“Leave us,” Guy said to the couple.
“We are in the midst of a negotiation, my lord,” Clare said. “Perhaps—”
“Leave us.”
The two left.
Clare slapped her fan into one bejeweled hand. “I am a businesswoman and I will make a substantial commission from facilitating their contract. If you wanted to talk to me, you should have made an appointment.”
He lounged back against the balustrade. “I thought we had an appointment the other night, but instead I found myself entertaining Arabella Larke.”
Entertaining? That was one word for it. Days later, he could not dispel the image of her gripping the table, face turned up as if pleading with the heavens. In that moment, compassion had conquered him, so he was ready to do anything to protect her—until she revealed it was a manipulative, cold-blooded scheme.
Honor be damned. He owed her nothing. But the very idea that Arabella Larke, of all people, had slipped under his skin!
Damn near literally.
Every time he undressed, he twisted before the mirror to inspect the scratches she had left. Over and over he’d relive her passion like a fever dream, and was sorry to watch those scratches fade.
He forced his attention back to Clare. “You will tell no one I met her,” he added.
She laughed, a melodious sound that had once delighted him, and now meant nothing. “Of course not, though for her sake, not yours. Miss Larke is my newest ally. Besides, no one would believe it; her reputation is impeccable.” Clare shook her head. “For my part, I thought you’d never agree to the proposed meeting, but she said you like to solve puzzles and play risky games. It seems she was right, and she knows you better than I ever did.”
Heat prickled under his suddenly too-tight cravat. He already knew that Arabella made observations, considered matters from every angle, drew shrewd conclusions. Everyone knew of her flawless appearance, her proud manner, her sharp wit, but did others guess at the vast expanses behind those eyes?
“What a curious pair you and Miss Larke make,” Clare mused. “You both seek me out to talk about each other.”
“I didn’t seek you out to discuss Arabella.”
“How interesting. She said much the same thing about you.”
Guy studied her, that angel’s face, those knowing eyes. He had feared that meeting Clare again would transform him back into the besotted clown he’d been at twenty and lead once more to a broken heart. No such fear. All that remained was a vague sorrow for his younger self, for having squandered his innocent, fervent love.
“Explain why you chose to become a courtesan,” he said. It had shocked him, Arabella’s revelation about Clare. “You knew I wanted to marry you. I even gave you my mother’s jewels as proof of my sincerity, and you sold them.”
A faint flush stained her cheeks. “They were mine to do with as I wished.”
“You could have had more than jewels, had you married me. You could have had everything.”
“Like you did?” Her tone was dry, her smile kind. “You had everything: title, status, and a father who controlled your every move like he controlled most of London. As I see it, you had nothing but what he let you have. Had I had married you, I’d have become a prisoner in a gilded cage.”
“And your life as a courtesan— Is that not a cage?”
She spread her hands. “If so, then it is a cage whose door is always open. I make my own choices, am beholden to no one, and have secured enough lucrative contracts that I never need work again.”
Past her, the bright rooms seemed as distant as his youthful self. Father’s arrangements had allowed Guy to gamble here, but only on an account; he could never walk away with so much as a coin. Every avenue to earning his own income had been barred; even the Army and Navy had refused to take him.
“Why didn’t you tell me this at the time?”
“Oh Guy, I tried, but you did not listen.” She touched his shoulder. “You were so preoccupied with breaking free from your father. I wondered if you even saw me, or if I had simply become a symbol of your freedom from him, the way Miss Larke became a symbol of his control.”
Guy spread his hands over the smooth stone of the balustrade, stared into the shadowy garden below, recalling that final bitter fight with his father, over Clare Ivory and Arabella Larke and Guy’s determination to choose his own life.
“I loved you,” he said.
“And how freely you expressed your feelings.” Her soft smile was rueful. “But the more you told me you loved me, the more trapped I felt. I treated you poorly, and I regret that. My only excuse is that I was young and confused. I didn’t have the courage to refuse you to your face, so I took the easy way out.”
Not once had he questioned Clare’s feelings for him. He had loved her; therefore, by the logic of a young man born to wealth and privilege, she must naturally love him. She had been a beacon of hope, his promise of freedom, his escape.
“Regret nothing,” he said. “I am grateful now that you turned me down. I enjoyed my adventures and my years of freedom. They enabled me to become the man I am.”
He straightened, ready to leave her behind, along with his past, when she said, “I hear you are having troubles with Sir Walter Treadgold.”
“Bloody hell. Does everyone know everything?”
“We talk. We listen. One of the York sisters has plans for Sir Walter’s son. Humphrey Treadgold was always extremely generous with us courtesans, but we lost him when he took a position in Ireland. Apparently his father has called him back.”
“Why should I care about Treadgold’s son?”
“You could use such information against him.”
A little blackmail here, a touch of extortion there. Bribes and favors and whispers in the dark. That was how Guy’s father had operated, how he had expected Guy to operate.
He shook his head. “No wonder you get along with Arabella. You are each as unprincipled as the other.”
“Just because someone does not share your principles does not mean they are without them.” Again, she laughed. “I take it you are not invited to her wedding.”
“I wouldn’t attend even if I were invited. If you see either her or Sculthorpe, be sure to wish them every joy of each other.”
“Perhaps your sister can relay your message at the wedding.”
“Freddie? At Arabella’s wedding?”
“I presume so. Sir Walter and his whole family are already at Vindale Court, ahead of Miss Larke’s betrothal ball.” Her head drew back. “Did you not know?”
Guy laughed, a loud, mirthless sound that flew out into the thick night air. He’d been interrogating people across the south of England, and the whole time, Clare knew. And Arabella was three steps ahead of him again.
Guy was still shaking his head as he rejoined the duke. Well played, Sir Walter, to hide in the one place in England where Guy was most emphatically not welcome. And well played, Arabella, to redouble her efforts to trap him into marriage by using Freddie and Ursula as bait.
Let Arabella scheme in vain. Guy would not go to Vindale Court.
Chapter 8
The victory was more complicated and costly than Arabella had anticipated, but it was a victory nonetheless.