He found the pistol in a puddle and tossed it into the Thames. Then he walked away.

Chapter 19

The Lovers

As early as she dared, Arabella knocked on Adina’s door. The new mother slept at all hours now, enamored of her tiny son, insisting on nursing him despite the advisements of Mrs. Baxter, the housekeeper, and a dozen of her friends.

After returning from Richmond, Arabella had delayed speaking privately with Adina. The birth had been quick but Adina had not recovered from it immediately. But Arabella could delay no longer. Luc would never claim what he deserved. Not now. His pride was too strong. So she must claim it for him.

She stifled a yawn as she waited for the door to open. She had slept very little.

A smile crept over her lips. She closed her eyes and bounced a bit on the balls of her toes.

A sleepy maid finally opened the door. Adina greeted her sleepily as well, though with a happy countenance. She was thin and pale, but a breakfast tray beside the bed bore the remnants of chocolate, toast, and a lemon custard. The sight of it made Arabella’s stomach turn. Nothing tasted good to her now. But she ate anyway. Her baby needed it.

She could not hide the news from Luc any longer. The fear that had kept her from telling him before—the fear that, assured his goal of an heir, he would never seek her out again—was now gone. And with his new attention to the details of her body, he would discover the changes in her soon enough. Perhaps she would tell him and show him tonight at the same time.

A delicious little shiver scampered through her.

“Darling Arabella, how happy I am to see you with smudges beneath your eyes. It is lovely not to be the only woman in the house that looks so wretched.” Adina said it so sweetly that Arabella had to chuckle. “But your sleeplessness, I suspect, is caused by another sort of activity than mine.” She cast a besotted glance at the cradle in which her infant slept.

“Adina.” Arabella sat on the end of the bed. “I need to tell you a story. I hope you will listen to it carefully before you make a decision.”

Her pretty gold lashes spread wide. “A decision about what?”

“About whether you will confess publicly that your son is not your husband’s and allow Luc to take his rightful place as the Duke of Lycombe.”

Adina’s face crumpled.

But she listened.

When Arabella finished speaking, Adina dipped her head.

“My brother said he would never do it again.” Her voice was thin. “After I found him that time with my page boy—” She closed her eyes. “He promised.”

“He lied.”

“Not only about that.” She met Arabella’s gaze. “He told my dear Theodore that I was unfaithful to him. After that, my husband would not allow me at Combe. Then Christos came to visit me here. He had been to see Theodore. He brought a friend with him.” She plucked Arabella’s hand from her lap and squeezed it. “I did not intend it, Arabella darling! You must know: I adored my Theodore. But I was so lonely and he was so far away, and Michel comforted me.” She made a sad little shrug.

“Adina, will you write this and sign the document before witnesses? Will you stand before Parliament and the king if you must and declare the truth?”

Her pretty brow creased. But she nodded. “My baby . . .”

“Luc will care for him. He will be a member of this family even if he does not bear the Westfall name. We will never abandon him.”

Adina’s lashes flickered with uncertainty. “Michel wishes to wed me. Even if it means our son will not be a duke, he wants to claim him as his own. Men are sometimes very contrary, aren’t they?”

ARABELLA DESCENDED THE stairs, heart and step light, and went to the library. Luc had spent the past several days there. She would tell him her news in private and watch his face. Then she would tell him everything.

He was not in the library.

She looked in the parlor, the drawing room, and the dining chamber. The garden was gray and damp and empty.

She climbed the stairs to his bedchamber and knocked. Her stomach fluttered with impatience. Silly. But imagining seeing him was always so much easier than actually seeing him. He was large and a little bit dangerous and still gorgeously confident despite all, and he made her so wretchedly weak with pure longing she was furious with him for it. Then he would kiss her and wrap her in his arms and she felt as powerful as a goddess.

She was utterly hopeless.

Miles opened the door. He stared at her, his face pale and eyes wide. He said nothing.

A tickle of cold nerves stirred in her. “Is his lordship within?”

“No, my lady.”

“Do you know where I can find him?”

The valet’s face seemed to turn paler. “Not precisely, my lady.”

“When does he intend to return?”

His mouth opened then closed.

“Mr. Miles, where is my husband?”

He widened the door. Heart speeding now, she walked inside the chamber. Luc was not within. She pivoted to his valet.

Mr. Miles stood with his palm extended, her family’s ring upon it.

She couldn’t breathe.

“Where is he?”

“Claude and he rode to the East End this morning, my lady.” His voice was clipped. “His lordship met with the bishop.”

“No.” Her lungs were folding in upon themselves. “No.” Her head snapped up. “When? And where exactly?”

WAITING FOR THE carriage was a torture Arabella had never imagined. When it came around, she flung herself inside and called to the driver.

The avenues of Mayfair disappeared swiftly, but as they neared the City, the streets grew crowded with carts, carriages, and horsemen. She gripped the seat with frozen hands. He would not be there now, still. But she could not believe that. She would scour the dockside taverns and sailor’s haunts to find him as she had in Plymouth. She would find someone who had seen him, a fisherman or river warden, anybody. Someone must have noticed him. Blind lords did not go wandering about the banks of the Thames alone on foot every dawn, after all.

The carriage was not moving. She snapped open the window and poked her head out to call up to the coachman. They were jammed in a row of traffic. The street was filled with people, on foot and horseback, all watching a parade—a circus parade, it seemed, with stilt walkers and boys in shining waistcoats and women riding beribboned ponies and gay music from flute and cymbals and brightly painted carts. A pair of performers passed by, juggling sticks of fire like the performers in Saint-Nazaire the night she had first given herself to an arrogant ship captain, despite her dream of wedding a prince, because even then she loved him.

“No.” Her heart twisted. “No.” She pressed her palms to her eyes and tears soaked them.

The parade passed and the crowd began to move from the street into shops and down alleyways. Her driver shrugged the carriage along. She pulled in breaths, willing away the despair, and peered out the window.

From out of the thinning crowd, Luc appeared, walking.

Choking on a sob she threw open the door and tumbled out of the carriage into a run.

He walked straight toward her. It seemed he smiled at her.

She flew at him. She threw her arms around him and he tucked her into his embrace. He was cold all over, his clothing and hair, and shaking lightly. She reached up and pulled his face to her and kissed him, then kissed him again. “You can see,” she uttered. “You can see.” She kissed his cheeks and his jaw and his brow and pushed the black kerchief aside and kissed his scar.