His grip tightened. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Ignoring the pain in her arm, shaking from rage, Arabella swore. “You might be surprised what I am willing to dare these days. Remove your hand, now.”
Taken aback at such vehemence in a woman, Dalton released his grip, narrowed his eyes, and stepped away.
He had stepped away from her. Under the wrath Arabella was flabbergasted, watching his retreat with nervous glee.
He had stepped away from her...
The immediate thought that Gregory would have been proud had he seen her in that moment made her want to smile. Until she remembered an innocent man was going to hang for a murder he did not commit. The stranger, Harold Reagan, would suffer so she might survive.
Swallowing the shame down was not as hard as it should have been. Not when thoughts of Mary’s future, of Hugh, showed nothing but desolation should they lose their homes. Not when another of the men Gregory Harrow sought to revenge himself upon in her name stood as pallbearer—Baron Witte was openly satisfied to lay his eyes on the long unseen baroness, watching her constantly with a sly smirk.
For just a moment Arabella allowed herself to imagine all the ways Gregory might slaughter the villain. Would he drown him too? Strangle him as Payne had strangled Benjamin Iliffe?
The procession began, Baron Witte hefting the coffin. Saved by circumstance from facing a man who’d done unspeakable things to her, a man who with one look had unnerved her shaky bravery, Arabella followed the mourners.
At the graveyard she didn’t speak, nor did she leave once the first handfuls of dirt were tossed. No, the baroness waited until worm filled earth had swallowed that box, just as the newly widowed Marchioness did.
Taking her leave, Arabella took the lost woman’s hand and said what the widow could not. “May he burn in hell.”
Chapter 17
T he satisfaction found in crowing over the Marquise of Glauster’s corpse was not sustainable, nor did momentary gratification bring with it peace. Not when the name Harold Reagan knocked at Arabella’s thoughts. Not when she felt something was deeply wrong, but she could not put her finger on it.
Why had Gregory chosen that man to die for the Marquise’s murder?
Had that man tried to cheat Mr. Harrow? Had he called him bastard? Gregory was petty, but she’d seen how he handled the Harding farmer. He liked his victims to live with their suffering.
From what she knew of him, there was not an ounce of impulsiveness in Gregory’s body. Every action Mr. Harrow took was well thought out and acute. Yet nothing was ever as it seemed.
His actions towards her were suspect enough—the way he treated the Jenkins clan, their neighbors, all of Harding, questionable.
He had killed a man for her. He was going to kill more men for her. But what if he was not doing it for her at all?
Did Gregory love her, or was she as great a fool as Lilly? Why would he want a woman with no fortune who would bring shame to his name when he had a rich beauty willing to dote on him?
So many weeks had passed since he’d extorted his forthcoming price. The longer he was away, the more she doubted. Arabella needed to look him in the eyes, to feel Gregory’s warm hands. She needed answers.
And not only from him, Ion was still a thorn in her side. The more she thought on it, the more she was certain the Romani was the key to all of this—that he knew exactly what was going on. More worrisome, she was certain Payne was not going to find him.
Ion had come to her with no warning on her last visit to London. She was hoping he might do the same again.
A hired carriage carried her from the cemetery through the streets of London. Arabella was to exit the carriage at a well-known dressmaker’s, go inside to peruse their wares, and wait for Payne and whatever information he had collected. Cosseted by her title and the attention it would garner from the staff, she would be safe. Men could not enter, as it was a woman’s shop.
Which wouldn’t work. She needed to tempt traitorous Ion out of hiding.
Abandoning her plans to visit the shop, the Baroness of Iliffe ordered her carriage to slowly circle Hyde Park. Within an hour the carriage slowed at a crossing and her premonition came to life.
The door opened. Uninvited, a dark haired Romani took the seat across from her.
Arabella did not wait, she gave him no chance to offer a greeting or spin lies. “Your arrival is convenient, Ion—for you especially as I am unguarded right now. Shall we get to the point? I am not the master you serve. Have you been paid to frighten me again? Are your intentions to deliver me to William Dalton yourself? Have you come to kill me? I will pay you double whatever your new master offered... triple... for answers.”
A smile broke across Ion’s face, an unfriendly, terrible expression. “What I have been paid, you could never counter.”
Eyeing the knife worn upon the Romani’s belt, Arabella felt her blood chill to the point of icy apathy. Steeled, she made a promise to herself and to him. “If you try to take me to them, you’ll be delivering a corpse. I will fight you until my last breath. I will never submit again.”
Ion’s every word came sharp, his disinterest palpable. “Yet twice now you have come to London, the one place you should not tread. Twice now I have had the pleasure of following your frivolous exploits around the city when my time would have been better spent elsewhere.”