by Emily Larkin
She rose early from the table and walked in the cloister, hoping that the fragrance of the roses and the hum of bees, the peace, would calm her.
St. Just found her there. “Are you all right?” he asked, looking closely at her.
I’m afraid. Loving Adam St. Just was more terrifying than anything she’d done in her life.
Arabella tried to smile. “I . . . I was . . . I was thinking about how it will be in London, once people know.”
St. Just pulled a face. “That comment of mine.”
“Yes.” Their engagement would afford the ton considerable amusement.
“I’m proud to be marrying you,” St. Just said softly, holding her gaze. “But if you prefer, we won’t announce it yet.”
Arabella bit her lip. “Would you mind?”
“I want whatever makes you happy.”
The words, the warmth in his eyes, brought a feeling almost like pain to her chest, as if her heart had turned over. She felt a fresh surge of panic.
St. Just captured her hand. “Why did Tom never pay me a visit? I know I deserved it.”
Arabella looked away from those smiling gray eyes. “After Lord Crowe, I never took revenge for myself.” She shuddered.
St. Just’s grip on her hand tightened. “Crowe deserved what you did to him.”
“Perhaps.”
St. Just was silent for a moment. “Were there others who deserved it?”
“Mr. Foliffe,” she said, glancing at him. “And Miss Greene.”
“Foliffe? The man who . . . er, gave your mother shelter after she was widowed?”
“Yes.” Arabella turned her head away and stared at the rosebushes, at the delicately tinted petals, at the sharp thorns. “He opened his house under the guise of friendship, and then he told my mother that he expected payment for his generosity.”
“Didn’t he die? Didn’t his curricle overturn—?”
“He’s not dead. He broke his back.” She glanced at him again. “He’s bedridden.”
“That’s justice for you.” St. Just grimaced. “Who was Miss Greene?”
“Greene? She was my mother’s maid.”
His face hardened. “The one who made off with your money?”
Arabella looked away. “I gave it to her.”
“Of course you did.” St. Just’s grip on her hand tightened. “You were a child! You trusted her.”
Arabella said nothing.
“If you’re not going to pursue revenge on her, I shall,” he said grimly. “She deserves to hang for what she did.”
“I thought so, too.” She looked at him. “A few years ago, I had Polly hire a man to find her.”
St. Just frowned. “And did he?”
“He found her grave. She died not long after my mother. Of the pox.”
“The pox?” His eyebrows rose. “Syphilis?”
Arabella nodded.
“An unpleasant way to die.” There was a note of satisfaction in St. Just’s voice.
“Yes.”
They strolled in the cloister and its rose garden for several minutes. Arabella tried to feel comforted by his hand holding hers; instead, the panic began to rise in her again.
“We should tell your grandmother,” St. Just said. “I warn you, she won’t be pleased. She doesn’t like me.”
“My grandmother’s opinion is of no weight.”
St. Just hesitated, and then said, “She loves you.”
“No, she doesn’t. She didn’t love her son. She doesn’t love me.”
“Are you certain she didn’t love him?”
“If she’d loved him, she wouldn’t have turned away from him,” Arabella said fiercely.
“But your grandfather—”
She pulled her hand free. “A mother doesn’t abandon her children. Not if she loves them.”
St. Just looked at her silently. His face, his eyes, were grave. “Did you take revenge on your grandparents?” he asked softly.
Arabella bit her lip and looked down. St. Just was dressed for riding, in top boots and breeches.
“Bella . . . you didn’t steal from them, did you?”
“Of course I didn’t!” she said, looking up, flushing.
St. Just studied her. His eyes were narrow, thoughtful. “But you did something, didn’t you?”
Arabella bit her lip again. She turned her head and stared at the roses.
“What did you do, Bella?”
She gripped her hands together. “I told them I don’t know where my father is buried.”
St. Just was silent.
“They disowned him. They didn’t deserve to know!” She looked at him, expecting to see condemnation; instead she saw compassion. She swallowed. “My mother’s buried there, too. Alongside him. I thought . . . I was afraid they’d move him, and then she’d be alone—”
“I understand why you didn’t tell them.” He reached out and took her hand again. “But your grandmother has lost all her children. Three sons. Don’t you think she should have the chance to mourn at your father’s grave?”
Arabella shook her head. “No.”
St. Just put his arms around her and pulled her close. He pressed a kiss into her hair and then sighed and released her. “Come,” he said. “Let’s tell your grandmother.”
* * *
THEY FOUND LADY WESTWICK in the round drawing room, standing at one of the windows. The sunlight was cruel on her face, illuminating every wrinkle, every hollow. She looked elderly, and tired.
“Madam,” Adam said, bowing. “Your granddaughter and I have something to tell you.”
Lady Westwick stiffened. She moved away from the window.
They sat. Lady Westwick perched on a rosewood chair. Adam took a place alongside Arabella on the sofa.
“Arabella?” Lady Westwick said, her voice a trifle sharp. “What’s this about?”
“Your granddaughter has done me the very great honor of agreeing to be my wife,” Adam said. He reached out and touched Arabella’s hand with his fingertips. Mine.
Lady Westwick shook her head. “Arabella, is this . . . are you certain this is what you want?”
Arabella didn’t reply immediately. Her pause was long enough that, for a few seconds, Adam was afraid of her answer. “Yes,” she said.
Lady Westwick shook her head again. He thought he saw grief in her eyes.
Adam leaned forward. “Madam,” he said. “I know I’m not the husband you would choose for your granddaughter, but believe me when I say that I’ll do everything in my power to make her happy.”
Lady Westwick didn’t appear to hear him. She stared at her granddaughter, her face etched with loss.
Adam looked from Lady Westwick to Arabella. They sat so stiffly, with such a gulf between them. It shouldn’t be this way. He hesitated, and then said, “Madam . . . why did you allow your son to be cast off?”
He was aware of Arabella swiftly turning her head. “Adam!” she said in a low, fierce voice.
Adam didn’t look at her; he watched Lady Westwick. Her face stiffened, and then the stiffness crumbled and he saw her pain. “It was William’s decision. I had no say in it.”
Arabella moved slightly. Adam glanced at her. He saw contempt on her face. Lady Westwick saw it, too. “I tried to persuade him,” she said, leaning forward on the rosewood chair. “I got down on my knees and begged. But your grandfather said . . .” Tears filled her eyes. “He said that two sons were ample . . . as if Edward was something he could just discard, like a piece of furniture!”
Lady Westwick fumbled for a handkerchief. “I told him he was wrong, but he . . . he hit me. And I was too much a coward to argue further.” A tear slid down her cheek. She wiped it away. “I should have fought harder. I should have stood up to William.” Her hand clenched around the handkerchief. “Edward died, and then Arthur, and then Henry. I lost all three of them. That was my punishment.”
Adam shifted uncomfortably on the sofa.
“I loved Edward,” Lady Westwick said. “And
I loved your mother. She was such a lovely girl.” She wiped another tear away. “But your grandfather refused to see any good in the marriage. He was such a stubborn, foolish man!”
Adam glanced at Arabella again. She was staring at her grandmother as if she’d never seen her before.
“Every year I bought your mother a birthday gift,” Lady Westwick said. “I kept hoping Edward would write, that he’d send his address—” Tears glistened in her eyes. “And then he did write, to tell us you were born, and I was so delighted, so overjoyed! But your grandfather burned the letter, and I had no address.” The tears spilled from her eyes. She made no move to wipe them away, just let them fall. “I bought gifts for you, too, and I put them carefully aside because I knew that one day I should meet you—” Grief twisted her face. “And then your mother came and told us that Edward was dead and . . . and William refused to allow her to stay. I ran upstairs, to get my money, but your mother— She was gone, and you with her. I sent my maid— I thought you might be putting up in the village, but they said the carriage had driven straight through—”
Lady Westwick’s hand clenched around the handkerchief. Anguish was fresh on her face, as if the events she was relating had happened yesterday, not twenty years ago. “After that, I had my maid sell all the gifts I’d bought, because I knew your mother would need money, not jewelry. I saved every penny I could spare from my pin money, I sold what trinkets I thought William wouldn’t miss, and I kept hoping and praying that your mother would write, that she’d come back one more time . . .” Lady Westwick’s voice trembled and broke. Her face crumpled.
Adam glanced sideways. Arabella was sitting stiff and motionless beside him on the sofa. Her expression was shocked.
Lady Westwick blew her nose. “By the time your mother died, I had over eight thousand pounds put aside for her.”
“Eight thousand?” Arabella swallowed. “I didn’t know . . .”
Adam reached out and took hold of Arabella’s hand. “What did you do with it, madam?” he asked quietly.
Lady Westwick didn’t look at him. Her eyes were fixed on her granddaughter. “Some of it I spent on music and drawing lessons—although once William saw how gifted you were, he insisted on paying for those himself, so that your talents could then be his.” Her mouth twisted contemptuously. “As for the rest . . . I kept saving, even after William had settled his fortune on you. He had such an uncertain temper. I was always afraid he’d fly into a rage and change his mind. I only stopped putting money aside when he died.”
Arabella said nothing. She didn’t move; she scarcely seemed to be breathing.
“I know you don’t need my money, Arabella, but . . . I should like to give you a . . . a gift that would make you happy.”
Arabella shook her head.
“How much is there, madam?” Adam asked quietly.
“Nearly twenty thousand pounds.”
It was a huge sum, a fortune. Enough for several schools. He glanced at Arabella.
She was very pale. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I know you hate me.” Tears filled Lady Westwick’s eyes. “And I know deserve it. I failed your father, and I failed your mother, and I failed you.” She looked down at the handkerchief, smoothed it with trembling hands, folded it. “I know I can’t buy your love.”
Arabella moistened her lips. “Grandmother . . .”
Adam cleared his throat. He squeezed Arabella’s hand and then released it. “I’ll give you some privacy,” he said, standing.
Arabella looked up at him. He saw tears in her eyes, shock on her face, confusion. “Adam . . .”
He bent and lightly kissed her cheek. “Talk with your grandmother.” Learn to know her. To perhaps love her. And then he bowed to Lady Westwick and left the room.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
ARABELLA HOPED THE panic would subside; it didn’t. It sat beneath her breastbone during that last day at the Priory, it kept her awake at night, it accompanied her in the carriage back to London, it climbed the stairs with her to her bedchamber in the house on Mount Street. It stayed with her overnight and was there when she woke.
She hugged herself, shivering beneath the covers, and stared at the light leaking through the drawn curtains. This is all a mistake, a terrible mistake.
A ride in Hyde Park and an hour spent at the piano did nothing to calm her agitation. She played mechanically, not hearing the music. Her attention was focused not on her fingers but on the growing conviction it would be better if she didn’t love Adam St. Just, if she’d said No instead of Yes.
To love someone meant being vulnerable, it meant handing them your heart and soul, trusting them, giving them the power to hurt you.
When her agitation grew too much, Arabella pushed away from the pianoforte. She paced the room. She loved Adam St. Just. It was him, or no one. But—
I should have said No.
Lunch was a welcome distraction. Finding her way through the new, careful relationship with her grandmother gave her something to think about other than St. Just.
Arabella chewed slowly. She’d planned to sever the tie with her grandmother when she came into her inheritance; looking at Lady Westwick’s hopeful, tremulous smile, she knew that she couldn’t. It would break her heart.
A week ago she would have thought it fitting punishment.
Arabella laid down her knife and fork. In the past fortnight her world had turned upside down. Everything was frightening and new.
I’m going to marry Adam.
She felt a surge of panic. Her chest tightened. It was suddenly difficult to breathe.
Arabella reached for her glass. She swallowed a mouthful of water. The tightness in her chest eased slightly. “I need some time alone, Grandmother. May I go to Kensington Gardens?”
Her grandmother’s face fell. “Of course, my dear.”
Arabella felt a pang of guilt. “Thank you.”
* * *
SHE WALKED FROM the Long Water to the Round Pond to the sunken Dutch garden, hoping that the fresh air, the sunshine, the exercise would ease her agitation. Polly, in her guise of lady’s maid, followed silently.
A number of people were wandering in the Dutch garden, with its hedges and flower beds and geometrical paths. A lady in mourning dress on the other side of the pond caught Arabella’s attention. Was that Helen Dysart?
The lady glanced around in a manner that was almost surreptitious, then bent and placed something in a stone urn in which a palm grew.
Arabella halted in the middle of the path. Memory flooded her. She saw a sheet of paper covered in Lady Bicknell’s scrawled handwriting. You may leave the bracelet in the Dutch garden in the Kensington Palace Gardens. Hide it in the urn at the northeastern corner of the pond.
The lady in mourning walked briskly away. She wore a veil, but her figure, her style of walking—
It was Helen Dysart.
Arabella hurried around the pond. She bent over the urn and felt among the palm fronds. Her fingers found a package.
“What’s wrong?” Polly asked, behind her.
“This.” Arabella pulled out the package. It was about the size of a small book, wrapped in black cloth and tied with ribbon.
“What is it?”
“Blackmail,” she said grimly. “Lady Bicknell. Quickly! We have to find Helen.” She saw Polly’s bafflement, but spared no time to explain. Instead, she caught up her skirts and hurried in the direction Helen had taken, almost running along the path, up the shallow steps, past the hedge—
“Helen!”
The lady in black turned swiftly. She hesitated, and then raised her veil. “Arabella?” Helen’s smile was strained. “What are you doing here?”
Arabella held out the package. “You left this behind.”
Helen’s face whitened.
“You’re being blackmailed, aren’t you?”
Helen made no answer. She took the package with a trembling black-gloved hand.
“I know who’s doing
it,” Arabella said. “Lady Bicknell. She’s done it before. And I can promise that she won’t be content with one payment. She’ll want more.”
“I don’t care.” Helen pushed past her. “I have to put it back!”
Arabella caught her elbow, halting her. “Helen, let me help. Please.”
Helen shook her hand off. “I can’t,” she said, not meeting Arabella’s eyes.
“That’s money, isn’t it? Banknotes.”
Helen bit her lip.
“How much?” Arabella asked quietly.
Helen swallowed. She turned the package over in her hands. “Five thousand pounds.”
Arabella stared at her, appalled. “Helen, nothing you can have done is worth that much!”
“It’s not something I did,” Helen said bitterly. “It was George.”
“Then don’t pay!”
Helen clutched the package to her breast. “I have to.”
Arabella was silent for a moment, looking at her friend. “What did George do?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Helen, nothing you say will shock me. I grew up in the slums. Remember?”
Helen glanced at her.
“What did George do?” Arabella said softly, holding her friend’s eyes.
Helen’s face twisted. She looked down at the ground. “It’s how he died.”
“In a brothel, you said.”
“Not . . . not an ordinary brothel. He wasn’t with a woman. He was with a young boy. A child.”
Arabella briefly closed her eyes. She understood Helen’s horror.
“I didn’t know until I received the letter,” Helen said. “I thought . . . I thought it was a lie! I asked George’s lawyer and he said . . . it was true. They’d decided not to tell anyone because it was so . . . unpalatable.”
Yes, very unpalatable.
Helen clutched the package tightly. Tears shone in her eyes. “Arabella, I couldn’t bear it if the truth came out. I simply couldn’t.”
“But it’s not your name that will be besmirched, it’s George’s—”