“Careful.” Guy sounded cheerful despite her death threat. “You wouldn’t want your betrothed to catch you flirting with me.”
She stared at him. “Flirting? I threatened to have you shot.”
“Which coming from you surely counts as flirting. Such sweet nothings! I’m very flattered.”
“You’re very annoying. Did you come here solely to provoke me?”
“Pretty much.” His eyes narrowed as he studied her, shaking his head slightly. “But why Sculthorpe? Although I must admire your efficiency, snaring him minutes after I turned you down. You couldn’t be a marchioness so you settled on becoming a baroness. Does he know he was your second choice?”
Sculthorpe was so far down her list of choices, he didn’t appear on it at all. If only Guy had listened to her, then she could have bought time until Hadrian Bell returned, and now it was too late.
“You have it the wrong way around,” she said, haughtily turning away from him to study the crowd. “You were merely practice, to be sure I got it right when it actually mattered.”
Through the crowd, a flamboyant emerald-green bonnet snagged her eye, the headdress of a woman who wanted to be seen. It was Clare Ivory—renowned for her wit, her beauty, and for the fact that she had once been respectable, a gentleman’s daughter whom Guy Roth had wanted to marry, until she threw it all away by having an affair with Lord Sculthorpe and becoming a courtesan.
Guy was standing so close that Arabella sensed his new tension.
“I had to encounter her sooner or later, I suppose,” he murmured.
“The woman who broke your heart and made you run away,” Arabella said. “Did it never strike you as a trifle extreme, leaving the country for eight years? You do realize that the standard cure for heartbreak in a young man is overindulgence in poetry and drink.”
“I was no good at it.”
“At drinking or at writing bad poetry?”
“Either.” He sighed. “Alas, I was an utter failure as a tormented youth. I was rather looking forward to becoming brooding and pale. I even fancied I might become a rake.” He glanced at her sideways. “Women would have found me irresistible, of course.”
“Of course. The poor darlings could not have withstood the lure of your tortured soul.”
“Naturally I’d have broken their hearts.”
“For which they would adore you all the more.”
“Unfortunately for me, I have a debilitating fondness for daylight, company, and physical activity. Besides, the world has so many interesting things to see and people to meet that I kept forgetting to be heartbroken and miserable.”
Arabella suspected that Guy was telling partial truths to conceal his true feelings, but she said nothing. The conversation was surprisingly enjoyable; besides, a truce presented a chance to discuss Freddie.
“Is Freddie here?” she ventured. “I have not seen her.”
“I don’t know. Blasted Sir Walter is still playing his game of hide-and-seek.”
A chill shivered over her. “Guy, this isn’t a game. You must take care of Freddie. I might be able to find them but—”
“So now you are a Bow Street Runner.”
“Sir Walter is not an honest man. If he is—”
“Embezzling from their trusts? Yes, Arabella, I know.” His flippant manner had vanished, replaced with a hard seriousness. “I have several men investigating that possibility, and Sir Walter knows it, which is why he has disappeared. He is playing an excessively delightful little game, but I am adequate for the task without you meddling.”
“If it concerned only you, I’d happily abandon you to your misguided arrogance, but it is Freddie who will pay the price.”
“You don’t know everything, Arabella.”
“Neither do you.”
Somehow, in their quarrel, they had turned to each other, their faces so close that the fringe on Arabella’s parasol cocooned them both. If only she could grab his ears and force him to listen. Arabella had not been able to save herself, but she could still protect Freddie.
Yet she had nothing more than suspicions about Sir Walter’s plans for Freddie. If only she could investigate Sir Walter and find proof. Perhaps Mama might be persuaded to invite the Treadgolds to Vindale Court? Sir Walter would imagine himself safe there, because Papa would not receive Guy now, and once the Treadgold family was at Arabella’s house, she could—
Guy’s laughter disrupted her thoughts. Startled, she saw that he had stepped back to study her. Something about his easy gusto was irritating.
“What?” she snapped.
“There are thousands of people here, an army, and a military band, and yet still I can hear your brain whirring with schemes. I remember how you used to…”
He trailed off, his gaze sailing past her. His amusement faded. Arabella did not have to turn to understand the cause. All her effort went into preparing herself, so as not to flinch when Lord Sculthorpe laid a hand on her sleeve.
Guy’s eyes flicked to where Sculthorpe’s gloved hand rested on Arabella’s arm. Remembering herself, she slipped her hand into the crook of Sculthorpe’s elbow. Maybe after their marriage, her skin wouldn’t crawl with revulsion, but it would warm and tingle as it had when pressed against Guy.
“There you are, my dear,” Sculthorpe said, not looking at her. “Hardbury.”
Without a word, Guy pivoted and walked away.
Lord Sculthorpe chuckled, apparently tickled by Guy’s reaction. “His lordship just gave me the cut direct. He does have his petticoats in a tangle.” His voice dripped with scorn. “Look at him now: still drooling over that whore.”
Arabella said nothing, not interested in Sculthorpe’s nonsense. Much more intriguing was the unfolding encounter between Guy and Miss Ivory: They froze mid-step like a pair of warring tomcats, until Miss Ivory whirled away in a swish of jewel-green skirts, and Guy escaped in the opposite direction.
What a jolly little cotillion this was, with the four dancers that they were: Guy had been promised to Arabella as a child, but he threw her over so he could marry Clare Ivory, who threw him over when she was seduced by Sculthorpe, who was now marrying Arabella. Then Miss Ivory went off to be a courtesan, and Sculthorpe went off to war, and Guy went off to tour the world, and Arabella stayed right where she was. It sounded like a nursery rhyme. Maybe Arabella would compose one. It would give her something to think about in her marriage bed, while Sculthorpe was engaged in the onerous business of relieving her of her virginity.
“Ah, I have shocked you, Miss Larke,” Sculthorpe said.
Arabella turned. Shocked, am I? she didn’t say. Do tell me what I am feeling. You seem to know it so well.
He offered the glass of lemonade, so Arabella took it and sipped. It was unpleasantly weak and tepid, but it kept her safe from speaking her mind. Perhaps that was why she had enjoyed chatting with Guy: His opinion meant nothing to her, so she could say what she pleased.
“You will forgive me,” Sculthorpe went on. “My language is not always appropriate for the company of a lady. But you are marrying a military man, and I am plainspoken and direct. I call a spade a spade. And a whore a whore.”
And a virgin a virgin, Arabella didn’t say.