Chapter 20
"If you continue looking like you are going to faint, I am afraid you're going to fall in, and I'm not jumping into the Channel to save you."
Julian's observation, delivered with his characteristic dry humor, made Arabella lift her head from the ship's railing just long enough to glare at him.
"I'm dying," she informed him with as much dignity as one could muster while pale-faced and miserable.
"You're not dying," Lucien said, rubbing her back in gentle circles. "You're experiencing pregnancy combined with channel crossing."
"Same thing," she groaned.
"Charming," Julian observed. "Though I suppose it's better than Thistle's contribution to the voyage."
They all looked toward the dog, who had somehow befriended the ship's cat and was now leading it in what appeared to be an organized raid on the galley.
"How does he make friends so quickly?" Lucien muttered.
"Criminal recognises criminal," Julian suggested. "That cat has definitely done this before."
"All cats have have done this before," Arabella managed between bouts of nausea. "It's part of their charm."
"Like your dog's charm?"
"Exactly."
A crash from below followed by shouting in French suggested the raid had been successful.
"I should probably handle that," Lucien sighed.
"Let Julian do it. He speaks better French." Arabella replied mentioning their friend who had also insisted on going with them.
"I speak perfect French," Lucien protested.
"You speak French like an English schoolboy who learned from books," Julian corrected. "I speak French like someone who's actually been to France for reasons other than tragedy."
"That's unfair."
"That's accurate."
"Go save Thistle," Arabella urged. "Before he causes an international incident."
Julian sauntered off, with Cordelia going along to help him, leaving Lucien and Arabella alone at the rail. The French coast was visible now, a gray line that grew more distinct with each wave.
"Are you ready for this?" Arabella asked quietly.
"No."
"Good. Neither am I."
"You could have stayed home."
"We've discussed this. Where you go, I go."
"Even into potential danger?"
"Especially then."
"That's illogical."
"That's love."
He pulled her closer, mindful of her queasy stomach. "What if what we discover is worse than what I believed?"
"Then we'll face it together."
"You keep saying that."
"Because you keep needing to hear it."
"I don't deserve you."
"Probably not," she agreed cheerfully."
Julian returned, looking amused. "Your dog has organized the ship's cats into a criminal enterprise. They've stolen an entire wheel of cheese."
"Of course he has."
"The captain wants him confined."
"Good luck with that."
"That's what I told him. He's now trying to negotiate with Thistle directly."
"How's that going?"
"Thistle is winning."
By the time they reached Calais, Thistle had somehow become the ship's master, the cats were following him like disciples, and the captain had given up entirely, muttering something about "les Anglais fous" - the crazy English.
"We've been here five minutes and already have a reputation," Julian observed as they disembarked.
"We had a reputation before we arrived," Lucien corrected. "The Beast of Blackthorn travels to France with pregnant wife and criminal dog isn't exactly subtle."
"Don't forget the devastatingly handsome friend," Julian added.
"How could we? You remind us hourly."
"Someone has to maintain standards."
The carriage ride to the estate where Lucien had lived with Matilda was tense. Arabella, finally on solid ground, had recovered enough to be properly supportive, holding Lucien's hand as familiar landmarks appeared.
"That's where Matilda liked to paint," he said quietly, indicating a small hill. "She was terrible at it but loved it anyway."
"A woman of passion if not talent," Julian observed.
"She had talent. Just not for painting."
"What was she talented at?" Arabella asked, genuinely curious about the woman whose ghost had haunted their marriage.
"Music. She could make a pianoforte sing. And languages; she spoke four fluently."
"Impressive."
"She was. In her way."
"But?" Julian prompted.
"But we were wrong for each other. I think we both knew it but neither had the courage to say so."
"And now?" Arabella asked.
"Now I'm married to a woman who argues with me about whether she fell or dived into a lake, teaches my cousin about investments, and corrupts my entire household."
"Don't forget the pregnancy while traveling," she added.
"That too."
"Sounds perfect," Julian said.
"It is," Lucien agreed, kissing Arabella's temple.
The estate, when they reached it, was smaller than Blackthorn Manor but prettier, with a distinctly French charm. It had been repaired since the fire, though Lucien went pale seeing the east wing where Matilda's rooms had been.
"Monsieur le Comte!" The magistrate, a small, fussy man with impressive mustaches, hurried out to greet them. "You received my letter, oui?"
"Both letters," Lucien confirmed. "You said you had new information?"
"Oui, oui. A witness has come forward. Someone who was here that night."
"Who?"
"A servant. She has been in Italy but returned recently. She says she saw something... troubling."
"More troubling than a fire that killed someone?" Julian asked.
The magistrate's mustaches twitched. "She says there were two women arguing before the fire started."
Lucien went very still. "Two women?"
"Oui. The late Mademoiselle Matilda and another. A blonde English lady."
"Cassandra," Arabella breathed.
"Lady Velott is here," the magistrate confirmed. "She arrived yesterday, most anxious to speak with you."
"I'll bet she is," Julian muttered.
"She is waiting in the salon with her... companion. Monsieur Harrington."
"Of course she is," Lucien said grimly. "Always theatrical."
"Shall we?" Arabella suggested, squaring her shoulders.
"You don't have to..."
"Yes, I do. We face things together, remember?"
"I'm starting to regret that promise."
"No, you're not."
"No," he agreed. "I'm not."
They found Cassandra holding court in the salon as if she owned it, draped across a settee in black silk that suggested mourning while revealing entirely too much décolletage to be properly grief-stricken. Harrington stood by the window, his expression unreadable.
"Lucien!" Cassandra rose, moving toward him with outstretched hands. "How wonderful that you came."
"Cassandra." He ignored her hands. "What are you doing here?"
"Trying to help, of course. When I heard about the witness, I knew you'd need support."
"I have support," he said, pulling Arabella closer.
"Your little wife. How... steadying." Cassandra's tone suggested Arabella was anything but. "Though should she be traveling in her condition?"
"How did you know about her condition?" Julian asked sharply.
"One hears things."
"One spies," Arabella corrected.
"Such an ugly word. I prefer stays informed."
"I prefer leaves us alone," Lucien said coldly.
"But darling, I have information you need."
"Nothing you have to say interests me."
"Not even that I was here that night? That I spoke with Matilda before she died?"
The room went silent. Even Julian, rarely at a loss for words, seemed stunned.
"You were here?" Lucien's voice was deadly quiet.
"She invited me," Cassandra said, settling back on the settee. "We had... things to discuss."
"What things?"
"You, of course. She wanted my advice."
"About?"
"How to leave you without causing scandal."
The words landed like blows. Arabella felt Lucien flinch beside her.
"She was leaving me?"
"Oh, darling, didn't you know? She'd been planning it for weeks. Had everything arranged." Cassandra's smile was sharp as glass. "She was going to Italy. To pursue her music."
"You're lying."
"Am I? Ask Mr. Harrington. He was helping her."
All eyes turned to Harrington, who shifted uncomfortably.
"It's true," he said quietly. "Matilda was my cousin. She wrote asking for help. She said she was desperately unhappy."
"And you agreed to help her leave?" Lucien's voice was ice.
"She was miserable. Said you barely spoke, that you were cold, distant. She felt like a prisoner."
"That's not..." Lucien began, then stopped. "Perhaps it was true. I wasn't... I didn't love her."
"No," Cassandra agreed. "You loved me."
"I never loved you."
"You did once."
"I thought I did. I was young and foolish."
"And now you're old and foolish?" Julian suggested helpfully.
"Now I'm married to someone I actually love," Lucien said firmly.
"How touching," Cassandra purred. "But we're getting off topic. Don't you want to know what happened that night?"
"Tell us," Arabella said, though she suspected they wouldn't like what they heard.
"Matilda and I argued. She said horrible things about Lucien, about me. She said we were cold, calculating, perfect for each other in our emptiness."
"Sounds accurate," Julian observed.
Cassandra shot him a venomous look. "I defended Lucien, naturally."
"Naturally," Arabella said dryly.
"She laughed. Said he'd never love anyone but himself. That's when I... well."
"Well, what?" Lucien demanded.
"I may have gotten rather animated. Gesturing. It was dark, there were candles..."
"You knocked one over," Arabella guessed.
"I didn't realise it! Not until later. I left angry, went back to my inn. It wasn't until morning that I heard about the fire."
"You caused the fire that killed her?" Lucien's voice was dangerous.
"Accidentally!"
"And you said nothing? For two years?"
"What good would it have done? She was dead. You were destroyed by guilt. Adding my involvement would have helped no one."
"It would have helped me," Lucien said quietly. "I spent two years believing I failed to save her."
"You did fail. She died."
"Because of you."
"Because of an accident!"
"An accident you caused and hid."
"I didn't hide it. I simply... didn't mention it."
"For two years."
"Yes."
"While I tortured myself."
"You were torturing yourself anyway. You always did enjoy suffering."
"Enough," Arabella interrupted, seeing Lucien's hands clench. "Why tell us now?"
"I didn't want to. But circumstances change."
"What circumstances?"