The door to the coach was flung open to reveal Seagraves, unharmed. “I’m sorry, my lady.”
“Oh, Seagraves”. Aunt Maisy placed a hand on her throat in relief. “What is the matter? It sounded like something happened to the horses. What—” Aunt Maisy’s words dissolved into a gasp of outrage as the footman shoved his massive form into the coach. He settled next to her, pinning her smaller body against the squabs, the breath of his shoulders straining the Dunbar livery as he blocked her aunt’s movements.
“Don’t fuss so, my lady. I don’t wish you to hurt yourself.” His mouth drew down mournfully. “Nor do I wish to hurt you.”
Aunt Maisy began to pummel Seagraves back with her fists, like a small child trying to move a boulder. The scene would have been ridiculous were the situation not so serious.
We’re being robbed. Seagraves and Barker are part of it.
Arabella’s fingers clawed at the compartment, desperate to pull out the pistols, but Seagraves stuck a booted foot against the opening. He shook his head. “Don’t.” He grunted. “I’ve no wish to hurt you either, my lady.”
“Shut her up.” Barker opened the door and jerked his chin in Aunt Maisy’s direction. “Or I’ll gag her.”
Seagraves immediately placed one meaty paw across Aunt Maisy’s mouth silencing her. Her aunt’s eyes peered over his hand, eyes wide with affront.
Barker turned to Arabella. “Let’s go, my lady.” He sneered the words. Wrapping his blunt fingers around both her wrists, he pulled her towards him with little effort.
Her ankle caught on the brick, tearing her skirt. Arabella instantly regretted not grabbing the brick instead of trying for the pistols. She could have lobbed the hot piece of stone at Barker’s head. Twisting and kicking, she screamed. “Your life isn’t worth a farthing. My brother will see you dead for daring to touch us.”
Barker’s lips twisted, in what she thought was an imitation of a smile. She noticed he was missing two teeth, and another was broken.
“He’s got to find me first.”
“Ow.” Seagraves muttered as her aunt bit his fingers. He removed his hand from her mouth long enough for Aunt Maisy to order him to release her. “Let me out. Let me out this instant.” She slapped at the back of his neck, as she attempted to escape.
“My lady,” Seagraves growled. “Please be still. If you bite me again, I’ll have to tie you up. He held up a dirty length of rope in one hand.
Aunt Maisy’s eyes bugged at the sight of Barker dragging Arabella out the door. “No! Leave her alone, you filthy mongrel.” Her aunt struggled to grab hold of Arabella’s cloak.
Barker shot Seagraves a pointed look and tossed him a scrap of cloth. “Gag her. Now. We’re far enough from Camden but we can’t afford to let anyone chance upon us. You’re too bloody soft,” Barker hissed. “Give her a good slap and she’ll shut up all right.” Barker tugged again and Arabella landed outside the coach.
Seagraves didn’t answer, but his mouth grew taut. “You do your job and I’ll do mine.” He reached over and slammed the door.
Aunt Maisy’s muffled cries continued to sound from the coach.
Arabella’s shock and anger rapidly turned to fear as Barker began to drag her towards the other coach. She kicked furiously at his shins.
Her captor grunted in pain as one of her boot heels hit their mark. He raised a hand and she shied back, certain he would hit her, but Barker lowered his hand with a snarl. Instead he shook Arabella until her teeth clattered together. Stubbornly she dug her heels into the mud and refused to budge, forcing him to drag her.
“What have you done to him?” Arabella choked out as she spied John face down in the road, a trickle of blood oozing from his skull. Teddy Mac sat next to him, a gag in his mouth, his hands and feet tied.
The young groom glared at Barker with anger.
“He’s not dead.” Barker caught her glance at the driver. “I just hit him. But he will be if you don’t stop.” He shook her again and grabbed her more firmly by the arm.
Arabella stopped struggling. She couldn’t risk any harm coming to John or Teddy Mac. “What about my aunt?”
“She’ll be fine with Seagraves.” He led her to the other coach and swung open the dented and scratched door. “Here she is.” Barker flung her inside.
A dank musty smell filled her nose and she fell against the floor of the coach. The blinds were closed, leaving the interior dark. Even though she could see little, Arabella sensed she wasn’t alone.
Firm hands gripped her shoulders and lifted her onto the seat.
“What do you want?” She struggled to keep her voice from trembling though she was terrified for the safety of her aunt. “I demand you let us go. How dare you accost the family of the Duke of Dunbar. Surely you know who we are.” Arabella moved herself to the far corner of the seat. “You will be found out before you can collect any ransom for me if that is your aim.”
A shadowed hand moved the curtains allowing a fraction of light to filter through the dirty windows.
“You.” A dizzying sensation made her ears buzz as she regarded the man before her. He looked only slightly different from their last meeting. Still boyishly handsome, the smug grin he perpetually wore gracing his lips.
“Lady Arabella,” he said softly. “How lovely to see you again.”
3
Augustus Corbett, lately of Bermuda and the cause of Arabella’s exile, sat back, his handsome features full of amusement as he enjoyed her shock at the sight of him. He adjusted the sleeves of his once fine coat, now tattered and frayed around the cuffs and edges. Several buttons were missing from the front or dangling by a mere thread.
“I have a proposition for you.”
Arabella sat back against the ragged seat cushions, trying to ignore the distasteful stain in the corner of the floor hovering near the edge of her skirts. The coach was filthy and looked as if it had been used to cart about a herd of orphans. She gave Corbett a brittle smile. He didn’t frighten her, not in the least. Corbett always reminded her of a child about to throw a tantrum.
“Is there a reason you stopped my coach? Accosted me and my aunt? Surely you could have sent me a note or visited me in Wales for tea.” She gave him a pointed look. “Well, possibly not as my brother is determined to rid the world of your presence.”
“Arabella.” He shook his head and a shock of brown hair fell over his brow. “Accost is such an ugly word. I merely wished an opportunity to speak to you. And as for tea, well there were too many fierce Welshmen surrounding Twinings to make that a possibility.”
“I have nothing to say to you. You manipulated me.”
“My dear Arabella, manipulate is rather strong. I prefer, influenced. Mother may have bent the truth a bit about some things, but not about the deceit of Jemma’s father, William. He did commit treason and allow the blame to fall on your father, that much is true. As to the shooting which made you an orphan…” Corbett lifted his hands carelessly. “Who is to say?”
“Your father protected him.” Arabella needed no reminder of the death of her parents and the horror she witnessed as a child.
“True. My father was the Lord Governor of Bermuda and gave William a safe place to hide from your family for many years. What can I say? They were friends.” His gaze traveled up the front of her serviceable brown wool traveling dress, seeming to strip it from her with a glance. “You wear such staid garments, Lady Arabella. Covered from neck to toe. One wonders what you are hiding?”
The question unnerved her, as did his attention. Arabella had spent a lifetime taking great care to be unattractive to the opposite sex. She did not elicit flattery nor flirtation. Gray and brown were preferred for her wardrobe, though she did not stint on the quality of the fabric. No embellishment. A severe cut, suitable for a matron or a vicar’s wife. Not so much as a hint of her generous bosom could be seen.
“Instead of being concerned over my clothing, you would do better to be concerned for your welfare. It is doubtful you
will survive another meeting with my brother.”
He had the grace to flinch at her words. “I purchased passage to America. I imagine your brother assumes me to be in Boston else he would have sent a small army to escort you back to London instead of a young boy and two questionable footmen. Besides, he never found me to be particularly daring. Or devious.” Corbett’s tone was smug. “Won’t he be surprised? Besides the Devil of Dunbar could care less about you, Arabella.”
“Do not call him that.” Arabella hated the reminder that London society considered Nick to be cursed. As angry as she was at him, he was still her brother.
Corbett gave a choked laugh. “Ever the protective sister.” He folded his hands into a peak and peered at her over his fingers. “How did you enjoy your banishment to Wales?”
Heat flew up her cheeks as his words hit home.
“Aren’t you the least curious why I went to all this trouble? Placing two men in your brother’s employ? Stopping your coach?”
Arabella opened her mouth to spit out a biting comment but stopped. She was curious. Of course, any intelligent young lady, perhaps one who wasn’t still smarting over being sent far away from home as punishment, would have started screaming.
Glancing out the window to her left, she peered through the grime to see the Dunbar coach rock slightly. John and Teddy Mac were still outside in the muddy road. “What could you possibly offer me? You’ve nothing I want.”
“You are such a delightfully sour creature, Arabella.” His voice lowered into a silky whisper, “your reputation in the ton is well deserved.”
“You know nothing of my reputation,” she snapped. Her reputation was unimpeachable. Her entire life had been spent struggling to keep free of the gossip that swirled around the Duke of Dunbar and her family, like moths circling a lantern. Mindful of her father’s reputation as a drunkard, not a drop of alcohol ever touched her lips. Charlotte, her mother, was a known wanton. God forbid anyone should ever hear a flirtatious comment from Arabella. She’d never even been to France least her loyalty to the Crown be questioned as her father’s had been. “I am above reproach.”
“Yes, my dear. You most certainly are. Every action is proper and orchestrated. You are a paragon of morality, a bastion of discipline, a woman who demands the respect of society. A woman whose dour manner and constant frowning have warned away all but the most determined. No matter how many orphans and widows you support, or ladies luncheons you host, you will always shoulder your family’s reputation. But I suppose fear is preferable to frivolity.”
Arabella’s fingers twitched against her skirts as she absorbed every word, knowing how close to the truth he came.
“Despite your best efforts to garner a place for yourself you are not well-liked in the ton. No one regards you as a friend save Miranda. At best you are an acquaintance, invited so as not to insult your powerful and wealthy family.”
Arabella sucked in her breath.
“But I feel certain you could have tolerated such treatment and convinced yourself you were happy, until your brother had the audacity to wed the daughter of the traitor. You’ve devoted your life to being, as you say, above reproach and your sacrifices mean nothing to him.” He slapped his thighs and sat back. “How that must rankle you. If I were in your shoes, I’m not sure I wouldn’t have committed murder by now. I wonder the news of your brother’s affection for Jemma didn’t hasten your grandfather’s demise.”
Arabella bit the inside of her mouth so hard she tasted blood, for she had often thought the same thing. “Do not speak of my grandfather.” The previous Duke of Dunbar had gone to his grave cursing Nick for not inflicting the revenge the Dunbar honor demanded.
“Thankfully, Lady Miranda begged for your return to London. Your dearest friend. How she must long to rub her marriage, a great love-match, in your face.”
“Miranda would never do such a thing,” she sputtered.
Corbett gave a careless shrug. “You are regretfully, now all alone.”
The sharp intake of air burned her lungs. Corbett was speaking out loud all the horrible things that plagued Arabella’s thoughts since she had received Miranda’s letter. And as for her brother and Jemma? Twinings had not softened her rage towards Nick and his bride in the least.
“Don’t you long to have revenge upon them all?”
Her eyes snapped to his. “You know nothing of what I want.”
Corbett raised his brow. He did know.
“I propose we marry.” The light blue of his eyes darkened with determination. “It is the perfect solution and we will both have what we want most.”
“You’re joking.” The very idea was absurd. Her hand began to twitch in earnest.
“Not at all. When you look at the whole of it logically, our marriage makes perfect sense.” Corbett’s eyes held a fanatical gleam, but his voice remained smooth. “Think of Jemma’s horror. Your brother will be incensed.”
“Nick will have you murdered in your sleep.” Corbett was right. No one called on her unless she held a tea to discuss one of her charities. She was never asked to dance at the few balls she attended, instead Arabella lingered next to Aunt Maisy for the duration of the evening. But Arabella was happy for Miranda. In her own way.
“Quite frankly,” Corbett continued in a candid tone, “you’ll never do better. You are destined for spinsterhood, which wouldn’t be so bad I suppose, if you brother remained unmarried or he married a girl you could actually tolerate. But Jemma? Your part in my mother’s failed scheme to force Jemma back to Bermuda and marriage to me certainly won’t help mend fences.”
“I only told you when Jemma would be in the park. I never—”
Corbett continued as if she hadn’t interrupted. “The Duke of Dunbar will never allow you to inhabit the same space as his precious bride. Your brother has made it clear your return to London is temporary.”
“How would you know such a thing?”
You forget, Seagraves and Barker have been part of the duke’s household and servants gossip. Your chambers are already being redecorated. You’ll be sent packing again in no time. I believe a convent in Scotland was mentioned as your ultimate destination. The entire staff is placing bets on where you’ll end up.” Corbett picked a piece of lint of his knee. “Not that it matters where you go. Eventually, no one will even remember the duke has a sister. Especially not the duke.”
A sickening sensation filled her, reminiscent of the way she once felt after eating fish that had spoiled. The ache caused her to bend at the waist, her free hand pressed against her stomach. “What a pretty speech, Mr. Corbett. How you flatter me.”
My God. He was right. She would end up like Cousin Millicent. Rotting away in some ancient estate in Wales with no visitors for decades.
“Do you not want your revenge? Surely, revenge is a more desirable alternative than quietly agreeing to banishment?” He regarded her thoughtfully. “Or perhaps not. I thought you had more backbone.”
His words had the desired effect and Arabella stiffened. “A marriage of convenience? Or revenge, I suppose?” Her hand twitched mercilessly against her skirts.
“A business partnership of sorts.” Corbett stroked his chin. “Marriage is the only way to ensure you are not subject to the whims of the Duke of Dunbar or his duchess. Wedding me will assure you’ll have freedom. Your own household. You’ll have a husband who gives your sister-in-law fits. You will never have to leave London unless you wish it.”
“And what about your whims?” she countered.
A small smile lifted his lips. “Money, of course, is my primary objective. My family’s fortunes, as you can imagine, are in ruin. You, on the other hand, have a very substantial dowry. One of the largest in London. In return, I’ll settle a sum on you and be an absentee husband. I understand that’s the best kind.”
Arabella also had an additional inheritance in her own right, one that would come to her upon marriage, something she would not be disclosing to Corbett. Even if he absconded w
ith every cent of her dowry, she would still be a wealthy woman. Once married, she would have freedom to do as she chose with no threat of being shipped off to Wales again.
“I must be assured that there will be no,” she struggled to find the correct words, “physical aspect to our marriage. The marriage will be in name only.” Dear God, his proposal actually had merit.
“I’ve no desire to bed you. I expect you are quite frigid.” A toothy grin spread his lips to soften his insult. “Consider us to be…business partners. I vow to never cross the door of your bedroom. I do not plan to reside in London at any rate. My presence would be too tempting for your brother. Best I only show my face occasionally.”
“What about my aunt? Our driver and groom?”
Corbett leaned over and took her hand and she resisted the urge to pull free. “No harm whatsoever will come to any of them. Seagraves will simply keep them with the coach for the next day or so. Then he’ll take the horses and ride in the other direction. He’s been well paid to do so. By the time your aunt makes her way to London we will already be wed.”
She thought of her Grandfather cursing the traitor with his last breath, his eyes full of disappointment that Nick had not taken the promised retribution. Bitterness seeped into every corner of her body and she stiffened with righteous indignation. Miranda would soon have a passel of brats around her ankles with little time for Arabella, so what would she care? Aunt Maisy would grow tired of exile with her niece and who could blame her? Nick would never forgive her, but if she married Corbett she would never have to answer to him again. Alarm sounded loudly in her head but Arabella ignored the sense of doom preferring to focus on her indignation and rage. She was not to be trifled with.
“Fine.” She clutched her hands to her lap. “I’ll marry you.”
4
Rowan jumped up the steps of the Duke of Dunbar’s red brick home situated on one of the most prestigious streets in London, stopping to stare, as he often did, at the beauty of his cousin’s residence. The massive structure took up the entire end of the street; wings on either side of the house curled as if open for an embrace. Acres of park land manicured into a twisting riot of gardens fell away to brush, having been allowed to grow wild with all manner of thorny plants and trees. The brush served as a natural deterrent to trespassers as did the high stone wall which surrounded the entire property. The impression was one of magnificence and powerful wealth, with just a thin veneer of danger, as if the rumors of witchcraft and pacts with the Devil and all the other gossip surrounding the Duke of Dunbar were true.
Wickedly Yours (The Wickeds Book 4) Page 2