Chapter 12 #3
Each comment was a small cut, but Arabella kept her head high. She'd known this would happen. They'd prepared for it.
She reached Lucien just as one of the men was saying, "—must be quite an adjustment, being in society again after... everything."
"The only adjustment," Lucien said coldly, "is remembering why I avoided it for so long."
"Darling," Arabella said, sliding her hand through his arm. "You promised me the supper dance."
"Of course." He looked relieved at the rescue. "Gentlemen."
They escaped to the edge of the dance floor, where Julian appeared with champagne.
"Well, that was bracing," he said cheerfully. "Lord Potts just asked me if it's true you keep Arabella locked in a tower."
"What did you tell him?" Arabella asked.
"That it's only on Tuesdays. The rest of the week you have free run of the dungeons."
Despite everything, she laughed. "How thoughtful of you."
"I live to serve."
The supper dance was less scrutinized than the opening, allowing them to actually enjoy it. Lucien had relaxed slightly, and when he lifted her during a turn, she felt like flying.
"This isn't so bad," she said.
"Liar."
"Well, it's not as bad as I feared."
"The night is still young."
"You keep saying that."
"Because Cassandra hasn't played her hand yet."
"Maybe she won't. Maybe this is enough for her, just making us uncomfortable."
"You don't know Cassandra."
After a while as if summoned by her name, Lady Velott appeared at the conclusion of the dance, accompanied by someone Arabella didn't recognize; a thin, nervous-looking man with watery eyes and an unfortunate mustache that seemed to be attempting to escape his face.
"There you are!" Cassandra said brightly, her voice carrying to ensure maximum audience. "I've been looking simply everywhere for you. There's someone you absolutely must meet."
The man bobbed a bow that suggested he'd rather be anywhere else. "Mr. Hartwell, at your service."
"Mr. Hartwell was in France two years ago," Cassandra continued, her smile sharp as a blade. "At the same time as you, Lucien. In fact, he was staying at the chateau just adjacent to yours when that terrible fire occurred."
Arabella felt Lucien go rigid beside her, every muscle tensing as if preparing for battle.
"I don't recall..." he began, his voice dangerously quiet.
"Oh, but surely you remember Mr. Hartwell? He was quite friendly with dear Matilda. They knew each other from London, didn't you?"
Mr. Hartwell shifted uncomfortably, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool evening. "I wouldn't say friendly, exactly."
"Don't be modest," Cassandra interrupted, her eyes glittering with malicious triumph. "You were quite close. In fact, weren't you supposed to dine with her the very night of the fire? A private dinner, just the two of you?"
The implication landed like a blow. Around them, Arabella could feel the crowd pressing closer, drawn by the scent of scandal like sharks to blood.
"That's not..." Mr. Hartwell started, his voice cracking.
"And didn't you tell me," Cassandra continued relentlessly, "that Matilda had confided in you about her doubts? About the betrothal? About how trapped she felt?"
"Lady Velott, please..."
"What are you implying?" Lucien's voice had gone deadly soft, the tone that servants recognized as a warning to flee.
"Implying? Nothing at all. I'm simply reuniting old friends. Though it is interesting, isn't it, that the fire started in her rooms? When she was supposedly alone? Or... was she?"
The crowd gasped collectively. Someone dropped a champagne glass, the crash echoing in the sudden silence.
Mr. Hartwell had gone pale as parchment. "This is highly inappropriate."
"Is it?" Cassandra's voice rose, ensuring everyone could hear. "I just think if I were newly married, I'd want to know if my husband's tragic lost love was perhaps not so tragic. Or so lost. After all, if she was entertaining gentlemen in her chambers..."
"How dare you." Lucien's voice cut through her performance like a sword through silk. "How dare you stand there and slander a woman who cannot defend herself."
"I'm simply presenting facts."
"You're presenting innuendo and calling it truth." He turned to Mr. Hartwell, who looked ready to faint. "Were you Matilda's lover?"
The direct question caused another collective gasp. In polite society, such things were implied, never stated.
"No!" Mr. Hartwell's voice cracked. "No, I... we were friends. Just friends. She was lonely, and we talked sometimes. About books, about art. Nothing more."
"But you wanted more," Cassandra suggested slyly.
"What I wanted is irrelevant," Mr. Hartwell said with surprising dignity. "She was betrothed to Lord Blackthorn. She would never have dishonoured that commitment."
"Even though she was unhappy?"
"She wasn't..." He stopped, looking miserable. "It's not my place to say."
"Oh, but you've already said so much," Cassandra purred. "Didn't you tell me she was planning to end the betrothal? That she was going to speak to Lucien that very night?"
Lucien had gone very still. Arabella could feel him trembling—with rage or pain, she couldn't tell.
"Is that true?" he asked quietly.