Cocking a brow, Gregory asked, “You want him to live?”
Did she? After all these years, all the fear, maybe death was not the fate Dalton deserved. “It is the end of the Iliffe Barony I desire. William Dalton is nothing without it... lower than that farmer you ruined.”
Chapter 22
T he morning light was trapped by gloom, by smoke stained air and rolling mist. Segments of the North Wing still smoldered, but the greater portion of Stonewall Grove stood strong. The Jenkins clan was not completely ruined.
Sir Statham’s corpse had been eaten up by the fire, nothing but bones and ash on the wind. And he would not be remembered fondly by the family who blamed his carelessness with a candle for their immediate misfortune. The Jenkins would say nothing, but their bitterness was clear.
Nor would William Dalton be considered friend. Between his dalliance with Lilly, and the fact he had been found dozing with the sheep in the barn while the real men fought the fire, he was loathed.
Those neighbors that might take their leave had absconded once the sun was up, the smoking wreckage of a terrifying evening left behind. Carriages full, buggies overburdened, off they went, trickling away to lick their wounds and tell their tales. Not a single soul offered the Baron of Iliffe passage in their carriage, and until Mr. Harrow decided to leave, there was no escaping from William’s newfound infamy.
Arabella had watched the disgust on neighbor’s faces, and wondered if William even recognized that this tale would follow him forever. He would be closed out of clubs, turned away by many prominent fixtures in the ton—for a cad might have been forgiven, but a milksop never would be.
He was a coward, through and through, she could see it clearly now. When he had attacked her years ago, she had been defenseless. Now she was not so weak or so afraid. Gregory had made her strong.
All she felt for Dalton was disgust and pity. He had ruined himself long before Mr. Harrow dabbled in his affairs. What was the point in killing him?
Yet, he sat in the morning room as if a king at court, cocky and snide.
Arabella held her tongue when he asked how her servant faired, keeping conversation between herself and sweet Lizzy. And yes, Lizzy was at her side. There were too many extenuating problems for Mrs. Jenkins or Edmund to rebuke the youngest. Their major concern beyond the great damage to their house, and the death of a noble under their roof, was Lilly’s flagging reputation.
What could be done to save it?
No one knew better than Arabella what life that girl would be trapped in now, for William Dalton would not marry into a family whose fortune had burned up in one night. Not unless he was forced to... but what end would be worse for Lilly: the titled wife of a pauper who would not love her, or the quiet existence of a fallen woman with no prospects and few friends?
In the corner nearest Arabella, Gregory and Edmund were deep in low spoken conversation, the exhausted blond nodding as if lectured by his father.
All this before tea might be served.
Out of the blue, Gregory broke the awkward silence amongst the exhausted room. “We have come to an accord. All will be well for you, Jenkins family. Dry your eyes, lovely ladies. Be joyous with me today.”
It was William Dalton who demanded with a frown, “And just what is there to be joyous about?”
“Ahhhh.” Turning to face the man, prowling forward to tower over the baron, Gregory purred, “What is there indeed? I have promised Edmund Jenkins the funds he will need to restore this house, and due to my excellent mood, offered very generous terms. Stonewall Grove will be a grand manor again soon enough.”
“You did?” Lilly, eyes shining with admiration looked to the man. “Sir.”
“Yes, Miss Jenkins.” Gregory smiled, predatory and misleading. “I would hate to see my lady saddened by this sorry affair, and I want her to walk down the aisle light o
f heart.”
Mrs. Jenkins pressed a hand to her heart—the woman’s expression one of desperation, of hope that Gregory would proclaim his love and save her family from another kind of ruin.
Stepping to the center of the room, like a hawker selling goods, Gregory led them on. “I wish to be married, yet from our first meeting I knew turning her head would be a herculean task. After all, what do I have to offer a lady of honor and virtue so far above my lowly station?”
Dalton dared to scoff outright, tittering behind his hands.
Lilly colored, but kept her attention fixed on the man with eyes only for her.
Smiling down at angelic Lilly, Gregory declared, “Without encouragement and the true friendship of Miss Lilly Jenkins I would never have dared believe.”
“Yes?” Lilly sighed, her eyes wide and full of longing. “Yes, Mr. Harrow.”
“I owe you a debt of gratitude for your hand in our joy.” When Lilly’s smile grew sublime, when she straightened her shoulders to appear the princess, Harrow turned away. He went straight to the dry mouthed baroness, catching up Arabella’s fingers and bringing them to his lips. “Lady Iliffe has agreed to be my bride and this morning we shall marry.”
“What?” It was not Lilly who snarled, for she was too busy gasping into her hands and calling for her mama to right things. It was William Dalton.