Beastly Beauty

Thirty-Two

Lady Sadindi looked down her long, elegant nose at Beau.

He was standing in the doorway to Arabella’s private chambers. In his arms he carried a large, lumpy bundle knotted up in a sheet.

“The mistress is taking tea. She has spent the day riding and is tired,” Sadindi said with a sniff. “You cannot come in now. Or, actually, ever.”

“I don’t care if she’s taking tea, a bath, or a nice long piss, I need to see her,” Beau said, muscling his way inside Arabella’s chambers.

“Stop! You can’t just … now, see here, boy!”

Beau disregarded Sadindi’s squawks and walked past her into the sitting room. Arabella was reading by the fire, wrapped in a warm woolen robe, surrounded by her ladies. A silver tea tray had been placed on a table between her chair and the fireplace. A book lay open on her lap. She lifted her head at the sound of his approach.

“Lady Sadindi?” she started to say. “What’s going—”

Beau didn’t give her the chance to finish. He walked up to her and dropped his bundle at her feet. It hit the floor with a noisy crash.

“That should be just about everything you’ll need,” he said. “Except for this.”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a tightly stoppered bottle of ink, and banged it down on the table. As he did, something on the tray caught his eye—a small, pretty cake topped with lemon icing and a candied violet. He picked it up and popped it into his mouth.

“Do help yourself,” Arabella said archly. “Would you like some tea, too? Here, let me pour it for you. Sugar? Cream?”

Beau, still chewing, held up a finger. He swallowed, then said, “Cream. No sugar.”

Arabella scowled, clearly unhappy at having her bluff called. She picked up a cup and saucer from the tray, poured his tea, stirred in some cream, and handed it to him. Beau nodded his thanks, then slurped it noisily.

Eyes narrowed, Arabella waited for him to finish. When he finally did, she said, “Now, would you like to tell me why you threw a bag of garbage at my feet?”

“You’re going to build me a bridge across the moat. I brought you everything you need to get started.”

As he spoke, Beau knelt down and unknotted the sheet’s four corners. Compasses, protractors, pens, books, a T square, an adjustable triangle, a French curve, several rulers, and a roll of drafting paper lay jumbled in the center of it.

Arabella gasped. Her carefully constructed mask cracked and fell away. In its place was a smile, radiant and full of joy. It only lasted for an instant, though, before anger took its place.

“Where did you get these things?” she demanded.

“From your old chambers.”

Lady Rega, sitting nearby, jumped to her feet. She snatched the teapot off the tray and hurled it to the floor. “How dare you! How dare you!” she shouted as it smashed. “You have no business in there!”

“Prying in other people’s things! You should be ashamed of yourself!” Hesma scolded.

Espidra said nothing. She merely watched, her expert fingers working an embroidery needle, her eyes jumping from Beau to Arabella and back again.

“You—you trespassed. You invaded my privacy,” Arabella said. “You—”

“I don’t give a sparrow’s rank worm-burp about your privacy. Because of you, I’m trapped in this ugly pile of rocks. I need to get out of here. You’re going to help me.”

Pain surfaced in Arabella’s eyes at his words, and Beau thought he’d actually pierced her armor, but he was wrong.

“I’m afraid you’ve made a mistake,” she said coldly. “I have no idea how to build a bridge.” She turned to Lady Iglut. “Call for Valmont.”

Iglut scurried to the bellpull and yanked it frantically.

“That’s horseshit, Arabella,” Beau said. “You do know how. I saw your books and all your tools. I saw the coverlet, too.”

Arabella, outraged now, drew in a long breath. She looked like a cobra puffing itself up to strike, but Beau didn’t give her the chance.

“Plus?” he continued. “Percival told me you studied the greatest buildings in the world. He said you went to Notre-Dame and sketched it. If you can figure out a flying butt, you can—”

“Buttress, you ass,” Arabella hissed. “A flying buttress.”

Beau tapped a forefinger to his chin. “Hmm. A bit imprecise, don’t you think? Surely you could come up with something more descriptively specific to the current situation than ass.”

“Where the devilis Valmont?” Arabella shouted, her composure shattered now.

Iglut ran to the doorway to look for him.

“But whatever,” Beau continued. “My point is … if you know all about cathedrals and temples and pyramids, you know about bridges. So build me one. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.”

Arabella laughed in disbelief. “It doesn’t?” she said. “Oh, good. I was worried.”

“A narrow little footbridge will work. All it has to do is not fall down.”

At that moment, Valmont came barreling into the room. “What is it, Your Grace? What’s wrong?” he asked.

And then he saw Beau and the tangle of tools on the floor.

“Remove him, Valmont,” Arabella ordered. “And then send the maids to clean this rubbish up. Have them burn it.”

Her last sentence was not spoken so much as spat. Directly at Beau. An angry Valmont grabbed his arm and hustled him out of the sitting room, but just before they reached the doorway, Beau shook him off. He turned back to Arabella, caught her molten gaze, and held it. She was his last chance.

“You got me into this mess,” he said to her. “You can get me out of it.”

Arabella held his gaze, then she bent down, picked up the wooden rulers, the French curve, the drafting paper, and threw them on the fire.