Griggs took a deep breath, weighing his answer before he began. “Your ladyship, consider. If Dalton were to lose the potential funding Lady Strand can bring to the estate, it will fail—potentially in less than three years.”
“Watching the Barony of Iliffe fade away into obscurity would give me great pleasure.”
“If it fails and Dalton is forced to sell, you will have nothing to draw from, my lady.”
Arabella knew better. “My income was nearing its end anyway.”
Griggs slowly nodded, uneasy with the grim resolution in the lady’s eyes.
“But there is more that must be done,” Arabella turned her attention to Payne. “While I attend the funeral I will be safe, surrounded by society. While I am there, you must find Ion. He must answer for his lies.”
“That would leave you unprotected with only Hugh and Mary nearby.”
Speaking slowly, Arabella shook her head. “Mary I will send to Stonewall Grove. Mr. Jenkins and Lizzy will see to her shelter. Hugh will go with you, Payne. Ion would not recognize him, and the boy knows how to survive on the streets. He can approach in ways someone of your size and appearance cannot.”
Payne was not at all happy with Arabella’s plan, and as it was, when Magdala was informed of her part in it, neither was her housekeeper.
* * *
There were angels on the coffin’s silver depositum. Even through her black veil, Arabella could see them, and it was all she could do to not burst out laughing.
Under no circumstances were angels keeping company with the dead Marquise of Glauster.
Her shoulders shook, those watching most likely taking the display for silent weeping. And she was weeping, even as her ribs ached from holding in sickening guffaws.
Inside that box was the puffy, embalmed body of a nightmare, his corpse too swollen from the filthy water Gregory downed him in to be displayed. Inside that box, someone who had hurt her more times than she could remember waited to be dumped in the ground.
The beau monde mourners could not stop whispering about the nature of the Marquise’s death. Hushed gossip, a few from faces steeled to conceal the same burdened exaltation Arabella felt, hissed about cold air.
Who had done it? How had nobody seen? Who would dare?
In that parlor, Arabella first heard rumors that London constables had found their man—or so they claimed—and one Harold Reagan was to be hanged for the crime.
Upon hearing a stranger was going to die for what Gregory had done... Arabella thought she might be sick.
What was she doing there gloating over a corpse, feeling the cold chill of evil inch its grip around her? What had she done? Or better yet, what had Harold Reagan done to earn Gregory’s vengeance? For there was no chance that it had not all been arranged by the blackguard.
It was in that moment, where her knees felt weak, and she thought she might fall to pieces, William Dalton approached. Enjoying her horrified expression even the veil could not hide, he grinned. “Lady Iliffe, you seem unwell.”
He had changed little in the three years since she’d last seen the man. He was still handsome, much more than his wan, depraved cousin had ever been. Dressed as a dandy, he stood with conceit, as if he believed he deserved much more than had already been heaped at his feet.
“William,” her throat was dry, her mouth full of ashes, “At a time like this, we are all a little shaken. The Marquise of Glauster was a dear friend to my departed husband...”
The informal use of his name set Dalton’s lips on edge, filled his expression with barely contained disgust. “Is it not tasteless to be seen in the same room as his grieving widow?”
There was nothing of grief in the round woman staring off in muddled confusion across the room. Arabella knew exactly how the grieving widow felt: she felt frightened it could not be real, clutched at her son as if the thought of the little boy approaching the coffin had to be prevented at all costs.
She felt eager to see that box buried in the earth, just as Arabella did.
It would take years for even a sense of normal to return to that woman. She would wake in the night afraid. She would hear the dead man’s voice, smell him, start at shadows.
Arabella knew how that woman felt, and hardened. “I do believe I will offer condolences to Marchioness Eliza.”
She’d taken less than a step before an iron grip came to her arm. Dalton, shielding his shackle with the angle of his body, threatened her, “You will do no such thing.”
There was so much anger, years of festering, deep-seated anger inside Arabella. “You will release me, or by God, Willia
m, I will cause such a scene your public embarrassment would take decades to live down.”