Chapter Twenty-Three

Arthur's head was, unsurprisingly, pounding. There were endless letters of apology to draft, and it wasn't fair at all to leave Beatrice and Lucy to write them all. He was writing to the gentlemen, they to the ladies, and they would wait to see if their profuse apologies were accepted.

He wouldn't blame their guests if the apologies were not accepted. After all, one didn't expect to face death at a ball.

A tap on the study door brought a welcome relief.

"Come in," he called, leaning back and stretching his arms above his head. He'd barely done a quarter of the letters that needed to be written, and already his hand was cramping painfully.

The door opened and Beatrice stepped in. Her expression was grim.

"What's the matter, Mother?" he asked, frowning. "Did someone get hurt after all?"

"I need to speak with you, Arthur. It's of the utmost importance."

A superstitious shiver rolled down his spine.

"I see. Well, let's sit down here, in front of the fire, Mother. Tell me, what's wrong?"

Beatrice drew in a deep breath, steeling herself.

"Miranda Sinclair and you had a conversation, alone, in the ballroom, in a small, enclosed space."

Arthur immediately felt sick. "I… I did not intend that, Mother. She came and found me, and said…"

"It doesn't matter. You must see that, Arthur. You spoke with her alone, and according to the maid who saw you, the two of you seemed… well, seemed about to kiss, Arthur!"

He swallowed hard. "She was trying to kiss me, Mother. I was trying to push her away. She tried to corner me in the library before, and…"

"Please don't attribute the poor girl with such false motives. You have acted badly, Arthur. Why did you not leave immediately?"

Arthur's mind brought back the awful scene – Miranda, with her hands on his chest, pushing forward, Felicity standing behind with that awful look on her face, and the maid, looking aghast and thrilled at the same time. It seemed that Felicity had not breathed a word. Of course not – she would never destroy a person's reputation, not even a woman who'd treated her so badly.

"I tried, but…"

"Oh, I do not want to hear excuses!"

Seeming almost angry, Beatrice bounced to her feet, pacing up and down.

"You've compromised Miss Sinclair, Arthur. Intentional or not, it has been done."

"Is the maid going to talk about it?" he heard himself say.

Beatrice shook her head. "No, I think not, but as you know that is not the point. You must do the right thing, Arthur. You must see that."

He drew in a long, shaking breath.

"This can't be right, Mother. It's what she's been planning since…"

"Oh, please stop, Arthur! I am tired, sick and tired of you not taking responsibility. You became Lord Lanwood, yet Lucy and I are the ones who introduce you to the local society and arrange everything. I know you are ill, my darling boy, but you must try harder. You were always a boy who knew your duty, no matter how hard it was."

Beatrice moved to stand before Arthur, taking his hand in hers.

"You know what you must do," she continued, her voice low. "If this gets out, Miranda's reputation will be irrevocably ruined. Every door in the country will be closed to her. Only a respectable marriage can save her. She would never have done this deliberately, I know that. It's too great a risk."

"All this for speaking with a man in an empty room?" Arthur managed, his voice trembling. "Can we really go on this way? Is this fair?"

"Fair? No, I should say not," Beatrice muttered. "Over the last few days, I had… had begun to see that Miranda Sinclair was perhaps not the right wife for you, Arthur. Lucy does not like her, and I had intended her to leave. But now we simply cannot do that. You must offer to marry her, Arthur. You must."

"I can't."

Beatrice's hands on his tightened. "You must. You know what the world is like for women whose reputations are… are even dented, let alone ruined. The world treats women like delicate glass figurines, easily chipped or shattered altogether. It is not fair, of course it is not. But that is the way the world is."

"She tried to kiss me, Mother. She knew I did not love her, and she's tried constantly to attract my attention."

Beatrice sighed. "I'm sure if Lucy had made a mistake, a small error of judgement, you wouldn't want to see her treated harshly, would you?"

Arthur's shoulders sank. He felt exhausted. Had he slept last night? No more than an hour or two at a time, he was sure. How could he, with all of this hanging over his head?

"You're right," he heard himself say, voice drained and scratchy. "I'll do what's right, Mother. I can't… can't leave her to the censure of Society. Not now."

Beatrice squeezed his hands, leaning forward to press a kiss on his forehead.

"That's my brave, kind boy. I love you more than words can say, Arthur."

He nodded, forcing a weak smile. "I… I think I'd better lie down for a while. My head… my head hurts so much."

Beatrice made herself smile. She seemed to be fighting back tears. She said nothing, watching Arthur stagger to the door and out into the hallway. She did not follow him, and frankly, he was grateful.

Is this what it has all come to? Me, having to propose marriage to Miranda in order to save her reputation?

Could Miranda really have done it all deliberately? The idea seemed ludicrous right now. If it was an accident, a simple error of judgement, then Beatrice was right – she did not deserve to risk a great punishment for a single mistake.

Rounding the corner, he nearly walked straight into Lucy. He staggered, and her hands automatically went out to steady him.

"Arthur?" she said, frowning. "You look green. Are you quite well? Is it your head again?"

"Yes, yes, my head. I've just learned that I've been a fool."

Her expression hardened. "Tell me what happened, Arthur."

"I just want to go to bed."

Her hands tightened on his arms. "Tell me what happened, please. Tell me."

"I can't. You won't be able to help."

"Let me be the judge of that. For heaven's sake, Arthur, tell me."

***

"And you're sure this is her room?"

Julius glanced uncertainly up and down the hallway. "Yes, I'm sure."

"Good," Lucy breathed.

What they were about to do was, naturally, extremely inappropriate. They were about to violate all laws of privacy and hospitality and do something that would be frowned upon by all of Society.

Well, Lucy was, at least.

Miranda Sinclair's room was the Purple Room, which Lucy remembered as one of the nicest guest bedrooms. She knew the layout off by heart, including the neat little writing desk set in the corner, and a bureau for storing things.

"I need you to wait outside while I look through her room, Julius."

Julius, Arthur's valet, shifted nervously from foot to foot.

"I can't, your ladyship. There's no reason for me to be in the ladies' wing of the house. If I'm caught here, there'll be trouble."

She sighed. "Fine, fine, that's a fair point. Go on, then. See how Arthur is doing."

"He was lying down last time I saw him, your ladyship. He didn't look well."

Julius' face was pinched and angry. To enlist his help, Lucy had been obliged to tell him everything – that Miranda was plotting to elicit a proposal from Arthur, who did not want to marry her. Julius might have a reputation for indolence below stairs, but he was also well-liked and fiercely protective of his employer. He didn't want to greet Miranda Sinclair as Lady Lanwood any more than anybody else did.

And so, Lucy felt entirely entitled to take matters into her own hands and snoop around the woman's room.

"Well, if you see Miranda heading up to her room, try and waylay her, won't you?"

Julius grimaced. "I'll do my best, your ladyship. Good luck."

She gave him a brief nod, then eased open the door to Miranda's room, as quietly as she could and stepped inside.

What am I even looking to find?

Lucy threw herself into her task, carefully going through Miranda's drawers and trunks. The key was not to stop and give herself a chance to think over what she was doing.

I can't let her have him, Lucy thought, over and over again. He's given up, I can see it. He's tired of fighting. Fortunately, Arthur has me, and I have never had enough of fighting.

She moved over to the writing desk. It was unlocked. Heart hammering, Lucy slid out a little pile of notepaper. On top was a neatly folded letter, addressed to the rest of the Sinclair family.

Drawing in a deep breath, Lucy unfolded it and began to read.

Dear Mama, Carrie, and Matilda, the letter began, I am here, and it is very nice. I am well looked after, although treated like an invalid, which is a little infuriating. However, the plan we discussed before I left is well in place.

Lucy read on, outrage and shock building up inside her. Her fists clenched on the letter, crumpling it up into a little ball. Then she remembered that it was evidence, and carefully smoothed it out again.

"What do you think you are doing?"

Flinching, Lucy spun around.

Miranda had crept up behind her on soft feet, and stood in the doorway, the very picture of fury and outrage. Her gaze dropped down to the letter, and her expression sharpened.

"Were you going through my things?" she demanded, her voice pitching higher. "Were you reading my personal letters? Oh, just wait till I tell Mrs. Langley about this! Arthur will…"

"You mean Lord Lanwood, the man you intended to trap into marriage?" Lucy shot back. She waved the letter. "I have it all here. You shouldn't have laid out your plan quite so clearly."

Anger flared in Miranda's face, and she made a grab for the letter. Lucy dodged away, holding it out of reach.

"Give that letter to me!" Miranda hissed. "You had no right to read it."

"No. I'm going to show the letter to Beatrice and Arthur."

Miranda snatched up a heavy jug from the washbasin, holding it threateningly over her head.

"Give it to me now," she snapped, "or I'll make you sorry. I'll break this jug over your head, and then…"

"I wouldn't do that, Miss Sinclair."

At the sound of Arthur's voice, both women froze. Miranda turned slowly, almost comically, and there he stood, silhouetted in the doorway. Julius stood behind him, obviously having fetched his master from his room.

Miranda lowered the jug, replacing it with a clack on the table.

"I… I was just angry," she managed weakly. "Lucy was so unkind, and she's read my private correspondence. I know that you would never stoop to such a thing, Arthur."

By way of response, Arthur strode in the room, holding out his hand for the letter. Lucy wordlessly handed it to him, and he began to read.

It seemed to take far too long to read a simple letter. Lucy's heart hammered, and she could hardly imagine how Miranda felt. She almost felt sorry for her.

"So, you did plan it," Arthur said quietly, almost to himself.

"Arthur, I only planned anything because of how much I love you. I was so sure that…"

"You don't love me," he said crisply, folding the letter and sliding it into his pocket. "You have contempt for all of us. You think us so foolish that we wouldn't see through your schemes. You even left out an incriminating letter. You deliberately put your reputation at risk in order to secure me, relying on the fact you knew I was a gentleman who would do my duty."

"Arthur…"

"Lord Lanwood, if you please," Arthur said, and now his voice was like ice. "I think, Miss Sinclair, it's time for you to leave. Today. This very hour, in fact."

"But… but my reputation…" Miranda stammered.

"Your reputation will not be damaged by us. Nobody needs to know what happened, unless you try to make trouble for myself, my family, or the Thornhills. In which case, this letter might resurface."

It seemed likely that Miranda would argue, but Arthur stepped closer to her, and her unspoken objections trailed off.

"The rope to the chandelier was cut," he said, his voice low. She went deathly white. "I cannot prove it was you," he continued, and Lucy was genuinely afraid that Miranda might collapse altogether, "but I suggest you get out of my sight, Miss Sinclair, and don't return. Leave. Now."

Wordlessly, Miranda turned to the bureau, and began pulling her clothes out and stuffing them into a bag.

"See that she leaves," Arthur said to Julius and Lucy. He seemed exhausted and left without another word.