She could not chase the hired men off, nor could her household—not after the temper she'd shown at Harrow's home. The consequences of her outburst had left Arabella with only two options. She could find another dark corner of England to hide in... or stand her ground and face the reason she woke panicked in the dark.
If she stayed, William Dalton would find her. If she did not prepare for him, he would kill her with none the wiser.
Where would that leave Payne? What affect would her death have on Magdala? Who else would hire Mary, mute as she was? And Hugh, he would be back begging on the streets.
Glaring at the painting over the fire, staring at the woman as if the relic understood her dilemma yet offered no help, Arabella scowled. Mr. Harrow had claimed the beauty in the portrait had lived in bitterness. The sensation was one the baroness knew too well. Like the lady atop her hearth, there had been a time she'd also lived confined in gowns and curls.
There had been another life before the death of her husband.
Mr. Griggs wanted her to relive the noble life that had ruined her, that had rotted out the remnants of innocence growing up in poverty had yet to claim. He wanted her to be Baroness Iliffe and wear the title as if it wasn't saturated in unclean things.
Arabella felt bitter indeed.
Aware she was troubled, having waited for his friend to name the reason, Payne had lingered near hour after hour. Sitting across from her, smoking his pipe, his presence gave her comfort while strange men milled about outside. His quietness partnered hers, but two days of sulking was long enough.
Payne could not allow her mood to continue. “Speak with me.”
Arabella ceased chewing her torn nail, dropping a dirty hand to her lap. “I made a mistake, Payne. I ruined everything.”
Payne did not answer. Instead, he leaned forward and took her fingers, his skin so dark her tawny fingers looked pale beside it.
The warmth of his touch, his steadiness and enduring calm, lulled her to confess. “In a temper, I blurted out my title. Mr. Harrow's servant overheard. Rumors must be spreading.” She shook her head, voice frustrated and anxiety ridden. “If we were to stay... things will change.”
His offering was a balm. “I spoke with Solicitor Griggs upon arrival to Crescent Barrow. He entreated me to persuade you toward his plan. Over these weeks I have considered his arguments, your position... hearing you admit you wish to stay makes me certain. It is time we do more than run.”
“Payne, Mr. Griggs believes that if I were to step out into society, it would protect us—that I've been forgotten by the ton, grown uninteresting, and that my reappearance will offer some new excitement. But he forgets. I have no influential friends. I have no great wealth to hide behind. William Dalton is looking for me, and will find a way to remove my dower and the shame of my association from the Iliffe Barony he now controls.”
“Then is this not a good place to stand your ground? The society is limited. Compared to London, we are in the wastes. It may take time for the word of your location to reach Lord Dalton.” Payne entreated, aging eyes gentle, “In the meantime, the local gentry can meet and know the Baroness of Iliffe.”
The thought of facing all those people, of forcing smiles and chatting with strangers brought a sour taste to her mouth. “These people, they will find out what I am.”
Dropping her fingers Payne placed a careful touch to her cheek, giving her the affection he saved for their private moments. “You are not a Romani dancing girl anymore.”
“No, I am the gypsy whore once ridiculed by the ton.”
In an age-worn baritone, Payne repeated his point. “Benjamin Iliffe is dead and cannot shame you for faults you do not possess. That was his game.”
That had not been her dead husband's only game. Eyes large, breath unsteady, Arabella whispered, “But you saved me.”
“I would do anything for you.” Knowing this was best, Payne lifted his mass from creaking knees, still large, still a giant among men no matter his advancing years. “Now I will go to Magdala and explain the new situation.”
Arabella shook her head. “I should be the one. She would find it odd coming from a servant.”
Payne, wiser, disagreed. “She knows I am no servant.”
Of course she did. Magdala knew far more than she let on.
* * *
“You look lovely with your hair in fashion, my lady.” Magdala cooed, pulling the tongs away so another whorl might be pinned into place.
In the looking glass, the baroness found herself unsettled by this new reflection. Powder had been applied to dim her golden skin nearer society's pale ideal. Rouge pinkened lips and cheeks. Fluffed at her temples, curls framed her face, the remainder of the usually wild hair coiled tightly atop her head.
For select soirees Baron Iliffe had enjoyed dressing her like a doll, careful that any cuts or bruises would be hidden. She had not been allowed to speak, or move, or think. And always there had been a mistake, real or imagined, he'd cruelly punished her for afterward.
Looking at her reflection, wrapped in finery, she could almost hear him laughing.
“My lady?”