Romance: Detective Romance: A Vicious Affair (Victorian Regency Intrigue 19th England Romance) (Historical Mystery Detective Romance) (39 page)

“Your Grace?”

“Yes. It was two years ago, in London. You were with your father, after his financial blunder. The man was ruined, and by
extension,
you were ruined. I heard all about it from around a dozen different sources. I told the driver to stop. I must have a look at this family, to see how they handle it. I was back from France, you see, on a short leave. I returned a week later. Anyway, that is by-the-by. I saw you, my
lady
when your prospects had been taken away from you.”

He smiled fondly. “Were you weeping? Were you making the man feel small? No, do you remember what you were doing, my lady?”

Arabella blushed. She remembered. At the
time
it had seemed like a good idea. Ever
since,
she looked back on that day in confusion. What could have possessed her?

“You were singing,” His Grace said. “Singing to yourself, softly. But I heard. Just about, I heard. It was a wonderful, wordless melody. You will think me mad, but I have often thought of that these past two years. When I got this,” and he pointed to his scar, “it was very useful to me. There is ruin in the world, but there is also signing.” He shrugged. “I am no poet, my lady. I just thought you should know.”

Arabella’s throat was suddenly dry. She opened her mouth to speak, but no words would form. He had been there, on that day, right then whilst she
sung
her sorrow. The song had been a sort of
war
against
the terror that could have gripped her in that moment. The song had pushed away the
demons,
and gripped a shred of optimism with all her strength.

“Your Grace,” Arabella managed, “I fear I am at a loss for words.”

He nodded. “I understand. Where is the Hood residence, my lady?”

“Weston-Super-Mare, Your Grace,” Arabella answered.

His Grace nodded, and then looked over her shoulder and bowed. Mother and Father joined the group. “Lord Hood, Lady Hood.”

Father bowed so low his chin seemed to brush the floor. Mother curtseyed for about twenty seconds. “Your Grace,” they said.

“Your daughter and I have been discussing the ocean
air
and its benefits for the constitution. I am thinking of taking a holiday to Weston-Super-Mare. I daresay the air there is particularly pure and crisp?”

“Very much so, Your Grace,” Father said. He looked relieved; finally, a reprieve from discussing financial ruin.

“It does clear the airways, Your Grace,” Mother said.

“Very well, it is decided,” His Grace said. “And tell me, when I arrive in Weston-Super-Mare, would your house be open to me?”

“Of course!” Father declared. “Your Grace, of course.”

His Grace smiled and nodded. “I will send a calling card when I am settled in. Just what one needs, after the terrors of war.A seaside retreat.”

His Grace left them shortly after. Mother moved close to Arabella. “What did you
say
to him?” she whispered, sounding like an excited little girl.

She could’ve told them everything. There would have been no harm in it. Nothing improper had been said. But she wanted to keep it a secret. It was something just of her own, a tiny piece of happiness she could lock in a vault and peek at whenever she wished. “The weather, Mother,” Arabella said. “He asked me if it was fine in Weston, and I told him it was.”

“What a turn of events,” Father said. “A Duke, at our household. I truly wish he doth
come
.”

“We must hire a footman,” Mother muttered. “It would not do to have a Duke at our household without a footman.”

“Mother, Father,” Arabella said. “These are concerns for after the ball, I think. Come, you are young and in love! Be merry!”

A smile touched Mother’s lips. “What has gotten a hold on you, my dear?”

“Life, Mother,” Arabella answered. “Life has gotten hold of me.”

His Grace did not talk to her again during the ball, except to say goodbye when they left. But every so often they would catch each other’s eye across the room. His Grace would smile, and Arabella would smile in return.

*****

His Grace did not delay. One week after the party, they received a brief note asking if he may call tomorrow afternoon. Mother almost
leapt
out of her seat. “I feared it was a dream,” she said, pacing around the room. “Okay, we must send word to Mr. Hyem. He has been good enough to say he will lend us a footman for the visits. There are still people who remember the Hood name, after all. Yes, we must send for him. Bessie makes tolerable tea, doesn’t she? Yes, yes, just fine. The drawing room must look presentable. Where is Bessie?”

Bessie was set to
clean
the drawing room, and then the dining room.

That night Arabella could hardly sleep. She kept thinking about that day in London. It was incredible to think His Grace had seen her. Not only that, but he had thought of her – without her knowledge – when he was fighting in France. His scar, even, had been easier to bear because of her. She felt like she had been pulled into something big and important without her knowledge.

Soon it was time for His Grace’s visit. Mother paced up and down. “He will have to drive through the garden,” she said, shaking her head. “Oh, he will see the
weeds
and the overgrowth.”

“Mother,” Arabella said, “something tells me he will care little for decorum.”

“How can you say that?” Mother said. “He is a
Duke
, Arabella.”

The doorbell rang. The footman answered, and soon His Grace was presented. He wore his military jacket, britches, and boots. He walked into the drawing room and bowed extravagantly. “Thank you for welcoming me into your home,” he said. He walked to Arabella and bowed again. “It is a pleasure to see you, my lady.”

“It is a pleasure to see you, Your Grace.”

“Please, Your Grace, sit,” Mother said. “Tea will be served.”

“I hope you are enjoying your time in Weston-Super-Mare, Your Grace,” Father said. “Have you walked along the beach yet?”

“I mean to do that this evening,” he said. “In fact, I meant to ask your permission to take Arabella with me. Of course, her maidservant – or a footman – would accompany her. I would not want to be improper. God knows there is enough of that across the pond. Savagery uncountable with which I will not bore you.”

“I do not understand, Your Grace,” Mother said, laying her tea down. “You wish to take Arabella?”

“Yes,” His Grace said. He looked around the
table,
and then focused on Arabella. His eyes regarded her coolly, but there was something behind them: some animalistic impulse. Far from making Arabella uncomfortable, it thrilled her. “You see, my lord, my lady, I wish to court your daughter.”

Mother gasped.

Father exclaimed: “My!”

His Grace waited for this to pass. He nodded. “Yes, I wish to court her. That is, in fact, the reason I came here today.”

“But why—” Father began.

Mother nudged him. “Of course, Your Grace, you have our blessing to do so. The decision is entirely Arabella’s, whether or not she wishes to walk with you upon the beach this evening. Of course, a maidservant will have to be there. We cannot allow a lady to walk unescorted with a man.”

“Of course,” His Grace inclined his head. He turned to Arabella. “My lady, will you walk with me this evening?”

Once again Arabella felt that dreamlike effect come over her. She felt as though she was reading a novel. Her heart drummed hard in her chest, and her hands had started to shake. She opened her mouth, but no words came out. She took a sip of tea, aware that everybody was waiting for an answer. When her mouth wasn’t so dry, she spoke.

“I will, Your Grace,” she said.

“Excellent,” His Grace said. “I will send a carriage.”

When that was decided, the atmosphere in the room became lighthearted. Father and His Grace even made jokes about the war in France. Mother talked at length about the Hood name, and His Grace agreed that it was an old and noble name. He jested that it had connections to Robin Hood, but
of course,
that was a silly wives’ tale. When it was time for him to leave, he looked meaningfully at Arabella. “Till this evening, my lady,” he said.

“Till this evening, Your Grace.”

When he was gone, Mother almost jumped from her seat. “What has providence sent us!” she laughed. “Oh, Arabella, have you cast a spell on the man?”

“I do not understand it,” Father said. “He could buy us ten times over. What interest does he have in you?” He held up his hands. “I don’t mean to sounds cruel, Arabella. But you must see where I am coming from.”

“Perhaps, Father,” Arabella said, “His Grace cares more for
song
than he does for coin.”

Father shook his head. “You speak in riddles, my sweet daughter. But let us not dissemble a gift horse as soon as we receive it. Yes, Arabella, go on this jaunt—with Bessie, of course. And know that any impropriety will be swiftly reported back to us. Bessie has been with us for twenty years. She is loyal. And she cares greatly for you.”

“His Grace is not like the other ballroom fools, Father,” Arabella said. “He is of a different cut.”

*****

The carriage came at the appointed time, and Bessie and Arabella climbed in. “Oh, this is exciting, my lady,” Bessie whispered, so the driver wouldn’t hear.

“It is, isn’t it?” Arabella said. “Perhaps you and His Grace’s footman might hit it off.”

“My lady!” Bessie giggled.

Bessie was a stout woman of nine-and-forty who had been in the Hood household since Arabella was born. Many of Arabella’s fondest childhood memories were inextricably linked to Bessie. Soon, the carriage stopped, and His Grace opened the door. Bessie climbed out, and Arabella climbed out after her.

“My lady,” he said.

The carriage had stopped at the beach. The sun had cooked the sand, making it hard and quite clean to walk upon. The tide was in, and then evening sun
glanced of
it, making it shine yellow and orange. “It is beautiful,” His Grace said.

“It is, Your Grace,” Arabella agreed.

“Shall we walk?”

Arabella nodded. “If you want, Your Grace.”

Bessie fell back with His Grace’s footman until they were small in the background. They were there for propriety’s sake, but Arabella felt as though she and His Grace were alone. They walked toward northward, up the beach toward Marine Lake. His Grace did not say anything for a time, and Arabella was happy to enjoy the sounds of the waves and the seagulls.

“High society,” His Grace said at length. “I fear it no longer agrees with me. I look at all these lords and ladies, with their idleness and their problems that aren’t truly problems at all, and I cannot help but feel a profound distance. How can I talk with them
of
flowers and servants when I have seen—all that I have seen?”

“But you feel you can talk with me, Your Grace?” Arabella said.

“Please, my lady, use my Christian name.”

“Truly?”

“Yes, I beg it of you.”

Arabella had to ready herself to speak his name. If you had told her, two weeks ago, that she would be addressing a Duke by his Christian name, she would have named you a liar. She wet her lips, preparing herself. “Very well, Lucian,” she said. The name sounded exotic on her tongue. The waves crashed. A half-silence stretched. And then Arabella said: “And you may use my Christian name. But before Mother and
Father
we must resort to formality once more.”

“Of course, Arabella, but there is no harm if it is just the two of us.”

Bessie and the footman were far back now. Arabella and Lucia rounded a small hill that jutted upon the beach, and for a
moment
they were out of view. Arabella felt as though she and Lucian were the last two people in the world. He turned to her and she looked up at him. “I am happy,” he said, “for the first time since I returned to England.”

“I am glad,” Arabella said. “I do not wish you to be unhappy.”

Lucian nodded. “I am glad to find that my first impression of you was correct. Even though we had not talked, I thought of you almost every day when I was in France. You looked so beautiful – so stoic – when you sang to yourself after ruin. I cannot imagine the ladies who frequent balls and highbrowed parties behaving with such stoicism. Perhaps it is the old Hood blood.”

“Perhaps,” Arabella said. “Mother sometimes speaks of the Hoods being descendants of Vikings. She says our family is so old that we were around when Vikings and Anglo-Saxons mingled. I do not know if there are grounds for such an assertion, but—”

“It would certainly explain your looks,” Lucian broke in. “You have a Scandinavian look about you. Oh, don’t be offended. You are beautiful.”

Arabella bowed her head. “Thank you.”