentleman of the ton, they send them a warning. They had stolen thick, lush paper, as well as a pot of red ink. The Murderer wrote out the warning, keeping the wording the same, for all of them.

You will pay for your sins. I’m always watching, from the shadows where you sent me.

Once it was dry, the Murderer put a daub of the black wax, and pressed the skull and bones signet ring that they took from the very first kill. It was as good as their own now.

Once the wax had cooled, it was time to send the letter to the Duke. The Murderer had been sending him notice for years. When the Murderer arrived, the Duke would be very surprised. But he wouldn’t be surprised that they had come to kill him.

Making their way through the streets, they found the new boy that they’d hired to deliver their missives. Urchins roamed the London streets aplenty.

“Urgent delivery to the Duke of Tiverwell,” the Murderer told him, placing both letter and coin into the palm of his tiny dirty hand. He nodded, and then ran off. He would never betray Nemesis, because he was mute. Unlike the brother and sister, this boy would not be a loose end, and Nemesis would not have any more innocent blood on the score.

The Murderer followed the boy, to the house. It was all lit up in the night, warmth gleaming from every window.

The Murderer could see well-dressed people, gathered in an upstairs room. The Murderer moved around to the back of the house. Nemesis heard voices, whispering, somewhere nearby.

A man, and the Duke’s only daughter! Alone, in the garden—kissing!

They spoke, and then kissed again. The Murderer got down, into the bushes. Nemesis could not believe the sheer luck. Secrets were worth a lot. That was a secret which the Duke would pay dearly to be kept hidden.

The Murderer waited, until Lady Arabella had gone inside, then followed the man.

The Murderer threw one last glance back at the house. By then, the Duke had gotten the warning. With the recent deaths of two of his closest friends, he would know that there was a target on his back. He knew that he was going to die soon.

The Murderer followed the man through the streets. He walked confidently, much like a gentleman. However, he passed by all of the fine townhomes, making his way into the middle-class neighborhood. The Murderer waited patiently, following at just the right distance.

When he took out a key, and entered a neat, tidy townhouse, the Murderer stood on the street, watching him enter in surprise. He wasn’t a gentleman at all, then. The scandal that should arise from his romance with the Lady Arabella would be of epic proportions.

The Murderer turned away from the modest home. There were more things to be done. The Earl of Danbury was next on the list. The Murderer walked, hands buried in both pockets, fingers wrapped tightly around the handle of the knife.

Beneath their thin veneer, all gentlemen are the same.

What good would it do to reveal the romance? Perhaps it would be all the more damaging to keep it a secret.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Arabella’s heart soared as she ran up the stairs. Her mind was full of Charles— the touch of his hand on her lower back, the feel of his lips on her own, and how her own body reacted. It was positively intoxicating. At the very top, she ran into her father. She gasped, her hand going to her chest.

“Oh, Pappa! You’ve given me a fright!”

He merely raised one eyebrow, slipping a letter into his jacket pocket. “Where have you been?” he asked. Arabella wondered what the letter was. Clearly, he didn’t want her to know.

“In the kitchen,” she replied, lying seamlessly. “I wanted a glass of warm milk.” She was relieved that she’d left her coat downstairs.

“Stomach upset?” he asked.

“Indeed. That cake was too rich,” she replied. She and the Duchess had overseen the after-dinner tea in the parlor. “You should really have a slice.”

“No. No. I am fine.” He didn’t look fine, though. His brow was furrowed, and the corners of his mouth were downturned.

She tilted her head to the side. “What business did you have to discuss with Mr. Conolly?” she asked.

“Don’t worry about it, daughter of mine,” he replied.

“But…you always tell me your business,” she stated flatly.

“Not this time, my dear,” her father said, smiling sadly. She noticed that he placed his hand into his pocket—where the letter was.

“Does this…does this have to do with the murders?” she asked, giving voice to her most recent suspicion. Her father had recently appeared…older, careworn. He’d been drumming his fingers in agitation when he’d thought no one was looking.

He blinked. “No, no! Absolutely not.” He turned away, and began to walk down the hall. Naturally, Arabella followed.

“Please, Pappa! Tell me,” she begged. “You always talk to me.”

He stiffened, stopping in his tracks, he turned to face her, and she saw fear in his look.

“Arabella,” he said, softly. “Everything is fine.” He took her hands in his, pressing her hands in his. He held her gaze, steadily. “Everything is fine.”

She nodded, slowly. She didn’t believe him. He was so secretive these days.

He smiled, although it didn’t reach his eyes—brown, like her own.

“I was speaking to Mr. Conolly, because I am doing everything that I can to make sure that you’ll always be taken care of.”

“I know, Pappa,” she said.

“You’ve been the son that I’ve never had,” he murmured, pausing and then clearing his throat. “You’ll be all right. I will make sure of it.”

He nodded to himself, squeezed her hands, then turned away, heading back to the parlor, and their guests. “We have company to attend to,” he said, clearly expecting her to follow.

Arabella remained where she was, watching his back retreat down the darkened hallway. Something was wrong—she could feel it in her gut. She just wished that he would trust her, just like he always had.

* * *

Few people do not fear the darkness. I sometimes wonder if I was born to be a creature of it.

The Murderer had been following the Earl of Danbury from the house of ill-repute that he often frequented.

There was a time when I feared it, but rage has made me immune. Now, I embrace it.

The Murderer’s footsteps were soft on the stones. Nemesis had waited all night. The wonderful thing about the Earl of Danbury was that he returned from his nightly indiscretions early in the morning, when no one was around. Nemesis had a warm cloak, wrapped up tight, as black as the blackest night. Nemesis followed the Earl, until they were a few streets from his home.

That was when the Earl of Danbury, paused, peering around in the dark.

The Earl slowly turned around to face his own demise.

“Who goes there?” he demanded, standing his ground. It would have been impressive, were he not shaking in fear.

The Murderer said nothing, just stood, still and quiet behind the crates, piled up haphazardly in the alleyway.

“Who’s there?” Lord Danbury called out. The Murderer waited a few more moments, listening to the sounds of the Earl’s boots, slapping on the cobblestones as he quickened his pace.

Nemesis had to walk quickly to catch up to him. Now that the Earl was on the alert, he was walking quickly, almost running.

Nemesis burst into a run—feeling powerful. The Murderer was an apex predator, smelling the fear of prey. The Earl of Danbury was going to die—horribly and pathetically, only a block away from his home, and safety. He stopped, and turned. Nemesis stabbed him, slipping the blade with the expert precision of a surgeon between his ribs then giving it an upward twist.

Blood spilled all over Nemesis. The Murderer looked into Lord Danbury’s eyes, which were wide in surprise and recognition. He slumped against Nemesis, like a lover, then fell to his knees. Nemesis looked around.

At that hour, no one was about.

I am all-powerful.

The Earl was making an odd, gurgling noise as he bled out. Almost a wheezing cry. He flipped over, trying to crawl away. He was quickly becoming weaker.

“You’re going to die,” Nemesis told him. “Here in the alley, where the rats will eat your nose.”

Lord Danbury was sobbing, but weakly. He collapsed, his death-rattle loud in the stillness of the early morning. Nemesis flipped him over, onto his back, and then divested him of his valuables.

* * *

Charles was just finishing breakfast, when Arthur arrived to see him the next morning. He had arrived home quite early from the Duke of Tiverwell’s, and had gotten a very good night’s sleep.

“Charles!” Arthur boomed, as Mrs. Osbourne showed him into the dining room.

“Arthur! What brings you here?”

“I’ve come to walk with you to work, to ensure that you have an ironclad alibi.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Charles replied. “Have a seat.”

“I also wanted to partake of Mrs. Osbourne’s delectable fry-up,” Arthur went on as he pulled out a chair for himself.

“Your efforts have certainly helped.” He and Arthur had been walking to work, then back home together. Arthur stayed until late at night. Since the murderer hadn’t been discovered, they wanted to make sure that Charles was above reproach.

Mrs. Osbourne poured out a cup of tea for Arthur. “Thank you, Mrs. Osbourne,” Arthur muttered.

“You’re welcome, Mr. Hinkley. I’ll go and fix you a plate.” She then disappeared into the depths of the house.

“I didn’t want to say in front of Mrs. Osbourne, but we only got lucky that the killer is compulsive enough to commit another murder,” Arthur said. “If you hadn’t had an alibi for the other night, no doubt the constabulary would have hauled you in.”

“Lucky. What a thought.” It bothered Charles that his freedom had only occurred at the expense of Lord Drysdale’s life. “I was wondering about that,” he mused. “He could have gotten away with it.”

“There’s something about the victims,” Arthur replied, taking a sip of his tea. “They’ve all been targeted. They weren’t murdered at random. It’s all very deliberate.”

“Curious,” Charles replied.

“Think about it,” Arthur stated. “Both of them, Gentlemen of the ton. Usually, they were well-protected. Yet, the killer waits for them to be somewhere on their own—the Earl of Diggar, in a room at an inn. The Viscount of Drysdale, in a darkened alleyway…” He shrugged. “I would bet money that our killer is also a gentleman of the ton.”

“Could be,” Charles agreed. He knew the victims, personally. They were both clients of his. Due to the fact that he mixed with the ton and handled their hard to settle accounts and legal proceedings, he knew most of the ton himself.

Charles hoped that it was merely coincidence, and not that the killer was attempting to frame him for it.

* * *

The Duke of Tiverwell’s barouche-landau pulled up in front of Charles’s office. Arabella’s father got out first, turning and holding out a hand to help first the Duchess, and then Arabella out.

As soon as she stood on the road, Arabella looked at the door, to find that Charles was coming out to greet them. She smiled at him, their secret, forbidden love passing between them. She thought of him, leaning in to kiss her, his lips parted, his eyes on hers. His hand on her lower back, and how his touch made her whole body react.

He bowed gallantly. “Your Graces, welcome,” he said, his gaze going to her. “And Lady Arabella. Are you well?”

“Very well, Mr. Conolly. Thank you.” She loved it when he wore dark blue. It brought out his eyes in a way that made her blood absolutely sing through her veins.

“Are you all coming inside?” he asked.

“No, Sir,” the Duke replied. “The two ladies are off to gather their necessaries for the upcoming ball at Lady Linton’s.”

“Oh,” Charles replied, raising his eyebrows. He looked disappointed.

Arabella beamed at him. “Take care of my father whilst we are gone, Mr. Conolly—won’t you?”

“You have my word,” Charles stated gallantly. “He will be well taken care of, My Lady—never fear.”

“Listen to the two of you!” her father roared, with a laugh. “As if I’m old and doddering about! I could fence the both of you, at the same time, with one of my hands, tied behind my back.”

Arabella winked at Charles, who waved, then held the door open for the Duke.

“Come, Mother,” she said, slipping her hand into the crook of her mother’s arm. “We have much to do.”

The two ladies walked along the street, their footmen following behind. When Arabella glanced back, her father had entered the office. Charles was just glancing at her. Her pulse thundered.

If anyone could convince her father to change his mind, it would be Charles. She hoped that he would be able to do it, soon. When she turned forward again, she saw that the sidewalk was thickly crowded in front of them.

“Let’s cut through the alleyway,” Arabella suggested.

“Let’s do,” her mother agreed.

Arabella frowned. There seemed to be a dark, rust-colored stain, running down the gray stone of the alley. It began as little drips, but then, there was quite a lot of it. She gasped, as she saw a gentleman, lying face up.

The Duchess of Tiverwell screamed, her hand like a vise on Arabella’s arm. Only then, did Arabella realize that they knew the gentleman.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Charles sat down behind his desk, while the Duke of Tiverwell made himself comfortable in the armchair on the opposite side. Charles folded his hands. He’d planned out what he was going to say to the Duke.

“You mean to go through with it, then?” he asked.

“Yes. Why not? It’s mine to leave to whomever I wish,” the Duke stated. He was not a gentleman whose wants were ever questioned. He was scowling a little.

“Can I ask you a question, Your Grace?” Charles asked. He’d given the matter a lot of thought.

“Of course,” the Duke replied, nodding once.

“Are you fully prepared for the scandal that this may cause?” he asked, folding his hands in front of him on his desk blotter. “Bear with me, for a moment. Your cousin who is set to inherit is currently in possession of a title of his own. A lesser one, but he is likely looking forward to becoming a Duke, and coming into possession of Tiverwell Manor. He will fight it, if done behind his back.”

“Are you saying that you don’t want to bring it to court?” The Duke frowned thunderously while he waited for Charles’s response.

“What I’m saying is that we handle the matter outside of court—quietly and in a dignified manner,” Charles said. “And one which does not pit family against family.”

The Duke was silent for a moment. Charles waited, watching as a slow smile spread across the Duke’s face.

“What would I do without you, Mr. Conolly?” he asked. “How are you going to convince him, then? Lord Norton is as stubborn as a brick wall, and less intelligent, besides.”

“That’s where we’ll need to make some—” He was cut off at the sound of the door to his offices slamming open with a loud bang.

“Help!” a man yelled. Fear caused Charles to be up and running down the hall in moments. The Duke was right behind him.

The two footmen were helping Arabella and the Duchess through the door. All four of them were pale, their eyes wide in fear. Charles felt sick as he saw how terrified they were.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, taking Arabella by the arm, leading her to a chair. The Duke did the same for the Duchess.

“The—the Earl of Danbury,” Arabella said in a low voice as she sank down into the chair. “He’s been murdered. We found him, lying in the alleyway, just up the road.”

* * *

The two ladies had come upon the body when they cut through an alleyway on their way to the Duchess’s preferred millinery.

The Earl of Danbury was sprawled on his back, his eyes still opened. He had been stabbed in the chest, then left there. One of the footmen had gone to fetch the constable, under the Duke’s order.

Charles sat down beside Arabella. “Are you well?” he asked her. “Can I get you anything, My Lady?”

She shook her head. “No. I’ve just had a fright.” She looked around the front waiting room of the office. She had never been there before. It was filled with a few comfortable armchairs, with a fireplace.

When she glanced over at her father, he was frighteningly pale. He stood staunchly beside her mother, who was crying.

“Dear Lord Danbury!” the Duchess was saying as she dug about in her reticule for a handkerchief. “We’ve only just had the Earl of Diggar’s funeral! And Lord Drysdale’s is this week.” She was becoming even more hysterical. She grabbed at the Duke’s sleeve. “What if you’re next?” she asked, tearfully as she shook out her frilly handkerchief, clutching it to her lips.

Arabella watched her father’s face. He looked terrified. She had never, in her life, seen her father frightened of anything before. He caught her looking at him. Visibly, he relaxed, putting on a brave face. “Not to worry, my dear,” he told her mother. “I’ll make sure it doesn’t happen.”

Arabella wanted to ask him how he was sure of that, but the door opened.

One of the Constables peered inside the door. “We just wanted to let you know, that we’ve found the body. We will stop round your townhome later, to take your statements, Your Grace, and My Lady.”

“Do you really have no suspects?” Arabella’s father demanded.

The young constable paled, as he shook his head. “None, Your Grace.”

“I’ll have a word with the Prince Regent about this,” her father thundered. “The state of the London Constabulary is appalling!”

“Come,” Charles said, gently. “I’ll see you all out to your carriage.”

Arabella didn’t realize that she was clinging to his hand, until she was up in the carriage, and she was forced to let go of it. Her eyes met his. How desperately she wanted him to come, too.

“I’ll stop by later to see how you’re doing,” he offered, sensing what she wanted.

“That won’t be necessary,” her father said curtly. Arabella’s face fell.

“As you wish, Your Grace,” Charles said, stepping back and closing the carriage door. He held Arabella’s gaze, shrugging to her. He looked worried.

The carriage pulled away. She kept her eyes on him, until the carriage pulled out of sight. She turned to her father.

“Why do you treat him like that?” she asked. “He was just being kind.”

He frowned at her. “I saw the way that you clung to him,” he replied. “I thought I made it clear.”

“Crystal,” she snapped.

“Please!” her mother said, cutting in. “Can you not argue! A gentleman has been murdered!”

Arabella turned her gaze toward the window, ignoring her father for the rest of the ride. Her thoughts were disordered, and they raced about like horses which had run away.

She recalled the day when Black Jack had thrown her. How she had clung to Charles. She ached for that kind of closeness to him. Sadly, she had no assurances that she would ever have it again.

* * *

Charles watched the sleek black carriage, pulled by the matched pair of equally sleek black horses. He was concerned for Arabella—that she had seen something so frightful. He returned to the office. Arthur had already gone inside of his own office.

Charles went inside of his office, closing the door after him. He glanced at his ledger. He had worked for all three of the victims so far.

The Earl of Diggar, the Viscount of Drysdale, and the Earl of Dansbury. They had all recently updated their wills. He had an odd feeling.

His gut was telling him that there was some sort of a link. He considered the other gentlemen of the ton, who had recently approached him in regards to updating their wills, or making sure that their estate planning was all well in hand.

There was the Duke of Tiverwell, chief amongst them, demanding that Charles revise the laws of titles. But there were several others, requesting similar services, all of them gentlemen in their prime.

He’d thought nothing of it, before because it was simply what he did, there had been nothing suspicious about it. He began to make a list, making note of those who had recently come to him for the same service. He tried to think if any of them seemed anxious at all.

The Duke of Tiverwell certainly was. He had clearly been shaken when his wife and daughter had found the Earl of Danbury. Initially, he’d thought the Duke upset due to the death of his friend.

What if he’s upset because he believes himself to be next?

Furthermore, what if the killer was trying to set Charles up to take the fall for him? Charles needed to do something—to protect himself, as well as his clients.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The tension in the carriage on the way back to their home was tense. Arabella could have cut it with a knife. It pulled up in front of the house. The Duke got out, then assisted the Duchess out.

Arabella didn’t wait for her father to help her. She got out then began to walk up the front steps behind her mother.

“Arabella?” her father asked.

“Yes, Pappa?” She turned to face him.

“A word, please?” He gestured with his chin, toward the upstairs where his study was located. The Duchess was already crossing the downstairs parlor, where she would sit, comforting herself with a cup of tea.

“Certainly,” Arabella said, following him to his study. As soon as the door was closed, he turned.

“I thought that I told you—” he began, angrily.

“Not to marry him,” she finished for him. “But that doesn’t mean that I can’t treat him with the same respect that I would give another Gentleman.”

“He’s not—”

“Of the ton. That appears to be his only offense.”

“Arabella, please. See this from my perspective,” her father insisted.

“Oh, I do, Father,” she replied bitterly.

“And how is that?”

“All my life, you’ve raised me to speak my mind,” she replied, remaining calm and collected. It wouldn’t do to lose her temper—not when her father was already close to losing his own. “When I do speak my mind, on something that truly matters, then you completely disregard it. You want me to ride like a gentleman, fight like a gentleman, and even speak and to think like one. But when I fall in love, then you forbid me from doing so. It doesn’t make sense.”

“There is a difference between marrying a lowborn individual, and someone with a bloodline,” her father said. “If only you would consider, seriously, someone like the Duke of Longmire!”

Arabella blinked.

I knew it.

“The Duke of Longmire? He’s as good as marrying a greeting card. He says all of the right things, but there’s nothing of substance to be had.”

“What’s wrong with that?” her father demanded. “Don’t ladies love a gentleman like that?”

“I am not just any lady,” she replied frostily. She looked her father in the eye, challenging him to say otherwise. He was smiling at her, fondly.

“At least consider him,” her father replied. “Give him a chance.”

“If I do, and I still do not like him, can I choose for myself?” she asked, seeing that there might be a way that she could convince him of Charles’s suitability.

Her father sighed, looking away from her. He was silent, clearly attempting to come up with a decisive riposte.

“That’s what I thought,” she snapped, standing up and letting herself out of the study. She stormed down the hall. Arabella had never felt so hopeless in her entire life. Her father had raised her to be confident. To feel like she was the one in control. But she wasn’t—nor had she ever been.

* * *

Charles knocked on Arthur’s door. “Come in!” Arthur called out. He was sitting at his desk. He had poured himself a few fingers of brandy, and was leaning back in his armchair, lounging.

“Care for a drink?” Arthur offered amiably.

“Yes, please.” Charles sank down into one of the armchairs. It was pleasantly warm inside of Arthur’s office. The fire crackled in the grate. The one in Charles’s office had gone out. The frosty air had cooled it.

Arthur popped up, moving over to the sideboard, where he kept a decanter and a few glasses, for when his rich, titled clients stopped by. He poured Charles a few fingers, bringing it over to him.

Charles sat down, crossing his legs. Arthur returned to his own seat, behind the desk.

“Quite a scare, old boy?” Arthur prompted him.

“It was,” Charles agreed. He took a sip, letting the oaky liquor slip down his throat, warming him. “You know, Arthur—they’re all clients of mine.”

Arthur frowned. “Do you think the murderer is trying to frame you?”

“It’s crossed my mind,” he admitted.

“So you’re in here to tell me that you’re planning to hire Alistair, then?”

“To get your advice,” Charles replied. “As both a friend and a professional.” He passed his list over to Arthur, who perused it. “These are all of my clients who have requested the same services as Lords Diggar, Danbury, and Drysdale. All of them have recently revised their wills. As though they knew that someone meant to murder them.”

“You think the murderer has sent them threats, perhaps?” Arthur asked, curiously.

“I do,” he said. “I know that Lord Drysdale and the Duke of Tiverwell have received threats of an epistolary nature. Not to mention, there was a threat painted on the wall of Tiverwell Manor, during the summer.”

Arthur sat, staring at the list for a very long moment. He squinted, clearly deep in thought. Charles waited patiently, taking a good swallow of his drink to steady himself.

“I have the name of a private detective whom I trust implicitly,” Arthur replied at last. “I think you two should have a chat.”

“Do you think he’ll be able to solve this more easily than the constables will?” Charles asked.

“To put it simply, yes,” Arthur replied with confidence. “The Constabulary are a bunch of bumbling nincompoops. Who knows how long it will be until they start suspecting you again. You’d be delivering yourself up, tied with a neat bow. You must protect yourself. You’ll need this person on your side. He’s an Earl himself, for what it’s worth.”

Charles nodded. It couldn’t get much better than that. “All right. What’s his place of business?”

“He works out of his home,” Arthur replied, digging around in his desk, then coming up with a small card. He handed it over, and Charles glanced at it.

Lord Alfred Honeywell, Earl of Dunsmore, Private Detective.

“Thank you, Arthur.” Charles had heard of Lord Dunsmore. He was renowned for his exploits, as well as his rather impressive list of successes.

Arthur was right, though. Charles would need a gentleman of the ton to back him up. He had the feeling that the Duke of Tiverwell was not himself. Nor would he remain an ally, should Charles be blamed. It was clear—His Grace was terrified.

Arthur raised his glass in a salute. “That’s what I’m here for, old friend.”

* * *

Arabella had finally calmed down, when Mr. Blankley came to get her. She followed him down to the parlor, where the constable waited to get her statement.

“My Lady,” the constable said. “I’m Constable Mills. I’ve only just spoken to your mother, and gotten her statement.” He was an older man, with bushy white eyebrows, and a moustache. He was on the portly side, almost as if he’d been stuffed into his uniform.

“Where is she?” Arabella wondered. It would be good to have her there, to back up what Arabella said.

“The Duchess has gone up to her room,” Blankley replied. “She’s feeling…indisposed.”

“I see,” Arabella said, taking a seat. She glanced over at Blankley, who stood at attention by the door.

“Your butler may remain here,” the constable said.

“Thank you, that would be preferable,” Arabella replied.

“So, Lady Arabella,” Constable Mills said.

She looked at him, wondering how these things were done.

“Your statement, please.” He had a pad of paper, and a pen, for notes. He held the pen, poised over the blank sheet. Arabella took a moment to collect her thoughts.

“My mother and I had just left my father at the law offices of Charles Conolly and Arthur Hinkley,” she said, calmly going through what had happened, from the moment that she and the Duchess had left the office. “We were walking toward Goldsmith Street.”

“Where were you headed?”

“The Millinery—Featherweights’—It’s run by Mr. Thomas Featherweight, and his wife, Mrs. Miriam Featherweight.”

“And you found the body of John Morton, the Earl of Dansbury,” he said.

“That’s correct,” she replied. “We saw the trail of blood, first. I didn’t think that it was—what it was.”

“Did you see anyone fleeing the scene?”

She thought back. Arabella hadn’t thought to look. She’d just stared at the body in absolute horror as recognition had dawned on her. “No. No one,” she said. “But I didn’t think to look.”

“Few would,” he said, kindly. “It was a shock.”

“Very much so,” she murmured.

“Do you find it odd that the body was located near Mr. Conolly’s place of work?” he asked.

Arabella straightened up, suddenly on edge. That was a leading question if she’d ever heard one. “It’s near to many other individuals’ places of work,” she replied. “Why aren’t you looking at any of them?”

“We note all circumstances,” he replied smoothly.

She stared at him, all the while attempting to keep herself from losing her temper.

What a snake.

“Constable Mills,” she said. “I have known Mr. Conolly for quite some time now. In that time, I have grown to know his character very well. Mr. Conolly would never harm another human being. I can assure you, wholeheartedly, that he is not the murderer.”

“Arabella?” her father said from the doorway. He was scowling darkly. She hadn’t heard him come in.

“What?” she demanded. “You know and trust him. Are we all really going to sit here, while Constable Collins accuses an innocent person of such vile crimes?” She turned her gaze toward the Constable, who was looking down.

“Shame on you, Constable.”

“He does, in fact, have an alibi for the time of death,” the Constable muttered.

“Well, good,” she said. “If you’ll excuse me, I have nothing further to add.”

“Thank you, My Lady,” the constable said. “We will take your statements into consideration.”

* * *

Charles didn’t waste any time. He arrived at the Kensington townhome of Lord Dunsmore, private detective, within the hour. The drink with Arthur had steadied him. He knocked on the door, then waited. The townhome had a sleek black door. It was built out of smooth, gray stone. The door was opened by a severe-looking butler.

“Good afternoon,” the butler said.

“Good afternoon. I am Mr. Charles Conolly. I’m here to see Lord Dunsmore, about a case,” he stated, reaching into his pocket for one of his cards. He was prepared to leave one, and then return to his office, to wait. However, the butler stood aside, holding the door open for him to enter.

The butler nodded. “Right this way.”

Charles stepped inside. The house was darkened—all of the curtains were drawn, and there were no candles lit. There was a silence, which spread itself thickly throughout the house.

“He’s in his study, right this moment,” the butler said. “You’re in luck—he’s got no other clients of late.”

“Ah,” Charles said, following along behind the butler. He had the distinct feeling that the butler had seen and heard much. He didn’t seem surprised that Charles was there.

“Sometimes,” the butler went on, “he’s so busy that he has to turn people down.”

The hallways were decorated in muted tones, with paintings of what could only be presumed as Lord Dunsmore’s forefathers. They all frowned at each other from across the hallway. Likely because it was so dark, and they couldn’t see, Charles guessed.

The butler opened a door at the end of the hallway, and sunlight spilled out. “A new client, My Lord,” the butler said.

“Come in, come in,” Lord Dunsmore said, his voice grave.

Charles entered the room, blinking in surprise as he looked around. There were bits of things—newspaper articles, portraits of individuals, notes—all tacked to the wall, with little bits of red strings tying one piece of evidence to another. The curtains were thrown open wide, so that everything was illuminated by the bright winter sunlight.

“It’s quite impressive, is it not?” Lord Dunsmore asked him proudly. He was a young gentleman—not more than thirty years of age. His dark hair was rumpled, and dark circles were underneath his eyes. He was dressed in his dressing gown, but with a pair of breeches and a very wrinkled shirt underneath.

“What is it?” Charles asked.

“Not to worry—it’s an old case, one which may go on for a while yet.”

“Do you have time—?”

“Absolutely! Do sit,” Lord Dunsmore said, gesturing to a chair, upon which books were piled. He removed the stack, bringing it over to a very chaotic desk. Charles sat. “Mr. Landon,” Lord Dunsmore said. “Please, bring us some tea.”

The butler nodded, then disappeared. He was as quiet as a shadow.

“Tell me,” Lord Dunsmore said, fixing Charles with a penetrating gaze. “What brings you here Mr. …?” He leaned against the desk, crossing his arms.

“Conolly. Charles Conolly,” he replied. “My good friend, Arthur Hinkley sent me.”

“Ah! Arthur! How is he doing?”

“He’s well.”

“Good to hear. Now, what can I help you with Mr. Conolly?”

“Of course, My Lord. I’m sure that you’ve heard of the recent string of murders,” Charles said. “concerning the gentlemen of the ton.”

“Yes, yes,” he replied. “I was supposed to have gone to the funerals, but then…” He shrugged, letting it drop as he waved in the direction of the wall, covered in pins, papers, and string.

“Well, I was a suspect of these murders, until another occurred.”

“Oh, good!” Lord Dunsmore exclaimed.

“What?” Charles asked, taken aback by the Earl’s boisterous exculpation.

“Well, that you were proven innocent.”

“Yes, but I think the murderer is trying to implicate me for them,” he explained. “All of them were my clients—I am, or I was their barrister.”

“I see,” Lord Dunsmore said, stroking his chin.

“There’s been another, the body was found very close to my law offices.”

“One thing that I can’t stand is when an innocent person is framed,” Lord Dunsmore stated.

“It happened to my father,” Charles said. “He was hanged for a murder he didn’t commit.”

“Well, not to worry. Now that I’m on the case, we’ll find whomever is doing this.”

Charles breathed a sigh of relief. Even though Lord Dunsmore seemed a bit eccentric, he was clearly on Charles’s side. He needed someone with power on his side. Or else he might end up blamed again, or worse.

Chapter Twenty-Five

After the constable had gone, Arabella had Mr. Blankley set up her archery target out in the back garden. There was a stone pathway, which was a straight shot to the end of the garden. It made the perfect space for Arabella’s archery practice, while in London.

Her winter coat on, she marched out with her things setting them down on a stone bench which sat just to the side of the path. She tugged off her gloves dropping them onto the bench beside her arrows.

Arabella got into her stance squaring herself to the target. She never felt more powerful than when she was aiming an arrow at something. Facing the target, she aimed inhaling the icy air deeply as she pulled back on the string. She exhaled as she let it go. A gust of wind caught at the arrow pulling it off center, but only a little.

She exhaled as the icy wind blew. This was preferable. The chill wind caught at her cheeks making her eyes water a little. It would keep her from being sad. She couldn’t bear it. She picked up another arrow, nocking it, then pulling back on the string.

She aimed at the target, holding her arrow. She waited for the gust of wind to stop, inhaling until her lungs ached. She let it go, exhaling. It was calming to be out here in the garden. The sounds of humanity were far off and she could think for once.

Behind her she heard the sounds of heavy boots. She guessed that it was likely her father.

“Arabella?” he said.

She turned to face him. “Yes, Pappa?” She grabbed another arrow off of the bench running it through the fingers of one hand.

“I want to apologize,” he said.

“You do?” she asked.

This is a surprise. The Duke of Tiverwell rarely apologizes for anything, ever.

“You were right,” he replied. “I was harsh on Mr. Conolly. He was, in fact, being very kind in a moment when the rest of us were…” He sighed. “Falling to pieces.”

Arabella nodded, waiting for him to explain himself further. She hoped that, perhaps, he was here to let her know that he’d changed his mind. It was a long shot, but she still hoped.

“I do rely on him for help,” he went on. “And I will need to apologize to him, as well. But you were right, as you so often are.”

“Apology accepted,” she replied, smiling.

He smiled back at her. “I came all of the way out here to let you know that your mother and I have invited a few guests for dinner tonight.”

“Oh, Pappa,” she said. “Are any of us really up for entertaining?”

“It’ll be good to get your mind on something else, won’t it?” he responded. “I’ve invited the Duke of Longmire.”

“Why do you like him so?” she asked.

“He’s a respectable gentleman, and a Duke,” her father replied. “He would make an excellent husband for you.”

“No,” she said, shaking her head firmly. “Not a chance.” She turned away from him, returning to her shooting stance as she nocked the arrow. She was disappointed, deeply.

“Why are you so stubborn?” he asked, even though he sounded proud.

Breathing in through her nose, Arabella pulled back the arrow, letting it loose. She exhaled, watching the arrow as it hit the bull’s eye, directly in the center.

“I’m not stubborn, Pappa. I simply know when I’m right,” she said, turning back toward him. “Now. What is it that you’re hiding from me?”

“What?” he spluttered.

She shot him a look. He should’ve known better than to come to her when she was shooting. It gave her an incredible sense of calm and poise.

“You are,” she said. “You’re afraid of something.”

“I’m not afraid of anything.”

“Tell me—is it the murders?” she asked. “You’ve just buried two of your good friends, and now, you’ll bury another.”

He seemed to deflate. When her father looked at her, next, it was with the same stubbornness with which she had looked at him before.

“I’m not afraid of the coward who is attacking us,” he stated firmly. “When he comes for me, I will be ready for him.” As he said it, his hand went to his pocket.

“Pappa,” she said, her heart melting for him.

He raised his chin. “No, Arabella. I refuse to be frightened, or coddled.”

“But—but Pappa do you know who it might be?” she asked setting down her bow and arrow on the stone bench. She tugged her gloves onto her freezing fingers.

“Not the slightest, my dear,” he replied. “Do not fear for me—I’ve done nothing wrong. There’s no reason why I should worry.”

She frowned. Her father turned away from her walking briskly back toward the house. She watched his back as he walked. He was holding his shoulders back, his head high.

What does he know that he’s not telling me?

* * *

Charles remained at home that evening. He dined alone. After he had finished, he went up to his study. As far as rooms went, it was on the spare side. He built up the fire for himself then poured a drink.

He sat staring into the fire thinking of Arabella. It seemed almost impossible that he had thought that she could ever…ever be his wife. He should have known.

It was agonizing. He thought of the two times that they had kissed. Now that he knew the touch of her lips, the soft sigh that she made when she pulled away—he couldn’t go back. Everything she did was tantalizing. He wanted to take her to his bed, learn all of the other little things she did when she was pleased. To know that he’d never get that close to her was devastating.

Charles was a proud man. He wasn’t the sort to believe himself to be beneath another. Until they reminded him of his place. It was like a game of chess—he was often checked.

He took a sip of his drink, thinking of Lord Drysdale. He’d been a very kind gentleman. One of the kindest of Charles’s acquaintance. He wondered, who could have had the cruel heart to target him, thus? To run him down, in the dark streets, and then to kill him?

He recalled the appointment that Lord Drysdale had made with him. The Viscount had been talking excitedly, about his pending nuptials to Lady Violet Fanning.

I had never thought that I could be so happy, Lord Drysdale had said, smiling serenely. I had never thought it possible.

You love her, then? Charles had asked, because when gentlemen were in love, they only wanted to discuss how much.

Yes, Lord Drysdale had confirmed. He had, so kindly, avoided any mention of the Duke of Tiverwell and his daughter.

Sitting there in his study, Charles wondered, if he should have asked the Viscount then, if he’d received any more threats. He hadn’t, because it hadn’t crossed his mind, as they had been discussing the arrangements for the Viscount’s life.

But Lord Drysdale had been making up a will. One that included Lady Violet. Charles had met the lady, at her engagement party. She had seemed the perfect life companion to Lord Drysdale. Charles wondered if, perhaps, she knew something. Perhaps she didn’t know that it was significant.

He decided to pay her a visit. After all, he was going to have to, since she would have to be there for the reading of Lord Drysdale’s will. Instead of sending her a letter, perhaps, he would deliver it in person.

* * *

“Your dress is lovely, Lady Emily,” Arabella was saying.

“It’s new,” Lady Emily Linton replied. It was a black and cream striped silk, with black lace trim. It was after dinner, and the guests, as well as the Duke of Tiverwell and his family were gathered in the parlor.

“It’s exquisite,” Arabella said. “Just like your taste.”

“You know,” Lady Emily began, and Arabella had the feeling that Lady Emily was about to tell her something juicy, when the Duke of Longmire approached them. Lady Emily clammed up immediately, to Arabella’s disappointment.

“My Ladies,” His Grace said, bowing to them courteously.

“Your Grace,” they both said, curtsying in return.

“I was just thinking how lovely it would be to start a bit of a dance,” he told them gallantly.

“Oh, please, let’s do,” Lady Emily said. Arabella did not feel that dancing was called for, however, she found that she couldn’t possibly say no—not without gaining her father’s extreme displeasure.

Arabella wanted nothing less than to dance that evening and even less than that to dance with the Duke. However, he was already looking at her.

“My Lady, will you do me the pleasure?” he asked.

“Of course,” she replied, turning to her mother who was a remarkably good player of the pianoforte. “Mother, could we perhaps prevail upon you to play for us?”

“I’d be delighted,” the Duchess replied, standing up and making her way over. In all, there were five couples who stood up to dance. Arabella was struck by the curiousness of it. How were they out, when two of their friends had recently been killed? How were they dancing and making merry, when so much bad had happened?

I wish Charles were here. He would have listened to me.

Her mother began with a simple dance—a country song. Arabella looked up into the Duke of Longmire’s face. She felt nothing. Neither love nor distaste. He smiled, however.

“Isn’t this pleasant, My Lady?” he asked, even as they did the sort of hopping steps.

“As dancing goes,” she murmured as he pulled her close.

“Indeed,” he said, lowering his hand, the merest hint. She raised her eyebrow, shooting him a disapproving glare as they danced about the room in fast circles.

“Open your heart to me,” he murmured softly, slowing his movements so that they were both out of step with the music. “Can you not see how perfectly suited we are?”

“No, Your Grace,” she replied. “I don’t see that we are.”

“I can give you everything that you’ve always wanted,” he said, as the song ended. He bowed, and she curtsied.

“It depends,” she replied as he drew her out of the group of dancers, over to the side of the room, where they could speak. “Would you stop trying to force me into riding side-saddle?” She didn’t think he would.

“There would be no one to see at Longmire. We could have it so that we are the only members of the ton for miles.” He smiled. “You’d like it,” he insisted. “I breed Thoroughbreds. There’s a particularly spirited mare that I would give you for your own use.”

“You cannot tempt me with pretty things,” she replied. They were standing by the far wall. When she glanced back at the room, she saw that her father was watching them. His face remained blank. “My affection cannot be bought.”

“Let me prove to you,” His Grace said, drawing her attention back in his direction. “The depth of my sincerity. The two of us would be perfect together.”

“So you keep insisting,” she replied. “I have yet to see it, Your Grace. If you’ll excuse me. I must attend to my mother.” She curtsied, then walked away from him, going to stand behind her mother, who had been turning her own music. Arabella turned the pages for her.

“Thank you, my darling,” her mother said. “I couldn’t help but notice that the Duke of Longmire wanted to speak with you.”

“It was nothing, Mother.”

“I think it was something,” her mother replied. When Arabella glanced at her, she was smiling happily. Arabella loved her mother. The Duchess was a simple lady, for all of her noble pedigree. She really just wanted Arabella settled, married to a member of the ton.

* * *

Charles visited Lady Violet Fanning the next day at the townhome where she lived with her parents in Mayfair. Charles was shown into the cozy, cream-colored parlor by the butler.

“Mr. Conolly, My Lady,” the butler said, standing just beside the door his hands clasped in front of him.

Lady Violet was dressed in all black. She had her handkerchief out on her lap. A lady’s maid sat in an armchair nearby.

“Oh, Mr. Conolly,” Lady Violet said. “So good of you to come and visit. I’m not—Lord Drysdale’s widow, but I certainly feel like it. Please, sit down.”

“I wish I could say that I was here for happier circumstances,” Charles said, bowing to her then taking the chair that she indicated for him to sit in.

“That makes two of us,” she replied. “I presume it has to do with the will. I mean, why else would his barrister come to see me?”

“I wanted to prepare you for what comes next,” Charles said. “I…I think you should know that you are a beneficiary on his will. You’ll be required to come to the official reading of the will.”

“He wanted to make sure that I was taken care of,” she said, nodding. “He…he was very adamant that it be done before the wedding.”

“Did you notice that he was worried at all, before he passed?” Charles asked, noting that Lord Drysdale had been so adamant to get it done early. That, in itself, was one of the reasons why he’d come.

“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.

“It is, and you know it,” she said. She turned to the groom. “You’ll have to take her back. I’m so sorry.”

“Arabella! How ungrateful you are!” her father said. He was angry—it was clear from the way he was glowering at her.

“Ungrateful, perhaps. But at least then I wouldn’t be leading him on,” she said. “Please,” she begged the groom. “Do take her back.”

The man nodded. “As you wish, My Lady.”

Arabella breathed a sigh as he turned and led the mare off. There was simply no way that she could accept such a fine gift. Not when there was no way that she could accept His Grace’s offer of marriage.

Arabella wasn’t wholly surprised, when she saw the groom return less than half an hour later. She was sitting up in the library, by the window which overlooked the street. She could hear the groom telling Mr. Blankley that his master wouldn’t take the horse back. Arabella sighed, then got up and went downstairs.

Mr. Blankley held out another letter to her. She took it, unfolding it.

Do not return gifts, My Lady. I will not accept her back. She is yours now.

Arabella sighed. She did like the horse. Unfortunately, she could never accept the Duke of Longmire’s suit. Not when she was still in love with Charles. It could simply never be. Not in a thousand years. Not in ten thousand.

Chapter Twenty-Six

After the funeral, Charles went to pay his respects to the family of the Earl of Dansbury. The butler led the way. The house was quiet, dark. Far off, he could hear the sound of many voices, a low drone.

As soon as the doors opened, he could feel all eyes on him. The room, filled with dark-dressed members of the ton, went completely silent.

“Mr. Charles Conolly,” the butler announced. Charles entered the room, making his way toward the Dowager Countess, Lady Dansbury.

He could hear the whispers. Heard the words – blamed, murderer. He kept his eyes averted, making his way over to the widow.

“Lady Dansbury,” he said, bowing low over the hand that she offered to him. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“My John always trusted you, Sir,” she replied, taking his hand. “I will continue to do so,” she announced, so that all would be able to hear.

“Thank you,” Charles whispered. “My Lady.”

Once he had done his duty, he meandered through the crowd. When Lord Dunsmore found him by the table, Charles was searching for Arabella. He didn’t see her, though the room was quite crowded.

“There you are, Mr. Conolly!” Lord Dunsmore said, then lowered his voice. “Come with me.”

Charles had no time to ask questions. He simply followed Lord Dunsmore out and into the hall.

“Where are we going?” Charles whispered.

“Lord Danbury’s study.” Lord Dunsmore walked confidently, his hands in his jacket pockets. It was clear that he did this often. He also knew where he was going.

Charles had never snooped before. He wasn’t the sort. But he was going to do whatever Lord Dunsmore thought necessary. Particularly if it cleared his own name. Information was power—Charles knew that.

When they arrived at the study, Lord Dunsmore threw open the door waving for Charles to move quickly. Charles entered and Lord Dunsmore peeked back into the hallway checking to see if they’d been followed before shutting it again.

Charles had been here only once before. He recalled how Lord Dansbury had invited him in, poured him a glass of exceptional bourbon. It seemed rude to be going through his things like this.

“What are we looking for, My Lord?” he asked, goosebumps rising all over his arms.

“Clues, of course!” Lord Dunsmore opened the black, leather-bound ledger which sat on the desk. His eyes travelled over the rows of the Earl’s neat Copperplate handwriting. “There must be something that he’s hiding.”

“You think that it’s in his finances?” Charles asked.

“If what I know about gentlemen is true,” Lord Dunsmore said, closing the ledger, then opening one, then another of the desk drawers. “And, trust me—it is—then he’s got a secret ledger with expenses that he didn’t want anyone to know about.”

He opened another desk drawer feeling around in it. “There it is!” He pressed a button which caused a false bottom to open. Charles could only watch as Lord Dunsmore pulled out another ledger—similar to the other, but thinner. “See?” he said, waving it in the air in triumph.

“How did you know?” To Charles, it seemed that it had been too easy. Charles himself had a desk drawer with a false bottom. If he had anything illegal, he would have found a hiding place more creative—a loose hearthstone, perhaps.

“I’m a gentleman of the ton,” Lord Dunsmore replied. “I have secrets of my own.”

“I see,” Charles mused. The door opened. Dunsmore quickly slipped the ledger into his jacket.

“What are the two of you doing in here?” the butler demanded.

“The Earl of Danbury borrowed something of mine,” Dunsmore lied smoothly. “Mr. Conolly told me I should ask, but it seemed…indelicate to do so at the current time.”

“I must ask you both to return to the parlor,” the butler said, clearly checking his anger. “Where the guests are supposed to be.”

“Of course, of course,” Dunsmore said. “Come Mr. Conolly. We have an engagement that we mustn’t be late for.”

The butler followed them all of the way to the front door. Dunsmore walked out confidently. Charles followed his lead, walking coolly toward the door.

Lord Dunsmore’s carriage was in the street, and he climbed in. Charles stood out on the street. Dunsmore poked his head out. “Are you coming, Mr. Conolly?”

“Yes.” Charles got in after him, shutting the door.

* * *

Arabella was looking for Charles. He had vanished, quite suddenly. She had waited, while he’d paid his respects to Lady Danbury. Then, she’d been waylaid by Lady Emily Linton, who had wanted to talk about the ball that her mother still planned on throwing, but at a later date.

Arabella stepped out into the hallway where she found the butler looking harried.

“Can I help you with something, My Lady?” he asked, folding his hands in front of him.

“Have you seen Mr. Conolly?” she asked him.

“I have, My Lady,” the butler replied. “I just saw him and Lord Dunsmore out of the house.”

“Out? Whatever for?” she asked.

“Not to worry, My Lady,” he said. “They mentioned that they had somewhere that they needed to be.”

“I didn’t know that Mr. Conolly knew Lord Dunsmore,” she murmured.

“What’s going on out here?” She turned to find her father, standing there. The Duke of Longmire was there, too.

“I was just returning,” Arabella said, passing in between the two gentlemen. She made her way over to the refreshments table. It was laden with little finger sandwiches and tea. She poured herself a cup.

“Such a tragedy,” the Duke of Longmire said.

“Indeed,” Arabella agreed. She added cream and sugar to her tea, stirring thoroughly. She set the spoon down onto the saucer.

“It just goes to show that you should live life while you have it,” the Duke mused, looking at her.

“Yes, Your Grace,” she said, bringing the cup to her lips. She swallowed, still feeling deeply concerned about Charles.

“My Lady,” the Duke of Longmire stated. She glanced over at him, to find that he was looking at her sternly. “I couldn’t help, but overhear that you were looking for Mr. Conolly.”

“Why does it matter?” she asked, already tired.

“You wouldn’t want to be found, fraternizing with a mere barrister. The ton talks, as you know.”

“Oh, I am well aware, Your Grace,” she replied. “I just don’t understand why you are making it your particular concern.”

“I think you know.” The Duke smiled a little. Arabella felt stretched thin, she kept her features composed and her tone light.

“No. I don’t.” She shook her head.

“I care for you—” he began.

“With all due respect, Your Grace, you don’t know me that well,” she said. They had only been acquainted, within the past week.

“I’d like to, My Lady,” he said. “If you’d only allow me to do so.”

“Your Grace,” she replied. “We are at a funeral luncheon. I can’t help but feel that these attentions are gravely out of order.”

He nodded. “Very well, My Lady. I can only ask that you take some time to consider me, at your convenience.” He bowed and then left her alone.

Arabella sipped her tea. Her eyes travelled the room, her gaze meeting her father’s. He raised an eyebrow. Clearly, he’d been watching her discussion with the Duke and didn’t like what he’d seen.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Once the carriage door was shut after them, Lord Dunsmore pulled the ledger out of his coat pocket. The carriage began to move, and Dunsmore began perusing the contents, flipping the pages, slowly.

Charles leaned forward to see. They were all written in Lord Dansbury’s distinctive handwriting.

“There are many payments to other Lords here,” he remarked, perusing the contents. “If I had to make a guess, they are the results of bets. There are also several brothels, as well as payments to a Mr. Bones…”

“Do you know anyone by that name?” Lord Dunsmore asked, wrinkling his nose and furrowing his brow.

Charles shook his head. “It doesn’t sound like a real name.”

“That may be our killer,” Lord Dunsmore remarked. “Under an alias. These are quite large payoffs. I wonder what they were for.”

He closed the ledger with a decisive snap. “Today has been quite productive for us, Mr. Conolly.”

“Are you going to go to the other’s homes?” Charles asked.

“Yes. I plan to. It’s best if I go alone,” he replied. “It’s easiest. I’m rarely caught. I have to pay my respects, anyway. Missing funerals is considered very gauche, as you know.”

“I see.”

“Once I do, I’ll call you to my office. We can look at all of the evidence together.”

“All right,” Charles replied.

“Never fear, Mr. Conolly! We’ll figure this out.” Lord Dunsmore peered out of the carriage window. “Here we are! Right at your office.”

“Thank you, My Lord,” Charles said.

“You’re very welcome, Sir.”

Charles was left, standing in the street. He didn’t know what to make of Lord Dunsmore. He was one of the most colorful figures he’d ever met. It was good to have him on his side, however.

* * *

Arabella was dressed for battle, in a lemon-yellow satin with black ribbons. The Duke of Longmire was invited to dinner, for the second time that week. She sat in the drawing room, with her parents, awaiting the Duke’s arrival.

“Please behave yourself,” her father begged. “At the very least, give him a chance.”

“I’ll do my best,” she replied. “But I won’t marry him.”

“That remains to be seen,” her father stated sternly.

“The Duke of Longmire,” Mr. Blankley announced from the doorway. The Duke entered as they all stood up. He was dressed in a black coat. His hair was neatly coiffed. His eyes went immediately to Arabella.

Greetings were made and they all made their way into the dining room. Arabella sat, eating her food while her father flattered the Duke.

This romancing the Duke of Longmire is nearly enough to put me off of my food.

“Your Grace,” her father said, smiling at him. “You’ll have to come and visit us at Tiverwell Manor during the summer.”

“I would be honored, Your Grace,” the Duke replied.

“It’s decided then,” her father said. Meanwhile, Arabella could only picture the Duke, attempting to woo her among Tiverwell Manor’s many gardens. It was a place which had been a respite for her. Ruined. There would be no escaping him. She would have to ensconce herself in her rooms.

“Do you fence, Your Grace?” she asked. She was relieved that he had not mentioned Isis. No doubt, he was waiting until they could talk without her parents overhearing.

“Naturally, I do,” he replied. “All young gentlemen are given lessons.”

“Lady Arabella is very experienced, herself,” her mother said, proudly.

“I would never dream of fencing a lady,” the Duke said. “It would be utterly improper.”

“Improper, Your Grace, or would your masculinity find itself challenged at the threat of losing to a lady?” Arabella asked.

The whole table went silent. Arabella turned her gaze downward, toward her plate to hide the smile that spread across her face. She speared a roasted carrot placing it into her mouth and chewing.

“I apologize, Your Grace,” her father stated stiffly. “My daughter speaks her mind quite frequently.”

“It’s quite all right, Your Grace,” the Duke of Longmire said. “Ladies who speak their mind are fascinating to me.”

Arabella shot a glance at her father. The thought that he found the Duke of Longmire to be her best match was quickly becoming an affront to her sensibilities.

* * *

Charles and Arthur had arrived at Lord Dunsmore’s townhome. After several days of silence, he’d sent word that he’d gathered more evidence of import.

“Gentlemen!” Lord Dunsmore said. He had several ledgers, open on the table. While Charles and Arthur were seated, Lord Dunsmore stood, pacing the room, as if he were a lecturer. “Here, before you, is the evidence that we needed. All of the gentlemen who have been murdered have made payments to our Mr. Bones.”

“How is it that you’re able to find things that the constable cannot?” Arthur asked.

“The constables are simple men. They do not know the ton. They cannot move amongst them to glean the information that I can.”

“Look here. There’s Mr. Bones, on every single ledger.” Lord Dunsmore pointed, while Charles and Arthur walked over to peer at them.

“There are the same brothels, as well,” Charles said.

“That’s hardly a surprise. Those are all on the same street as the Millgate Club, of which all of the victims were members. They get drunk, then stumble to the nearest establishment. Not much detecting there.”

“Mr. Bones,” Arthur remarked. “Who could that be?”

“I’m going to have to do a bit more detecting,” Lord Dunsmore mused. “Here is where I’ll need you—I am a member of the Stanhope Club, which is a rival to the Millgate. There’s no way that I can get in without considerable suspicion.”

“I can ask a favor of one of my clients,” Charles replied. He could ask the Duke of Tiverwell, who had come to his office to apologize for snapping at him.

“Who?”

“The Duke of Tiverwell,” he replied.

“Hmmm,” Lord Dunsmore mused. “That would be…yes. He would be very useful to us.”

“Perhaps, he even knows who Mr. Bones is,” Charles pointed out. “I’ve noticed that the Duke seems a bit…frightened of late. He, too, has been focused on his estate.”

“As if he’s gotten some sort of threat?” Lord Dunsmore asked, perking up.

“I know that to be true,” Charles said. “Over the summer.” He pulled the list of employees that Lady Arabella’s lady’s maid had made. “The Duke believed it to be one of his employees that he had wronged. Here is a list of those it may be.”

“He’s very similar to the others,” Arthur agreed. “A member of Millgate, high born.”

“I’ll go and visit him,” Charles offered. “See if he knows anything. If he has received more threats, then it might be a clue.”

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Arabella sat in the parlor with her lady’s maid. She had a book, open in her lap. She sat, placing her head in her hand. She closed her eyes. She was beginning to tire of having the Duke of Longmire forced on her.

So, she kept herself occupied with thoughts of Charles. She remembered their kiss, in the garden. The way that the moonlight had fallen on his face. His hands on her waist, pulling her to him.

She recalled gripping at his shirt, while his hand rested upon her lower back, drawing her closer to him. Her pulse quickened as she thought of it.

The door opened, “Mr. Charles Conolly,” Mr. Blankley said. Arabella’s eyes shot open. It was almost as if she’d conjured him.

What luck! To be home alone, when Charles has come to call!

“Oh, My Lady,” Charles said, blinking in surprise. “I can come back—”

“Don’t be silly Mr. Conolly,” she replied. “Come and sit.”

“It isn’t—”

“Well, Annette is here,” she pointed out, sitting down and patting the settee cushion beside her. “It’s all very proper,” she assured him, flashing him her winning smile.

He seemed to melt, starting with his eyes. Then, he walked over and sat.

“Is your father not in?” he asked.

“Unfortunately, no. What did you come to tell him?” she asked. Until recently, her father always kept her apprised of his business.

“I don’t—” he began, trailing off. He frowned. This was so unlike him—he was usually so sure of himself.

“Charles?” she asked, studying him. “What’s wrong?”

“You always read me like a book,” he said, looking away from her.

“Naturally,” she replied, then waited for him to tell her everything.

“I wish that things could have been different,” he said. “No one has ever understood me in the way that you do.”

“No one has loved you as much as I love you,” she replied, daring to tell him the truth.

“It can never be,” he replied, shaking his head sadly.

“Are you really giving up so easily?” she asked. She didn’t dare give up hope. There was still time.

“The longer that you keep holding a flame for me, the more opportunities that you’re missing out on,” he replied.

“They’re not worth having,” she told him, flatly. She was ready to fight him. Her longing for him was causing an ache in her chest. There he was, so close to her, and yet so far away.

When he seemed about to say no, she placed her hand on his arm. “Please. I love you, Charles.”

“Arabella—”

“That’s more like it.” They both grinned at each other, and he covered her hand with his own, lacing his fingers in between hers. He looked down at their hands. When his gaze lifted, his eyes meeting hers, there was a fire in them. This was the gentleman with whom she’d fallen in love—the gentleman who regarded her with warm passion. Her pulse quickened.

* * *

It was a relief, in a way, to be sitting there with Arabella. They hadn’t been this close, since their last encounter—in the garden. It seemed like it had happened an age ago, when it had been only a week. They were both quiet, staring into each other’s eyes. She licked her lips, her eyes on his lips.

“I—I can’t stop thinking about the last time that we spoke,” she whispered, her voice husky.

“I can’t, either,” he replied. His hand still sat on top of hers, which was still on his upper arm. She squeezed. He watched as she bit her lip. His whole body lit up as he thought of taking her lip in between his own teeth.

“Charles—” she began, but the door opened, and the Duke of Tiverwell entered. They both froze. The Duke went pale, rage travelling through all of his features, as his eyes took in their hands, clasped tightly.

“Get. Out,” he uttered, through gritted teeth.

“Your Grace—” Charles began to say, standing up.

The Duke pointed toward the door. “Get out of my house,” he growled.

“Pappa!” Arabella said, standing up with Charles. “He’s come to help you.”

“I don’t care,” her father roared. “I never want him under my roof again.”

“Your Grace,” Charles began again.

“I will kill you myself,” the Duke raged. “You come under my roof, then touch my daughter—”

“Pappa!” Arabella clung to her father’s arm. “Please! You must listen to him.”

“There is nothing that he can say that I will ever listen to.”

“Your Grace!” Charles said.

The Duke of Tiverwell turned on him, huffing. “I will visit you in your offices when I require your assistance,” he stated. “But only then. When I deign to come. If you return to my place of residence, then I will have you carted off by the authorities.”

Charles gritted his teeth. He looked the Duke in the eyes. If he wanted to do battle, then so be it. Charles had long been tired of being treated like he was unworthy.

“Pappa! Don’t speak to him like that!” Arabella said, her hands in fists at her sides.

“I will speak to him as I choose! And you, my daughter—you—”

“No! Just because he is not a gentleman of the ton does not mean that you can order him about in this way. He’s trying to help you!” Tears were gathering in her eyes. “Who are you?” she whispered.

“The Duke of Tiverwell,” the Duke stated, turning toward Charles. “And you are my barrister, not my equal. You would do well to remember it!” he bellowed.

Charles nodded, bowing to him. “I won’t forget it, Your Grace. I’ll take my leave.” He walked out, meeting the butler in the hallway. Mr. Blankley looked at him with some sympathy. Charles had the feeling that he, too, was viewed in a similar manner. Charles recalled Matthew Rapson’s words—that Mr. Blankley knew and saw all. Gathering all of the willpower that he could muster, he left.

* * *

Arabella folded her arms, glaring at her father. She’d never before seen him treat someone of lower status than himself so coldly. Her anger was as hot as his own.

“He came to help you, you know,” she said.

“Do you know what he came here to tell me?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No.”

“You were too busy, then?” he asked, insinuating.

She turned away from him, moving toward the door. When she reached it, she spun around to face him. She opened her mouth to ask him whether he would ever change his mind, then thought better of it. Instead, she said, “I love him, Father. I cannot marry anyone else.”

“You will marry whom I say you will,” he replied. “You will marry a gentleman of title and noble birth who can keep you at a level of comfort as you are used.”

Who are you?

This was not her Father. She didn’t know this person who stood, facing her. His eyes seemed wild and he was grimacing so that his teeth were bared.

“I don’t even know you.” She’d said it before, recently. She should never have had to say it. What had changed? Or had this always just been hidden?

“I forbid you from talking about this again,” he said, advancing toward her. Arabella stepped back. “I forbid you from seeing Mr. Conolly, I forbid you from speaking to him, and I forbid you from having any sort of affection toward him.”

She said nothing, just turned and left the room. She walked down the hall, breaking into a run. She headed for the front door meaning to get Charles to stop. She threw it open to find that he was already gone.

She stood staring out at the street. Several passersby turned to look. One of them was a woman dressed in rags. Arabella met her gaze. She seemed to be looking at Arabella with pity. She stepped back inside closing the door. She leaned her forehead against the cold wood. A tear slipped down her cheek. She brushed it away.

* * *

“So, the Duke of Tiverwell will not be assisting us?” Lord Dunsmore asked. He had dropped by Charles’s office to see how the meeting with the Duke of Tiverwell had gone. They were both seated in armchairs with drinks in hand. Lord Dunsmore was peering out the window watching the passersby out on the street.

“Unfortunately, no,” Charles replied, staring into the amber depths of his brandy.

“And, the daughter—”

“I cannot ask Arabella to be involved,” Charles stated flatly. On no account, would he ever put her in any danger. He wanted her as far away from all of this as possible. He wondered if he could convince her to leave the city. He knew that he could never force her to do a thing, but—

“You speak of her in the familiar,” Lord Dunsmore said, turning toward him. Charles blinked at him, in surprise. He was far too discerning, and Charles had made the slip.

“We were…we are…” Charles sighed. “I love her.”

“And the Duke does not approve.” Lord Dunsmore nodded to himself. He seemed…sympathetic to Charles’s plight.

“That was actually why he’s so upset with me,” Charles explained. “I was…holding her hand when he walked in.”

“You were found in a compromising position with the Lady Arabella?” Lord Dunsmore asked, a slow smile spreading across his face. “You sly dog.” He sounded pleasantly surprised.

“It wasn’t that compromising,” Charles grumbled.

“Oh, Charles. You’re so much more fun than I thought you were going to be,” Lord Dunsmore said, patting him on the shoulder. He leaned back in his seat taking a sip of his drink.

“Thank you,” Charles muttered, unsure if that was a compliment.

Lord Dunsmore stood up carrying his drink with him. Charles watched as the detective paced back and forth. “Let’s try another member of the Millgate Club, shall we? I’ll see if he’ll invite us for a visit.”

“I thought—” Charles began, but the detective cut him off.

“I’m going to disguise myself,” Lord Dunsmore explained. “Perhaps, you should as well. We can pretend to be other gentlemen looking to do business with this Mr. Bones.”

“All right,” Charles said, even though his pulse raced at the utter danger this would put them in. He had figured that they were going to eventually come face to face with this Mr. Bones, but not like this. He opened his desk drawer pulling out his pistol. He set it down on top of the desk.

“When can we go?”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

The day after her father had kicked Charles out, Arabella waited for her father to go out, himself. She watched through her window as he climbed into the carriage, on the way to his club. As soon as the carriage pulled away, she got up.

She knew that the best place to look would be in his study. That was where he kept all of his important papers. When she entered, she turned the key to lock the door behind her.

She sat down in the chair. First off, she opened the desk drawers looking for something that might contain a list of secret expenses. Finding nothing, she knocked on the bottoms of the drawers. Nothing there, as well.

She sat back, in the chair, thinking. He wouldn’t have hidden something from her in the study. He had always made such a show of how much he trusted her—wanted her involved in his business dealings. She now knew that that wasn’t true.

Over the past few weeks, during which he’d treated Charles as nothing more than a glorified lapdog, she had begun to wonder. She had seen a different side of her father—one she’d never known existed. Who had that been?

He’d been dangerously angry. She couldn’t help but wonder—if she hadn’t been his daughter, what would he have done, in his rage?

I need to think like my father. He wouldn’t hide something from me in here. It’s too obvious.

He would hide it somewhere else—somewhere that Arabella wouldn’t know about. He would have needed a place that was secret from everyone, even her mother.

Arabella recalled the history of the house. The previous owner had done some interesting things with the planning of it. There were secret passages throughout, so one could travel about, in secret. The previous owner had been sent to prison for being a pirate.

She had assumed that that was for the benefit of the servants, but what if those were for the previous owner—so he could move about the house unseen?

What if he had built a place in the house—one which no one knew about? Except for the person who had bought it. She got up, letting herself out of the study, making her way into the library.

The blueprints for the house were kept in a drawer. Opening it, she slipped them out. She spread them out on the large wooden library table, finding the secret passageway. Running her finger over its length she found that there was, in fact, a tiny room at one end of it.

The room was located right outside of her father’s dressing room. Anticipation made her skin tingle. She bit her lip, nervously. She would have to go, quickly. She didn’t know just how much longer her father would be out. She’d already spent so much time in the study.

* * *

Charles waited outside of his house for Lord Dunsmore to pick him up. He was dressed in his finest suit of clothing which he had deemed passable for a gentlemen’s club. His heart was racing. He buried his hands in his pockets, one of which held the pistol. He felt better going in armed.

He glanced across the street. There was a dark figure standing in the shadows in the alley which ran in between two houses. He frowned. He had almost missed them but they had moved. He squinted trying to see the individual better.

Whomever it was they were wrapped in a dark cloak with the hood pulled low. He couldn’t tell if the person was male or female. He had an odd feeling, the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck rising. It wasn’t the cold which chilled him.

That was when a barouche-landau pulled up and Lord Dunsmore opened the door, peering out at him. The curtains were all drawn so they could put on their disguises on the way.

“Come in, come in,” he said. Charles got in. He glanced through the window peering out around the curtains. The figure was gone.

“What are you looking at?” Lord Dunsmore enquired.

“I thought I saw someone,” Charles replied. “Watching me from across the street.”

“You should really wait inside,” Lord Dunsmore said, tapping on the roof of the carriage with a silver-tipped cane. “There’s a murderer about, you know.”

Charles nodded. Had he really just seen the murderer? Why would he be watching Charles, who was not a gentleman, and had no quarrel with anyone?

Dunsmore began pulling things out and thrusting them at Charles.

“What’s all of this?” he asked, forgetting the hooded figure. His hands were full of different bits and pieces of things.

“Disguises,” Lord Dunsmore replied. “Stuff that cotton into your mouth. If you hold it between your teeth and your cheek, it will add some weight to your face.”

“We’re not going to plan out our entrance?” Charles asked. “Shouldn’t we at least—”

“No, Mr. Conolly,” Lord Dunsmore replied. “It’s best to just go in. We’re going to pretend to be visiting Lords from the Continent.”

“As you wish,” Charles muttered.

“Can you do a French accent, Mr. Conolly?” Lord Dunsmore asked, curiously.

“I’ve never tried,” Charles admitted.

“Let me do the talking, then,” Lord Dunsmore said.

Lord Dunsmore helped Charles to put on the disguise—a blond wig, with a pair of spectacles. Meanwhile, Lord Dunsmore had colored in his eyebrows, giving himself a darker beard. He had put on clothes a size bigger, then stuffed them to give himself a bit of a paunch.

“You’re going to let me do the talking,” Lord Dunsmore repeated. “We’re going to say that your English is atrocious.”

Charles merely nodded. He wasn’t usually one to be nervous. But if he were caught, sneaking into the Millgate Club, he might lose business.

As the carriage raced through the streets, he listened to Dunsmore’s hurried plan. “We’ll visit tonight, observe. Get them to relax. Then, we will return. Their guards will be down and then we will begin to ask about Mr. Bones.”

“Oh, and by the by—you will be Lord Gilbert Durand, le Duc du Champignon. And I—” He thought for a moment, very seriously. “I shall be Lord Olivier Simon, le Marquis de Bordeaux.”

Charles sighed. “Don’t you think they’ll notice that I’m the Duke of Mushrooms, My Lord?”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Lord Dunsmore said. “The more confident that you are in the lie, Mr. Conolly, the more people will believe you.”

“I imagine that there are many individuals pretending to be long-lost French nobility these days,” Charles replied.

“I might have done it once or twice,” Lord Dunsmore said, shrugging.

“Why? You’re actually a Lord,” Charles pointed out.

“Yes, but sometimes, I need to not be myself,” Lord Dunsmore pointed out. He stared at Charles for a long moment, frowning.

“What is it? What’s the matter?” Charles asked.

“Here,” Dunsmore said, pulling out a charcoal pencil. “I’m going to give you a mole on your cheek, and a little bit of a moustache.”

Charles felt silly, but he figured that Dunsmore knew what he was doing. The carriage came to an abrupt halt. The footman opened it, and Charles climbed out, Le Duc du Champignon. Beside him, his good friend, the Marquis du Bordeaux, stood.

“Allons-y!” the Marquis declared. For once in his life, Charles found that he was very glad not to be the one talking. His French, while passable, was heavily accented by his very British pronunciation.

* * *

Moving as silently as she could, Arabella went into her parents’ bedroom. Luckily, her mother was out, as well. She made her way into her father’s dressing room, which was off through a side door.

His room was empty. Arabella crossed it quickly, going right over to the paneled wall. She had been in the secret hallway many times when she was a child. She had snuck through it, with a candle, sometimes bringing a book with her. She reached up, pressing the panel which opened the secret hallway.

It was pitch black in there. It felt cold, and she shivered in the chill draft that blew through it. While Arabella had used the secret hallway often when she was a child, she had not much since. It came to an abrupt halt, something, she now knew, was because there was a room.

She faced the wall, running her hands along it, looking for the catch to open it. In the darkness, she wished that she’d brought a candle. She worked her way along it. Wherever it was, it was well-hidden.

Finally, her fingers found it—it was all of the way at the top—she would never have found it when she was small. As it was, she had to go up and onto her tiptoes to reach it. It swung open. She met with more darkness, and an overwhelming scent of cigar smoke and roses.

She had to go back—she needed a candle. She ran toward her father’s rooms, grabbing a candle and matches, then returning. Quickly, she struck the match, lighting the candle.

She held it up as she looked into the room. It was tiny—only enough room for one person to fit inside. There was a small wooden desk, with a maroon velvet chair pulled up to it.

There, sitting on top of the desk, there was a ledger. Her blood ran cold as she looked at it.

Arabella was faced with a dilemma. She didn’t know what she was looking for. Charles hadn’t told her. She opened it up, peering at it. In the center, there were several letters.

She glanced at their directions—all of them, addressed to her father. She set them aside, peering at the ledger. She saw many, many names. She scanned them, but found nothing. Only the names of his friends—Lord Diggar, Lord Drysdale, Lord Danbury. She even saw the Duke of Longmire’s name. There were many others, besides. Even Lady Linton.

Setting the letters back, she closed the ledger. She felt like she’d been snooping on her father. This had resulted in nothing. She wasn’t quite sure what business her father was conducting, but it was likely nothing to be worried about. She turned, her candle’s light falling on the shelf that was in the corner of the room.

There was what looked like a folded sheet of some sort in a dark fabric. She shook it out to find that it was the Jolly Roger, the skull face grinning back at her. She felt disappointed—it was likely left by the previous owner. Folding up the flag she left the room closing the secret panel after her.

* * *

The Marquis de Bordeaux was having a phenomenal success in mingling with the gentlemen of the Millgate Club. With a brandy in one hand and his silver-tipped cane in the other, he was telling them all the story of how he escaped the Revolutionaries.

“Et puis, my friend et moi, we escaped Paris, in the back of a wagon, filled with cabbages!” he said, elbowing his friend, Le Duc du Champignon.

“Oui,” Charles said, taking a sip of his gin and tonic. He did his best not to soak the cotton in his mouth as he drank. He was reduced to monosyllables, in a vain attempt to sound barely literate in English. He winced at the taste of the beverage, which had been handed to him after he had tried to order a bourbon, in his awful French accent.

“My God,” Lord Fulton said, shaking his head. “I can’t imagine. I’m so glad that we’re all so red-blooded English around here that the peasants couldn’t rise up against us.”

“Quite right,” Lord Pritchett agreed. “They know that we have their best interests at heart.” He had his daughter, Lady Violet’s, red hair, but that was where the similarities ended.

The Duke of Longmire walked up to them. “Oh, do meet the Duke of Longmire,” Lord Fulton said. “Alexander—these are two refugee nobles, from the Continent—the Duc du Champignon, and the Marquis de Bordeaux.”

“Pleased to make your acquaintance, My Lords,” the Duke of Longmire said, frowning a little, likely at their odd names.

“And yours, Your Grace,” Lord Dunsmore said, in his very thick French. He sipped his drink, thankfully pausing in his tale of woe and danger.

“Are congratulations in order, Your Grace?” Lord Pritchett asked the Duke of Longmire.

“Well, since I sent the Lady a horse, I think things are going along well. Her father has agreed to let me court her; however, Lady Arabella has not yet agreed.”

“Lady Arabella?” Lord Fulton asked. Arabella’s name was like a lightning strike through Charles. “I told you, she’s going to be a tough sell.”

“Not at all. You just have to know how to manipulate her. A Lady like her believes that she knows her own mind, but the truth is, she has no idea what she wants. The Duke of Tiverwell told me all about how he keeps her in line.”

Lord Dunsmore gripped Charles’s sleeve.

“Ah, mon ami, you are gripping your glass so tightly, your hand is pale,” he whispered in Charles’s ear. “You don’t want to break it.”

The Duke of Longmire was continuing on, about how to manipulate Arabella. Charles took a large gulp of his drink.

“He keeps going on about how glad he is that someone will take care of Lady Arabella as she is used,” the Duke of Longmire went on. “The Duchess will be happily ensconced in Bath, so I won’t have to worry about any pesky Mother-in-Law.”

“Can you blame him?” Lord Prichett asked. “I mean, if I were getting letters of that sort, I would be doing all of my estate planning, forthwith. Lord Drysdale did. Did you know he left a tidy sum for Lady Violet?”

“I have ‘eard about these murders,” Lord Dunsmore cut in.

“How could you not have?” the Duke of Longmire asked. “They’re all over the papers.”

“Have any of you received them?” Lord Dunsmore asked.

“I have,” the Duke of Longmire replied.

“Alexander!” Lord Fulton exclaimed. “Have you told the constables?”

“I have not,” he replied. “Nor do I plan to. I agree with the Duke of Tiverwell—so long as I’m not walking about alone after dark, or in some seedy inn, I should be fine.”

“You are a very brave gentleman,” Lord Dunsmore commented in his faux French accent. “Who do you theenk eet eez?”

“Mr. Charles Conolly,” the Duke said, without hesitation. It took every ounce of Charles’s self control not to panic visibly at the sound of his own name. “He’s the link between all of the others. Not to mention, he had the absolute gall to ask the Duke of Tiverwell for Lady Arabella’s hand.”

“What?” Lord Pritchett asked. “But…he was in my house, just this week, talking to my Violet.”

“I would watch out,” the Duke said. “He’s a social climber, set on marrying a lady. He’s angry that he can’t have Lady Arabella, so he’s going to punish both of us. Once we’re out of the way, he means to swoop in and have her.”

“Have you told the Duke of Tiverwell?” Lord Fulton asked. Charles’s heart was pounding in his chest. If they knew that he was there…If he was recognized, then things would likely go very badly for him. He kept his face a blank, as though he had never heard his own name before.

“Yes, and he doesn’t agree,” His Grace said, shaking his head. “He believes that it’s one of his former servants.”

“What would be the link, there?” Lord Fulton asked. “With the other gentlemen, I mean?”

“Not a clue,” His Grace replied. They all went silent, sipping their drinks and thinking about how Charles was guilty. Charles himself was in a panic. Luckily, Lord Dunsmore had not forgotten himself nor his mission.

“My Lords,” Lord Dunsmore began. “I was wondering if you know of someone ‘oo might ‘elp me procure something…of a secret nature?”

The Duke of Longmire grinned. “Well, if you’ve been allowed into the Millgate Club, then you can certainly use our procurer.” He pulled a card out of his pocket, handing it to Lord Dunsmore, with a bit of a flourish. “I will warn you, though—he’s hard to get to.”

“How so?”

His Grace raised his eyebrow. “He’s well-protected. He doesn’t come out often. You will be expected to provide proof that you’re a noble. He only deals with nobles.”

“But he’ll be able to get me what I want?” Lord Dunsmore asked.

“Of course, My Lord. He’s…very well situated for that sort of thing,” His Grace assured him with a confident smile.

“Merci, My Lord,” Lord Dunsmore said, tucking the card away in the breast pocket of his coat. He flashed Charles a triumphant grin.

Chapter Thirty

Arabella returned to her rooms, where she found Annette, setting out Arabella’s clothes for dinner that evening. Arabella looked at the pink satin dress.

“You said that you wanted this one, My Lady?” Annette asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “This very one.”

“Is something the matter, My Lady?” Annette always picked up on Arabella’s moods. It was a relief, in some ways.

“I don’t know what to do,” she admitted. “I know that my father is hiding something. But I honestly cannot figure out what it is. I have the strongest feeling that it’s putting his life at risk.”

Annette sighed. “Perhaps, you should have a seat, My Lady.”

Arabella frowned, but did as she was told.

“I’ve kept the truth to myself,” Annette admitted. “It was out of fear, you see. That list, which you asked me for? Do you remember?”

“I do,” Arabella replied.

“Every one of those servants was dismissed after they saw or heard something that they shouldn’t have,” Annette explained. “His Grace confronts them in the night, and they leave immediately.”

“What do you mean? See or hear what?” Arabella asked.

“I don’t rightly know,” Annette said. “They’re gone before they can tell anyone else what it is. His Grace is up to something. Something he’s been up to for a very, very long time.”

“How do you know?” Arabella asked. “How have you not been sent away?”

“Everyone downstairs knows,” Annette told her. “That if you see or hear something, you don’t say a word. Not to mention, I was…close with one of the grooms—Michael Strahan. I don’t know if you recall him?”

“Vaguely,” Arabella said, recalling a blond-haired lad, of about eighteen years of age. He had been at Tiverwell Manor for a short time. Arabella hadn’t even noticed when he wasn’t around anymore.

“He heard something, when he was fetching one of the horses. His Grace was in the stables, speaking with someone, thinking that he wouldn’t be overheard.”

“Did you ask him what it was?” Arabella felt as though she were getting very close to the truth. Anticipation made her pulse race.

“I didn’t get a chance to. He only ran in, to let me know that he believed that he was going to be next. He gave me an address, for his mother’s house, here in the city.”

“And he was then gone?” Arabella murmured. Annette nodded.

“That’s not all, My Lady.”

“What is it?” Arabella asked, even though she was frightened of the answer.

“He’s nowhere to be found. He vanished, without a trace,” she said. “His mother says that he never turned up. His letters stopped, right around the same time.”

“When was this?” Arabella asked.

“Three years ago,” Annette said. “As far as I can tell, no one has seen him since I did, that night.”

“You think my father’s the one who did this?” She believed Annette. Her lady’s maid never outright lied to her—and certainly not about something like this.

“Please don’t be angry, My Lady. I do my best to stay away from His Grace.” It was clear by the way that Annette was shaking, that she was terrified.

“I’m not angry,” Arabella replied, taking her maid by the hand. “Thank you for telling me.”

“What are you going to do?” Annette asked.

“I’m going to hire myself a barrister,” Arabella replied, thinking of Charles. She knew that he had most of the information. She would need to find an excuse to get to him.

* * *

Charles and Lord Dunsmore were waiting in front of the club for the carriage to be brought around for them. The evening had darkened, the stars hanging above them.

“He’s a rather cocky sort, isn’t he?” Lord Dunsmore asked, referring to the Duke of Longmire.

“He is,” Charles agreed. “Although, I’m inclined to think that he would never intentionally harm another.”

The carriage pulled up, and they both climbed inside. The curtains were still drawn from earlier. As soon as the door was closed, Charles pulled the wig off.

“Are you sure of that?” Lord Dunsmore asked.

“Are you not?” Charles replied. He needed to believe that the gentleman who was going to marry Arabella wasn’t going to harm her. He could never walk away from the situation if he believed the reverse.

“I’m not sure of anything.” Lord Dunsmore was tapping his chin with an index finger as he thought.

“I certainly don’t care for how he speaks about Arabella, but I think he’s not involved in anything untoward,” Charles explained, finally taking the damp wads of cotton out of his mouth. “What terrifies me is that they’re all convinced that it’s me.”

“Not to worry,” Lord Dunsmore assured him. “I’ve never been more convinced of your innocence than I am at this moment.”

“That’s good to hear,” Charles said. “You disappeared for a long while. Did you find anything?” Lord Dunsmore had abandoned Charles, who had had to speak a mixture of French and English, stumbling over both. No one had understood a word that he had said. They all smiled politely, baring their teeth.

Lord Dunsmore shook his head. “No. Just gentlemen playing card games and drinking and smoking.”

“You seem disappointed,” Charles said.

“Well, I was certainly hoping that we would find something more incriminating.”

“But we have the means to contact this Mr. Bones,” Charles pointed out. They had been successful. That was what they had gone to the Millgate Club for in the first place.

“We certainly do, Mr. Conolly.

“When should we?” Charles asked. The sooner that all of this was cleared up, the better. Perhaps, they could even prevent any further murders from happening.

“Soon. Very soon. I am going to do some background research into this Mr. Bones. I don’t like how I feel…under prepared.”

“Well, you know best,” Charles said.

“Sometimes, I do,” Lord Dunsmore admitted. “In some cases, I don’t.”

“You’re not like most gentlemen, if you don’t mind my saying, My Lord.”

“Coming from you, Mr. Conolly, that is a compliment indeed,” Lord Dunsmore said with a crooked grin.

* * *

Nemesis had, of course, noted the fact that all of the gentlemen were clients of Mr. Charles Conolly, the barrister. It was late at night when the Murderer broke in to the law offices of Conolly and Hinkley, barristers.

The Murderer had watched Mr. Conolly leave his place of residence, likely out for a night on the town with Lord Dunsmore. Nemesis had then gone to Mr. Conolly’s office, for incriminating evidence.

Through the back door, jimmying the lock with an ice pick. It opened inward. There was a plaque, on the office doors, also locked, but easily opened.

Nemesis looked around, opening the drawer to find a date book. Leafing through the past few weeks, there was a full week, outlining the appointments of Lord Diggar, Lord Drysdale, Lord Danbury, and the Duke of Tiverwell.

Nemesis flipped the pages, rifling through. One name was not present.

How…disappointing. This won’t do! The constables will notice!

One gentleman was conspicuously absent. There would be no link. Although, if Nemesis waited, then it might appear of its own accord. Perhaps the constables would be able to find something that Nemesis had missed.

Nemesis placed the diary into a pocket. All that was left was to drop this somewhere that the constables would find it. Specifically, at the scene of the next murder. It would be singularly damning.

Chapter Thirty-One

There was no time for Arabella to sneak away the next morning. Unfortunately, the Duke of Longmire showed up just after breakfast. He was then closeted away with her father for almost an entire hour.

“Well, they’re certainly taking their time,” the Duchess commented serenely.

“Mother,” Arabella said. “Did Father say something about this to you?”

“Not a word,” the Duchess replied. She continued her work on her needlepoint. This one was of a lighthouse, overlooking a bright blue and gray sea.

Arabella stood up. She should sneak out now. Leave here, before she became embroiled in whatever plans her father and the Duke of Longmire were making. She could go to Charles.

“Where are you going, my dear?” Her mother looked bewildered.

“Out,” Arabella said. She needed to get out of there, before they came back down. Remaining would mean that she would have to suffer through an audience with the Duke.

The door to the parlor opened, and both Dukes entered. Arabella’s father was beaming proudly. The Duke of Longmire was looking at Arabella, as though he owned her. It made her skin crawl.

“The Duke of Longmire has requested a private audience with Arabella,” her father said. “Come, my dear.” He held out a hand to her mother.

“Of course,” the Duchess said, standing up. She smiled at Arabella. All of her talk about finding a suitable match for her gone.

“No,” Arabella replied, flatly. “I do not want to be alone with him.”

“Listen to what His Grace has to say,” her father replied. “Just listen. Then you are free to say what you will.” As if whatever His Grace the Duke of Longmire had to say was so good that even she couldn’t say no to it.

Her parents left the room. Arabella remained where she was, sitting down with a sigh. It was clear that she would have to suffer through this audience. She folded her hands in her lap. His Grace sat down beside her. He held out his hand for her to take. She glared at him, keeping her hands folded.

He nodded, placing his hand on his leg. “I imagine that this comes to you as no surprise,” he began. “I have requested permission from His Grace, and he has given it.”

“Just ask your question.”

The Duke laughed. “Lady Arabella, will you do me the honor of marrying me?”

“Absolutely not,” she replied. To her shock, His Grace laughed, shaking his head, as if she were amusing.

“You are…absolutely hilarious,” he said. “His Grace said that that’s what you would say. I beg you—Please consider me. In all ways, I am able to give you the life that you want, My Lady.” His tone had finally become serious.

“How would you know what I want?” she asked. After all, he clearly had no clue. If he had, then he would have known that she wasn’t free to marry anyone, except for Mr. Charles Conolly.

“You want to have fine horses, a large estate, on which you can walk around, wearing your breeches,” he said. “Not to mention, the weight of the title of Duchess, behind which you can do as you please. Tell me, what type of life would you rather? The life of a barrister’s wife?”

So, he had heard, yet didn’t care. Arabella didn’t know what to say. She had given him her answer. Why couldn’t he accept it and leave? When she was silent, he went on.

“You’ll always be in a small London house. You will never be in the country. There will likely be no horses or no money to feed them properly. That is no life for a lady of your pedigree.”

“What do you know?” she whispered. He was putting Charles down, in an effort to make his own suit appear better. It only served to make her angrier.

“I will return in a week’s time. I have…things to set in order. Consider all that I have said. You’re a smart lady. You know how the world really works. When I come back, I will ask the question again—today’s refusal will be entirely forgotten.”

He bowed to her. She stared back at him. “It won’t change,” she told him. “My answer will be the same in a week’s time as it will in ten years’ time.”

“So you say, My Lady,” he said, putting his hat on his head and leaving.

Arabella remained where she was for a very long time. If things mattered to her, then she would have accepted. Her father, as well as the Duke of Longmire had grossly miscalculated. What mattered to Arabella was love. It didn’t matter that she wouldn’t have fine things or horses. She didn’t care at all for her title.

She loved Charles, and she would do whatever it took, deny the Duke of Longmire a thousand times over—if it all meant that she would finally be Charles’s wife. She thought of Charles, undressing her, claiming her for his own. It was worth all of that, and more. She raised her chin, steeling herself for whatever else they planned to throw her way.

* * *

When Charles arrived at his office that morning, there was something off. He had a creeping feeling as he entered. It was as though the air had been disturbed.

He walked past Arthur’s office, stopping to check if the door was locked. It was. His friend was running late. Charles found that his own office door was ajar. His heartrate rose as he slowly pushed the door open. He didn’t know what to expect on the other side.

It swung open, to reveal that his desk had been gone through. It wasn’t quite a mess, but everything had certainly been disturbed. Someone had broken in, during the night. Charles felt dismayed.

He began to go through his office, looking for what had been taken. He opened his desk drawer, to find that his date book was gone.

“Charles?” Arthur called out from the back door.

“Yes, Arthur?”

“The lock on the back door has been forced open. Was that you?” he asked.

“No, I came through the front door,” he replied, turning to look at Arthur. “Someone’s broken in, and taken my date book.”

Arthur frowned. “I’m going to fetch the constable,” he said.

“What for?” Charles asked.

“They need to make note of what’s been taken,” Arthur said. “Or else whoever has done this is going to use it against you.”

Charles sighed. “Let me come with you,” he said. They both locked the office, and then left. Charles was terrified. The murderer knew who he was, and that he was a suitable person to blame. For the first time, he recalled the Duke of Longmire’s suspicion of him, the night before.

What if the Duke of Longmire is the one behind this? He’s decided that I am to take the fall.

Charles needed to warn Arabella. He just didn’t know how.

* * *

It wasn’t long after the Duke of Longmire’s exit that both of her parents entered the room. Her mother was beaming.

“Well?” her father asked.

“He asked me to marry him,” she said. “But you knew he was going to do that. Just as you knew what my answer to him would be.”

“You said no.” Her father scowled.

“Oh, Arabella,” her mother said, dismayed. “You didn’t.”

“Of course, I did,” she replied. The Duke had insulted the man that she was in love with. Not to mention, the Duke was not the man that she was in love with. How could she have ever said yes?

“He says that he’ll return in a week, my refusal forgotten entirely. I am to consider it, and give him my answer yet again,” she said.

“You’ll say yes,” her father ordered. He was pacing the room, his hands clasped behind his back.

She looked at him. He was like a caged tiger. After what Annette had told her, she found that she was frightened of him.

“You’ll say yes,” he repeated, pausing to look at her. “You won’t ever get a better offer, my dear.”

“I—" She closed her mouth, swallowing nervously.

“There is no way in Hell that you will marry Mr. Conolly. If he truly cares about you, then he will respect that this is the way that your life must go, and he will say nothing of it.”

Arabella’s throat was tight. She refused to cry in front of her father. She clenched her teeth, steeling herself.

“There is no way in Hell that I will marry the Duke of Longmire,” she replied. When she looked at her father, he was grinning at her coldly.

“Is that so?” he asked, his eyes dangerous.

“Yes.”

“Well, then, I suppose we’ll see about that,” he said. It was a threat. A chill ran up her spine. She stared back at him, refusing to show her fear. He left the room, slamming the door after him.

Arabella looked over at her mother. “I’ve never seen him this angry before,” she said, then went back to her needlepoint.

“Mother, you cannot make him force me to marry,” Arabella said.

“I don’t know that I can convince him otherwise,” her mother replied. “It would be best if you spoke to him yourself. Try to make him see your point of view.”

* * *

Constable Mills returned to the office with Charles and Arthur. He examined the picked locks, the rifled office, and then sat down with the both of them out in the waiting room.

Charles had sent their clerk with a brief note to Lord Dunsmore saying that he was needed, urgently.

“You say that it was like this when you arrived, Mr. Conolly,” Constable Mills said.

“Yes. I arrived only a few moments before Mr. Hinkley did,” Charles explained.

“So, then you have no one to say that you arrived early and did this yourself, then?”

“That’s a very odd supposition, Constable,” Charles said, wondering if he should have sent for Alistair, as well.

“It certainly doesn’t account for your book being lost, either,” the constable replied.

“I feel that I’m being set up,” Charles told him. “I wanted to make a report, so that when it does show up, then it’s not used against me.”

“You know what I think?” the constable asked.

“What’s that?” Charles asked.

“I think you dropped it at the scene of a murder,” the constable replied, his eyes sparkling with menace. “And I think you’re trying to get out ahead of it.”

“That’s rather uncalled for, Constable,” Arthur snapped.

“Well, it does appear that Mr. Conolly has a few things that he’s hiding, don’t you, Mr. Conolly?”

“I have nothing to hide,” Charles said.

“So then you admit that you worked with all three of the victims so far?”

“I do,” Charles said. “I did. I liked them all very much, and I’m upset that they are dead. I wouldn’t have wished that on anyone, Constable.”

The Constable stared Charles down. “You’re a slippery fish, Mr. Conolly.”

“On the contrary, I’ve been rather forthcoming,” Charles said. “You’re the one who is looking for someone to put all the blame on. Turns out, you’re not the only one. The Murderer is trying to do it, as well.”

Just then, Lord Dunsmore entered.

“My Lord!” the constable said. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to Mr. Conolly for some help,” Lord Dunsmore replied casually. “What are you here for, Constable?”

“I’m—there was a break in,” the Constable replied, clearly dismayed by the sudden appearance of the private detective.

“A break in!” Lord Dunsmore gasped. “How horrible!”

“You’re not here on a case, are you?” Constable Mills asked, suspiciously.

“Dear me, no. Has anything been taken, though? Perhaps I should offer you my services, Mr. Conolly.”

“I’m on it, My Lord,” Constable Mills said, standing up. “I’ll be in touch, Mr. Conolly. I’ll have this report filed forthwith.”

“Thank you, Constable,” Charles said. They all watched the constable leave. Once the door had closed after him, Lord Dunsmore breathed a sigh of relief.

“Nothing angers the constabulary more than my intervention,” he commented. “Now. Let’s have a less biased look at the scene, shall we?”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Arabella waited in the parlor with her mother for an hour, giving her father some time to calm down. She then made her way upstairs, to her father’s study.

She knocked, nervously. There was a long pause before he answered.

“Come in,” he said.

She opened the door, peering inside. Her father stared back at her, from where he sat behind his desk. In front of him, there was a full glass of amber liquid.

“I’ve come to talk,” she said. “I think we’ve misunderstood each other.”

“I quite agree,” he replied. “Come and sit.”

She sat down in the armchair that she usually sat in. She had so many recollections of sitting there. In those times, she felt like an equal. A valued contributor to discussions. But those times seemed so distant from how she felt now, her father’s actions had caused her to question all of those times.

Her father reached into his desk drawer, pulling out a whole stack of letters, tied with a black ribbon. He passed them to her.

“I’ve been receiving these for the past year,” he said. “They are signed, Nemesis. He says that he will kill me, before the end of this winter.”

“Oh, Pappa,” she said, covering her mouth with her hand. She pulled one letter from the stack, unfolding it. In a spidery script, was written the same message that had been scrawled across their wall, back at Tiverwell Manor.

“I have no intention of dying,” he assured her. “I have fortified the house, and have hired men to keep a watch at night. I do not stir without two armed footmen. This Nemesis, whomever it is, will never find an opportunity.”

“You see,” he went on. “That was all of the other’s mistakes. They went out, alone.”

She nodded. That made sense.

“However, this has brought something to my attention,” he continued. “Someday, I will die. When I do, I will not have you living in Bath with your mother. While this is suitable for a widow, it is not for a young lady of marriageable age.”

She raised her chin. He held up a hand to keep her from speaking.

“I know that you think that you are in love with Mr. Conolly. It is mere fancy, and all too soon will fade away to mere memory.”

“It won’t,” she assured him confidently.

“You see, my dear, you have revealed to me your one weakness.” He had steepled his fingers.

“What are you talking about?” she asked.

“If you do not agree to marry the Duke of Longmire, then I will arrange it so that Mr. Conolly has a devastating accident.”

“You cannot do that,” she said.

“I can. And I will, particularly since it’s for your own good,” he said, folding his hands.

“So that’s it,” she said. “You’re threatening to kill the man I love in order to control me?” Arabella couldn’t believe what she was hearing.

“It’s all in the name of ensuring that you marry, and marry well. So, it’s all well and good.”

“I’ll tell the authorities,” she threatened.

“You think they’ll believe you? That I threatened my own barrister’s life? Don’t embarrass yourself. I know that you were in my secret office,” he said, folding his hands. “I’m curious, what is it that you believe you saw there?”

“I—I don’t know,” she admitted.

A slow smile spread across his face. “Good. You will marry the Duke of Longmire. There will be no more mention of Mr. Conolly.”

She stood up, leaving the room. Her heart was pounding in her chest. Her life had always been controlled. But she hadn’t really noticed because she’d simply never gone against his wishes.

What is it that you believe you saw there? What, indeed?

She tried to think back. The letters, which he had placed before her. That ledger, with the names…The flag, too.

* * *

Lord Dunsmore had just gone. Charles was sitting in his office, sipping a glass of brandy while he thought. He had decided to go through with the rest of his appointments that day. In an effort to appear as though everything were normal.

The front door opened. Charles stood up, walking out of his office. He was surprised to find Arabella standing there, Annette behind her.

“My Lady,” he said, his heart pounding. He wanted to take her in his arms, kiss her. But he held back.

“None of that, Charles. I need to speak with you, immediately,” she said, walking toward him. “Annette is going to keep watch, in case we were followed.” He held the door to his office open, so she could pass. Annette remained in the waiting room. He closed the door. She remained standing.

“What’s the matter, Arabella?” he asked, gently.

“The Duke of Longmire has asked me to marry him,” she said. Charles had expected as much. He’d prepared himself for this eventuality, deciding to take it stoically when the time came.

“I suppose congratulations are in order?” he replied, even though it was like a bullet to the chest.

“I would never accept,” she replied. “As long as you draw breath, I could never marry another.” She took his hand, which reflexively curled around hers. “I came, instead to warn you—my father has threatened your life.”

Charles’s knees almost gave out, and he leaned back against his desk. “Your father?” He could barely believe it. “I knew he was upset with me, but he’s planning to kill me?”

“If I continue to refuse the Duke of Longmire,” she said.

“I can’t let you be forced to do something merely to save me,” he said.

“I don’t want to agree to marry him. I just don’t see how I can get out of it,” she said. “All these years, he’s made it seem like I was so free, only to find that he’s got me in a tight rein. I’ve had blinders on, my whole life.”

“I…I think I have somewhere that I can go,” he said. Lord Dunsmore had told him, right before he’d left, that if he needed, he could stay at his townhome, where he would be provided with an iron-tight alibi.

“Don’t tell me,” she said. “I don’t want to betray you.”

“Will you be all right?” he asked.

“Are you leaving London?” Their eyes met.

“No. I won’t go that far from you,” he said, his love for her shining through his words. “Not now.” He was drawn to her, like a moth to a flame. Loving her might be the end of him, but he would happily allow it to consume him. He reached up, his fingers caressing her cheek. She leaned into his touch.

She went up on her toes, and he leaned in. They kissed, both of them holding each other tightly, as though it would be their last. The kiss deepened, and his hand went to the small of her back, pulling her in closer. She grabbed the front of his shirt. His head spun. When they finally stepped back, they were both out of breath.

“No matter what happens, I will always love you,” she promised him.

“I could never stop loving you,” he replied. “Even if you married the Duke of Longmire.”

“It won’t come to that,” she said. “It can’t.”

* * *

Arabella and Annette arrived home, leaving their horses with one of the grooms. They hadn’t been gone long—no one would question them if they said that they’d gone for a ride around the park. It was a brilliantly sunny day, and the wind was brisk. Perfect for a ride.

Mr. Blankley opened the door for them. He smiled brightly when he saw them, sketching a polite bow.

“How was your ride, My Lady?” he asked, standing aside to let them pass.

“Lovely,” Arabella declared. “We rode around Kensington Gardens.”

“It’s a fine, brisk day for that,” he replied, closing the door.

“It is, Mr. Blankley,” she agreed, tugging off her riding gloves. She made her way up the stairs, Annette following behind her. When she looked up, she saw that her father was standing there. He reminded her of the ghost in Hamlet—forbidding, morose.

“Do tell me,” he said, placing a letter in his inside jacket pocket. “What is wrong with the Duke of Longmire?”

“Why do you ask?” she replied, knowing full well that her father had received a missive from the Duke.

“I just cannot make out why you would turn down a marriage proposal from a respectable gentleman, not to mention, a Duke.”

“Why must we go over this now?” she asked.

“Because he’s returning in a few days, and I want you to give him a definite answer,” he said.

“You want me to give him a positive answer,” she pointed out. “I’ve certainly given him a definite answer already.”

As Arabella stood, facing her father, Annette scurried down the hall to Arabella’s rooms. Arabella couldn’t blame her lady’s maid. She herself had never seen her father this angry before. Not since the day that Mr. Conolly arrived to ask his permission to marry her. She steeled herself. She was going to give her father a good dose of the truth. There was no way that he was going to take it well.

“Why?” he demanded. “I just don’t understand.”

She raised her chin, drawing herself up to her full height. If he was going to persist, then she would give him a strong dose of the truth. “I cannot marry the Duke of Longmire because I am in love with Charles Conolly.” She watched his eyes widen, and his mouth turn downward. “If I can’t have him, then I’ll have no one. I’m to become a spinster, living on the considerable sum which you have bequeathed to me.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” he replied.

“Well, you’d best start planning for it,” she replied. “I will never show up to a wedding, unless Charles is at the altar.” She watched as he flinched at her use of Charles’s Christian name. She’d done it expressly for that purpose.

They both stared each other down. There was a vein, popping out on his forehead. It was a bit worrisome, but Arabella didn’t even blink. She was dressed in a pair of breeches, and she was going to have her way, in this, too.

“If I end up, murdered in cold blood, you will have nothing—I will make sure of it. No one to care for you, not even your mother. You will be alone in the world, with no money and no husband.”

“I can take care of myself,” she said, watching the anger flicker dangerously in his eyes.

“If you do not accept the Duke when he returns, then I will cut you off, entirely.”

“Very well,” she replied, refusing to give in to his threats.

“I will make sure that you can never marry Mr. Conolly,” he hissed, jabbing a finger in her direction. “You can be sure of it.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Think of his life as forfeit,” her father stated.

He stormed off, down the stairs. Arabella stood there, alone, wondering if, perhaps, she had pushed too far. Her father had just threatened Charles’s life. She decided to go and write him a letter. Just in case.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Charles had received a letter when he had arrived at his office. He thanked the clerk, then took it into his office, closing the door. He saw Arabella’s handwriting, flipped it over to find her seal, pressed into the wax.

Breaking the seal, he opened the letter.

Charles,

I don’t know when you’ll receive this. I will have to have Annette sneak it out for me. My father is threatening to harm you if I do not agree to marry the Duke of Longmire. I don’t plan on giving the Duke any positive answer, so I am warning you to keep an eye out.

Love,

Arabella.

He wrote her a quick reply.

You’ve done right. Do not do anything that would make your life unhappy. Not for my sake.

There was a knock on the door.

“Come in,” he called out, expecting Arthur to peer inside. Charles looked up, surprised to find that Lord Dunsmore was there.

“Here,” he said, handing him yet another disguise. “We are to play Le Marquis and Le Duc one final time, my dear friend.”

Charles put on the blond wig, yet again, stuffed the cotton wads into his cheeks, so that they bulged. It was ingenious how such small things could vary an appearance.

“Where are we going?” he asked, his words garbled.

“We will be going to meet with Mr. Bones,” Lord Dunsmore explained. “I’ve set it all up.”

“Very good, My Lord.”

On their way out, Charles gave his note to Arabella to the clerk who worked in the office, to send out with the rest of the post. It was a risk, to send something to Arabella. He could only hope that his letter reached her.

Charles and Lord Dunsmore took Lord Dunsmore’s carriage out to a residence that was located out by the docks. From the front, it wasn’t much to look at. Charles himself wouldn’t have given it a second look.

Lord Dunsmore walked confidently up to a small group of sailors, who appeared to be loitering in front.

“I’ve a meeting with Mr. Bones,” he told them in a French accent, handing one of them a card. The man looked at it, then turned and went inside. Charles and Lord Dunsmore waited. The two other sailors observed them with very mild curiosity. It was as though they had seen much, and were surprised at very little any more.

The first man returned, and motioned for them to go inside. “Mr. Bones will see you now,” he said. Charles was nervous, but he kept his features composed. He followed behind Lord Dunsmore, who seemed utterly at ease. They entered the building to find that the inside was elegant. There was thick carpeting on the clean wood floors. The walls were painted a deep maroon that was so dark, that it was nearly black.

Like heart’s blood.

They were taken down a hallway, to a room. The man knocked. A male voice responded. “Come in.”

The door was opened, and Charles was shocked, nearly unto death, when he found that they were facing the Duke of Tiverwell. He was sitting behind a very large and empty wooden desk. Compared to the rest of the building, this office was spare. All of the furniture was expensive, large and heavy.

Lord Dunsmore took off his disguise. “I’d pretend that I’m French, but I think you know who I am.”

“I do,” the Duke looked at Charles, “I’ve never seen your valet before.”

“And you will never see him again,” Lord Dunsmore replied, turning His Grace’s attention away from Charles. “He’s here for my own personal protection. You can’t be too careful these days.” He patted Charles on the shoulder.

“Quite right,” the Duke replied. “What with gentlemen being murdered in the streets.” He sighed, as if it was an imposition. “What are you looking for, Dunsmore?”

“I was wondering what it was that you procure for the Millgate Club members, Your Grace?”

“Is there something that you need, My Lord?” His Grace replied, smoothly deflecting.

“Information. As you know, I’m a private investigator. I’m willing to pay for it, but it must be the truth, Your Grace.”

“I don’t need money to give the truth. If I may ask, who are you working for?” the Duke wanted to know.

“I’m trying to solve the murders,” Lord Dunsmore replied. “I’m doing it because I believe in safety for the gentlemen of the ton.”

Charles felt like he was observing a game of chess, played by two master players. He stood silently by, listening and absorbing everything that was being said—and being left unsaid.

“I would never,” the Duke replied. “I’m merely a procurer of items which may or may not be tricky for someone to get.”

“For example?”

“Silks, champagne, caviar—I can get them moved without tax.”

“How do you do that?”

“I smuggle them in secretly,” the Duke replied. “I run them through the river up by Tiverwell Manor. Then, I bring them to London.”

“This makes you a lot of money, then?”

“Yes,” the Duke replied. “As you can imagine, I want to provide for my only child.”

“So, if I wanted to have you send me a case of French champagne, without the duties?” Lord Dunsmore asked.

“I would have it to you next week,” His Grace replied.

“How much?”

The Duke wrote an amount on a bit of paper, and handed it to Lord Dunsmore, who looked at it, slipping it into the inside pocket of his coat.

“Have the money sent to me by tomorrow at ten o’clock. I will make all of the arrangements done forthwith.”

“Very good, Your Grace.”

“If you change your mind, just do not send the funds,” the Duke said.

“You will receive the funds forthwith, Your Grace,” Lord Dunsmore replied.

Lord Dunsmore and Charles both exited, making their way back out of the building. They returned to the carriage in silence. Once the door was closed and the carriage was on its way back to Charles’s offices, they spoke.

“Why did you remove your disguise?” Charles asked.

“It made His Grace let his guard down,” Lord Dunsmore explained. “However, the test will come as to whether a murderer comes to get me as a result of my dealings with His Grace, Mr. Bones.”

“You’re putting yourself in danger? Why?” Charles removed the cotton from his mouth. It was unpleasantly damp. He stuffed it into his pocket.

“It’s necessary,” Lord Dunsmore replied. “I’m very skilled in the Japanese martial art of kenpo, after all. I’m sure one assassin would have a hard go of it.”

“If not him, then who could it be?” Charles pointed out. They didn’t have any other leads. Neither did the constables, unless they were going to persist in pointing the blame at Charles. The thought made him extremely nervous.

“At this point, your guess is as good as mine,” Dunsmore replied. “If it’s not him, then we need to start looking at the case from a different angle. There’s something that we’ve overlooked, Mr. Conolly.”

Charles nodded his agreement. There was something that they had overlooked—someone else, who had remained undiscovered, by either the private detective or the proper authorities. The murderer—the true murderer, for he didn’t believe the Duke capable of murdering other gentlemen—was still out there, hiding in plain sight.

* * *

The Murderer lurked in the shadows. Dressed in the warm dark cloak, purchased through the sale of certain stolen articles— the winter chill did not touch Nemesis. The Duke of Longmire has been the most difficult to get on his own, thus far. However, he had his faults, ones which Nemesis could not overlook.

Just like the Viscount of Drysdale, the Duke of Longmire planned to persist in his sins after his marriage. He had told Nemesis as much, himself. He’d been drunk—crowing proudly of his successful acquisition of the Lady Arabella’s hand in marriage. How he planned to live as he was used. That was something that Nemesis couldn’t let stand.

He’ll never change, so the cycle must be broken, so that others may learn from his mistakes.

The Duke of Longmire was never alone, except when he went to the brothel. The murderer waited outside, while the Duke had a few drinks at the Millgate Club. At about ten of the clock, he left the club via the side door, slipping out so that his valet doesn’t even know that he’s gone.

Nemesis watched him walk down the street. He was not very far into his cups, but enough that he had a bit of a swagger to his stride—that boldness that comes from too much drink.

The murderer took one of the back doors into the brothel. Nemesis knew the inside of the place well enough. Waiting in a darkened corner, Nemesis waited until His Grace went up along with his chosen lady of the night.

He wouldn’t be alone, but his chosen lady was named Millie, a blonde-haired angel whose face and body were her only attractions. She was one of the brothel’s more featherbrained employees.

Nemesis opened the door as quietly as possible. The woman didn’t see the Murderer, who knocked her over the head, so she crumpled on the floor in a heap.

The Duke turned, smiling when he saw Nemesis. “What are you doing in here?”

The Murderer stepped forward, covering their mouth with a gloved hand. “Shhhhh,” the murderer said, smirking. The Duke smiled, thinking that this was a joke.

Nemesis stepped closer, pulling out the knife. The murderer swiped the blade across the Duke’s throat. He didn’t even see it coming. His eyes widened, his hand going up to his throat. Blood gushed through his fingers. He fell to his knees, then onto his hands. Nemesis grabbed a fistful of his hair, bringing his face up.

“I found you anyway, Your Grace,” Nemesis taunted, watching as the light went out of his eyes.

The girl would wake, so Nemesis tied her up, placing a handkerchief in her mouth. No one would bother them for hours. And, when they were discovered, Millie wouldn’t be blamed for the Duke’s murder.

Nemesis wanted credit, after all. Killing four gentlemen was hard work, which took planning and cunning—two things little Millie wasn’t able to do. She would be pathetic, climbing the scaffolding in tears.

Nemesis emptied the Duke’s pockets. Inside his front breast pocket, there was a sparkly, golden ring—a large emerald, set within a wreath of diamonds. No doubt for the Lady Arabella’s precious finger.

Now, Lady Arabella will be safe.

The murderer slipped the ring into a pocket. Nemesis took Charles Conolly’s date book out of another pocket, dropping it haphazardly on the floor, so that it landed open facedown beside the Duke—as though it had been dropped by accident.

Nemesis left, creeping down the hallway. All of the doors were closed, the sounds of debauchery coming from within. The rush of a successful kill filled Nemesis’s veins like quicksilver, mixed with something strong—opium. Outside, the dark streets swallowed Nemesis whole.

* * *

Arabella was sitting in the withdrawing room with the Duchess. She was trying to read her book, but she had been rereading the same sentence, over and over.

Her mind was full of her impending problem. Namely, the Duke of Longmire’s expected reappearance. She wanted to continue to deny him. But her father had threatened Charles. She had never thought him dangerous. These days, it was hard to say for sure.

“Arabella,” her mother said, causing her to look up. The Duchess was working on another needlepoint. She always kept up a steady stream of them. She would give them away as gifts, since both Tiverwell Manor and their townhome were already decorated in what could only be considered quite a lot of them.

“Yes, Mamma?” Arabella asked.

“Tomorrow is the day that the Duke of Longmire returns,” she said.

“I recall,” she replied with a sigh. Her father wouldn’t allow her to forget. After his remarks the day before, she was in a flutter of fear.

“Have you made up your mind as to what your answer will be?” the Duchess asked.

Arabella sighed, shaking her head. She closed her book and set it aside on one of the tables. “I want to say no,” she admitted. “But Pappa seems so set on having me marry him. They’re both going to persist, wearing me down until I say yes.”

“If you’re really so set on not having him,” her mother said. “Then I could try talking sense into your father.”

“Would that change anything?” Arabella asked. “I feel like all of this disagreement is destroying the close bond that we used to share. I feel like a stranger to my own father.”

“I’ve noticed that he’s been angry of late,” her mother replied. “It’s all of these murders. I believe it’s changing him. Not for the better. I think he’s afraid, more than anything.”

Arabella reached out squeezing her mother’s hand. “I appreciate what you’re saying.”

“I just want you to be happy and taken care of,” her mother said.

“I want that, too,” Arabella said. She did. She knew that the only way she could have both was with Charles.

Her mother was frowning. “Do you truly believe that Mr. Conolly could keep you comfortable?” she asked, delicately.

“You know, I truly do,” Arabella replied. “I mean, he works for the gentlemen of the ton. How could he possibly be poor?”

Her mother inhaled, then exhaled, nodding. She was opening her mouth to say something when they were interrupted by the door flying open.

“I’m sorry Your Grace—” Mr. Blankley said. The rest of what he was apologizing for was cut off as Lady Linton and Lady Emily both burst into the room in a brightly-colored cloud of silk, ribbons, and wide-eyed upset.

“Your Grace! My Lady! Have you heard?” Lady Linton demanded.

“Have you heard the news?” Lady Emily asked, finishing her mother’s sentence.

“Goodness, no,” the Duchess said. “Whatever is the matter?”

“The Duke of Longmire has been found murdered,” Lady Linton said. Arabella had never been speechless in her entire life, but she was then.

She just sat there, her mouth hanging open. She certainly hadn’t wanted to marry the Duke, but she hadn’t wished a violent death upon him. The sudden change had her head spinning.

“When?” It was the only thing that she could think to say.

“He was found this morning,” Lady Emily said, then whispered. “He was found with his throat slit in a brothel.”

Arabella’s mouth fell open again. Her mind went blank.

“Mr. Blankley,” the Duchess called out. “Please bring some tea and brandy. We’ve all had a shock.” She grabbed Arabella’s hand. “Darling? Are you all right?”

“I think I’m feeling faint,” Arabella murmured. She was experiencing a myriad of emotions. She wasn’t quite sure which was which.

Chapter Thirty-Four

Charles was in his office, when Constable Mills arrived. He was smiling smugly. Charles had already heard the news, and had called for Lord Dunsmore, as well as his friend, Alistair Morton. He had a hunch that he was about to be blamed, and he wanted someone skilled in criminal defense in his corner.

“We’ve found your date book, sir,” the Constable said, placing it on his desk.

Charles stared at the familiar book, which had his name embossed on the leather of the cover. He recalled purchasing it, ordering his name placed there. He’d been proud of the purchase.

“At the scene of the Duke of Longmire’s murder,” Charles said bitterly, finishing the thought. It was just as he’d expected. “Just like I told you that you would. The murderer wants to frame me.” He was terrified, but he wasn’t about to show Constable Mills. He folded his hands in his lap, staring back at the constable.

“Don’t say anything more, Charles,” Alistair said, letting himself in. “They’re looking to close the investigation. However, London is in an uproar over the deaths of four gentlemen, and if the correct murderer is not caught, Constable Mills will be in a lot of trouble.”

“I see what’s going on here,” Constable Mills said. “I’ve got my eye on you, Mr. Conolly.”

“We can see that,” Alistair said coolly. “However, Mr. Conolly has an alibi for last night.”

“Does he?” Constable Mills raised an eyebrow, turning his gaze back toward Charles.

“I do,” Charles replied, glad that he had decided to go out drinking with the other barristers. He hadn’t gone, recently. Alistair and Arthur had persuaded him at the last minute.

“He was out all night with us,” Alistair said. “I can give you the names and contact information for all nine of us barristers who go out for a pint every week.”

The Constable’s eyes widened as he looked at Alistair in dismay. “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Morton.”

“Well, I wouldn’t want you to just take my word for it,” Alistair said, clearly pleased.

Lord Dunsmore burst into the room. “Constable! I thought I’d find you here.”

“You summoned Dunsmore?” Constable Mills asked, disappointed. He looked in between Charles and Alistair, clearly unsure which of them was to blame for the private detective’s appearance.

“I did,” Charles admitted freely. “Although it sounds as though he didn’t receive my missive at his home.”

“I was at the crime scene,” Lord Dunsmore replied, looking at the constable curiously. “It was a hunch that I had that led me here, fortuitously. Are you planning on charging Mr. Conolly?”

“No,” Constable Mills replied. “I’ve got what I needed—that is, Mr. Conolly’s alibi. I’ll be on my way out.”

The three of them were silent, as they waited for the constable to leave. The door closed, and then both Alistair and Lord Dunsmore turned to Charles.

“I’m taking you to my estate in the country,” Lord Dunsmore said.

“You need an alibi at all times,” Alistair added.

“I’m not leaving London,” Charles replied, shaking his head. He would look guilty if he left town. Not to mention, if the murders stopped as soon as he was out of London, then he would look guilty as sin.

“It’s no longer safe for you here,” Lord Dunsmore stated.

“He’s right,” Alistair added.

“I promised Lady Arabella that I would remain nearby,” he said. “I cannot abandon her. Not at this time.” No one and nothing could get him to leave. Unless Arabella herself was going. Then, and only then would he go.

Alistair and Lord Dunsmore shared a look.

“I won’t run and hide,” Charles said. “I’ll just make myself very visible.”

“Very well. Then we will make you very visible,” Lord Dunsmore said. “Have you any invitations?”

“A few,” Charles replied.

“Then you’re going to all of them,” Alistair said. “Make sure that you are seen, and for long periods of time.”

“I will go with you,” Lord Dunsmore added. “To provide you with an alibi.”

“If it’s not the Duke of Tiverwell, then who could it be?” Charles asked, giving voice to his concerns. He and Lord Dunsmore had been discussing it, the last time they’d spoken. They’d come up with no possible leads.

Lord Dunsmore shrugged. “I’m at a loss here,” he said. “I was so sure that it would be Mr. Bones.”

“Who is Mr. Bones?” Alistair asked, curiously.

“The Duke of Tiverwell’s alias,” Lord Dunsmore said. “Although, I would keep that to yourself, sir.” Alistair nodded.

“But?” Charles asked Lord Dunsmore, trying to get him to focus. The detective was highly intelligent, but easily distractible.

“The goods were delivered to my home, and my footman was left unharmed. I certainly have not been followed. I even went for a walk by the Thames at one of the clock in the morning.”

Charles sighed. He had hoped, by this time, that they would have had some sort of an answer. Unfortunately, they had hit a very dead end, when it appeared that Constable Mills was seriously considering him as the main suspect.

* * *

Arabella remained in the parlor with her mother and the two ladies, as was expected. Lady Linton and Lady Emily stayed to luncheon. Arabella could hardly eat. She could hardly speak. Her mother coaxed her into drinking a glass of brandy, then eating an egg and some toast.

Lady Linton and Lady Emily talked throughout their entire stay, of balls and dresses. Arabella’s head spun. Once the two ladies had left, she sat for a moment, relieved to have a moment’s peace.

“Well,” her mother said. “I suppose you have nothing to worry about now.”

“On the contrary, Mother. I feel that I have everything to worry about. I feel almost as though I’ve wished this upon him.” She felt wretched. It was not the escape that she’d hoped for. This was rather worse.

The door opened, and her father peered in. “I presume you’ve heard the news,” he said. His face was grim. His hair was mussed, his clothes in disorder. In his hand, he held a glass of brandy.

“Yes,” the Duchess said, speaking for both of them. Arabella’s eyes were on his free hand, which he was making a fist, and then releasing it.

“I had truly thought him my son-in-law already,” he said. “He was…”

“Not the gentleman that we thought him to be,” Arabella stated flatly, her tongue loosened by her earlier drink. She was angry at her father, most of all. “You wanted to have me marry a gentleman who frequents brothels? Do you not know of the disease that he would have brought into our marriage bed?”

Her father blinked. She had never seen her father speechless before, but in the wake of her anger, he merely stared back at her.

“How dare you?” she growled. “You threatened Mr. Conolly to me, to force me to marry the Duke. You put me in an impossible situation.” Tears were spilling down her cheeks.

She didn’t know what she expected from him. Certainly, it was not this silent man, who seemed neither ready to apologize, nor upset. He stared back at her, then looked away.

“Do I really mean nothing to you?” she hissed.

Arabella stood up and left the room. She went to her bedroom, where she began to write a letter to Charles. She paused, her quill poised above the paper. Her hand shook, and ink dripped from the point, dotting the page.

What to say? What did she even want? Her first thought was to demand that he run away with her. It would solve everything. But it would be wrong. He would never agree to it.

A warm tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it away, then looked down at the letter. Dear Charles, it read. I fear that I must warn you that—She crumpled it up. Now that there was no longer a Duke of Longmire to return and propose a second time, Charles was no longer in any danger.

She knew that he had gotten her last letter. But she had never received a response. Even that rattled her.

Perhaps, it was intercepted. Or, he didn’t respond.

Arabella was still in love with him, though. There was still nothing that she could do about it. How things stood were awful. She couldn’t help but think about Lord Drysdale. He had been a potential suitor for her, at one point. To have a second, dead—she had a feeling that the gossipmongers would get wind of it.

Again, she had never wished either of them dead. She had merely been in love with another. She knew that the constables wanted to blame Charles for it. She could only hope that he was keeping himself safe from their blame.

* * *

Charles canceled his appointments for the day. He and Lord Dunsmore sat in his office, drinking the good brandy. Charles felt very warm, as though he were wrapped in something pleasant.

“I can’t help but notice,” Lord Dunsmore mused. “Both the Viscount of Drysdale and the Duke of Longmire were, as you say, potential suitors for the Lady Arabella Follett.”

“That’s true,” Charles agreed. “If the Duke of Tiverwell had been behind the murders, then that might be a clue. However, what I know for certain is that the Duke of Tiverwell truly expected the Lady Arabella to wed the Duke of Longmire.”

“Is that so?” Lord Dunsmore asked. He downed the rest of his glass, then refilled it. He also refilled Charles’s glass.

“It’s so,” Charles replied. “He didn’t deserve her, though.”

“You love her, don’t you?” Lord Dunsmore asked. “If I may be so bold.” He gestured with his glass toward Charles.

“Is it that obvious?” he asked, knowing what the answer would be. It was an old pain, one that he was growing accustomed to.

“Anyone with eyes can see,” Lord Dunsmore replied.

“I love her,” Charles said. “God help me, I love her.”

“Then you shall have her!” Lord Dunsmore declared. “You will—you will come and work for me. We will solve cases together, you and I. And we will blackmail Mr. Bones into allowing you to marry her.”

“Mr. Bones will have us both killed,” Charles said, knowing that it would never come to pass. The wound that he carried would always be fresh.

“He may yet,” Lord Dunsmore replied. “Although, it has been over four-and-twenty hours, and I haven’t had so much as an errand-boy follow me.”

“He might not be the murderer,” Charles pointed out. “He was friends with all of the victims. He truly seemed upset.” Charles had been to all of the funerals, so far. He wouldn’t attend the Duke of Longmire’s, as he hadn’t known him well at all.

“What are we missing?” Lord Dunsmore asked. He pulled out a sheet of paper, and began to draw a map. “We have the Millgate Club,” he murmured, drawing a square, and neatly writing it in. “Then, across the street, there is the Stanhope Club. Rivals, both of them.”

“Could it be someone from there?” Charles suggested. He had never been to the Stanhope Club. He didn’t know many of the members, aside from Lord Dunsmore.

“Possibly,” he mused, filling in the establishments on his map. “Just down the street, there are several bars, one pub, and two brothels, one of which is the scene of the Duke’s murder.” He placed an X over the brothel.

“What do you think?” Charles asked. Lord Dunsmore often already had several suspicions. His mind was like an automaton that was always wound—it was always in motion.

“I wonder if it’s someone from one of the establishments,” Lord Dunsmore mused. “I’ll have to take a look.”

“I’ll come with you,” Charles offered.

“No. The last place that you should be is where any of the murders have occurred. As long as no one can place you there, you will be safe.”

“Will you be all right?” Charles asked.

“Never fear, Mr. Conolly,” Lord Dunsmore replied, standing up. He pulled on his coat. “I won’t go alone. I’ll stop by the Stanhope and pick up some of my chums. We’ll make a little trip down the road.” He winked at Charles.

“Good luck, then,” Charles said, standing up. They both shook hands.

“Don’t forget,” Lord Dunsmore reminded him, “We have Lord and Lady Danstall’s party tomorrow night.”

“I won’t forget,” Charles assured him. It was their twentieth wedding anniversary. It was to be a ball of epic proportions. All of the ton was going. Charles, as Lord Danstall’s barrister, had been invited.

Lord Dunsmore put his hat on, and walked out. Charles decided to go home. Mrs. Osbourne could provide him with both an alibi and supper. He put on his coat and his hat, bid Arthur goodbye, and then hired a Hansom Cab to take him home.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Arabella arrived at the Marquess and Marchioness of Danstall’s twentieth wedding anniversary ball, along with her parents. She was dressed in a sober, dark blue dress. Most of the attendees were also dressed in dark colors, in remembrance of those who had recently lost their lives.

“Thank you for having us,” Arabella told them. The Marchioness took her hands in her own.

“You are most welcome, My Lady,” Lady Danstall said.

“Congratulations on twenty years,” the Duchess of Tiverwell added.

“Yes, well, the trick is to fall in love,” the Marquess said, winking at Arabella. She smiled as they both smiled at each other. They were clearly very fond of each other. Their children surrounded them. It was a happy picture.

Arabella let herself drift through the crowd, beside her parents. Her mother clutched her father’s arm. They both discussed those in attendance. Arabella looked around, waving her black lace fan in front of her face.

She had spent the past few days in a whirl of confused feelings. With the Duke of Longmire’s funeral approaching, she wasn’t sure how she was supposed to react. That a gentleman had to be murdered in order for her to be free was against everything that Arabella stood for.

Not to mention, she felt betrayed by her father, for placing her in that situation. Neither of them had spoken to each other since the other day. They didn’t even look at each other, despite having shared a table several times, as well as a carriage on the way there.

Her head spun. She looked around at all of the finely dressed members of the ton. Candlelight flickered, making the room seem enchanted. There were little bunches of hot house flowers—white roses, lilies, tied with satin bows to evergreen branches. She followed her parents as they passed by a group of recently debuted ladies, who were whispering amongst themselves.

That was when she saw him. She knew Charles by the slant of his shoulders, the proud way that he held his head, despite being surrounded by the den of vipers. Her heart seemed to stop as he turned and saw her. His eyes softened, and he smiled.

“Excuse me,” she said to her parents, making her way through the crowd. He moved toward her, and they met, halfway between where they started.

She curtsied as he bowed. Then, they stood for a moment, smiling at each other. She sought for something to say—there were so many things she wanted to say, but couldn’t. She ached for him, but she could say nothing about it.

“Are—are you well, Sir?” she asked, blinking back tears.

“As well as can be expected, My Lady,” he replied. “Are you well?”

“I am,” she replied, not adding that it was only because of his presence. A hand gripped her by the arm, and she turned to see her father’s livid face.

“Neither of you are to be alone,” he growled.

Just then, Lord Dunsmore walked up to their group. He smiled at her father. “Your Grace,” he said. Something passed between them. Her father’s eyes widened. Lord Dunsmore glanced at Charles. “Oh, Mr. Conolly! Are you to dance with Lady Arabella?”

The musicians in the corner were tuning up their instruments. Arabella smiled, even though she had no idea what manner of leverage Lord Dunsmore had over her father. She was wildly curious to know.

“Pappa,” she whispered. “If you do not let go of me, everyone will talk.” She glanced down at his hand, which still gripped her upper arm.

His eyes widened in fear. One thing that her dear father hated the most was scandal, particularly public scorn for rudeness. He let go of her arm, nodding. His nostrils flared as he breathed deeply.

“Very well,” he said, grimacing. “I will watch from here.”

“Understood, Your Grace.” Charles offered her his arm. She placed her hand in the bend of his elbow. He led her out to the middle of the floor. It was a fancy, grand ball, so there would be no simple country dances.

They faced each other. She placed her hand in his, the other on his shoulder. He pulled her close, his hand on the small of her back. There was a warm flash in the pit of her belly. In his arms, Arabella felt even more drawn to him than ever.

“This is my very favorite place to be,” she said softly.

“The Marquess of Danstalls?” he asked, winking at her.

“No, silly. In your arms,” she whispered. No doubt, someone else heard, but Arabella didn’t care. The smile that bloomed across his face, the tender look that was in his eyes—that was all that mattered.

* * *

Charles had to keep his focus. Her words were tender—bold, too. He could feel the Duke of Tiverwell’s gaze on them. Almost searing into his flesh with the heat of his anger.

“It’s just like fencing, isn’t it?” he asked, recalling the time when they’d both been happy. It seemed like forever ago, when they’d fenced back at Tiverwell Manor. So much had happened, had changed. “You said that, once.”

“Very much so,” she agreed.

“I think you’re better at this, than I,” he replied. “Although you beat me soundly at fencing.”

“I’m better at most things,” she replied. They both laughed. The moment was bittersweet.

“Very true,” he agreed.

They were silent, just staring into each other’s eyes. The whole of the ball seemed to vanish. Even the Duke of Tiverwell. It was like that every time they were together. He didn’t want this to end. Not ever. He would have to thank Dunsmore for engineering it.

“This might be the last time we’re close like this,” he said, preparing himself to say goodbye to her. Possibly forever. They might see each other, from time to time, but he knew that it wouldn’t be the same. The Duke would make sure that they couldn’t be together. Not like this.

“I certainly hope not,” she replied. “There will be other balls.”

“But your father will find another suitor, and likely warn him about me.”

“No doubt he’ll try,” she told him, smiling sadly.

“What will you do about it?” he asked. They both knew the Duke’s word was final. Particularly where Charles marrying his daughter was concerned.

“I’ll die a spinster, Charles,” she said, stoutly. “If I can’t marry you, then I won’t marry at all.”

He swallowed. That was a bold statement. “But you’re so young to be saying something like that, My Lady.”

“Are you planning on marrying, then?” she asked.

“No, never.” If he wasn’t going to marry for love, then what was the point? He’d leave all his money to Mrs. Osbourne and be done with it.

“It’s an impossible situation,” she replied.

“And yet, here we are,” he said.

“Here we are,” she agreed. Her eyes softened. He held her as close as he dared. His body ached for her—his heart felt like it was breaking. When he inhaled, he smelled the scent of her rose perfume, mingling with the distinctive scent of her hair, her skin. It made his skin tingle, and his thoughts turn to the bedroom. He wanted to enjoy this moment—to draw it out, indefinitely. But the music ended with a flourish. He bowed to her as she curtsied to him. She took his hand, pressing it in her own.

“I’ll never forget this moment,” she told him. “I’ll remember it always, and how much you love me.”

“I won’t forget it, either,” he replied, aching for her. He felt like he was being torn in half as they both parted ways. He walked over to the refreshments table, pouring himself a glass of punch, if only to give himself something to do.

Lord Dunsmore sidled up next to him. “You know what the Duke just said to me?”

“What?” He could only imagine. The Duke had been livid with Lord Dunsmore. But the Duke was held in check by his overwhelming desire not to have his daughter know about “Mr. Bones.”

“That he had never realized until just a moment ago how truly in love the two of you are.”

“I don’t believe you,” Charles said, taking a sip of his punch.

Lord Dunsmore smiled mysteriously. “You will, my friend. You will.”

“I can’t believe I’ve lost her,” Charles murmured, his eyes scanning the room for her.

“Not yet,” Lord Dunsmore assured him. “While you’re both still alive, nothing is lost.”

* * *

Arabella danced, all through the evening. If she was on the dancefloor, then she could keep looking out for Charles. She kept spotting him, talking along the edges. He watched her, as she watched him.

Each time that she saw him, it was like a knife through her heart. She loved him so thoroughly, and she knew that he felt the same. Arabella could search the whole world over, and she would never find anyone who loved her so well and perfectly as Charles did.

This was what it was always going to be like. She was always going to be looking for him, standing along the sides, where the ton had relegated him. Simply because he worked for them. They would never bend the rules—not for anything—not even for love.

That was all that she wanted to do, because she loved him. The final dance ended, and she curtsied to her partner—the Marquess of Mawbray.

She excused herself, and then began looking for her parents, so that they could say their goodbyes and head home. She saw her father, first. He was watching her, from near the door to the terrace.

“I need to speak to you,” he said.

“About what, Pappa?” She was afraid to ask—not after they’d been on such cold terms for the past few days.

“I saw you, dancing with Mr. Conolly,” he replied. Her heartbeat rose, as she expected him to tell her that he would never employ him again. “I want to apologize.”

“What?” She couldn’t have been more surprised. She thought that she’d misheard him.

“I realize that the two of you are in love,” her father said. “How is it my place to keep two who are so deeply in love apart?”

“Oh, Pappa,” she said, beaming.

“I’m so sorry for the way that I acted,” he said. “Please forgive me?”

“You were only acting in what you believed to be my best interest,” she said. Even though he’d been wrong, he had been trying to keep her in an economic situation that she was used to.

“Quite right.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” she said. “So long as you’re planning on fixing the mistake.”

“I will speak with Mr. Conolly myself,” he told her, offering her his arm. “Let’s go find your Mother and get her home, yes?”

She grinned, slipping her hand into the crook of his elbow. She glanced around, looking for Charles, but she couldn’t find him.

He must have gone already. Pappa wouldn’t have spoken to him here, though.

She rode back in the carriage with both of her parents. She watched through the window as London passed by, all lit up in the winter darkness. The sky overhead was deep blue. The light of the moon on the frost was cold, glittering.

Arabella was so impossibly happy. For the first time in what felt like ages, she had hope for the future. Once her father spoke with Charles, it would all be decided. She’d never thought that she would end the night so happily.

Chapter Thirty-Six

Charles had only just finished eating a late breakfast, when heard the knock on the front door. He remained where he was, reading the newspaper. He heard Mrs. Osbourne, talking to whomever it was.

Charles was tired. He’d been up until late. After arriving home from Lord and Lady Danstall’s, he’d stayed up, drinking brandy and staring into the fire. He had come to terms with the reality of his situation. He was going to love Arabella from afar.

It was certainly better than his father’s lot in life. But that was Charles’s burden to bear. To be in love with someone who loved him back, though they could never be together.

At least not in this life.

“Mr. Conolly,” Mrs. Osbourne said, peering inside of the dining room. She was wringing her apron in her hands nervously.

“Yes, Mrs. Osbourne?” he asked, looking up from the newspaper.

“The Duke of Tiverwell has arrived for you,” she said.

Who?

The Duke of Tiverwell had never been in his home. He had sent him word there, but usually met with him at the office. He wondered what the matter could be. He wondered if he was still angry, from the night before.

“I showed him into the parlor,” Mrs. Osbourne said.

“You did right,” Charles assured her.

“I hope he thinks it clean,” she said, as she wrung her hands nervously.

“It doesn’t matter what he thinks,” Charles assured her. “You keep it looking very nice. There’s never a thing out of order.”

She nodded. “Thank you, Sir,” she said. “Shall I fetch some tea?”

“Let me see what business he’s come here on,” Charles said. “How about you sit down and have a cup?” She smiled, then bustled off into the kitchen. Charles knew that she’d have tea prepared, on the off chance that the Duke wanted any.

Charles entered his own parlor, to find the Duke, looking about it. He was standing in the center of the room, his hands clasped behind his back, as he looked at the clock over the mantel.

“Your Grace,” Charles said, bowing. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“Have a seat, Mr. Conolly,” the Duke said. Charles, unused to being ordered about in his own home, did as he was told. The Duke didn’t sound angry. Charles found himself curious more than he was offended.

“I have come here on behalf of my daughter,” the Duke said. “And to apologize.”

“For what?” Charles asked, surprised. The gentlemen of the ton never apologized. He couldn’t recall a time when it had ever happened. Lord Dunsmore apologized, although he rarely acted like any other gentleman of Charles’s acquaintance.

“I won’t allow my own mistake to stand in your way,” His Grace said. “I have come to tell you that I give my permission for you to marry my daughter.”

Charles was silent as he processed what he was hearing. He swallowed, his heart pounding. He didn’t know whether to be happy or shocked. He could scarcely believe his own ears. “Why have you changed your mind, Your Grace?”

“Last night, I saw the two of you, dancing. I saw how you both looked at each other—with such love. I have seen much, and I know what true love looks like. Watching the two of you part was unbearable, even for me.”

“I appreciate it, Your Grace,” he said.

“I believe that you will keep her comfortable, here,” he went on, letting his eyes travel about the room. “As for the rest, I will give you money.”

“No need,” Charles replied, out of reflex more than anything.

“Let me do what I can,” the Duke said. “Don’t be so proud, Mr. Conolly. You’ll need to have the stables out back fitted up, so that you can keep her horses.”

“We’ll discuss it with Lady Arabella,” Charles said, wondering when the Duke had seen the stables in the back of his home.

“Indeed, I suppose after this, we can never have another conversation without her,” the Duke commented.

“No. We cannot, Your Grace,” Charles agreed.

“Except for one,” the Duke said, taking a seat at last.

“What’s that?” Charles asked, wondering what else the Duke could have come to discuss.

“Now, I need you to do something for me, Mr. Conolly,” the Duke said, crossing his legs.

“What is it?” Charles asked.

“I need you to talk to Lord Norton,” he replied. “I want Arabella to be my only heiress.”

“What should I offer him?” Charles asked.

The Duke scribbled a note on the paper, then handed it to Charles. He glanced at it, blinking in surprise.

“Do you think that’s enough?” His Grace asked.

“It should be,” Charles said. “I’ll let you know if there’s a counter-offer.”

“Please do,” the Duke said. “After all, if you marry my daughter, then as her husband, you benefit.”

Charles didn’t know what to say. “Thank you, Your Grace,” he said.

“I don’t particularly like that you will be master of Tiverwell,” the Duke said. “But in time, I will get used to it, I suppose.”

“Arabella will be the head of the household,” Charles replied. “I will let her take the lead at that time.”

The Duke stared at him for a long moment before nodding. Charles wasn’t interested in becoming a Duke himself. Arabella was much more suited to running the Dukedom. Charles would be her helpmeet.

“No one else could deserve her,” the Duke replied, standing up. “No one else could love and cherish her as you will. I trust that we should expect you to arrive at some point, today?”

“Yes, absolutely.”

Charles stood. They both shook hands, and then Charles saw the Duke out. Mrs. Osbourne came out of the kitchen.

“What did he want?” she asked, curiously.

“He just gave his permission for me to marry Lady Arabella,” he said.

“Oh!” Mrs. Osbourne cried. “That’s happy news!”

“It is,” he agreed. “Happy news at last.” It had been a long time since Charles had been allowed to have hope. He could hardly believe it.

He began to plan for the day—he would need to go and speak to Arabella. He would need to dress in something other than his usual jacket. He thought of Arabella, waiting for him just then. He needed to hurry.

* * *

Arabella had Annette dress her in one of her pale pink muslin dresses. She had her hair curled neatly. She had just finished preparing, when Mr. Blankley knocked on the door.

“Mr. Conolly is here to see you, My Lady,” he said. “Your father has said that he has permission to have a private audience with you.”

“Show him into the parlor,” Arabella replied. “I will receive him there.”

“Oh, My Lady,” Annette said. “How exciting!”

“Indeed,” Arabella agreed. “How do I look?”

“Pretty as a picture,” Annette replied.

Arabella grinned, and then made her way downstairs, to the parlor. When she arrived, Charles turned toward her. He smiled, and she crossed the room, running into his arms.

He pulled her close, kissing her. She placed her hand on his cheek as the kiss deepened. Arabella’s breath was nearly taken away. She pulled away, beaming at him.

“He came to see you,” she said, looking up and into his eyes.

“He did,” he replied, getting down onto one knee. He held both of her hands in his. Her pulse raced, as he finally asked her the one question she wanted to hear. “Will you make me the happiest of men, Arabella? Will you marry me?”

“Of course!” she said. “I love you.”

He stood up, pulling her close. She couldn’t believe how happy she was. It was as though everything were falling into place.

“I just think you should know,” he said. “The constables are trying to pin the murders on me.”

The one cloud in an otherwise sunny sky.

“I know it’s not you,” she told him. “They’ll have to get to you through me. I will fight for you, tooth and nail.”

He smiled. “I don’t doubt that.”

The door to the parlor opened, and her mother peered in. “Mr. Conolly,” she said, as they both stepped apart. “I do hope that you’ll stay to luncheon.”

“Of course, Your Grace,” he replied. “I’d be glad to.”

* * *

Charles stayed for luncheon. He and Arabella shared secret glances. He was still processing how everything that they’d hoped for was coming to pass.

It is too good to be real.

He couldn’t keep his eyes off of her for long. The pink dress brought out the roses in her cheeks—the pale pink of her lips. She was far too good for him, but he loved her so much, he would do anything to deserve her.

The Duke of Tiverwell was out, but the Duchess presided over the table like a queen.

“So, when will the wedding take place?” she asked, all business. “Spring weddings are all very well and good, but I do believe that summer is the best time. We can have it at Tiverwell Manor.”

“Why not London?” Charles asked.

“It’s such a city,” the Duchess replied, wrinkling her nose delicately.

“I think,” Arabella said. “We shouldn’t wait.”

“Arabella!” her mother said, scandalized.

“There’s a murderer about,” she explained. “I don’t want a large wedding that brings all of the ton out and about—I just want to be married to Charles.”

“That’s so sudden,” her mother said, clearly disapproving. Charles could understand why she wanted a big wedding though—Arabella was her only child. There would only be one.

“We’ll post the Banns, and then be married here in London,” Arabella replied. Charles thought, trying to come up with something that would please the both of them.

“A winter wedding? I won’t hear of it,” the Duchess stated flatly.

“Then we’ll elope,” Arabella replied.

Her father entered then. “You absolutely will not,” he replied. “We need to show the ton that Charles is one of us.” He poured himself a glass of brandy, then sat down at the table. “It will have to involve the ton. It needs to send a clear message.”

“We can have it soon, though?” Arabella asked.

“Whenever you like,” her father said.

Charles himself was surprised at how easily the Duke had come up with a solution. “Perhaps a month?” Charles suggested. “So there’s time to prepare.”

“Oh, very well,” Arabella said, smiling.

When Charles was on his way out, Arabella walked with him to the front door. She looked up at him, smiling.

“Are you happy?” he asked.

“Indescribably,” she replied.

“Good,” he said.

* * *

The murderer was on watch. At any time, the Duke of Tiverwell would make a mistake—would be alone. Nemesis wouldn’t miss it. Though there were plenty of gentlemen who were less protected on the kill list, the Duke of Tiverwell was the one that Nemesis most wanted dead.

Nemesis took up a seat at one of the bars, sitting by the window. The murderer ordered stew and an ale, watching the Millgate Club closely. It was barely an hour later, when the Duke of Tiverwell exited, climbing into his carriage with his entourage of footmen.

Nemesis was disappointed. The Duke never went anywhere alone. He was always accompanied by a group of armed footmen. The Murderer wondered whether or not to take a break. Give the Duke time to be lulled into a false sense of security.

There wasn’t much time. Nemesis wanted to be done. Even then, stuck in a cheap pub, the murderer hungered for the kill. The door to the Millgate Club opened, and the Earl of Mowbray exited.

Lord Mowbray staggered toward the brothel down the street.

Some nights, any gentleman will do.

Nemesis acted fast, getting up from the table and walking out into the street. The murderer checked around, to see if there was anyone lingering about.

The street is empty, except for Nemesis and the drunken Earl, who had stopped, and was standing in the middle of the road, looking at his hands.

Nemesis acted fast, pulling the knife out, plunging it into the Earl of Mowbray’s side, then twisting. Nemesis pushed the Earl down, watching as he tried to get back up again.

There were a few moments of struggle, and then, nothing. Nemesis inhaled, feeling the rush of power, and then reaching into the Earl’s pockets. There was money, more money than Nemesis made in a year. The Murderer glanced around.

No one was about. Nemesis left Lord Mowbray in a heap in the street. There was enough money for a proper room. Warm blankets and a roaring fire awaited. Nemesis knew that this would all come to an end. There was no way to get away with it forever.

I’ll enjoy the fruits of my labor as long as I can.

Chapter Thirty-Seven

When Arabella went down to breakfast the next day, her father was already seated at the table. He held the paper in his hand. He angled it away from her so that she couldn’t see the headline.

“What’s the matter, Pappa?” she asked. He looked pale.

“The Earl of Mowbray was murdered last night,” he replied.

“Oh, dear,” she said, her hand going to her chest. “I danced with him at Lord and Lady Danstall’s ball.” Lord Mowbray had been a kind gentleman. His loss was grievous.

When is this going to end? How can no one know who is doing this?

“I saw him at the Club, only about an hour before he…” Her father trailed off. He so rarely spoke of any of the goings-on at the Millgate Club.

“Did he seem scared at all?” she asked, pouring herself a cup of tea.

“No, he—seemed rather jolly,” her father replied. “Not a care in the world.” He was silent for a few moments. He folded the paper up decisively, then stood up pushing his chair back.

“Where are you going?” Arabella asked, as she mixed her sugar and cream into her tea. Her fear was for Charles, who had promised her that he had a solid alibi at all times.

“To speak with the constables. They won’t suspect the man who is to be my son-in-law after all. I won’t have it.”

Arabella smiled at him. “Thank you, Pappa,” she said.

“Of course,” he replied. “There will be no stain of false accusation upon my family.”

Arabella smiled at him, watching as he left the room. She took a slice of toast from the rack, buttering it. She took a bite then washed it down with a sip of tea.

After she ate, she decided to go and see Charles. She collected Annette to accompany her. As they both walked to the door she ran into her mother who was just coming down the stairs.

“Where are you headed?” the Duchess asked.

“To see Mr. Conolly,” she replied. “I have some questions for him in regards to the wedding.”

“Tell him that he must go and see your father’s tailor. Will you take the carriage?” she asked.

“No. I’ll take Isis,” she replied.

“The poor Duke of Longmire,” her mother said. “He cared for you very much to have given you such a gift.”

“It was very kind,” Arabella agreed, even though she doubted his affections. He had given her a present simply because he could afford it and he wanted her to know that he could. “I certainly didn’t wish him ill.”

“But you didn’t love him,” her mother said, sadly.

“Unfortunately for him, no.”

“I am glad that you are going to be happily married,” her mother said. “At eighteen, too.”

Arabella smiled. Her heart felt light for the first time in what felt like an age. She was concerned—her father had been receiving those letters. That couldn’t bode well.

* * *

Charles was at his office, with Lord Dunsmore. They were both seated across from each other, the desk in between them. Lord Dunsmore had arrived shortly after the office had opened, clutching a newspaper.

“Another killing,” Charles said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe that they haven’t found the perpetrator. I can’t believe we haven’t found him.”

“Whoever he is, he’s escalating. He’s getting far more confident,” Lord Dunsmore said. “That means he’s likely to make a mistake. Anyone could’ve seen him last night.”

The front door opened, the bell above it ringing. “Let me go and see who that is,” Charles said.

He was pleasantly surprised to see Arabella and Annette there.

“Come in,” he said. “Lord Dunsmore was just telling me what he’s found out.”

“Lord Dunsmore!” Lady Arabella said as she entered the office. “I didn’t know that you knew Mr. Conolly.”

“I do,” Lord Dunsmore replied. “Mr. Conolly has been my client for some time now.”

Arabella’s eyebrows raised. “Well, then, do tell us.”

“My Lady, I don’t mean to be indelicate, but some of the details that I have are…rather unsavory.”

“I can stomach them,” Arabella replied, sitting down. “Mr. Conolly and I are all but engaged, after all.”

“We are now at five victims,” Lord Dunsmore explained. “All of them are members of the ton, married or planning to be married. Two things which stand out are that they were members of the Millgate Club as well as that they shared a passion for a specific brothel.”

“Oh dear,” Arabella said.

“Mr. Conolly and I have already investigated the Millgate Club connection. We have both successfully eliminated it.”

“Which leaves the brothel,” Charles said. “Madam Christina’s.”

“Indeed. It is the same brothel where the Duke of Longmire was murdered, as well as the supposed destination that Lord Mowbray was on his way to when he was killed in the street.”

“I have done this part of the investigation on my own,” Lord Dunsmore said, “As it is rare for gentlemen to travel to brothels in pairs.”

He pulled out his notes, which were on rather tired looking pages. Long lists of names. Arabella and Charles both leaned forward in their chairs, to have a look at them.

“There are fifteen women working there. I will continue my investigation into them. I am insinuating myself into the place. I am keeping it a secret, so if the two of you could keep it to yourselves, I would much appreciate it.”

* * *

Arabella had listened, all of the clues adding up. It had to be someone involved with Madame Christina’s. She wasn’t sure who. She’d never heard the brothel mentioned before.

“Of course, I can keep it a secret,” Arabella said. “By the way, I wanted to point out that my father has been receiving letters just like the others.”

Neither one of them seem surprised. Perhaps Pappa’s told them.

“We’ve been looking into it,” Lord Dunsmore replied. He looked, suddenly, nervous. “Perhaps, Mr. Conolly, you should be the one to say?”

“Your father is a procurer of sorts at the Millgate Club,” Charles told her. “He goes by the name of Mr. Bones.”

She frowned. “I’ve been in his secret room,” she said. “There’s a pirate flag, kept on the shelf. As well as his ledger.”

“Perhaps you could take a look at it?” Charles asked. “See if any of these names are in it?”

“I could,” she offered, happy to be of use to the investigation.

“That would be a great help, My Lady,” Lord Dunsmore said.

“Of course,” she replied. “Can I borrow that paper?”

“Certainly. I have another,” Lord Dunsmore replied, as he handed her the list, so she could cross-reference the names. She folded it up and put it inside of her reticule.

“Let me know if you need me to do anything,” Charles offered. He felt uneasy about having Lord Dunsmore go there alone.

“Not to worry,” Lord Dunsmore said. “I have my footman come to keep watch outside of the door while I acquire information.”

“Is there anything else?” Charles asked.

“No. And now, if you’ll both excuse me, I have fifteen women who I need to investigate.” Lord Dunsmore bowed to them both, and then swept out of the room.

* * *

Arabella and Charles were left alone, as Lord Dunsmore closed the door behind him. They smiled at each other for a moment. Charles leaned back against his desk, folding his arms.

“What brings you here?” he asked, curiously. He was glad to see her, no matter what her reason was.

“My father has gone to speak with the constables,” she explained. “I came to check on you.” He was touched.

“The constabulary has not been here,” he assured her. “Although I have no doubt that they’ll be stopping by to check my alibi.”

“Do you have one?” she asked.

“My housekeeper, Mrs. Osbourne,” he replied. “She saw me come in, and she saw me several times throughout the evening.”

“Good,” she replied.

“I’ll need to come and see the house,” she replied. “So that I can start making plans.” As mistress of the house, she would have to make sure that everything was to her liking. He would be happy to bow to her wishes.

“Of course,” he said. “You may decorate it as you see fit. It’s a bit of a blank canvas at the moment.”

“I have to meet Mrs. Osbourne,” she said, excitedly. “After her help over the summer and fall with the letters, I’m dying to meet her.”

“She’s excited as well,” Charles assured her. “Only this morning, she began a thorough clean of the place. Not that it needed it.”

Arabella beamed. “I came to talk about this,” she said. “I—I wanted to know what it was like to talk to you about our future.”

He smiled. “Our future,” he replied.

“Such a beautiful thing. Although my mother is in a frenzy to have me married,” she replied. “She’s excited to have me wed at eighteen.”

He got up from his desk, and she walked over and into his arms. He just held her, in silence. Her mind was full—she raised her eyes to his. He kissed her.

“Did you and Annette come unaccompanied?” he asked, suddenly concerned.

“Yes,” she replied.

“With this murderer about, I don’t think that’s safe.”

She frowned.

“Before you tell me about your fencing abilities, which I recall are far better than my own.” He smiled at her. “Let me accompany you to your door. For my sake, so that I’m not worrying about you.”

“Must you?”

“I absolutely must,” he replied. “Because I love you. I wouldn’t bear it if anything happened. You know, I saw Lady Violet Fanning, just after Lord Drysdale’s death. I don’t want that for either of us. We’re not taking any chances, love.”

“Very well, Annette and I will allow you to accompany us.”

Charles saw them to the door. They all walked, even though that meant leading her horse. She was blissfully happy. At the front door, he bowed gallantly to the both of them.

* * *

“Well, Mr. Conolly should have come in,” her mother said, a little put out.

“He likely had something of the barrister sort to do,” Arabella replied. They were both having tea in the parlor.

“We’ll need to have the engagement announced,” her mother said. “Then, there will have to be a party, of course.”

“Naturally,” Arabella replied.

“I won’t be held back by the ton,” her mother stated. “I’m just as pleased as if he’d been a gentleman.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” she said, happy that everyone was finally happy about it.

“Well, marrying for love is much better,” her mother remarked. “Although, I do wish that the Duke of Longmire hadn’t been murdered.”

“We all do, Mother.”

“It’s such a shame,” the Duchess said. “I suppose his estate and title will have to go to a cousin.”

“It must,” Arabella replied. Like her, the Duke of Longmire had been an only child. The considerable estate would pass to the next male relation.

“At the very least, his poor parents won’t have to endure the heartache,” her mother went on, her eyes distant. She turned to Arabella, reaching out and taking her hand. “I don’t know what I would do without you.”

“Luckily, you’ll never have to know, Mamma,” she said.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

After leaving Arabella and Annette at the Kensington address, Charles returned to his office, for his meeting with Lord Norton. Lord Norton was on time, as promised.

“Welcome, My Lord,” Charles said, ushering him in. “Would you care for a drink?”

“No, thank you,” Lord Norton was rather morose clearly expecting bad news.

“I trust you read my letter,” Charles said, wondering just how to broach the subject at hand. Lord Norton nodded.

“I imagine my cousin is still trying to disinherit me?” Lord Norton mused, raising an eyebrow. “He’s been trying to do it since last summer.”

Charles sighed. Clearly Lord Norton wasn’t up for any niceties. “He’s prepared to give you a generous offer in order for you to not challenge the changes to the will.”

“Very well. Let’s see it.” Lord Norton pulled out a pair of spectacles balancing them on the bridge of his nose.

Charles pulled out the Duke’s note passing it across the desk. Lord Norton’s eyes widened. Enheartened, Charles went on.

“Due to the recent changes to the will, you would be acquiring far less than that,” Charles explained. “Most of it would go to the Lady Arabella and her mother. What’s the point of a title, if you don’t have the money to support it?”

Lord Norton was quiet for a long moment. He was staring at the note, pulling his lips inward, over his teeth. He tapped one fingernail on the arm of the chair in which he sat.

“You already have an estate, and a title,” Charles went on.

“I have always wanted to be Duke,” Lord Norton said. “But if the estate is no longer coming to me in its entirety, as you say—”

“Well, the Duchess’s fortune will be going to her, as agreed,” Charles said. “And then, the Duke has recently increased Lady Arabella’s monthly allowance, then with the death duties, you would be receiving much less than that. The Duke is willing to give this money to you now. There would be no death duties. You would only need to sign away your rights in favor of the Lady Arabella.”

Lord Norton sat in silence. His one eye twitched a little. Charles sat back, his hands folded. He wasn’t quite sure that Lord Norton would do this. It was a gamble. Not to mention, it would be the talk of the ton.

Lord Norton sighed. “Very well. Give me the document.”

Charles smiled, pulling out the papers, passing them across the desk. Lord Norton read it through, nodding. He accepted the quill from Charles, dipping it into the ink pot.

“It’s a sad day when such a lady receives a title on top of it,” Lord Norton said as he signed his name with a flourish. “But I’m a business man myself. I know when to take a loss.”

“Why is that?” Charles asked, disapprovingly. There was no reason to insult Arabella.

“He’ll just continue to erode the estate until it’s worthless to me,” Lord Norton said. “He’s far smarter than I am, and far more ruthless.”

Charles smiled at him. Lord Norton wasn’t hurting. Maybe a little disappointed, but he was still the Master of Norton Hall, and was now quite a bit richer than he had been prior to walking in.

Lord Norton paused, shaking his head. “I never understood them, not at all,” he said sadly.

That much has always been clear.

“Well,” Charles said. “You will have your money by the end of the business day tomorrow. I will deliver it myself to whichever address you give me now.”

* * *

Arabella and her parents were sitting up in the parlor. Arabella took a sip of her tea. It had been a quiet day. Arabella’s thoughts were of her impending nuptials, and what happened after.

She’d thought long about the things that would come. The idea of being alone with Charles, with no one to interfere or interrupt was positively delectable.

Her mind was filled with clothes, slowly being removed, and what Charles might look like, dressed only in the light of the candles. After all, she had placed her hand on his chest. Through his clothing, he was solid—fit.

She imagined Charles, trailing kisses along her neck. It caused her to heat up, despite sipping her tea as casually as though she were thinking about the Reverend Daniels’s sermon from last Sunday.

“So?” her mother said, interrupting her thoughts. “Shall we invite Mr. Conolly over to dine with us?”

Her father smiled. “Speaking of Mr. Conolly, he’s sent me word.”

“About what?” Arabella asked, wondering what could have been said without her knowing.

“He’s convinced Lord Norton to sign away his rights to the title and Tiverwell Manor, my dear.”

“What does that mean?” Arabella asked, sitting up straighter. No one had told her of this—not even Charles!

I’ll give him trouble for not mentioning this!

“It means that you are my sole heir, and whomever you marry will receive the title upon my death,” her father said.

Arabella sat, staring at him in surprise. She glanced over at her mother, who had placed her teacup down with a clatter.

“What could convince Lord Norton to do that?” the Duchess asked.

“A monetary fee, to be paid upon signing,” her father said, clearly proud of himself. “If he receives it now, there will be no death duties. He couldn’t refuse.”

“Where did you get this money?” the Duchess inquired. Arabella was glad that her mother was asking the questions. It was far more than she herself was capable of at that moment.

Sole heiress! Tiverwell Manor, mine!

The Duke took the Duchess’s hand in his. “My dear, I have a bit of a side-business,” he said. “It provides us with an added income which can afford to pay off Lord Norton.”

“Is this legal?” the Duchess demanded.

“Not in the least,” Arabella’s father replied. “I’m not proud of it, but it gives me something to do, and it gives us the freedom to arrange the world as we please.”

Arabella frowned. “Does Mr. Conolly know of this?”

“Yes. Like him, I’d rather you told no one,” he said.

Arabella had more questions. Although, she recalled the ledger, in the secret room. It was the hint of an answer. She doubted that her father would tell them anymore. It was surprising that he’d told them anything.

“Has all of your capital from this gone into paying Lord Norton?” she asked.

“Yes, it has,” her father said. “As a matter of fact, I believe I will be retiring from it. I have achieved my own personal aims. Now, I will sit back and enjoy the fruits of my labor.”

“Keep your secrets, then,” the Duchess said. “I believe Arabella will figure them all out in time.” She looked unsettled, almost as though she had no inkling.

“No doubt, she will,” the Duke replied, getting up. “I must go out for a little while. I’ve an errand.”

When he left, Arabella looked at her mother. “I’ve seen the ledger for this secret business. Lady Catsmore’s name is in it.”

“Then leave the digging to me,” the Duchess said. “Lady Catsmore can’t keep a secret to save her life.”

Arabella smiled. She herself needed to get another look at that ledger. The list of names was still in her reticule.

Since Pappa’s out, I might as well go and have a peek.

“Excuse me, Mamma,” she said, standing up. “This has all been quite a shock. I think that I need a few moments.”

“Of course, dear,” her mother replied.

Arabella saw that her mother was frowning deeply. She was clearly still digesting the fact that her husband of two-and-twenty years had hidden something so big from her. Arabella left the room. When her mother was ready to talk, she would.

* * *

Charles received word from Lord Dunsmore, that he had infiltrated Madam Christina’s. Charles wasn’t sure that he knew what that meant, nor that he wanted to know.

The note simply read: I have been inside Madam Christina’s. They didn’t suspect me of anything. So far, the search has turned up nothing. Never to fear, Mr. Conolly! I have no doubt that tonight may produce something.

It was growing dark out. Charles went to the next note in the pile. He frowned. There was a blob of black wax sealing it. The handwriting was spidery—distinctively familiar.

Heart racing in anticipation, he opened it.

Dear Mr. Conolly,

By now, you know that I’ve been setting you up to take the fall. I have not, actually. I was merely using you as a screen, to get Constable Mills off of my back while I finish my kills list. I apologize for any inconvenience. However, I believe that you have been smart enough to keep yourself to an ironclad alibi.

As I write to you, I am preparing for my final kill. By the time that you bring this to the constable, it will already be too late. Despite what you may believe, I truly wish you all the best. By now, I already know of your affair with the Lady Arabella. Soon, you will be free to pursue her, without the road block that her father was settling in your way.

You are far more sterling than any gentleman could ever be.

Warmest regards,

Nemesis

Charles knew that if he was going to save his future father-in-law, he needed to act fast. He quickly scrawled a note to Lord Dunsmore. He folded up the letter, and then folded it inside of the one for Lord Dunsmore.

“Mrs. Osbourne!” he yelled, running down the stairs. His housekeeper came running out of the kitchen, her eyes as wide as dinner plates.

“What’s all the ruckus, Sir?” she asked.

“I need you to deliver this to Lord Dunsmore,” he said, placing the letter into her capable hands. “Immediately.” He pulled some coin out of his pocket, placing it into her other hand. “Take a cab.”

“Where are you headed, sir?”

“Tell Lord Dunsmore that I’ll be by Madame Christina’s.”

“Mr. Conolly! That’s a brothel!”

“A gentleman’s life is at stake, Mrs. Osbourne!” he said, getting into his coat. “We must hurry!”

“Mr. Conolly, you should bring a pistol,” she said, as she stuck her arms into her coat sleeves.

“I don’t have one!” he replied, thinking to himself that it was a categorical mistake on his part. There was nothing to be done, at that point, however. “Hurry, Mrs. Osbourne!”

“I will!” she yelled as he closed the door after him.

* * *

Arabella snuck upstairs, her heart pounding. She made her way into the secret passage, and thence into the secret room. She pulled out the list of names, and then opened up the ledger.

The flickering light from the candle threw light across the pages. She went through, scanning. She went between both of them, stopping every time she came to a feminine name that she didn’t know and cross-checking it with the list.

Nothing. There was no name from the list that Lord Dunsmore had given her and the names in the ledger. She wondered what the connection could be.

She noticed that her father hadn’t moved the letters, since she had been there last. She opened them up, perusing them at her leisure. There was another—this one, with the same spidery handwriting. The seal had not been broken.

She dared to break it, opening it up.

I have been following you, as you make your way through the city. There’s not a single step that you’ve made that I have not haunted. There’s nowhere that you can go, that I will not follow.

I know all of the secret places in your home. I’ve heard a rumor that you’ve accepted Charles Conolly to be your son-in-law. I can hardly believe it.

What’s more—I wonder, why do you accept him, but not me?

Arabella gasped. This was an actual clue. This person knew her father.

If only he’d opened this letter!

She fled from the room, with the letter in her hand. She went to Mr. Blankley.

“My Lady?” he asked.

“I need you to send someone to get this to Lord Dunsmore,” she said, placing the letter in his hands. Lord Dunsmore would do something with it. She had doubts about Constable Mills.

“Lord Dunsmore, My Lady?” Mr. Blankley asked, doubtfully.

“It’s important,” she said. “It’s a clue that he’s been looking for.”

“Of course, My Lady. I’ll send the kitchen boy immediately.”

“Thank you,” she said, watching as Mr. Blankley left. She stood in the front foyer, at a loss as to what to do. Lord Dunsmore would have it all in hand. All she had to do was to wait.

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Arabella was seated at her bedroom window, which overlooked the back of the house. She could see the garden through the frost on the glass. She thought of Charles’s hand, on the small of her back.

She then got the strangest feeling—as though something were wrong. She got up, feeling almost ill.

“Annette!” she called out.

“Yes, My Lady?” Annette replied. She was just coming in with Arabella’s dress for dinner.

“Something’s wrong,” she said.

“What is it, My Lady?” Annette enquired; her forehead was creased with concern.

“I don’t know,” she replied, shaking her head. “I just feel it.”

“What do you want to do, My Lady?” she asked. “We can’t go out at this hour—it’s too dangerous.”

Arabella let out a deep breath. Annette was right—she couldn’t go racing off across town. Not at this hour. Not unaccompanied. Her father had taken the footmen with him when he went out.

For another, she had promised Charles that she wouldn’t stir from the house without proper accompaniment.

She hadn’t questioned her father’s leaving, earlier. Now, she was curious. She stood up, then went downstairs. She found Mr. Blankley with the other servants, in the kitchen.

They all stood up, at once.

“My Lady?” Mr. Blankley asked, confused to find her there. She usually just rang the bell.

“Mr. Blankley, where did my father say that he was going?” she asked.

“The Millgate Club, My Lady,” Mr. Blankley said.

Arabella knew that her face drained of color. She suddenly knew—although she couldn’t say how—that they needed to call the constable. Her father had gone, right to where the murderer was likely waiting for him.

“You need to call the constable,” she said. “Tell them that my father is in danger.”

“How do you know, My Lady?”

“Just do it, Mr. Blankley,” she said. “Something bad is going to happen if we don’t.”

Mr. Blankley glanced over at the cook, who shrugged. She was a stout woman, with frizzy hair that peeked out from underneath her cap.

“I’ll go, right away, My Lady,” he assured her, walking out.

“Can I get you some tea, My Lady?” the cook asked. “You should sit down. You look like you’re about to faint.”

Arabella sank down into the chair that was pulled out for her. She had never been so afraid before. Annette patted her soothingly on the shoulder.

“You’ve set things in motion,” she pointed out. “You’ve done what you can.”

“Yes,” Arabella agreed. “Hopefully, it’s not too late.”

* * *

Charles had the hansom cab drop him off down the road from the Millgate Club. He made his way, quickly, through the alley, and onto the street where the Millgate was located.

Despite the lateness of the hour, there was a crowd. People in all manner of dress were out, many of them clearly inebriated. There were large crowds around the entrances to both the Millgate and the Stanhope Clubs, as well as the pubs.

Charles walked toward the brothel. When he reached it, he could hear the sounds of an out of tune piano playing inside. It was busy.

“Ay there, M’Lord,” a woman, dressed in a revealing frock leered at him. “Care for a roll in the sheets?”

“No, thank you,” Charles replied.

“Wot are ye doin’ ere, then?” she asked.

“Looking for my friend,” he told her. “He said he’d be here.”

“Prolly busy,” she stated, turning away from him, as another potential client passed by on the street.

Charles stood, his hat pulled down over his forehead, and the collar of his coat turned up. He leaned against the outside wall, pretending that he was mildly intoxicated.

He scanned the crowds in the street, gathering his druthers. He would go inside Madam Christina’s, and ask to see the Duke of Tiverwell, just to make sure that he wasn’t there. If he was, then Charles would cite an emergency. If the Duke was not there, then he supposed that he might be at the Millgate Club…perhaps he should’ve stopped there first.

Just then, the Duke of Tiverwell exited, alone. He began to walk down the road. Charles frowned. He hesitated a moment, waiting for the Duke’s footmen to come out.

What is he doing, alone?

A woman, dressed in a dark cloak, exited the brothel. She looked about. Charles looked down, pretending that he was looking for something in his pockets.

He began to stagger toward the brothel, stumbling bit to seem drunk. He saw the woman turn and begin to follow the Duke of Tiverwell. Charles waited for a moment.

She must be working with Nemesis, he reasoned. So, he started to follow the both of them, leaving a large gap of space in between them.

* * *

Charles followed behind them, moving as slowly and silently as he could. Neither one of them looked back. The Duke was staggering about, clearly far into his cups. The woman walked slowly, yet confidently. She had the regal bearing of a queen.

The Duke, and then the woman, both turned down an alley. Charles, his heart racing, began to run. When he turned the corner, he saw the woman, approaching the Duke from behind.

There was a flash—light on something metallic—which was then plunged into the Duke’s side. Charles panicked, bursting into a run. He moved silently, landing his feet softly, so she didn’t hear him coming. He saw everything—the Duke cried out, falling to his knee. The woman grabbed him by the hair, pulling his head back to look at her.

Charles arrived in time to hear her say, “We meet at last, Your Grace” in a husky and melodic voice, raising the knife to make the killing blow.

Charles, running at top speed slammed into the woman grabbing her by the wrist. He held it up, preventing her from swiping it across the Duke of Tiverwell’s exposed throat as she clearly meant to.

She growled squirming in his grasp. He wrapped an arm around her waist to keep her from getting away.

“Unhand me!” she said, her voice cold. Charles held her tightly.

“Help!” Charles yelled. “Help us!”

There was the sound of heavy boots running in their direction. The woman tried to get away from him but he didn’t let go. The Duke was kneeling, his hand against the large splotch of crimson that was spreading across hs side.

In moments, the three of them were surrounded by a group of constables. Charles didn’t know where they came from, but he was utterly relieved to see them.

“What’s happened here?” Constable Mills asked.

“This woman stabbed the Duke of Tiverwell,” Charles explained. The woman had stopped fighting, going limp in his arms. One constable had relieved her of the knife. Another one had arrived and was pulling out a pair of irons.

She said nothing, just stood there staring at the ground as the irons were closed around her wrists. Charles studied her, closely. She had long, voluminous dark brown hair. She had been beautiful, once. Her gray eyes were flinty and she had a fine-boned face. Time and hard work had ravaged her. He tried to recall if he had ever seen her before. He didn’t. She looked at him, a smile spreading across her face.

This is Nemesis. I had been expecting a man—so has Lord Dunsmore. What a mistake!

Charles left her to the constables’ care. He knelt down beside the Duke, who was breathing raggedly. He needed to be taken to a physician. “I’ll hire a cab,” Charles offered, supporting his elbow.

“My carriage is less than a block that way,” the Duke said. Charles offered him a hand, helping him to struggle to his feet. He glanced at the constables.

“I’m going to help him to the physician,” he told them. “I’ll call on you afterward to give an official statement.”

“Very good, Sir,” Constable Mills said. Their eyes locked, and Charles could tell—this was not at all what they were expecting. They had truly believed the murderer to be him.

“Lean on me, Your Grace,” Charles said. There was no time for anything else. The Duke was bleeding heavily.

* * *

Arabella was still sitting in the kitchen when there was a knock at the door. She followed Mr. Blankley as he rose to get the door. Constable Mills had arrived, his hat in hand.

“It was as you said, My Lady,” he replied. “Your father has been taken by Mr. Charles Conolly to the physician.”

“Is Father all right?” she asked.

“He was stabbed, by the murderer, in the abdomen,” Constable Mills said. “However, it was not a fatal blow. It appears that Mr. Conolly arrived in time to prevent it.”

“Is Mr. Conolly all right?” Arabella asked.

Why was he there?

“He’s well. He’s with your father. Evidently, he was sent a letter by the murderer. Fearing for your father, he went out to Madam Christina’s, where he followed the both of them down an alley. We arrived not long after.”

“Is the murderer caught?” Arabella wondered.

“She has been, yes,” Constable Mills confirmed.

“She?” There was a twist that she hadn’t expected. Despite the fine, spidery writing, she had still believed it to be a man.

“She. We’re trying to get a statement from her,” Constable Mills said. “Until such time as she divulges her tale, we will let you know. We just wanted to bring word of your father.”

“Thank you, Constable,” she said. The man left, and Mr. Blankley closed the door after him.

“My Lady?” Mr. Blankley asked. He was pale. Lurid news of her father’s near brush with death had upset him.

“I have to go and tell my mother,” she said, feeling remarkably steady. She had been worried that they would be too late. “Please bring a tray up. I presume she’ll need a bit of brandy after she hears this.”

Arabella climbed the stairs. She felt a wave of relief. It was over. Somehow, Charles had made it in time. Because she had gotten that sense, the Constables had arrived in time, too.

She knocked on her mother’s door, steeling herself for the upset that she was about to cause. Her mother would need to hear where her father had been. That wasn’t something that should be kept from any lady.

Chapter Forty

It was a late night; however, Charles left the Duke, resting comfortably and out of any danger. The physician said that he would have the Duke returned home the next day.

Charles awoke late the next morning. Mrs. Osbourne had a brief letter for him, from Lord Dunsmore.

Good work, Mr. Conolly. Are you sure that you want to continue as a barrister? I think I could use a fellow investigator, if you are interested.

Charles laughed, setting the letter aside, to be answered later. He had enough intrigue to last him quite a while. He planned to settle down, marry Arabella, and live peacefully.

He ate his breakfast slowly, reading the paper. There was a story on the front page, about the Duke of Tiverwell’s brush with death.

The Duke had been leaving the establishment on Barker Street, when he went down an alley in an attempt to meet up with his carriage a few blocks away, when he was accosted by the individual responsible for the murders of five other gentlemen.

Luckily, Charles Conolly of Basil Square was following a short distance behind, and saw the individual—an unknown woman—stab the Duke of Tiverwell in the side. Mr. Conolly was able to prevent her from causing any more grievous harm to His Grace.

The constables arrived soon after. They report that the woman has yet to give them her name, or her story. She is scheduled to give a deposition this morning.

The last time that Charles had been in the paper, it had been as the child of a man who had been wrongly executed. To have been the savior in this case was a blessed relief.

He decided to stop by to get the deposition. He had many questions which begged answers. Then, he would stop by the Duke of Tiverwell’s, so that he could bring them answers.

* * *

Charles arrived at the townhome of the Duke of Tiverwell early in the afternoon. He knocked on the door, then waited. Mr. Blankley opened the door. He smiled.

“I was told to expect you, sir,” he said, holding the door open. “Please come inside—get out of the cold!” The butler treated him with open solicitousness.

Charles was shown in to the Duke’s bedroom, where he was propped up on some pillows. Arabella sat in a chair beside the bed. She smiled at Charles.

“I presume you’ve brought us some news,” she said.

“Arabella, perhaps you shouldn’t hear this,” the Duke said.

“I know most of the unsavory details already,” she told him. “Particularly where you were. Now, you’ll either let me hear what Charles has learned, or I’ll ask him as soon as he’s done telling you.”

The Duke narrowed his eyes. “Very well. Have a seat, Mr. Conolly.”

Mr. Blankley had just pulled up a chair, so Charles sat. “Thank you, Mr. Blankley,” he said. He gathered his thoughts for a moment.

“She’s given her deposition, Your Grace,” Charles began. “Her name is Diana Bartlett, although she seems to call herself Nemesis. She used to be the Earl of Bromwell’s maid.”

“Lord Bromwell?” the Duke gasped.

“She and the Earl of Bromwell had a bit of a romance, years ago,” Charles explained. “He got her pregnant, and then threw her out of the house when she claimed that the child was his. She was left on the streets, with not much money. The only people to have mercy on her were the workers at Madam Christina’s.

“After she gave birth to the child—a son—she gave him up, and then began working as a prostitute herself at Madam Christina’s. After a while, the Earl showed up—as one of her clients. He didn’t recognize her—so changed was she. She followed him out and killed him, dumping his body into the river. After that, she began to murder all of her clients. The married ones, in particular.”

“What about Longmire?” the Duke asked.

“He was to be married,” Charles said. “He had told her as much. She asked him if he still planned on seeing her, afterwards, and he promised that he would. She marked him for death, immediately.”

“Pappa,” Arabella chided.

“I was,” her father admitted. He turned to Charles. “I can’t ask you to promise that you won’t—”

“I would never be unfaithful to Arabella,” Charles said. “Not even in a moment of insanity.” He turned to Arabella. “I promise you, you have nothing to worry about on that point.” She beamed at him, reaching out. He took her hand in his.

“No one deserves her more than you,” the Duke said.

Charles and Arabella smiled at each other. He would never betray her—not so long as he drew breath. He would gladly spend the rest of his days, endeavoring to make her the happiest she could possibly be.

“After all,” the Duke went on. “You’re a dear member of society, you’ve saved my life, and found out who the murderer is. You’re a hero, and I think, perhaps, the fact that you don’t have a different title matters, not one bit.”

“No,” Charles agreed. “What truly matters can’t be bestowed through a title.”

“You’ll acquire one, anyway, once you marry my daughter and only heir. I can’t imagine a better successor as Duke of Tiverwell. I imagine you’ll be far more deserving of it than I.”

“I will endeavor to do my best,” Charles said, surprised at the Duke’s change of heart.

* * *

“Come, Charles,” Arabella said, standing up. “We should let Pappa take his rest.”

“It’s good to see you doing so well, Your Grace,” Charles said.

The Duke smiled, as he leaned back on his pillows. “All thanks to you, Mr. Conolly.”

They both walked out into the hall. Arabella pulled the door closed after them.

They stood, smiling at each other for a long moment. Arabella reached out, taking his hand in hers.

“Mamma’s already planning the engagement party,” she said. “She’s already written the announcement for the papers.”

He turned to face her, pulling her close. “Good,” he said.

“You’re not nervous?” she asked.

“Not at all,” he replied. “I’m marrying you. Nothing can go wrong.”

She laughed. “Plenty could go wrong,” she said, thinking of the million things that could happen. It could all be borne with grace, however. She was going to marry the man whom she loved.

He leaned in, kissing her, there in the hallway. His hands went, as they always did, to her waist. She pressed herself closer to him, feeling the solid warmth of his body against hers. When she pulled away, she stared into his eyes. There was so much more, but nothing that they could possibly do in the hallway outside of her father’s bedroom.

“Come,” she said, “Mamma will want to speak with you.”

“What about?” Charles asked.

“That lovely speech that you just gave Pappa?” she said. “You’re going to have to give it to Mamma. She’s extremely hurt about my father’s indiscretions.”

“I’ll gladly repeat it, then,” he said.

“Good,” she replied. Last night, telling her mother everything had been difficult. But it was important that she had the truth of it. Her mother had felt hurt. But with the truth, the Duchess could make her own decisions on how she wanted to proceed. Arabella knew that that was important.

Epilogue

They waited a month, to allow the Duke of Tiverwell time to heal. The Duchess of Tiverwell, having heard of her husband’s infidelity, had gone to stay with her mother, in Bath. Following the wedding, she planned to split her time between Bath and Charles and Arabella’s home in London.

Charles stood up at the front of the church, which was filled with the ton, as well as a good many of London’s top barristers. In front of him, Arthur, Alistair, and Lord Dunsmore were in the first row, alongside Mrs. Osbourne. Having no blood relations, Charles felt proud to have his friends there to support him. On the other side, the Duchess of Tiverwell beamed at him.

He walked over to her. She offered him her hand. He pressed it with his fingers, bowing gallantly.

“Welcome to the family, Mr. Conolly,” she said.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“From here on out, you must call me Mother,” she told him.

“If you wish, Mother,” he replied, happy to comply.

The organ began to play, and everyone stood up. Charles faced the altar, his hands clasped in front of him. Slowly, he turned around to see her.

She was dressed in a slim ivory silk gown. It had an empire waist, with bell sleeves. The lace veil was over her face, through which he could see her smiling at him. She held a handful of bright crimson amaryllis, tied with a thick white silk ribbon.

He only had eyes for her—the whole world melted away. When she neared, he finally looked to the Duke of Tiverwell, who’d been at her side as she walked down the aisle. Charles shook the Duke’s hand.

“She’s yours to take care of, now, Mr. Conolly,” the Duke said.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

“You’ll do well,” he said.

Charles turned to Arabella, lifting the veil over her head. She handed her flowers to Lady Emily Southrop, who went to sit down in the front row. Then, hand in hand, Charles and Arabella stepped up to the altar.

The priest began the ceremony. Charles could barely hear a word. Arabella stood, facing him, her hands in his, smiling at him angelically. His heart swelled with love. He couldn’t imagine life without her.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the priest said. “You may kiss the bride.”

Arabella beamed at Charles, then leaned in. The whole church burst into thunderous applause. She and Charles then turned and walked down the aisle together. They exited the church getting into the carriage that awaited them. He helped her up and then climbed in. Once he was seated beside her they both looked at each other.

“Good day Mrs. Conolly,” he said. She warmed at her new name.

“Mr. Conolly,” she replied.

“Alone at last,” he said.

“Not quite,” she said. “We’re going to have to make it through all of the festivities, and then we can be alone.” She blushed, even though it was what she had been thinking about for the past year.

“Are you nervous?” he asked her, bringing her hand to his lips. Her skin tingled where his lips touched.

“No,” she replied. “I’ve been looking forward to it.”

He smiled at her, his eyes going sultry. “Good. Me too.”

The carriage took off, bringing them through the London streets. As the daughter of a Duke, there was some fanfare, with people, lining the streets. Arabella waved, as they passed people in the streets. They cheered.

* * *

Charles didn’t know how he made it through the banquet—Arabella sat beside him. Soon, he’d take her to their home, and then they would spend their first night together as a married couple. He had thought about this night for nearly a year—although, he hadn’t known that it would ever come to pass.

He brushed his fingers against the back of her hand, which rested on the top of the table. His eyes met hers, his skin tingling in delicious anticipation, as he considered that in a few hours, he would finally make her his completely.

He couldn’t wait to unbutton the long row that rested overtop her spine, remove the soft satin that covered her skin.

“Oh dear,” Arabella said, interrupting his thoughts.

Charles followed the line of her sight. Across the room, her mother and father were speaking, for the first time since the Duke of Tiverwell had admitted to his infidelity.

They’d both avoided each other, throughout the wedding festivities—the engagement party, the rehearsal dinner. It had been tense to say the least.

“So far so good,” he murmured. “They seemed to be talking civilly.”

“Perhaps I should go over,” she said.

“Whatever they have to say to each other, then they will,” Charles said. “You can relax.”

They both watched for a moment, then were interrupted by the approach of Lord Dunsmore.

“Mr. and Mrs. Conolly!” he said, bowing to them both. “Congratulations on your nuptials.”

“Thank you,” Charles said.

Lord Dunsmore faced Arabella. “I’ve told this to Mr. Conolly and he’s said that he’s planning on settling down. However, I am offering him a job as a private detective.” He put a hand up to his mouth then stage-whispering. “I thought, perhaps, that you could convince him otherwise.”

Arabella laughed, clapping her hands. “Oh, Charles!” she said. “You must!”

“Must I?” he asked. He’d thought that she would be against it.

“Well, of course!” she insisted. “Lord Dunsmore clearly cannot do without you!”

“I cannot,” Lord Dunsmore agreed.

“Do come and call on us this week,” Arabella told him. “I will help you convince him.”

Lord Dunsmore bowed. “I knew you would be on my side,” he said, winking at Charles, before wandering off.

Charles looked at Arabella. She smiled at him. “Oh, come, Charles. Don’t be a spoilsport.”

“I thought that you’d want me around,” he replied.

“Of course, I do,” she said. “But it would be great fun if we could assist Lord Dunsmore on cases.”

Charles then saw that Arabella herself was interested. He laughed. “Very well,” he said, because he couldn’t deny her anything. “We will talk with Lord Dunsmore. But we shan’t do anything dangerous. I think the night that I went to the brothel was too much danger and intrigue.”

“Agreed,” she said.

Charles took her hand in his. They both looked around the room, where all of their friends were gathered to celebrate them. Candles flickered, and the cake sat in the corner—a whole five tiers of yellow cake with vanilla frosting, dotted with little sugar flowers.

He glanced at the lady at his side. She smiled as she pressed his hand.

“Do we live happily ever after?” he asked.

“For certain,” she replied. “Just as soon as we’ve made a space for our fencing.”

“We have a yard for that,” he said.

“Then we live happily ever after,” she said.

* * *

It was late when Charles finally brought Arabella home. The party had gone on, through the evening. Arabella was excited to finally be at her new house. Mrs. Osbourne opened the front door. She and Annette had arrived much earlier.

“Welcome home, Sir—and Madam,” she said.

“Thank you, Mrs. Osbourne,” Arabella said. She looked at Charles, her heart racing. “I’ll meet you upstairs in a while,” she told him. Her gown had a row of buttons down the back. She had a brand new peignoir, which Annette had promised to have ready when she arrived.

He leaned in to kiss her, his lips warm against her own. “I’m not waiting,” he replied. “Come.”

Anticipation made her skin tingle. She lifted her skirts, and then walked up the stairs. Annette was waiting in the bedroom. Arabella hadn’t yet been in here.

“You can head down, Annette,” Charles said.

“Very well, Sir,” she replied, curtsied. “Goodnight, Madam.”

“Goodnight, Annette,” Arabella replied as her lady’s maid left them alone in the room together.

Arabella looked around at the room. The curtains were a dark blue, as well as the curtains on the bed. There was a soft blue and gold coverlet. A fire had been built up in the grate, and there were several candles lit.

“Come here,” Charles said. She turned to him. He placed his hands on her waist, drawing her to him. She turned her face upwards, pressing her lips to his. “Turn around,” he told her.

She turned, glad that he was taking charge. She had no idea what to do. He began to unhook the line of silk-covered buttons at her back. The heady rush that accompanied his unwrapping her was overwhelming. She smiled to herself.

It’s like I’ve been gift-wrapped.

He reached the bottom buttons, slipping his fingers underneath the cloth at her shoulders, pushing it off so that her wedding dress fell to the ground. He began to unlace her corset. Her heart was pounding. She was wrapped in desire, which built as her corset was loosened. She wondered what he would think of her.

I wonder what he’s thinking, right now.

He finished, his fingers drawing the sleeves of her corset downward. His fingers brushed against her skin, his touch like fire. It fell to the ground, baring her skin. She felt a slight chill, and the thrill of revealing all. His lips pressed to the nape of her neck.

She bit her lip as she turned toward her husband, letting him look at her. His mouth was open, his lips parted. His eyes seemed to drink her in. She stared back at him boldly. She stepped closer to him. He reached out, running a finger along her collarbone.

“What happened here?” he asked as he touched her scar.

She smiled—her mother had always seen to it that her dresses covered it. When it had occurred, her mother had been beside herself with the thought that she would be considered marked.

“There was a time when I was a girl that my father wouldn’t allow me to fence. I made one of the stable boys fence me. I didn’t have any protective gear on, and I was stabbed in the shoulder with a fire iron.”

He leaned in, kissing it. Arabella felt adored, letting her head fall back as he trailed kisses along the line of the scar. Once he was done, she opened her eyes, lowering her chin.

He’s as much mine, as I am his.

She reached up, undoing his jacket buttons. He helped her, taking off his jacket, then he untucked his shirt, pulling off over his head. She looked at his chest—the tight, flat muscles—the candlelight flickered on his skin.

She reached for the buttons. He let her undo them, then he pulled them down. He placed a hand on her cheek, pulling her toward him. They kissed, their shared desire causing them to hunger for each other. When he pulled away, he lifted her up. She let him carrying her over to the bed, where he set her down on top of the soft coverlet.

“Touch me, Charles,” she said. She wanted him to know how she craved his touch. To finally be able to demand it, and have what she had long wanted from him was the most wonderful thing.

This is even better than when it was in my mind.

He put his hands on her, his palms running over her breasts, her curves, along the outsides of her thighs. He leaned over her, kissing her. She ran her fingers through his hair.

He trailed kisses down her throat, along the scar on her collarbone. She moaned as he took one of her nipples in between his teeth. Arabella experienced a riot of sensations—as he sucked, he parted her netherlips, his finger dipping inside of her.

He buried his face against her neck, his breath warm against her skin.

“What are you doing?” she purred.

“It won’t hurt as much if you’re ready for me, darling,” he replied, continuing, until she was panting. She had never known that there was so much pleasure to be had. Her mother had certainly never told her anything of the sort.

“Are you happy?” he asked.

“Yes,” she replied. “Now come here.” She wanted him inside of her. He entered her, moving slowly, in and then out. She gritted her teeth as the small bit of skin tore. It was but a moment of pain, and then it was over, and she felt nothing but pleasure.

She arched her back as he placed a hand on the small of her back, lifting her a little. Arabella looked up at him. They fit together, as though they had been made for each other. She arched her back as she came. He moaned, a low masculine sound deep in his throat. It was a primal sound, one which her whole body reacted to.

She bucked against him, moving her hips to meet his. Her hands gripped his waist, pulling him closer to her. He came, expending inside of her. He slumped against her; his face buried in her hair.

“You’re very good at that,” she murmured, her eyes closed.

“Good to hear,” he replied, pulling the blankets up around them. “You’re the only person who will ever benefit from it.”

“I love you,” she whispered as she snuggled up against him.

“I love you,” he replied, wrapping his arms around her.

Arabella couldn’t have been happier. She had married the love of her life. There was so much that she had to learn about him. She was looking forward to falling in love with all of him.

The End?

Extended Epilogue

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Preview: Wild Passions of a Mischievous Duchess

Chapter One

“Ferme la fenêtre, s’il vous plait.” Elizabeth said calmly, reaching out to grasp the back of the young boy’s jacket as he leaned out the large upper floor window.

“I don’t want to,” the young Marquess replied.

“En Français, My Lord,” Elizabeth chided gently.

“Je…don’t want to.”

“And how will you learn French if you are too shy to practice it?” Elizabeth asked, getting up from her chair to hoist him physically away from the window. Before she closed it, she glanced out at the rolling green of the estate. The air was crisp that morning, summer was coming to an end, but the warming sun shone cheerily in ignorance of this.

“I am not too shy. I just don’t remember.” The yellow-haired boy slouched back into his chair.

Elizabeth smiled over her shoulder at him, knowing it wasn’t true. He could translate from French into English quite well, and he showed that he understood her when she herself spoke French. But when it came to actually speaking it himself, he pretended he didn’t know how.

“It’s all right if your pronunciation is not perfect at first. That’s why we practice. I won’t laugh at you.” She’d told him all this before, of course. The five-year-old was vivacious and bright, but just as bashful as he had been on Elizabeth’s first day here ten months ago.

He shook his head. “Can’t we do sums now instead?”

Elizabeth was about to begrudgingly relent when Brutus, one of the mistress’s beloved hounds, walked past the door to the library where she and the Marquess were having his lessons. The sight of the gentle giant of a dog gave her a flash of inspiration.

“My Lord, I have an idea,” she said, and whistled gently to the dog, who came at once into the room, bounding happily up to the young boy. Elizabeth handed the small book of French children’s verse to her pupil. “I will sit in the far end of the room and read. While I am not paying attention, I want you to read these poems aloud to Brutus. Surely you can trust him not to judge your beginner’s attempts.”

The boy laughed, his pearly baby teeth flashing as he rubbed the dog’s head. “Read to the dog! That’s silly.”

“Yes, it is, but you leave me no other choice. Can I trust you to really do it?” she asked as she got up, smoothing the front of her skirts with her hands.

“You won’t spy?” the boy asked.

“I solemnly promise that I will not spy on you if you promise to do your best for ten minutes. Brutus shall tell me if you do not.”

The Marquess laughed, flipping open the book of poems. “All right. I will do it. But not until you leave. What if I don’t understand the words?”

Elizabeth smiled. “That’s all right. Just sound the words out as well as you can. We can translate together later.”

She smoothed the child’s hair with her hand and winked at him before crossing to the opposite end of the room and opening a book across her lap. As she began to read, she heard him quietly begin to test the first few French words to the patient hound.

The manor was still and quiet that morning, but it was early. The Duke and Duchess of Stonehill were a young couple yet, with their son Thomas and a new baby on the way, and their home was often bustling with company and activity.

Just as she was settling in to her reading, a gentle knock came to the doorframe and Elizabeth looked up to see the kindly face of Dorothy, the Duchess’ maid and Elizabeth’s only real friend. Noticing Elizabeth sitting alone, the woman approached her.

“Lord Limingrose giving you the run-around again this morning?” the woman asked quietly, grinning.

“He is too bashful to practice his French in front of me, so he’s reading to Brutus, instead.”

Dorothy laughed, wiping her hands on her apron. “Ah, you see? That’s why Her Grace loves you so much. You can think on your feet. May I come in?”

“Of course. Please.” Elizabeth said.

Dorothy had been the Duchess’ maid since the Duchess was a child. Dorothy had such a maternal spirit about her, such a friendly warmth and disarming humor that it seemed to make formality impossible. To know Dorothy was to befriend her.

“Can’t you just feel the excitement in the air? It’s as if the whole world is holding its breath for the new babe’s arrival.” Dorothy went on, settling herself comfortably on a chair.

“It’ll be soon now, won’t it?”

“Yes, it can be any time now. Though it may be another couple of weeks yet, too. She’s hoping for sooner rather than later, I think. The poor dear, always such a light and active thing. Confinement may as well be imprisonment in her eyes.”

“I was surprised she and the Duke had not taken to the country for these last few weeks, at least. I should think that plenty of rest and quiet would be welcome before the arrival of a new babe.”

“Oh no, she wouldn’t leave London for anything. She needs gossip and social calls like she needs air to breathe.”

“I suppose I must go back and check on him,” Elizabeth said, nodding in the direction of her pupil.

“Oh, right. Of course. Don’t let me hold you up,” Dorothy said, hopping up from the chair. “But I was sure that there was something I meant to tell you…” The woman put her hands on her generous hips and looked around the room as if a clue might be hidden among the decorations of the room.

Elizabeth smiled patiently.

“Oh, yes! You’ve heard, I imagine, that the Duke of Hadminster is coming to visit?”

“I…no. I hadn’t heard that.”

“Her Grace’s older brother. We haven’t seen him in ages, of course. He’s kept to himself ever since…well, that’s a story for another time. He’s coming to see his new niece or nephew and, as he will be the godfather, he seems to intend to stay for some weeks. Two months at least, is what I’ve heard.”

“Well, what is one more Duke in a manor this large?” Elizabeth said lightly, trying to ignore Dorothy’s not-so-subtle invitation to gossip about that ‘story for another time’.

Dorothy laughed. “Aye, you’re right there. Well, hurry along then. You aren’t paid to stand about talking to me!” she said with a wink.

Elizabeth watched her go, then closed her book and walked back towards the Marquess.

“Well?” she asked.

“I like this better. May I always practice with Brutus?” he asked, handing the book back to her.

“Hopefully, in time, you will feel just as comfortable practicing aloud with human beings,” she said with a slight chuckle. “But we can build confidence this way first. Now, shall we begin on your sums?”

* * *

As the morning faded into afternoon, the child was released from his lessons. He wanted to try his luck at fishing the pond at the back of the estate, so Elizabeth packed up her drawing pencils and put on a bonnet. It was an odd thing, she thought, to be essentially beholden to so small a master. Governess was a title that carried some weight with the child, yes, but as long as he applied himself well during his lessons, his afternoons were more or less free, and she was there only to follow him and keep him from harm.

The breeze that blew across the estate carried with it the faint sweetness of late summer roses. Elizabeth held her hand to her bonnet as she and Lord Limingrose crossed the garden to reach the pond. Elizabeth had been working for the Duke and Duchess of Stonehill for almost a year, and yet she felt that she would never get used to the grandness of the place. Walking across the garden felt like walking through a painting. It was somehow blasphemous to smudge that beautiful landscape with her own presence. She, who had been raised within the dingy walls of a city orphanage, with no name, no history, no future.

She had been lucky to scrape together a respectable education, thanks to the patronage of an old clergyman who had recognized her intelligence in her orphanage days. But even though she was grateful every day for the opportunities that she had been given, she had not yet fully resigned herself to a life of being an eternal outsider in the world she now found herself in.

She made a place for herself on the grass and watched the boy cast a line into the little fishing pond that the Duke had built and stocked especially for his son. As she watched him, Elizabeth found herself yearning once more for the company of her own people. At the orphanage, and then at school, she had always been surrounded by many people her own age and class. The spacious, empty rooms of the manor and the vast estate still bewildered her, these ten months later.

In Dorothy she had been glad to find a friend, but at the same time, Dorothy was old enough to be Elizabeth’s mother. The house maids were always too busy to give a governess any mind. So, even though she lived in the manor of one of the most popular couples of London society, with people always coming and going, Elizabeth found herself wilting under the strain of a terrible loneliness.

She sighed, casting off her bonnet and putting those dreary thoughts aside. It was a beautiful day, and she had so very much to be thankful for. Determined to have a pleasant afternoon, she picked up her sketchbook and drawing pencils and began to attempt, for the thousandth time, to capture the graceful lines of the garden.

“Miss Peaton! Look!” the boy cried. Elizabeth looked up to see the scales of a quite large fish flashing in the sunlight at the end of the small boy’s line.

“Well done, My Lord!” she cheered, clapping her hands.

“May we eat him?” he called back.

Elizabeth laughed. “I’m sure Cook has already got dinner half-ready by now. How about you let this one go?”

“Father would let me.” The child sulked.

“And do I look like your father?” she teased.

This made him laugh and he released the fish back into the pond with a splash. The glittering water dazzled Elizabeth’s eyes for a moment before she looked down at the sketchbook in her lap. She flipped through the pages absently. Page after page was filled with carefully outlined garden paths and quiet interiors. There were no sketches of people among those still lifes and botanicals. Her sketchbook was as silent and lonely as she was.

Chapter Two

In the evenings, Elizabeth wished she had more to do. The daylight hours were always full of work, but as the sun set, the shadowy corners of the vast manor seemed to creep under her very skin and there was little she could do to keep her mind off it.

She sat at her writing desk, a candle illuminating the little space, and wrote and re-wrote lesson plans for the Marquess, but the truth was that having only one pupil was quite simple, and she could have done just as well with him without all this meticulous planning.

She reached for a fresh sheet of paper automatically, thinking idly to herself that she would write a letter. To someone. Anyone.

“Dear Mother,” she began, in her most careful script. Elizabeth had never been the type to keep a diary, but she catalogued her days in her own way, by writing letters she would never send, to a mother she had never known.

The faint scratch of her quill as it methodically moved across the paper broke up the silence of the room enough that she felt her shoulders relaxing as she continued to write. She had filled two pages when a familiar one-two knock came to her door. Relieved by the intrusion, Elizabeth got up to greet Dorothy.

“Still up?” Dorothy asked.

“It’s early yet.” Elizabeth grinned, remembering Dorothy’s hinted promise of gossip earlier.

“I was about to have some tea in my room. If you wouldn’t rather keep your own company this evening, you’re more than welcome to join me.” The older woman seemed to understand her loneliness, and Elizabeth was reminded once again to be grateful for her many blessings. She nodded and followed Dorothy to her slightly larger quarters.

Dorothy’s room had a larger window and faintly yellowing wallpaper on the walls. Crocheted lace hung over the arms of her two chairs and a jar of violets sat in the middle of her nightstand. It was still a simple room befitting a servant, but it carried with it the air of a woman who was proud of her life’s work.

Everything was neat as a pin, and small decorative flourishes here and there made it one of the most comfortable rooms in the house. A pot of tea steamed welcomingly on the small table between the chairs.

“I really must sit down.” Dorothy began. “My feet are aching like anything today. I must be getting too old for running all over the house all day.”

Elizabeth smiled gently. Dorothy did not like to gossip, at least that’s what she assured anyone who would listen. To that end, she couldn’t abide just launching into the story that she really wanted to tell. Instead, she would sprinkle the information she had throughout a larger conversation, usually about her aches and pains.

“You’re not old, Miss Dorothy. Why, you look younger every day.”

Dorothy waved her off, pouring tea for both of them before settling down in her chair.

“Tell me, does the Marquess not know about his uncle coming? He hasn’t said a word about it. Should he not be excited?” Elizabeth asked, hoping to be spared some of Dorothy’s small talk.

“Ah, poor lad. I’m afraid he doesn’t likely have many happy memories with his uncle.” The older woman said, taking a sip of her tea and apparently finding it too hot because she set it back down on the table after.

“Is he…pardon me for asking, but…is he not very nice, then?”

Dorothy sighed. “It isn’t that. I knew him as a boy, you know. He was much like his nephew in many ways. Bright. Active. A bit shy but easy to please. But the Marquess hasn’t had a chance to know the Duke we knew and loved before the accident.” With this, Dorothy picked up her tea again and took a slow sip, leaving that tantalizing hint hanging in the air.

“Accident?” Elizabeth asked quietly, hoping to sound casual. None of this was any of her business, she was well aware. But the way that Dorothy was approaching the subject all askance and carefully, seemed to imply that there was an interesting story she was wanting to tell.

“Well, between us, accident isn’t the word at all. It was murder.”

The tea Elizabeth had been swallowing caught in her throat and she coughed. “M-murder?” she managed to get out between coughs. “Did he…?”

“Oh, heavens no! The Duke wouldn’t hurt a worm. Gentle as a lamb, that boy. Always has been. Mercy me, I did give the wrong impression there, didn’t I?” Dorothy laughed.

Elizabeth scoffed, catching her breath and testing another sip of tea. “So, what happened?”

“Well, that’s just the thing, isn’t it? No one really knows exactly what happened or why. All we know is that the gentleman was madly in love, engaged to be married, happy as a cricket, and then his fiancée was gone.”

“Gone?” Elizabeth asked suspiciously.

“She was found dead in the garden. Poisoned, they say.”

The room fell silent save for the sound of Elizabeth tapping her fingernail against the handle of the teacup in her hand. It sounded like something out of a cheap novel. The image of a beautiful lady lying motionless on a bed of soft grass, surrounded by lush blooms, filled Elizabeth’s mind and made her stomach sour.

“How dreadful,” was all she could say after a moment.

“They suspected the Duke at first, if you can believe it. He was the person closest to her, I suppose. But in the end, no one really thought it was him. He was so deeply in love with the lady. Her death shattered him. He hasn’t been the same since. Ach, will you look at this workbasket!” Dorothy suddenly cried, reaching for a basket overflowing with mending to be done. As if ashamed of herself for telling such a salacious story, she hurriedly withdrew one of the Duchess’ silk stockings and began to mend a hole in the heel.

“I’ve never heard anyone speak of him since I’ve been here,” Elizabeth said. “Does he not visit?”

“He used to come around quite often. He always doted on his little sister; they were thick as thieves growing up. But as the years have passed and his lover’s killer has never been found he’s…oh, I don’t know. He’s changed.” Dorothy did not look up from her work.

“You’ll please excuse me for being insensitive but…has not anyone considered that perhaps there was no killer. Perhaps she…” Elizabeth shrugged one shoulder. “You know…?”

“Oh no,” Dorothy shook her head. “Of course, the possibility was looked into by the proper authorities, but no one who knew Lady Christine would believe for a moment that she would do that to herself. She was a vibrant young thing, beautiful and rich, about to marry a Duke who positively worshiped her. No, she had no reason to end it that way.”

“I see,” Elizabeth said, letting the subject drop. Though she held doubts in her mind. Murder by poison by some shadowy figure who could not be found even these many years later seemed unlikely. The possibility that a young lady may harbor some secret pain that became too much to bear seemed simpler.

“To tell the truth,” Dorothy said, lowering her voice. “I think that Her Grace has been relieved at her brother staying away. He’s not the gentleman he used to be. He was once the most sought-after gentleman in society. As charming and friendly as he was striking to look at. But the tragedy killed not only his lover, but something inside of himself as well. He became cold and withdrawn, prone to snapping at servants and even his peers.”

“If Lord Limingrose hasn’t mentioned his uncle, it’s because he dreads the gentleman’s visit. As someone who knew him before the tragedy…oh, it’s a right shame, Elizabeth. To see such beauty wasted.” The older woman tsked quietly.

Elizabeth tried to imagine a male version of the Duchess of Stonehill. The sister was petite and slender, with an elegant neck that seemed created specifically to be adorned with jewels. Masses of blonde curls spoke to her vitality and health, along with a rosy blush that always colored her fine cheeks. She was beautiful, a natural aristocrat with that royal profile and an easy smile.

The older brother would be darker, Elizabeth guessed. His cheeks would be sharper, the angles of his face more severe. But he would have that smile that, when it appeared, made his relation to his sister impossible to deny.

“Heavens, what a story.” Elizabeth said, swallowing the dregs of her cup.

“You mustn’t go bandying it about. I only told you so that you would not get your feelings hurt should he happen to speak sharply to you. I’d rather you know that he wasn’t always that way. And anyway, you’re the only one in the house who doesn’t know. Save perhaps Lord Limingrose.”

“You, of all people, should know that I never indulge in gossip,” Elizabeth said with a wry grin.

Dorothy slapped Elizabeth’s knee and laughed. “Of course not. Never.”

* * *

“How can I be expected to do my lessons when it’s raining out?” Lord Limingrose whined.

“You had the same excuse when it was sunny. You’ll find that all sorts of weather conditions stay neatly out of the way when one is inside working.” Elizabeth slid his paper back across the table in the parlor.

“I want to see my mother.” The boy’s shoes were slightly muddy from a morning excursion out of doors already, and he swing them under his seat, sitting on his hands petulantly.

“Your mother is resting. We must give her plenty of peace and quiet.”

“Mother is always resting. Why’s she so tired?”

“Your letters, My Lord,” Elizabeth warned, pressing his pencil into his hand to do another line of b’s.

“Is she sick?”

“She isn’t sick. She’s worn out from getting ready for your new little brother or sister. You needn’t worry.”

“The one in her stomach?”

“Yes. Your letters, Lord Limingrose.”

The boy took the pencil with an exasperated sigh, and for a couple minutes at least, he applied himself to making neat little rows of letters. His handwriting was appalling but was improving slightly with practice.

After a while, he looked up and squinted suspiciously at her.

“What?” Elizabeth asked.

“How is the baby going to get out?”

“Shush. That is not something for children to worry about,” Elizabeth answered, her color rising. She fought to stifle her blush lest it encourage his questioning even more. The question had come up more than once during his mother’s pregnancy, and each time Elizabeth found herself at a loss to explain.

“Will it…. come out her mouth? One time I ate too many sweets and I was sick as the devil. How will it get past her teeth, though? She’s gotten enormous.”

“Goodness. You do know how to distract yourself from your work, don’t you? You must ask these sorts of things of your parents, not me. And don’t let your mother hear you calling her enormous.”

“Why do I have to ask my parents? Don’t you know? I thought you knew everything.”

“It must be time for your Latin lesson,” Elizabeth said, in an attempt at redirection.

The boy was still eyeing her with distrust, but Elizabeth was quite done with that line of questioning.

“I’ve been told that your uncle is coming to meet the new baby,” Elizabeth tried.

Lord Limingrose looked down somberly. “Yes, Mother told me.”

“Aren’t you happy? He must love you very much. You’re his first nephew, after all.”

He shook his head, subtly pushing way his Latin book. “No, he doesn’t. He doesn’t like me.” The little boy turned his face to the window, his large blue eyes tracking one drop of rain as it trickled down the pane of glass, merging with another drop on its journey to the windowsill.

“Now, what makes you say that?” Elizabeth asked softly. Although her charge could be as rambunctious as any other five-year-old boy, she had discovered early that he was also remarkably sensitive.

That explained his shyness.

It also came out in moments where any perceived disapproval would cause the boy to close in on himself and go quiet for the rest of the day.

He shrugged. “He just doesn’t.”

Elizabeth cocked her head to the side, pressing her lips into a sympathetic line as she placed her hand on top of his little one. “Sometimes adults can be complicated, My Lord. But I’m certain that your uncle loves you, even if he isn’t very good at showing it.”

He just shrugged again, sliding his hand away from hers. He let the subject drop then and applied himself to his lessons for the rest of the morning. Elizabeth’s mind was not so easily trained on her work, however.

The manor was so often visited by friends and family members of the Duke and Duchess, but none of them caused a stir the way that this gentleman did. He hadn’t even arrived yet, and he was all that any of the servants seemed to be able to talk about. Even talk of the imminent birth seemed to have dropped off in favor of gossip about the enigmatic Duke.

Mostly, what Elizabeth had gathered from various maids, was that the Duke of Hadminster was a god among gentlemen in terms of looks. If she went solely off the testimony of the house maids, Elizabeth would be forced to believe that he towered above the crowd at seven feet tall, with eyes that flashed like lightning, and hair softer than the finest silk.

She had to laugh, wondering how much of this description was influenced by his personal wealth. She did have to concede that it was rather romantic, the story of a gentleman irrevocably altered by the death of his lover.

The element of danger owing to the fact that he himself had been, even if only briefly, a suspect in her murder added to the gentleman’s mystique.

Elizabeth fought to regain control of her train of thought, reminding herself that the chance that she would ever even be introduced to the Duke of Hadminster was scant at best.

Chapter Three

Gerard Watton, The Duke of Hadminster, fought to bring his attention back to the papers in front of him. The duties of his station were normally more than enough to keep his mind occupied and directed away from personal matters, but the letter from his sister sat, unopened, on his desk, taunting him.

He glanced at it once more. He would know her curly, slanting handwriting anywhere. He didn’t want to read the letter because he already knew what it contained. Her nine months were nearly up, and he had promised that he would be there this time to welcome the new member of the family. With Thomas, he had waited nearly a full six months before going to visit, and it had been a point of contention between the brother and sister ever since.

He forced his attention back to the business correspondence in front of him, adding a flourish to his signature at the bottom of the page. He was conducting business in his office, hoping that the burgeoning late summer sunlight would lift his spirits. So far it had failed to do so.

“Come now, Gerard, you said you would take the day off of work. Can this not wait?” Martin Bamber, the Earl of Woodsford, a business partner of the Duke’s and Gerard’s closest confidant, whined.

“Don’t do that thing with your voice, Martin. You sound like a child.” Gerard replied.

“But Gerard…” Martin said, drawing out the last syllable annoyingly, then laughing when Gerard glared up at him. “There’s bound to be no good riding in London. You’ve got to have a few good rides in before you go. You can answer letters anywhere, but you’ll miss these woods when all you’ve got to look at is babies and city ladies.”

“I shan’t be looking at any city ladies, Martin. I assure you.” Gerard said, folding the letter and sealing it with his crest. He glanced once more at the letter from his sister and, finally, picked it up.

“Last one?” Martin asked hopefully.

“Yes.” He had saved the letter for last, but there was no avoiding it now. He slid his silver letter opener underneath the wax seal and popped it open. Bridget’s handwriting met his eyes and he could swear that he heard her voice in his ear as he read.

Dearest Brother,

I know it’s impolite to speak of such things as this, but my time draws near and I’m not ashamed to tell you that I’m afraid. Of course, the midwife says everything is fine and that I have nothing to fear, but you never can tell about these things. I know you don’t like to see me, though I don’t pretend to understand why. But please, for my sake, come soon. It puts me at ease to see you. I want my children to know you as I do.

Your devoted Sister

Gerard sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“You know, I’ve never seen a gentleman so determined to hate his own holiday,” Martin broke in.

Gerard shook his head. “Don’t you have something to do?”

“No, I took the whole day off to spend it with my friend before he leaves for the city,” Martin said. “Let’s go.”

Gerard dashed off a note to his sister saying that he would leave the following afternoon, then followed Martin out to the stables. The day was uncharacteristically cloudless for northern England, and the breeze that swept off the hills was almost warm. As the gentlemen mounted their horses, Martin regaled Gerard with inanities about the weather, about how he loved the warm weather.

Gerard, for his part, had a difficult time paying attention. As the gentlemen directed their mounts into the woods surrounding his country estate, Gerard could think only of his impending trip to Stonehill. He’d known for months that he would have to visit his sister again, and he’d dreaded it all along. His dread was made all the worse by the fact that he could not explain it to anyone, not to Bridget, not even to Martin.

The truth was, it pained him to see her so happy. Seeing her in the flush of new motherhood and wedded bliss only reminded him of everything he had lost. The Stonehill manor, as beautiful and stately as it was, felt like a tomb for Gerard’s hopes and dreams. His sister had the life that he had wanted. The family he had wanted.

His jealousy ate at him like an invisible disease, rotting him from the inside out. No matter how many solemn vows he made to himself before visiting her, he always found himself being ever colder and more snappish at them whenever he visited.

It was better just to stay away, he reasoned. It was better not to soil their happiness with his bitterness.

Unfortunately, Bridget didn’t seem to see it that way. The more he stayed away, the more letters she sent, begging for his company. They’d been close as children, and when their parents died, he had taken upon the mantle of fatherhood to her. His sudden change in demeanor must have been jarring.

“You really do need the time off, to rest,” Martin said in a teasing voice.

“Yes, Martin. I know. You’ve said that before. I leave tomorrow afternoon. I trust that everything will be managed to my satisfaction in my absence?”

“I could run your entire Dukedom with one hand tied behind my back and my eyes blindfolded,” Martin boasted.

Gerard shot him a withering look. “Yes, well. We shall see about that, I suppose. I expect daily letters detailing the business. Mister Andrews will serve as my go-between.”

Martin nodded silently. Gerard had been talking about his expectations of how his manor and his business would be run in his absence for weeks. Gerard couldn’t put his finger on it, but this visit to Stonehill seemed to carry some inexplicable importance in his mind. There was something in his gut that told him that he would not come away from this trip unchanged.

Perhaps the birth of a child would heal this gaping hole in his chest where Christine had been. Perhaps socializing, parties, dinners, and time spent with Thomas would bring the color back into Gerard’s life.

“Gerard, if you don’t mind my asking…are you hesitant to return to London because of…her?”

Gerard exhaled. No one said Christine’s name out loud around him. They didn’t need to. Her presence was always hovering around him, always there, always watching. The years that had passed had not changed that. The last time he had seen her was at her home in London. The morning before she was found lifeless in her own garden. He would have to pass right in front of that very house on his way to Stonehill.

“It’s been seven years,” Martin said.

“I am aware of how many years it has been,” Gerard snapped. Martin seemed to notice Gerard’s poor mood then, and they passed the rest of their ride through the woods in silence.

* * *

Leaving his home in the country, his refuge, only became more difficult the less he did it. This time, it had been a full year since Gerard had left his manor behind for more than a week. The manor, with its shining marble and elegant lawns, was more like a fortress to him. Within its walls he could lose himself in business, going days at a time without thinking of anything more personal than ship manifests and the long, tidy columns of his ledger books.

London, to him, was a place teeming with humanity. People courted in London, they danced, they kissed, they fell in love and married. Children were born. Homes were made. The city represented a life that he had extracted himself from violently so long ago.

Bridget had told him, years ago, that retaliating against a world that had taken Christine from him by hardening his heart against every tender thing was a childish and ridiculous way to grieve. But it worked. As long as he stayed out of London.

He gripped onto a newspaper in the carriage, twisting it in his palms so harshly that ink stained the fingers of his gloves. His heart raced as he struggled to keep calm and impartial. But every step of the horses brought him closer to the past that he had been hiding from for so long, and the feeling of foreboding that he had been fighting these past few weeks only grew stronger with each passing moment.

This is ridiculous. Get a hold of yourself, Gerard. You’ve done this before.

Gerard promised himself that he would be pleasant this time. Bridget needed it. She hadn’t gone into detail in her letters, but her anxiety about giving birth was evident in every word she had sent him. She needed the old Gerard, who would be at her side with a calm word and a protective glance whenever she needed it. To stand around in her home being aloof and unsociable would only cause her more strain. He knew that he owed it to her to be on his best behavior.

He tried a smile, watching his translucent reflection in the window of the carriage. It didn’t look good. His lips pulled into a straight line that made him look as though he were listening to a bad joke. He sighed, then tried again. His reflection smiled back at him sarcastically and he gave up.

As he drew nearer to London, he began to recognize places where he had spent his young adulthood. There was the road leading to a boyhood friend’s manor. And there was the dressmaker’s shop where he had chaperoned Bridget so many times. Christine’s home was coming up quickly and, try as he might to ignore the marble edifice that spoke of such painful memories, he could not but revisit that day when he had seen her last.

She had been wearing a white gown with lace at the wrists. He had always loved her wrists, so thin and frail and milky white, with a single freckle on the back of her left hand that he had kissed so many times. No amount of years could pass that would erase from his memory the details of her. Her voice, the flecks of gold in her eyes, the way she sighed so gently when he kissed her.

Gerard brought his hands up to his face, covering his eyes as though he could block out the memories that way. The creeping dread that he had been living with as the trip to London drew closer mounted into a panic as he passed by Christine's home.

There was no way that he would be able to escape thoughts of her the entire time he was in the city. There would be no refuge from the sadness at missing her, and the frustrated rage at never bringing her killer to justice. The excitement that coursed through his veins at the sight of that house where, on the veranda, he had sat with her and kissed her in the moonlight, would have no outlet until he could leave the city once more.

He opened the mangled newspaper and stared blankly down at it. His eyes scanned a single sentence over and over, not taking in the words at all. His hands were shaking.

Stop this nonsense. Calm down.

By the time he arrived at Stonehill, he had managed to stop his trembling, though his mind was still a tempest of anger and fresh grief. As the groom hopped down from the carriage and opened the door for him, Gerard remained seated. He felt winded, as though he had run from Christine’s home to Stonehill, and he wanted to be sure that he appeared calm and collected by the time he stepped out.

Stonehill was an imposing manor with white pillars, calling back to the Greeks, lining the front of the house. Bridget had done well for herself in her marriage to Jonathan, though money had not been an object in the match. Bridget and the Duke were in love, and all the wealth and pomp in the world could not dim the simple joy of their marriage. The two of them would have been just as happy living together in a poor cottage as they were in this stately manor.

He took a couple more steadying breaths, then, with all the force of will that he could muster, he trained his face into a pleasant expression and descended from the carriage.

He looked around, realizing with a start that there was no one outside to greet him. Not Bridget, nor her husband, not even a lone butler.

Gerard straightened his waistcoat and placed his hat upon his head, gathering his wits one final time before ascending the stairs to the door with as jaunty a step as he could muster. Glancing up at the windows, he thought he saw the movement of a curtain being rapidly dropped into place as he knocked on the door.

A servant, most likely.

There was, at first, no answer to his knock. He waited a moment, adjusting his hat. Then, finally, he knocked a second time. Even then, it was a few moments before the heavy door swung wide to reveal the face of, not a butler, but Bridget’s maid Dorothy.

She beamed at him in a moment of exuberance. Gerard returned her bright smile. Dorothy had been like a second mother to both himself and Bridget since they were children and seeing her again brought back many happier memories. She was beginning to show her age.

“Your Grace!” she called, laughing as she ushered him inside. “What a time to arrive! Alfred is busy tending to the Duke right now. If I hadn’t happened to be passing the hall just as you knocked, we’d not have known you were here!”

“Why, what’s happening?” Gerard asked, taken aback at the sense of hurry that quickened the woman’s voice. He noticed then that her mobcap was slightly askew and there was a fine sheen of sweat at her temples.

“The baby! It’s coming as we speak!”

“What, right now?” Gerard exclaimed, his eyes going wide.

“Yes, yes! Come along now and sit with the father-to-be.”

“Yes, of course. Bring me to His Grace at once. Is my sister all right?” Gerard deluged the aging maid with questions as he followed her up the grand staircase to the upper rooms.

“Oh yes, she’s doing fine. It started this morning when it was still dark. It started out slow but it’s quickening now. I'd guess that there will be a new baby in the world by dinner time.”

As they reached the top of the stairs, Gerard heard a plaintive wail that gave way to a pained shriek that sent a shiver down his spine.

“Good heavens,” he muttered, looking down the corridor where the sound had come from.

“She’s quite all right. Quite all right. It’s supposed to sound like that. Come along, quickly now.” Dorothy said, hustling him along in the opposite direction from the source of the screaming.

“You will let my sister know that I’m here, won’t you? Perhaps it might help her?” He wasn’t sure how much comfort his presence in the house could bring to his sister at such a moment as this, but it was all he had to offer just then.

“Of course, I will. She’ll be glad to hear it.” Dorothy said, glancing behind her as another cry went out from the other end of the hallway. “The Duke is just in here. I must get back to Her Grace.”

As Gerard entered a sunny parlor, the maid dashed away. Inside, Jonathan was standing irritably, his waistcoat askew and his hair at odd angles as he leaned against the mantelpiece.

“I do believe there’s a baby coming.” Gerard said, as he shut the door behind him against a fresh scream.

“Gerard!” Jonathan said, swinging around. The tall gentleman crossed the room in three strides before clapping Gerard in a brotherly embrace. Gerard thumped the father-to-be on the back and laughed.

“You look like you’ve been in a fight,” Gerard exclaimed.

“That I have! These blasted fools won’t let me anywhere near my wife. They say she doesn’t want to see me, but that’s nonsense. Of course, she wants to see me. I’m her husband for, God’s sake. Listen to her!” Jonathan raised his arm in a sweeping gesture.

“Well, did they let you see her the last time?” Gerard asked.

Jonathan and Alfred, the butler, exchanged glances.

“What?” Gerard asked.

“Last time she broke a priceless vase over my head when she threw it at me from the bed,” Jonathan divulged in a whisper.

A rare grin spread over Gerard’s face. “No, I don’t believe it.”

“She did. Only don’t tell her I told you. She’s embarrassed about it now. Which is why I know that she does want me with her this time.” This last bit was directed at the butler, who merely shook his head slowly.

“Sit down, Jonathan. Have a drink. Have a cigar.” Gerard took Jonathan’s arm and led him to the settee, making the stressed gentleman sit down while he poured him a glass of amber whiskey.

Jonathan took the glass and swallowed its contents in hurried gulps. Through the heavy wooden door, the sounds of Bridget’s trials were muffled, but not completely obscured. Jonathan let his head fall back and groaned as another cry rang out.

“This is torture. I can’t bear another moment of it,” he moaned.

Gerard, pouring himself a glass, shook his head. “Don’t let her catch you saying that. She’s the one doing the work. Unless you’ve got other priceless vases to spare.”

Gerard was attempting to put on an air of casualness, but in truth his own nerves were being jangled by the sounds of his sister’s ordeal. This was certainly not the welcome he had been expecting when he arrived at Stonehill.

“Perhaps some fresh air would do you some good. Come, show me the gardens. I’m eager to see them,” Gerard lied. He couldn’t give a fig about the gardens at that moment, but he thought that getting out of earshot of the Duchess might calm his nerves.

“I cannot leave. I don’t want them to have to search for me when the baby arrives. I will be waiting right here, ready to rush to her side,” Jonathan said resolutely.

“That’s very noble of you, but I got the impression that there still may be some time yet. And Alfred will know where we are. They won’t need to send out a search party.”

Jonathan shook his head. “I cannot do it. I have to stay here.”

Gerard glanced at Alfred who, behind his master’s back, shrugged weakly.

“All right, old chap. We’ll stay here. But let’s at least have a game of cards or something. Sitting here straining our ears won’t make the babe come any sooner or make it any easier for Bridget.”

Jonathan seemed highly reluctant to do anything other than press his ear to the wall listening for any sign of distress from his wife, but with time, he was convinced to play a round of cards.

Time passed interminably, marked only by the distant wails and the sounds of cards being flicked onto the wooden table. None of the gentlemen could hold a conversation, despite several attempts by Gerard to cajole Jonathan into a nice, distracting chat. With time, all attempts at speaking ceased and silence prevailed.

The shadows in the parlor grew long, and Alfred was just getting up to light the lamps in the room against the impending twilight when suddenly a knock came and Dorothy’s face appeared in the doorway. She was flushed, and her mobcap hung limply down her back, but the smile on her face erased all fear. Jonathan jumped up, almost toppling the chair behind him.

“It’s a girl, Your Graces,” Dorothy exclaimed. “Her Grace is asking for you!”

Jonathan was the first to reach the door, and he fairly sprinted down the corridor to his wife, with Gerard trailing behind him.

The scent of blood and sweat lingered in the air of the bedroom, but the sheets had been changed and Bridget was swathed in fresh linens, her blonde hair cascading beatifically over her shoulders. Her divine appearance was at odds with the very human scents, and the animal sounds she had been making all morning.

Gerard hung back as Jonathan surged forward, tears in his eyes.

“A girl,” he murmured, lifting the squirming bundle of swaddling from his wife’s exhausted arms.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Bridget breathed. Her voice was hoarse, but impossibly gentle at the same time.

“She’s perfect. Absolutely perfect.” Jonathan uncovered the baby’s feet and hands and seemed to be counting her fingers and toes as Gerard approached the bed.

“What timing!” Bridget laughed, reaching for her brother. He bent down to kiss her forehead and lay a hand on her shoulder.

“Yes, it seems I arrived just in time. How do you feel?”

“Tired. But happy. So happy.” Her eyes were glazed with tears of, Gerard could only guess, relief. “And hungry!”

Gerard chuckled and turned to address Alfred. “Bring the Duchess up some food right away. Can’t you see she’s wasting away?”

Alfred smiled, nodding his head before hurrying out.

“Look, Gerard,” Jonathan said, coming around the bed to stand next to him. “Look how beautiful she is.”

“She looks like her father,” Bridget quipped, as Jonathan placed the newborn babe in Gerard’s arms.

Gerard held his breath. The baby was far too small, far too delicate, for his own blundering arms to hold. Her eyes were dark gray and looked around the room in an expression of mild alarm. Her tiny fingers flexed and grasped at the cloths she was wrapped in.

“What shall her name be?” Gerard asked quietly.

“Anne,” the mother and father said in almost unison.

Want to know how the story ends? Tap on the link below to read the rest of the story.

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Thank you very much!

Also by Violet Hamers

Thank you for reading Forbidden Desires of a Seductive Duchess!

I hope you loved it, as much as I loved the process of writing it ♥

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Some other best sellers of mine:

Wild Passions of a Mischievous Duchess

Sins of an Intoxicating Duchess

The Duke she Desires

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Violet Hamers

About the Author

Violet Hamers knew from an early age that writing was something she always wanted to do. Growing up, her time was divided between writing stories and taking part in theatrical plays, that she used to perform exclusively for her family and friends.

As she loves reading and writing, she is rarely found without a book in her hands, or her fingers glued to a keyboard. Her love for reading led her to Jane Austen's world—the regency historical world that won her over in comparison to any other genre!

Even though being an author is not a simple task, her dream of becoming one has finally come true as she is currently writing Regency novels...romances her readers will love!

Follow Violet into a world of romance and fairytale, of passion and intrigue, and live unforgettable happy-ever-afters along with her protagonists that she guarantees you will remember forever.

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