Tears fell unchecked down her cheek, his gentle thumb brushing them away. “I promise to always love you.”
* * *
The fabric under her fingers took form with each pull of her needle. Behind the great leather chair, nearer the windows, Parson Witte sat with the scrubbed clean, and tidily dressed, Hugh. It was the boy’s first lesson, the Parson only too happy to find time to serve the elusive baroness’s call—so he might see in to her house. Arabella made certain to be present during the lesson, to make sure all was done properly—which fell as an honor in the staunch clergyman’s estimation.
He was especially impressed with her humility when the needlework she chose to exercise was not the embroidery of ladies but the economic stitchery of mending.
Hugh was unrecognized by their neighbor, both an insult and a boon to the boy. Shy, he had trouble being little more than meek. As time wore on and the direction of tutelage went from the bland redundancy of tracing letters to a boy’s practicum filled with tales to draw in an audience, Hugh came alive.
With her ear pricked toward the lessons behind her, the sounds of Magdala’s muffled steps on the rug covered stone alerted the baroness that the other expected invasion had arrived.
“Mr. Harrow has called, Lady Iliffe,” Magdala announced the gentleman behind her.
Arabella set the garment aside and stood, spine straight, to formally greet the landlord.
“Mr. Harrow.” Her voice was steady and her face blank. “Do sit down.”
The hushed sound of student and teacher in the corner were not missed. Black brows dropped further and with narrowed eyes he looked back upon the lady of the house.
“Magdala, tea for our guest.” Again Arabella was civil, playing the part so well even Gregory looked momentarily bewildered. They lowered to their respective seats in formal unison. “It seems the rain has impeded you little.”
Lowering his chin to his chest, flashing black eyes toward the unwelcome nuisance in the corner, he curled one side of his lips. “You are paying to educate the boy?.”
Arabella could not help but glance over her shoulder, a proud smile on her face before looking to her agitated, and damp, guest. “I am.”
Gregory settled back further into his seat. “That is crueler than I would have expected from you.”
Wondering at his game, she stammered, “What do you mean?”
The alligator grin, the darkness about him growing, he cooed, “Building up his hopes that he might be more than a servant.”
Uncertain she grasped his meaning but positive he had just insulted them both, Arabella cocked her head and formed her reply. “If Hugh went to school he could be.”
“You would raise that to a gentleman?” Mr. Harrow sneered, looking past her shoulder to see the boy stuttering like a fool over his lessons. “Is that some sort of wayward baroness’s passing amusement?”
“Jealous?” Arabella sneered.
“Disgusted would be the proper term. Are you going to edify every stable boy you find on the side of the road?”
“I,” Arabella smiled, showing teeth as if she might bite him, “will do whatever I please. Perhaps you should take note of him. Maybe one day you too could be a gentleman.”
Her insult only seemed to make the man chuckle.
The tinkling of china came and Magdala returned with refreshment, Arabella directing her housekeeper on how her guest preferred his cup.
When the housekeeper retreated, Gregory stared with such energy that Arabella worked to keep the hand that held her tea from shaking.
His voice came deep, too low for Parson Witte to hear. “The county has long wondered how I made my fortune. How I raised myself from beggar to gentleman. It was not with the help of a benefactor, I assure you.”
Arabella could not help but feel her lips twitch. “I have seen you play dice. You cheated your way to it.”
Leaning forward, whispering her name conspiratorially, Gregory purred, “No. Try again to guess my secret, Arabella.”
“Are you really a pirate?”
He smiled, sipping his tea. “No.”
“A pugilist? ...no, your nose is too straight.” She eyed a body that was still firm and brawny. “You took it. You took it from fools, from those you hate. You bullied, you stole, you walked through places like the borough of Liverpool where baby Mary was left on the stoop of an asylum.”