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.
The man who had filled her nightmares for years looked about ready to reach up and break her neck. The villain at his side, one who had violated her body over and over when she’d had no hope in the world, licked his lips. Arabella pretended she noticed neither, the weight of her stare settling on the demon that had drawn her to the brink.
What game was Gregory Harrow playing?