Yet, the way the barmaids glanced his way, it was clear the women admired what they saw—for he was beautiful in the way a fine painting was beautiful. Even brooding, his brows drawn low over dark eyes, he seemed far too handsome, almost pretty if it were not for the crook of his nose and the largeness of him.
No matter how long she watched, Mr. Harrow’s ungodly attention remained focused on one thing. Arabella could even fancy she saw him lick his lower lip, blatantly staring at a fat, laughing drunkard at the dice table.
The show played on, and though she could not hear Harrow's words, she felt she understood his motives. He ruined a man by empowering the fool to ruin himself. It was all so simply done. Even as it was happening, some of the men looked upon the villain with glances that grotesquely mirrored nervous esteem... as if everyone in the room was privy to some great secret that not a soul would dare speak of—the lowest staring with reverence, the highest peering with anxiety.
Arabella watched in fascination as he faced off against the diceman himself. The villain had seen what she too had noticed... the Irishman had cheated. It was obvious from the way Mr. Harrow palmed the cubes and threw. Even she knew such a trick, having mastered the game at a very young age to swindle Englishmen out of their coin.
At his victory, Harrow's pitch eyes burned. Every cent he had lent the sniveling drunkard on the floor having come back to him two fold.
Chapter 3
T here was a smell about the place, a rich earthy scent that lingered in every room. It reminded Arabella of a graveyard, the walls of exposed stone better suiting a tomb than what had long ago been a fine house.
The surroundings were appropriate, comfortable even. Finery did not suit the Baroness of Iliffe.
Her housekeeper, Magdala, had been far less pleased with the new accommodations. Resigned, she’d let out a series of sighs. Despite her disgust, the woman had moved straight to work, setting the place to right with the assistance of the kitchen maid, Mary. It had taken two weeks, but Crescent Barrows was beginning to reflect a semblance of order.
While the women worked inside, Payne had his labors outside, accompanied by the latest young addition to the staff.
A ragged boy in Harding had pilfered a coin from Arabella so splendidly, she gave the little miscreant two more. The following morning, Payne had been sent to offer him a place. Hugh, the orphan beggar, fit in well. He scampered and stuttered, working hard to prove his worth. Payne made it easy for the boy, patient and unassuming as he taught him tasks suited to a child.
With the staff engaged by duties of their own, Arabella found her own work. Between hours of scrubbing away years of grime, the baroness explored. The house was odd. Furniture covered, random items left lying about. Crescent Barrows had been shut up and frozen in time. Many rooms seemed untouched in decades—heavy velvet bed curtains moth-eaten, latticed windows grown over with ivy so thick waxy leaves blocked the light.
Most of what she found was little more than garbage, but the study held a treasure.
Running a fingertip over dust laden books, Arabella pulled a few volumes from the shelves. Each was snapped shut and ultimately disappointing. Every title was religious in nature: well-worn, lengthy sermons she imagined the most upright and bland of men poring over day by day at the room’s overlarge desk.
Holy men... godly men... she'd never met one who lived up to such a title.
The true points of interest in the study were found leaning against the wall, hidden under dust cloths. Portraits.
The pious previous occupants’ oval faces stared back at her, each either entirely beautiful or entirely ugly. All seemed severe, save one—a young woman dressed in blue. The girl was particularly pretty, powdered hair framing large eyes. But there was a stiff set to her mouth, as if she itched to be anywhere other than sitting for that portrait.
Such a girl did not belong in that dowdy room, nor could Arabella believe she would have wasted her time with books like these.
The painting was propped atop the desk so the frame might be dusted and the picture prepared for hanging. The rest were left covered and ignored.
It was her eyes, dark and soulful, Arabella liked most. Or was it the greys and peacock blues used to highlight the woman’s beauty?
More light was required to decide.
Sleeve to the nearest window’s filthy pane, Arabella wiped away years of dust, finding the view stole her attention from the portrait. Outside, even with the sky bloated by rain, it was beautiful. Or it would have been if not for the single rider who crested the hill and brought his horse to a stop.
Once again he had come to watch and wait. Tall in his saddle, he glared up towards the house, unwelcome and uninvited.
Though it was impossible, Mr. Harrow might see her standing behind such grimy glass, it felt as if their eyes met. The sensation that followed, the hairs rising on her neck and the tightening in her stomach, was not a welcome one.
Two days prior he had called and taken tea with the housekeeper, only to be told that the baroness had yet to reveal when she would appear amongst them. It had been laughable when he left and Magdala came to seek her, to tell her of the fine gentleman that had acted both amiable and polite.
The older woman had praised their new landlord. “He offered the names of any nearby residents who might seek employment.”
“How very gracious he sounds.” From her bedroom window, Arabella had watched him ride away, utterly unimpressed with the amiable gentleman. “I find it strange he did not have those townsfolk already in his employ to prepare this house before I arrived. But I suppose he must be admonished from fault since he has offered us the chance to hire them ourselves and cover the expense.”
Mr. Harrow was the type of man Arabella understood—the one playing the part, manipulating. Only Payne had ever been different... and he was perfect, greater than a man in her eyes.
“My lady,” Magdala had admonished, “Mr. Harrow is your nearest neighbor. You will have to extend an invitation soon or he will know you are slighting him.”
“Afraid he might turn us from a house no one wanted to rent?” The baroness smirked and put a stop to the subject. “No.”