Chapter 38

Finally liberated from Lady Farrow, Belle skirted the edges of the guests, trying to calculate just how long she was required to stay to ensure leaving would not look rude. Rufus was on the other side of the room, clearly talking about opera, and she was in no humour to deal with people talking about opera, if she was ever in that humour. It was then that she spotted Roberta “Bob” Everley, Orfeo’s secretary/manager/assistant, making a desultory assault on the refreshments. While they had not often crossed paths, the two women knew each other by name, sight, and reputation. Which was to say, Belle’s reputation for being an impulsive fribble and Bob’s reputation for relentless, even obnoxious, practicality.

In that moment, it felt like fate. After all, if there was anyone of whom she could ask questions she shouldn’t be asking, it was probably Bob. Questions, for example, about Rufus’s family. Questions he would never ask for himself that Belle was increasingly convinced he needed to.

Taking a deep breath, she sidled nonchalantly over, realising a little too late that it was impossible to sidle nonchalantly. Sidling was visibly chalant by its very nature. Thankfully Bob was still too involved with the refreshments to notice. “Is this capillaire?” she said, holding a glass of something straw-coloured and orange-scented to the light. “Orfeo isn’t getting paid enough for this.”

Belle was glad she had thus far eschewed the drinks. “But they are getting paid?”

“Handsomely. My point is, it’s still not enough.”

“Bob?” Having embarked upon what she knew was an ill-advisable course, Belle abruptly discovered there was no subtle way to proceed with it. So she went with unsubtle. “You know how you are generally accounted to know everything?”

“Yes.”

“Is it possible to ...” Suddenly Belle was feeling a lot more sympathetic to Lady Farrow’s hesitant introduction of Algy’s ends. “Is it possible to ... find people.”

It was testament to either Bob’s job or Bob as a person that she received this question incuriously. “Find in what way? And what kind of people?”

“Just ordinary people kind of people? And find as in ... locate?”

“You’re not giving me much to go on. If they’re peers, they’ll be in Debrett’s ; if they’re criminals, there’s newspapers and trial records; if they’re famous or notorious, word of mouth might be the answer; otherwise it’s parish records, which aren’t exactly anyone’s idea of reliable. And you’d have to know which parish to go to.”

“They’re”—despite her determination to do this, Belle’s heart was beating a rhythm of terrible mistake, terrible mistake —“my husband’s family?”

“Who’s your husband?” asked Bob. “What? Don’t look at me like that. I’m not a social secretary. I can’t be expected to keep track of the comings and goings of every friend of Orfeo’s partner.”

Bob was right. She couldn’t be expected to keep track of that, but it was disconcerting to be reduced to the status of acquaintance—and flighty acquaintance at that—when Belle had once been fairly central to Peggy’s world. On the other hand, maybe this was the perfect excuse to back away from something she shouldn’t have started. “Oh,” she said. “Never mind.”

“Never mind who your husband is?”

“Never mind about any of it.”

“But I’m mildly curious now,” protested Bob. “Why are you trying to find someone else’s family?”

“Aren’t they technically my family on account of, you know, marriage and things?”

“Not really answering the question there, Arabella.”

“I see you noticed that?”

“Nor there.”

Belle sighed and then relented. “Sir Horley’s parents left him with an aunt when he was very young. He feels they cast him off. I think it would help him to learn they did not. Hence my attempting to find them for him.”

For long seconds, Bob was silent. “I suppose you already know,” she said at last, “this is a terrible idea.”

“Yes.”

“I mean, what if they have cast him off?”

“I suppose”—Belle was cringing at herself—“I wouldn’t tell him?”

“That’s a terrible idea on top of a terrible idea. You’d be disregarding him twice over.”

The part of Belle that had spent most of her life in pursuit of terrible ideas rallied. “But what about all the ways he keeps disregarding himself?”

“I’ve no notion what you’re talking about.”

Belle opened her mouth, then closed it again, for it didn’t seem right to speak so intimately of Rufus to a relative stranger. Admittedly, it was an odd place to draw the line, considering all the ways she was going directly against his wishes, but both sets of actions were grounded in the same desire to take care of him. To prove to him he had a place in the world. That he’d always had one. Been loved. Been worthy. Maybe his blood family could give him that, since he could not accept it from her.

“I just want him to be happy,” she said aloud.

Bob shrugged. “That’s nice, but have you considered the possibility that you aren’t responsible for his happiness?”

“We’re married, though.”

“Something I’m assuming he also agreed to.”

Belle thought it best not to mention the whole abduction thing. “Mm-hmm.”

“Then do what Orfeo and Peggy do: talk about stuff. It seems to work wonders for them. Might well work for others. Who knows?” Suddenly Bob paused, frowned. “Wait wait wait. Sir Horley? Did you say your husband was Sir Horley? As in, Sir Horley Comewithers?”

Belle’s eyes widened. “Oh God. You know something?”

“I know lots of things.”

“You know something about this—about him —specifically.”

Bob let out a breath so long it became a groan at the end. “Look, it’s not the sort of name you forget in a hurry. Isn’t his father Rufus Comewithers? The one who married Ygraine? The artists’ model?”

“That seems plausible,” said Belle, who truly had no idea.

“I’m only telling you this,” Bob went on briskly, “because it’s practically common knowledge. We ran into them in Vienna, I think it was. Wait no. Florence, because she was posing for Thorvaldsen and his latest protégée—what was the fellow called again? Eckersberg. One to watch, I reckon.”

While Belle’s interest in Thorvaldsen and/or Eckersberg was not high at the best of times, it was currently less than zero. “Is there any way to reach them?”

“Eckersberg?”

“Sir Horley’s family.”

“You’re really going through with this?”

“I will try my best,” Belle promised, “to talk myself out of it.”

Bob eyed her. “Why do I get the feeling you’ve never been talked out of anything in your entire life?”

“Most likely because it’s true.”

“Fine. The mess other people want to make of their lives isn’t my business.” Fishing a notebook from a reticule the size of a watermelon, Bob began scribbling something down. “This is the address of their hotel in Florence. They’ll probably be there awhile. There’s some kind of artist gathering out there, mostly Danes for whatever reason. Not that I’m suggesting the Danish need a reason to go to Florence. It’s a beautiful city. Here.”

Bob tore the page free and handed it to Belle, who took it dazedly. She was about to tender her thanks and, in all honesty, call it a night, when Bob abruptly addressed her once again.

“Hey. So, you know how I just did you a huge favour?”

Belle blinked. “Are we calling it huge?”

“It was definitely substantial.”

“You wrote four lines on a piece of paper.”

“Anyway”—Bob dismissed this tidily, probably an excellent quality in a secretary/assistant/manager—“would you mind popping in on Orfeo for me? They should be in attendance by now, and they’re not.”

A year ago, this would have been the opportunity of Belle’s dreams. Now she wasn’t sure if she had the kind of relationship with Orfeo that permitted popping in. “Are you sure? Are they all right?”

Bob wiggled her fingers, unconcerned. “Oh yes. They’ll probably just be fussing with their hair. Or maybe they want their skirts fluffing or their corset fastening.”

“And what makes you think I’m qualified to help with any of that?”

“Well”—Bob’s eyes gave her a quick up-down—“you’re a girl.”

“Aren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Bob impatiently, “but the thing is, the thing about me, is I’m not like other girls.”

Belle stared at her in confusion. “What does that even mean?”

“Oh, you know. I’m sharp-tongued and strong-willed. I’m interested in maths and science and things like that. I’m not beautiful, but my eyes are very striking.”

“And you’re under the impression that you’re the only woman on the planet like that?”

“Name three others.”

Belle pondered a moment. “Josephine Kablik, Mary Somerville, Caroline Herschel.”

“Name three in this room.”

Repressing a sigh, Belle scanned the guests. “Those two ladies who accompanied each other? One is an astronomer, the other the daughter of a famous naturalist who I believe has some experience in the field herself. The woman in the corner drinking perhaps a little heavily for the occasion is a writer, a reformer, and a reputed rakess. And the Scottish lady being rude to the Duke of Castlewell is a campaigner for the legalisation of trade unions. Oh and”—Belle gestured subtly with her fan—“those six ladies standing indiscreetly together? They are all members of a secret society who—”

“All right, all right,” said Bob, looking a touch put out. “Now you’re just showing off. But do go and get Orfeo for me, will you? There’s a couple of people I need to talk to on their behalf.”

At this point, Belle had little choice but to accede graciously. “Where do I find them?”

“Straight out the double doors, down the corridor, second on the left—there’s a room set aside for them.”

“And if they aren’t feeling sociable?”

“That’d be a first. They love being adored. But just let me know and I’ll make their excuses.”

Resigned, and only mildly reluctant, Belle set out as Bob had directed. It did not seem, to her, like a good idea to interrupt a world-famous castrato at their toilette, but she assumed Bob knew what she was about. She would not have become indispensable to Orfeo otherwise. It turned out that Bob’s instincts were correct, though not necessarily for reasons she might have envisioned. Belle was about halfway along the corridor when she heard a crash, followed by a scream, followed by a lower-pitched oath.

Rushing towards the sound, Belle threw open the door to Orfeo’s designated room and charged inside. Her first bewildered thought was that Orfeo wasn’t there, for although the dressing table was covered in their powders and tinctures, they were not at it. But then came another muffled cry. The unmistakable thud and thump of bodies in motion or conflict. Turning, she beheld a chaise against the far wall, upon which a confusion of limbs flailed amidst piles of black velvet and the spilled ink of Orfeo’s unbound hair. It took a moment for what she was seeing to resolve into something she recognised: Orfeo, half-dressed, struggling beneath a man Belle did not recognise. At least, Belle thought she did not recognise him. A broad back, in a well-tailored evening jacket, could have been almost anyone.

“Lasciami.” Orfeo’s voice cracked in fury and fear. “Vaffanculo.”

Reacting, rather than thinking, Belle barrelled forward and leapt—all five foot and loose change of her—onto Orfeo’s assailant.

“Stop it,” she shrieked, pummelling away as best she could. “What are you doing? Leave them alone.”

If nothing else, she had distracted the stranger, since even the most committed predator would have been hard-pressed to progress his ultimate goal with Belle screaming in his ear and whacking him in the head.

What came next was a kind of unintelligible physical anarchy, the man lurching in circles in an impotent effort to fling Belle off him, and Belle, finding herself ill-angled for punching, trying to poke his eyes out instead. Eventually, they crashed into a side table, sending both it and them flying, Belle colliding with the wall at a force sufficient to knock the breath from her body. It was enough to dislodge her, and she crumpled to the floor, limp as a pile of laundry.

Orfeo’s attacker was breathing in heavy pants, a hand moving absently to smooth his thoroughly disarranged hair. And when he turned to confront her, Belle realised it was not, after all, a stranger but Orfeo’s former patron, the Marquess de Montcorbier. For a second or two, she could only stare at him in comical disbelief. She didn’t know him well, but her sense of him had always been of a composed, rather distant man, far more interested in art than the scandals and petty power plays of society at large. But there was little trace of elegance or refinement left to him now as he advanced on her, flushed and dishevelled, the sweat glistening upon his brow, a set of sluggishly bleeding claw marks upon his cheek.

Pushing herself upright, Belle prepared to meet him, suddenly very aware of how tall even an average-sized man could look from the wrong angle. It was a bad moment to discover she had no idea what to do—how to even begin to contain someone when they were set upon violence—but she had little opportunity to make the attempt because he proved himself quicker, and more ruthless, than she, backhanding her across the face hard enough to send her reeling into the wall again. The sound came first, a crisp crack of skin to skin, then the shock, then the humiliating debilitation of it, her ears ringing and her eyes watering. The pain was almost an afterthought.

Her hand had flown instinctively to her jaw, which was not a helpful place to have a hand when it seemed very likely that someone was about to strike you for a second time. She tried to brace herself, but mostly she was bracing herself against how helpless she felt, how small and uncertain.

His arm came up. Drew back.

And then he was being dragged away from her by Orfeo, who was clinging to him like a cat, and clearly had no more notion of how to fight than Belle did.

“Leave her alone,” they cried, before the marquess shook them off, sending them spinning across the room.

They attempted to steady themselves but stumbled over their skirts, their shoulder catching the dressing table as they fell, bottles and vials falling with them, peppering the air with clatters and merry tinkles.

“Giovanni.” The marquess’s voice was coaxingly soft. Horribly reasonable, given the circumstances.

Orfeo scrabbled backwards across the carpet. “Stay away from me.”

“There’s no need for this.”

“S-stop it.” That was Belle, trying to speak, trying to reach them, but the whole world had turned to treacle around her. Or she was turning to treacle. Either way, she didn’t like it.

“I said stay away.”

Orfeo snatched up a pot of ... Belle had no idea what ... and hurled it at the marquess. It pinged harmlessly off his shoulder and bounced away into a corner.

“I always did adore your spirit, Giovanni.” Somehow Belle knew the marquess was smiling.

“My”—another pot—“spirit”—a jar of ointment—“is”—a vial of rose water—“mine.”

“And I will treasure it always,” promised the marquess.

Belle started to crawl. Or she thought she did. Maybe she just lay on her face. Everything from the neck up—even her brain—was throbbing . She had church bells instead of a head, and monks were ringing them badly. Through her disorientated haze, she saw the marquess lunge at Orfeo, who snatched up yet another of their cosmetics to throw. As the little box spun through the air, the prettily painted lid broke free, dispensing a cloud of glittering rainbow powder that caught the marquess fully in the face.

“Jesus Christ.” He staggered back, blinking frantically. “My eyes.”

Orfeo and Belle rushed him in unison, bearing him to the ground, where he was capable of little more than writhing.

“We must secure him,” Belle directed. Because this was an area in which novels had never let her down.

Without hesitation, Orfeo pulled up their skirts. Stripping off their stockings—which were black silk with silver clocks—they passed them to Belle.

“Oh,” she said, still sore and shaken, but feeling better by the moment, “these are so pretty.”

“Grazie.”

The marquess did his best to resist as they secured his hands and feet, but with his eyes already swollen shut and the skin around them bright red beneath a scattering of rainbows, he was in no place to. Not one to leave anything to chance, Belle pulled tight the final knot and sat on him.

She and Orfeo gazed at each other across their fallen foe, jointly stunned, and more than a little worse for wear.

That was when Rufus and Lady Farrow burst into the room.

“What in God’s name is going on?” demanded Rufus.

The marquess stirred and gasped out, “I think I’m blind.”

“Lady Farrow.” Orfeo rose gracefully, languidly, as if they entertained people in the wreckage of their receiving room all the time. “You really must show greater discrimination when it comes to your guests.”

She glanced from Orfeo to Belle to the marquess and back again. “But ... but ... he’s an Art lover.”

“He is no lover,” returned Orfeo, gesturing at themself, the rips in their gown, and the finger marks upon their wrists, “of this art.”

Lady Farrow’s mouth fell open. The idea that someone could admire art and behave badly was clearly beyond her mind’s power of reconciling. “He attacked you?”

“And may well have done worse if not for Miss Tarleton here.”

“Belle.” That was Rufus, falling to his knees before her, his fingers soft and cool beneath her chin. “What’s happened to you?”

“Do I look daththing?” she asked, because the swelling at her jaw was limiting its range of motion.

“No, you look like you’ve been hit in the face.”

Her eyes widened tragically.

“I mean, yes, you look like you’ve been hit in the face very dashingly. My poor darling.”

“I’m fine,” she assured him. “I’m gooth.”

“I’m going to fucking kill him.”

This was the final straw for Belle. “So you won’t murther Valentine but you will murther the marqueth? That’th tho unthair .”

Rufus’s own face was doing something very strange, which Belle finally identified as trying not to laugh. “It would probably be best,” he said gently, “for all our sakes if you didn’t speak for a while.”

“And I would prefer,” Orfeo added, “that we dispense with talk of further violence. Could someone please see that”—they toed the marquess with a bare foot—“ this is removed from my sight.”

“Of course. Forgive me, Orfeo.” Rufus rose, drawing Belle with him, only releasing her when he was sure she could stand unaided. Then he bent and dragged the marquess roughly upright by his bound hands. “Come. You and I are going to have a little talk.”

“I do hope,” murmured Orfeo, “that is not some masculine euphemism.”

Belle sighed. “He’th not going to murther him. He’th curiouthly reluctant on that thcore. But he can be vocally devaththathing when he wanth to be.”

“This is not something I would normally say to anyone”—Orfeo had a hand clasped lightly across their mouth as though they were trying very hard to contain laughter—“but you really should listen to your husband and be quiet a little while.”

“But I’m fine,” protested Belle. “I’m gooth.”

Orfeo turned to their hostess. “Lady Farrow, might I trouble you to fetch Bob for me, and perhaps some ice for my friend.”

“Of course,” she cried, clasping her hands with the anguish of someone whose party has not gone as they had hoped. “I’m so sorry about all this.”

“Giovanni.” While the marquess was not strong enough to break Rufus’s grip, he did manage to twist round in the doorway. “All those years, and I never asked a thing from you.”

For long seconds, Orfeo made no reply. Even in bruises and tatters, they were magnificent, their hair streaming down their back and their eyes fiery with pride. It was only Belle, standing as close to Orfeo as she was, who felt them tremble. “And that gives you the right to take what you will?”

“No, but ...” The marquess’s face was such a mess it was hard to read his expression. But there was, for a moment, something sincerely sorrowful there. Even if it was also selfish. “I love you. I’ve always loved you.”

Orfeo’s lip curled. “You don’t love me. You just want to have me. And”—their voice rose, ragged as a wild beast—“my name is fucking Orfeo.” They flicked their fingers haughtily at Rufus. “Get him out of here.”

It was only when the room was clear of everyone, and even the sound of footsteps had died away, that Orfeo came apart. Sinking to their knees upon the carpet, they covered their face with their hands and breathed like they were breaking. It was a grief so vast and private that Belle wondered if she’d been forgotten.

“Orfeo,” she said softly, not quite daring to touch them. And then, trying to choose words that would not challenge her jaw: “It will be all right.”

They glanced up at her, their fingers wet with the tears they’d shed in silence. “Ever since Peggy, I’ve sworn that no-one would make a trinket of me.” Their voice was low and harsh, like nothing Belle was used to hearing from them. “Never again. She is worth more than the little I was taught to think of myself.”

The door was flung open, and Bob raced in, hair springing free from its demurely fashionable chignon. “What’s happening. Oh my God, emotions.” Stopping dead, she stared at Belle and mouthed, “Do something.”

“Orfeo,” Belle tried again. “Thith ... dammit. Thith ith not your fault. And Peggy will think no leth of you for it.”

“It’s what I was made to be.” They wrapped their arms around themselves, growing smaller and smaller on the floor of Lady Farrow’s drawing room. “There will always be those who will see me no other way.”

“Then fuck them,” suggested Belle. “Whatever thorrow there wath in your patht, you are your own perthon. Your own creathion. Nobody ith rethponthible for your thuchtheth but—”

A different noise drifted out from between Orfeo’s fingers.

“Are you laugthing?” demanded Belle.

“I cannot help myself. No-one could. You sound ridiculous, cara.”

“Well, tho do you,” Belle retorted. “With everything that you’re thaying right now.”

Orfeo peeked up at her. “Probably you are correct. And I’m sorry for that.”

“It’th all right.” If nothing else, Belle prided herself on being magnanimous in victory. “You’ve had a thock.”

“Indeed I have,” Orfeo wheezed, “had a thock.” A few fresh tears slipped from their eyes, but some of them, at least, seemed to be mirth. “I thought I was doing so much better. I hate that Nicholas has made me feel that I am not.”

“He wath very, very in the wrong tonight.”

“I know that. On some level I know that.” They wiped their eyes and steadied their breathing. Threw the heavy weight of their hair back from their shoulders. Then stretched out a hand to Belle. “Thank you, Arabella. For this and for ... earlier. I will soon be myself again.”

“Of courth you will.” She gave their hand an answering, reassuring squeeze.

“I just ...” They broke off, with an embarrassed laugh.

“What?”

“Oh, it’s foolishness. I just wish I could go home. I want to be with Peggy.”

“Why can’t you?”

They lifted a shoulder in a graceful shrug. “Commitments. We’re sailing ... not tomorrow but the day after, is that right, Bob?”

Still somewhat wary of the emotions happening in her vicinity, Bob nodded.

“I don’t have time to get there and back and then to Dover.”

Belle wrinkled her nose. “But don’t you thet your own thchedule theth da—now?”

“Yes, but there are people expecting me. Hoping to see me.”

“You’re Orfeo,” Bob put in. “They’ll wait.”

“You mean”—Orfeo gazed at her with eyes heartbreakingly full of hope—“I can go? I can see Peggy?”

Bob ran a tormented hand through her hair. “Bloody hell, yes. I mean, please don’t go turning into one of those unreliable primos who can’t keep two engagements together. But you’re the boss. What you need, you get. You just have to tell me.”

“We can do that? We can really do that?”

“Yes.” Reaching into her vast reticule, Bob yanked out another notebook from a supply of many. “I’ll stay put, get it handled; you go home, for as long as you like. When you’re ready to tour again, drop me a note, and I’ll take it from there.”

Orfeo was on their feet in seconds, relief and excitement radiating from them with such undimmed fervour that Belle was almost a little envious. “You are, as ever, a wonder, Bob.”

“I know,” said Bob. “There’ll be a carriage waiting for you, first thing in the morning.”

“First thing in the—oh.” Orfeo dimmed. “Of course. It must be well after ten.”

“You know,” Belle spoke into the silence, “my carriage”—well, technically Valentine’s carriage, which Belle had refused to give back—“ith already here. Why don’t I take you home?”

“It will be some hours’ drive, Arabella.”

“Tho? What elth would I be doing? Thleeping? Pah.” To be fair, she would probably owe Valentine’s coachman, who she had also refused to give back, a bonus. A significant bonus.

Orfeo looked genuinely torn.

“It’s fine,” Belle declared. “It’s gooth.”

“You really need to stop saying gooth ,” said Bob. “It’s going to haunt my nightmares.”

“But it ith gooth. I’d love to thee Peggy, who I haven’t theen for ageth. And I can go home to my houth, where I’d much rather be than London, tomorrow.”

“Well”—Orfeo was visibly struggling to contain their eagerness—“if you’re sure.”

Belle was sure.