by Addison Cain
Why had Gregory chosen that man to die for the Marquise’s murder?
Had that man tried to cheat Mr. Harrow? Had he called him bastard? Gregory was petty, but she’d seen how he handled the Harding farmer. He liked his victims to live with their suffering.
From what she knew of him, there was not an ounce of impulsiveness in Gregory’s body. Every action Mr. Harrow took was well thought out and acute. Yet nothing was ever as it seemed.
His actions towards her were suspect enough—the way he treated the Jenkins clan, their neighbors, all of Harding, questionable.
He had killed a man for her. He was going to kill more men for her. But what if he was not doing it for her at all?
Did Gregory love her, or was she as great a fool as Lilly? Why would he want a woman with no fortune who would bring shame to his name when he had a rich beauty willing to dote on him?
So many weeks had passed since he’d extorted his forthcoming price. The longer he was away, the more she doubted. Arabella needed to look him in the eyes, to feel Gregory’s warm hands. She needed answers.
And not only from him, Ion was still a thorn in her side. The more she thought on it, the more she was certain the Romani was the key to all of this—that he knew exactly what was going on. More worrisome, she was certain Payne was not going to find him.
Ion had come to her with no warning on her last visit to London. She was hoping he might do the same again.
A hired carriage carried her from the cemetery through the streets of London. Arabella was to exit the carriage at a well-known dressmaker’s, go inside to peruse their wares, and wait for Payne and whatever information he had collected. Cosseted by her title and the attention it would garner from the staff, she would be safe. Men could not enter, as it was a woman’s shop.
Which wouldn’t work. She needed to tempt traitorous Ion out of hiding.
Abandoning her plans to visit the shop, the Baroness of Iliffe ordered her carriage to slowly circle Hyde Park. Within an hour the carriage slowed at a crossing and her premonition came to life.
The door opened. Uninvited, a dark haired Romani took the seat across from her.
Arabella did not wait, she gave him no chance to offer a greeting or spin lies. “Your arrival is convenient, Ion—for you especially as I am unguarded right now. Shall we get to the point? I am not the master you serve. Have you been paid to frighten me again? Are your intentions to deliver me to William Dalton yourself? Have you come to kill me? I will pay you double whatever your new master offered... triple... for answers.”
A smile broke across Ion’s face, an unfriendly, terrible expression. “What I have been paid, you could never counter.”
Eyeing the knife worn upon the Romani’s belt, Arabella felt her blood chill to the point of icy apathy. Steeled, she made a promise to herself and to him. “If you try to take me to them, you’ll be delivering a corpse. I will fight you until my last breath. I will never submit again.”
Ion’s every word came sharp, his disinterest palpable. “Yet twice now you have come to London, the one place you should not tread. Twice now I have had the pleasure of following your frivolous exploits around the city when my time would have been better spent elsewhere.”
“If you are too much of a coward to answer me, be gone, thief. You tell Dalton that I will find a way to end him. I will sell my very soul if I have to.”
He measured her differently than he had the night they met over the fire. Indifference and pity had been abandoned. In their place, Ion looked at her as if she were an object presently owned by another. “You already did... as did I. And a fair price I got for it. He has a way of pulling a man apart—of knowing exactly what a person might desire most. A veritable devil, he is.”
Tired of round about talk and subtle threats, Arabella hissed, “Who?”
“It isn’t gold that I want, Baroness.” Ion clicked his tongue, lip curled. “I want revenge, and he gave it to me. He gave me everything, and for my efforts in aiding his cause a terrible man will be hung tonight.”
There was only one man Ion could be speaking of... Arabella was incredulous. “Harold Reagan? The dock worker convicted of murdering the Marquise of Glauster?”
Ion spit upon the carriage floor. “There is nothing in this miserable world I hate more than the sound of that name. Do not pity the villain. He deserves worse than the death coming to him.”
The grief in Ion’s eyes told the story well enough. Still, she needed to hear him speak his reasons aloud. “What did he do to you?”
“My wife and my daughter... he made sport of them until there was nothing left.”
“You know it was Harold Reagan who did this?”
“Everyone knew. The sailors laughed about it... they laughed at what he did to my little girl. When have the English ever offered justice to our people? We are treated worse than stray dogs.” Teeth flashed in the dim carriage, Ion’s sudden elation was genuine. “Well, I shall have my justice now. I will stand there in the front of the crowd so he sees me, so he knows that I am the reason his neck will break. When they jeer, as he’s shamed for the world to see, I will be smiling.”
She knew without him speaking the name how this had come about. Stomach sick, Arabella blinked, warmth running down her cheeks. How he had done it, she could not imagine, but it was her fault for telling him she’d gone to the gypsies for help. “It was not Dalton who hired you. It was not Sir Statham nor Baron Witte.”
“No.”
Mr. Harrow had manipulated Ion’s pain and her fear, all the while using them both. And it had been Mr. Harrow who’d ordered Ion to frighten her out of London all those weeks ago. “Gregory...”
A single peal of spiteful laughter preceded, “On intimate terms with that one, are you?”
Arabella nodded and spoke of the inevitable. “He won’t let you live now that your part has been played. You must know that.”
Ice-cold eyes sat in the face of a man who did not care. “On the morrow I leave for the continent, and you will return to your stone house and wait for the coming news.”
“And if I refuse to obey?”
Another smile bloomed, ill-meant and somewhat sad. “I’ve seen him operate. Mr. Harrow will claim more from you than what you’ve offered. He’ll take everything if you fail to give him what he’s owed. Take the warning to heart and return to your Crescent Barrows. If I have to tie you up and drag you there, I will miss my boat.”
Chapter 18
“L ady Iliffe!” Lizzy tossed aside her needlepoint once the baroness was announced. Out of her chair and across the room, she took her friend’s hand, exclaiming, “We all missed you terribly, didn't we Edmund?”
Handing Lizzy a neatly wrapped gift, Arabella enjoyed the welcome. “For the ladies of the house. While I was in town, the Countess Grey told me this is the very one the queen prefers.”
Lizzy pulled at the ribbon, the enclosing fabric fell away, and three precious bars of hard soap—a luxury not many could obtain even in town—filled the air with the scent of growing things.
As if to judge the generosity of the gift, Lilly came forward, but her voice was not snide, it was nervous as she proclaimed, “I thought you were still in London...”
“I left immediately after the funeral.” Having heard the edge to Lilly’s voice, Arabella cocked a brow. “There was no need to linger. Not when good friends wait here.”
Lizzy was delighted. “Edmund, it is too good.”
Both brother and sister were smiling as if anticipating some response from the baroness. When she failed to grasp their joy, Lizzy teased, “With your sudden travel, we understood why you never replied to the invitation, but that now you are returned you can join us for our upcoming soiree.”
Arabella’s confusion was open on her face. “Soiree?”
“The invitation was delivered to your door weeks ago.” Edmund chuckled. “A few days of diversions before the cold sets in. Some guests will be with us for an extended stay.”
From the sudden paleness in Lilly’s cheeks there was an obvious reason why Arabella had not heard a word about this upcoming party. The chit had worked her tricks to make sure the baroness might not be included.
Eyeing the girl, Arabella gave a knowing smile. “That sounds delightful.”
Annoyed her machinations had been uprooted, Lilly offered the same false smile in return. “You will, of course, attend.”
Knowing Edmund was eager for her answer, the blue of his eyes as bright as the blue of his coat, Arabella sweetly turned to her host. “How could I refuse?”
Clapping her joy, Lizzy gathered her friend, moving the party nearer the fire. “It will be practically a ball now that you shall come. I was so disappointed when you never sent a reply. Of course, we understood with the sudden death of your friend, and your immediate travel to London, but... will this not lift your spirits?”
It was a lot to take from the lively girl, but Arabella tried to match her friend’s enthusiasm. “When is this grand event?”
Edmund laughed, taking the seat across. “Our more distant guests will be arriving this evening.”
So soon? Arabella looked askance at Lilly. The beauty was grinding her teeth and glaring, the baroness unsure exactly why her appearance at the festivities might agitate her so.
“You must be busy with preparations. How rude of me to intrude at this time.” Arabella stood with a smile and her customary bluntness. “I shall collect Mary from your care, and leave you to it.”
He did not want her to go, Edmund standing in mirror to her retreat. “You are welcome to stay the evening. At a word, Mrs. Magdala can send over your trunk.”
Shaking her head, Arabella had a pressing reason to retreat. There was no doubt in her heart that Mr. Harrow’s invitation had reached him and that he might be back in Harding. He could be close, he could be waiting for her, and it was not in the Jenkins’ parlor where she wanted to meet him for the first time in weeks. “I’m afraid my housekeeper is out of town. Mary shall help me prepare and we shall return in the morning.”
* * *
Gregory was not waiting at her hearth when Arabella returned to Crescent Barrows, Payne was.
He had come from town with a parcel of news. “Mr. Griggs sent a courier so you might have these.” In Payne’s large hands sat a letter written in Magdala’s familiar penmanship and a copy of yesterday’s The London Chronicle.
It would be days before circulation of that paper, and the tragic news within it, reached Harding, yet here it sat in her hands, Mr. Griggs having spent a great many pounds so she might read it immediately.
Branded across the front page was a tale of a ship up in flames off the coast of France. Coastal villagers had watched it burn, had heard the sailors screaming. The vessel had belonged to one Baron Witte, the lord having set course to Paris for business.
There were no known survivors.
Baron Witte who had smiled at her at the Marquise’s funeral, who had sneered and eyed her, was gone—floating in the ocean to be eaten by fish or washed up on some foreign shore.
Elation was impossible, stark shock leaving Arabella’s mouth agape. She knew who had set the flames. “Ion told me he was to set out for the continent. He was on that ship.”
The Romani man had drowned in the waters, dragging the crew down with him... on Gregory’s orders, so a single powerful man might die in an event where all questions would never be answered.
Payne took the paper from her grip. “Maybe he swam to shore.”
“You do not believe that any more than I do.” Slumping back into her chair, Arabella let out a troubled breath. “How am I to feel at this news? I cannot celebrate the death of sailors I did not know. Innocent men...”
“Sailors are seldom innocents, Arabella. Those Baron Witte surrounded himself with are only a set above pirates. Do you think he would hire noble men? That he would keep company with virtue? He would not.” Payne was hardened on his stance. “I do not mourn their deaths, nor should you.”
“And what of the man who is killing them?” Her voice caught, Arabella lonely for the man in question and growing more afraid of him by the day. “What of Gregory Harrow?”
“Mr. Harrow has ended two of your enemies in a manner that will never lead back to you.” Gently pulling her into his arms, Payne made her listen. “I rejoice that it has been done. Only William Dalton and Sir Statham remain now. You are almost free, Arabella.”
Arabella could not help but equate this feeling of freedom with the harsh grip of fetters closing around her. Seeing what Gregory could do was terrifying. “I will not be free as a married woman, Payne.”
Payne hugged her all the harder, his lips atop her hair. “I am an old man now. How many years might I have left? Mr. Harrow may—”
“Do not say speak that way!” Arabella could not make herself listen. “I would be lost without you.”
“There is more you need to know.” Stroking her hair, hushing her, Payne said, “I read Magdala’s letter. Her time with Countess Strand was well spent. William Dalton will not have her daughter for wife. When he learns of it, it will be a blow to him.”
And a massive embarrassment when the reasons for the daughter’s rejection are whispered all through town.
Dalton deserved worse than public censure, but Arabella was satisfied he would receive a taste of his own medicine. “When is Magdala to return to us?”
“She left the day after she sent the letter. It will be two days, maybe three depending on the roads before she reaches Harding.”
Overwhelmed by so much news—the deaths, the growing spark of hope, and her unsettling desire that it be Gregory’s arms around her in place of her dear friend’s, Arabella muttered, “Tomorrow we are to go to Stonewall Grove. I expect Gregory will be there.”
“I would like to speak with him.”
Sighing against Payne’s chest, Arabella agreed. “As would I.”
Chapter 19
M ary lacked the skill for whirling hair into intricate designs that Magdala excelled at. Even so, the silent maid had helped her mistress appear fetching. Simplicity suited the day, grander garments packed and saved for evening revelries between friends.
Thoughts circling her last stay at Stonewall Grove, of how Gregory had come to her room and made love to her in the dark, kept Arabella’s complexion pink and her eyes searching out every corner.
He may not have come to her the previous night, but he was going to be at the Jenkins’ party, she was certain of it.
And what was she going to say to him?
What could be said to a man responsible for so many deaths, a man who was committing grave sins for her?
Her heart beat at an unsteady pace all through the ride to Stonewall Grove. Perched atop her stallion, Payne followed in the carriage at her back, Mary and Hugh tucked warmly inside. Considering winter was hard on their heels, it was a beautiful day. Watching the dance of shifting fog around the road, the strangest sensation twinged under her ribs.
The corners of Arabella’s mouth turned up. Two of her enemies could never hurt her again.
The Baroness of Iliffe could not have been more wrong.
* * *
“Lady Iliffe... you have come early.” The customary excitement Edmund Jenkins usually displayed upon her arrival had dried up. He was hardly even smiling once a footman directed Arabella into the morning room.
Embarrassed that she might have mistaken the time, the baroness found her view of the room full of neighbors taking tea, and stuttered, confused. “I, ah, thought I might be of assistance to you.”
Stiff, formal, he took a step back so she might enter. “It is no matter. Do come in.”
Arabella had experienced this scene before, so many times, in fact, that it should not have hurt as it did. But there was no mistaking her suspicion, not after viewing the indulgent Lilly smirking like a cat licking up cream.
Her standing in the eyes of her friends had diminished... overnight.
A question
in her eyes, knowing her expression was wounded, she studied Edmund. He refused to meet her gaze, clearing his throat before gesturing to an open seat. Without the sweetness she had come to adore he was all hard angles and coldness.
Edmund was a stranger. Lilly was triumphant. Mrs. Jenkins looked appallingly embarrassed, and Lizzy was nowhere to be found.
And behind Mr. Jenkins was the reason. Arabella had not noticed the trio at first, almost tripping on the skirt of her gown when her host moved and evil materialized.
Heart clenched in a tight chest, emerald eyes met pitch black.
Mr. Harrow was indeed there, just as she’d hoped. But he was not her Mr. Harrow. He was a foreigner, lounging and smiling with two familiar, hated persons at his table. William Dalton and Sir Statham were watching her with sickening glee, both smirking as they nodded recognition.
It was Lilly who broke the silence. “Surely, Lady Iliffe, you know your cousin. We understand Sir Statham is also an acquaintance.”
She could not move, mesmerized by snakes, certain more damage had been done to her reputation in a single evening than could ever be made right in the village. But it was not her tormentors that dug the knife into her heart, it was the man silently chuckling at their side, the one shrugging as if she’d finally caught onto his game. And it could not stand.
Ignoring Edmund’s request for her to sit, Arabella went like a moth to the flames of hell. She tried to force a smile, it failed, but her voice was steady and spoken low just between them. “William, I received the most interesting news from Countess Strand. Considering all your troubles in Bath, I am glad you have deigned to visit the country. My condolences on the broken engagement.”
The way Dalton’s eyes flashed, the blend of fury, confusion, disgust, and worry, Arabella knew he had not yet heard the news he’d lost his prize heiress. It would probably be her last victory against the tyrant, but in her fading shock and growing anguish, it felt beautiful.