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.”
Forbidden Desires of a Seductive Duchess: A Steamy Historical Regency Romance Novel Page 24