Chapter 28
Violet could have easily remained in Benedict’s embrace, oblivious to the flames raging behind them, for another hour. Rather, another lifetime. However, one thread kept her tied to the chaos of the present, giving a persistent tug she couldn’t ignore. Arabella.
She forced herself to pull away, hastily locating her sister where she’d dropped to the ground nearby and was sucking in large mouthfuls of air.
In an instant, Violet was at her side, throwing an arm around her slender shoulders and squeezing tight.
Whatever terror Violet had experienced in the burning house, Arabella’s must have been ten times worse.
Sunny, delicate Arabella should never have been made to experience something so horrific, and Violet needed to offer comfort while her sister dealt with the emotions of all she’d gone through.
But far from swooning or sobbing in distress, Arabella’s body stiffened, her gaze fixing on a spot straight ahead of her.
Violet’s eyes followed, the taste of bile rising in her throat. Lord Frederick staggered toward them, his useless houseguests not far behind.
“Arabella.” His voice sounded thin, containing none of the elation fitting for a man reunited with an almost-lost beloved. Nonetheless, he went through the motions, weakly extending his arms. “Thank goodness, my dear.”
“Don’t.” Arabella’s command was a cold weight in the darkness. A foreboding echo. Violet hadn’t known her sister to be capable of producing such a tone.
Lord Frederick’s arms drooped against his sides, his eyes narrowing. “I thought you’d recovered from whatever perceived slight made you run off in a huff the last time you were at Watley. I thought we’d reached an understanding.”
Before Violet could blink, Arabella popped to her feet, her spine like an iron rod. “The only thing I understand is that you’re a lying, dishonorable lout.”
The lout in question gaped, appearing too stunned to display immediate anger at the insult.
For once, he and Violet had something in common: she was stunned, too, that Arabella’s adoration had taken such a drastic turn.
Whatever the reason for the change, an anticipant hum fluttered through her abdomen.
“I heard every word you said to your father when you two locked yourselves in the study so he could yell at you for the hash you made of Watley’s parkland!
” Arabella jabbed an accusatory finger at her betrothed before planting her hands upon her hips, the ire in her voice continuing to grow.
“You boasted about what a fine match you’d made with the woman who was sure to inherit Meadowleigh.
How you endured her family’s scandalous behavior—what a martyr you are—for fear Violet would inherit instead and spoil your great scheme to expand your lands. ”
Lord Frederick’s eyes went from slits to bulging, his mouth quivering as he opened it to speak.
However, Arabella silenced him with a cutting glare before he could get a word out.
“I know the truth now, so don’t deny it.
You never loved me. You care only for your dratted estate.
” In a single swift motion, she reached for the paper she’d so staunchly guarded in her bodice, giving it a pointed flap in his direction.
“And you’re willing to use nefarious means to run it. ”
The houseguests chose that moment to assemble near their host, disregarding any need he and his betrothed might feel for privacy. On the contrary, this was prime material for the gossip rags, not to be missed.
Lord Frederick pulled at his cravat, his pale face turning even pastier. “You’ve had a harrowing experience. You’re overwrought.”
“No.” Arabella stomped her foot, shoving away his half-hearted attempt to reach for her. “In the countless hours I’ve spent at Watley of late, your conversation with your father wasn’t the only thing I overheard coming from the study.”
He shifted uncomfortably, his once-dashing figure becoming hunched.
Arabella, on the other hand, didn’t cower once as she gripped the paper close to her chest, staring at him with eyes like ice.
“You were angry with your land agent one day. You shouted at him to get out and leave you alone until he had better news to relay. And then, when he departed, I witnessed you concealing a paper of some sort on the top shelf of the bookcase while muttering about a forgery.”
Murmurs rippled through the cluster of gentlemen, while Lord Frederick himself was rendered speechless, perspiration accumulating on his strained brow.
“Even then, and even after Violet warned me about your misdeeds, I deluded myself into believing you noble,” Arabella continued with a humorless laugh, her vehemence unrelenting.
“Frederick is so passionate about his estate. But once I heard the heartless things you said about me, I began to recognize the truth of your character. That’s the real reason I returned to Watley for dinner tonight.
Not because I’d forgiven you, but because I needed to search your study and find out what you concealed there. ”
She flashed the parchment in his face for a lone second before snatching it away, motioning for Benedict to come and collect it from her.
“This is an irrigation deed—a true deed—stating that Aldercombe Grange is entitled to control of the river intersecting both Aldercombe and Watley. Any damming of the river is unlawful, and any documents you’ve supplied to the contrary are forgeries. Aren’t they?”
Violet had remained on the dusty ground throughout the exchange, too enraptured to move.
At Arabella’s biting accusation, though, she clambered to her feet, Benedict’s eyes rising from the page he hastily scanned in the dimness to lock with hers.
They’d suspected it the whole time: Lord Frederick’s claims about the river, and the deed he’d presented as evidence, were all a sham.
The problem being, they hadn’t yet found a way to prove their suspicions.
Had Arabella really done that for them? Had she truly just risked her life in a burning house in pursuit of the truth?
Never had Violet been more in awe of her sister. The foolhardy, wonderful girl.
Once again, Lord Frederick remained dumbstruck, spluttering but unable to form coherent sentences. What could he say, after all, when defeat pummeled him from all angles?
And suddenly, he was spared from responding to Arabella’s accusation, for an enraged cry rent the air, followed by an ear-splitting bellow. “Frederick! What have you done?”
A wiry, middle-aged gentleman bounded toward them, his face contorted with horror akin to if he’d been dropped into the brimstone of hell.
Violet swiped a hand over her still-watery eyes and blinked him into clearer focus, recognition unfurling in her racing mind.
She’d seen this man, looming in the corner with his severe brow and beaklike nose, at a London soiree or two.
It was the Duke of Hawkesbury. Frederick’s father.
Where the duke had been this whole time, she hadn’t a clue. Only that he stared at Watley Hall until the flames reflected in his gaze, his shock—and outrage—growing more apparent with every rapid step he took.
Ignoring the rest of them entirely, he pushed past Arabella to stand before his son, his labored breaths sounding more like snarls.
“I depart for the village for a few hours’ respite from the tomfoolery that’s overtaken the house, and return to find …
to find …” He gestured sharply toward Watley Hall, where the pop and snap of burning wood was now mixed with the clamor of exploding glass.
Lord Frederick visibly swallowed, his stooped shoulders beginning to tremble. “The fireworks,” he said in the same dull, vacant tone he’d used to explain the catastrophe to Violet. “A rocket misfired.”
“Fireworks?” the duke roared, grabbing him by the lapels before changing his mind and shoving him away. “Was it not enough for you to tear up the whole blasted park? Why did you have to destroy the house along with it?”
“I’ll have it rebuilt.” Lord Frederick stumbled a few steps before righting himself, his desperate attempt at confidence undermined by the continued tremor in his voice.
“Watley will be better than ever, you’ll see.
A place that befits my new wife and your future grandchildren.
” He peered over his father’s shoulder to flash Arabella a garish smile, the gleam of his exposed teeth wolfish, almost diabolical.
“That wife will not be me.” Arabella glared at him stonily, folding her arms across her chest before he could do anything so repulsive as reach for her again. “In case I haven’t made my intentions clear, I’m ending our betrothal. Our association is through.”
The duke finally took notice of her, turning as though a chirping bird had landed upon his shoulder. However, she received nothing but a glance of mild interest before he whirled back to his son, the glow of flames across his craggy features making him appear especially foreboding.
“I knew you didn’t have the sense to manage an estate, but I went against my better judgment and granted you the opportunity, regardless.
Well, no more,” he thundered, a declaration that made Lord Frederick gasp with far more distress than he’d shown at the loss of his betrothed.
“I said all along that a commission in the army would be the best path for you so you could learn some discipline …”
The duke’s diatribe continued, but Arabella turned away from the skirmish, reaching for Violet’s hand. “I’m very tired, and I’ve seen more than enough of this disaster. No matter what anyone does, there will be no saving the house.” She gave her head a rueful shake. “Shall we leave?”
Violet stole one more glimpse at Watley Hall, where the roof of the west wing had collapsed, and flames spread down to leap from the ground floor windows.
The bucket brigade remained at work, but their movements had slowed, many of the participants pausing to rest. To observe the house’s inevitable destruction.
A mild pang hit the center of her chest. How ironic that just a few short months ago, this was the house she and Arabella had viewed as their salvation. The place where they could put their father’s scandal behind them and find husbands.
What a fool she’d been. Pinning all her hopes on a thoughtless cad—thinking it wise for them to share a romantic encounter in a derelict hut, for heaven’s sake—because he could offer her an escape.
Thank the stars that fate had intervened and thrown a wrench into her plans. One she hadn’t appreciated at the time but had come to realize was the best thing ever to happen to her.
She placed her free palm upon Benedict’s sleeve, calling his attention back from the deed he’d resumed studying through his spectacles.
Her forced retreat to Wiltshire had once felt like a prison sentence.
Her marriage, an even greater punishment.
Yet this man who peered at her—eyes intent, cravat mussed, untamed curls dangling over his forehead—had given her everything she wanted.
Rather, everything she hadn’t known she wanted.
He’d given her the things that mattered. The things that made her feel complete.
Arabella’s broken betrothal was still so fresh, she hadn’t yet had the same privilege. She would, though; Violet was set on it. Arabella’s bruised heart would heal, and she, too, would realize that something far better awaited her elsewhere.
“Yes,” she said, squeezing first her sister’s hand, then her husband’s. She steered them toward the path that would lead them out of the defiled garden with its choking air and stagnant lake. “We’re quite finished here.”