Chapter 6

“We must be quiet,” Valentine cautioned her, as they crept along the corridor and into the room he was sharing with Bonny.

“I really don’t think Sir Horley’s aunt will hear us up here.”

“It’s not her I’m concerned about. I will never hear the end of it if I wake Periwinkle.”

Of course Valentine would be thinking of his valet. It was almost reassuring in a way. The stars could fall from the sky and the sun explode into cinders, and Valentine’s main preoccupation—after Bonny’s well-being—would be how to get his boots shined and who would press his neckcloths. Then again, given Bonny’s tendencies towards chaos, living full-time with him probably required the intervention of a third party of unflappable temperament and orderliness, even without the dissolution of the cosmos.

This was borne out by the state of the room, which was surprisingly neat for a space Bonny at least partially occupied. The eight to ten books he insisted on travelling with— But what if I can’t find anything to read? —were, for once, neatly stacked on the bedside table. And the sight of them, all dog-eared and stuck with bookmarks, gave Belle the oddest sense of nostalgia. If you could feel nostalgic for something that belonged to a place and a time you didn’t want to go back to and reminded you of a person you no longer knew how to pretend to be.

In any case, now was not the time. She boxed up the feeling, telling herself she would return to it at a more opportune moment, but secretly suspecting she was far more likely to consign it to some dusty internal corner—along with the other tidied-up relics of hurt and disappointment and rage—and never examine it again.

Sir Horley, clad somewhat haphazardly in garments clearly borrowed from Valentine, was sprawled out on the bed, sleeping fitfully. Attempts to rouse him mostly resulted in piteous requests for five more minutes.

“Can you assist in some way?” Belle demanded of Valentine.

He started. “I’m sorry. I was just thinking how different people look when they’re asleep.”

“Yes yes.” She tugged urgently at Sir Horley’s arm. “They look younger and more vulnerable. Except Bonny, who looks smug and cherubic.”

This proved a poor technique for focusing Valentine’s attention. He smiled helplessly. “He does look smug and cherubic.”

“For fuck’s sake, Valentine. This is an emergency. How long do you think Bonny is likely to be able to stall Sir Horley’s aunt?”

Valentine cast her a look from beneath his eyelashes. “Indefinitely?”

“Even so, this is not a moment to lose yourself in sentimental reveries about my twin or guilty ones about how you should have been a better friend to Sir Horley.”

“I should have been a better friend to Sir Horley,” said Valentine, mournfully and predictably.

Belle bit back an impatient growl. “Yes.”

“I had no notion he felt this way. Alone and powerless and ... and uncared for. He always seemed happy to the point of irritating.”

“Oh, Valentine,” muttered Belle. “Are you not over thirty? Surely even through your strawberry leaves you can see that the bold can be fragile, the exuberant despairing, and the obliviously arrogant capable of occasional kindness in very specific contexts.”

“I suppose I am the obliviously arrogant in this schema?”

“I did also note your capacity for kindness.”

“I know. It is probably the nicest thing you’ve ever said about me.”

“Well, I do not advise growing accustomed to it.”

“Arabella?” His eyes drifted to hers. “Which in your reckoning are you?”

None of them? All of them? “The one who wants your help with Sir Horley before Bonny tells Mrs. Greenleaf he has been taken up by the wild hunt and swept away to a land between here and now to dwell forever as the consort of the king of the winter fae.”

It was, she thought, a sufficiently good point, sufficiently well made, that even Valentine would heed her. He was not a man disposed to physical activity—another very specific context involving Bonny notwithstanding—but he had height and, when he chose to employ it, a kind of languid strength. Thankfully he chose to employ it now because if the evening had taught Belle anything, it was that her attempts to hoist Sir Horley about on her own rarely ended well. Supporting him between them, they managed to half push, half drag him towards the door.

“Wait,” said Belle, just as they reached it. “Let us throw one of your coats over his head.”

“Alternatively,” suggested Valentine, “we do not throw one of my coats over his head?”

“It may soothe him.”

“How will having a coat over his head be soothing?”

“Is it not soothing to parrots? Having something over their cage, I mean?”

Valentine made a noise like a troubled stallion. “And the next time Sir Horley is a parrot, we can bear that in mind.”

“But,” Belle protested, “what if he is recognised?”

“I think anyone capable of recognising Sir Horley is capable of recognising him with a coat over his head.”

“I still feel we will draw less attention.”

“How will two people smuggling a man out of an inn draw less attention if the man in question has a coat over his head?”

“Well, we would not be arguing, for starters.”

“Fine.” Valentine’s attempt at a dramatic gesture was hindered by the fact that, in order to be truly dramatic, he would have been required to let go of Sir Horley. Which, since he was bearing most of Sir Horley’s weight, would likely have gone badly for everyone. “Take whatever coat you require. But I don’t want to hear another word— ever —about how I don’t support you.”

“You’re certainly supporting Sir Horley.”

It was the sort of thing Bonny would have said. The sort of thing that, had Bonny been the one to say it, Valentine would have smiled at. But because it was Belle, he barely glanced at her. Even when she tried, she would never be anything to him but an obligation. An obstacle or an irritant. Some combination of the grieving child he had abandoned and the confused woman who had fled him. No wonder she got so bitter every time he encouraged her to view him with nuance . Certainly, you had no right to ask other people for things when you had neither intent nor capacity to provide them in return.

Holding on to petty—or not so petty—resentment was not, Belle knew, supposed to be admirable. Indeed, she did not admire herself for it. But the reality was it could sometimes be terribly useful. Strengthening, both metaphorically and literally. When you had to, for example, smuggle your friend/fiancé out of an inn, and the person assisting you in the process was only moderately committed to it. Still, the lateness (or, more accurately, earliness) of the hour was helpful, and they managed to get down the corridor and then down the stairs, not quietly exactly, but without either encountering or rousing any of the other guests.

Things became a little more complicated as they approached the taproom. Within, Belle could see the gaunt and ominous silhouette of Sir Horley’s aunt as she stood with her back to the mostly dwindled fire. A woman of her word, she was accompanied by a couple of hunting dogs as well as three slightly dishevelled-looking servants, and Miss Carswile, who had probably been nothing less than fully shevelled her entire life.

“So you’re telling me,” Mrs. Greenleaf was saying, this apparently addressed to Bonny, “you don’t know anything?”

“Excuse me,” Bonny protested. “I know plenty of things. Like the square root of sixty-four is eight. And Lord Byron’s middle name is Gordon. Which isn’t very Byronic, is it?”

“About my nephew. And this meretricious flibbertigibbet he’s run off with.”

“You mean, my sister?”

“What else am I to call a young woman who cavorts about the countryside in breeches?”

“Arabella Tarleton?” suggested Bonny.

Mrs. Greenleaf turned to one of the servants. “This is a waste of time. Search the premises.”

With the instinct of a twin, Bonny barely turned his head towards the doorway. Belle made frantic “Do something” gestures at him. His eyes blinked “Like what?” and she hand signalled an emphatic “Anything.” Then an even more emphatic “Now.” Because Sir Horley’s aunt was already in motion. And they were trapped in the corridor with nowhere to hide, and she could feel Valentine beginning to panic the same way you could sometimes feel a rainstorm approaching.

There came the tap of Mrs. Greenleaf’s shoes against the flagstones. The whine-click of a dog yawning extensively. Belle’s heart squeezed and her mind whirled. What was she going to do ?

“Oh my God,” Bonny shrieked. “Look over there.” The slightest pause. “ There. Outside.”

“What?” asked Miss Carswile, alarmed.

“I saw something. In the window.”

“Your own reflection?” That was Mrs. Greenleaf, her tone dripping condescension. Though she did, at least, seem to have paused.

“No,” Bonny protested. “Not my own reflection. Something ... else. Something extraordinary .”

Miss Carswile had crossed the room. “There’s a tree.”

“Not a tree.”

“The branches are quite sinister.”

“It’s. Not.” Bonny punctuated each word with a foot stamp. “The. Tree. It was ... under the tree. Ghostly figures. But”—he was gathering steam—“strangely beautiful. And riding on spectral milk-white steeds.” He gasped. “It was probably the wild hunt. Sir Horley and Belle have been seized by the wild hunt.”

“You,” declared Sir Horley’s aunt, “are as bad as your sister. Possibly worse.”

“Oh, I’m definitely worse.” This had clearly brought out Bonny’s competitive side.

In any case, irritating Mrs. Greenleaf turned out to be an effective way of distracting her. Nudging Valentine into action, Belle hustled him and Sir Horley past the taproom and along yet another corridor towards the kitchen.

Where they collided with Mr. Bogstwaddle, coming the other way. He was in a stripy nightshirt, complete with matching cap, and was holding a sizeable slice of the game pie that had been served at supper. Everyone took a moment to flinch guiltily.

“I was awoken”—Mr. Bogstwaddle was the first to gather himself—“by a commotion.”

Belle did not have time for this. “No, you weren’t. You were already up and sneaking pie.”

“I was not. What pie?”

“The pie in your hand.”

Mr. Bogstwaddle stared at both hand and pie in consternation, as if the one had spontaneously materialised in the other. “I have no notion—oh goodness. The truth is I ... I have an affliction.”

“An affliction,” repeated Belle, not quite as a question.

“Y-yes. You have heard, of course, of those who ambulate in slumber. Well, I masticate.”

“You sleep eat?”

“Yes,” returned Mr. Bogstwaddle defiantly. “And anyway, what are you doing with a man with a coat over his head?”

There would be no assistance from Valentine. He had all the problem-solving initiative of a squashed teacake. “We’re helping him,” Belle explained.

“How is it helpful for him to have a coat over his head?”

“Um,” said Belle.

“Could he by any chance be the lady’s runaway nephew?”

“No,” said Belle, at the same time Valentine—clearly caught off guard—said, “Yes.” And then, in response to Belle kicking him in the ankle, “That is, I mean. Technically.”

“How,” asked Mr. Bogstwaddle, showing surprising tenacity for a man with gravy dripping between his fingers, “is he not and also technically her nephew?”

Belle shot Valentine a furious look. “Yes, Valentine. How is he not and also technically Mrs. Greenleaf’s nephew?”

“He is her nephew,” he said slowly, his voice tinged with the desperation of someone who has no idea what his next words ought to be, “but he’s also not because he’s ...”

“Yes?” said Belle.

“Because he’s . . .”

“Yes,” said Mr. Bogstwaddle.

“Dead,” finished Valentine.

There was nothing for Belle to do at this point but to stare at him.

Mr. Bogstwaddle blinked. There was something very obnoxious about his blinking. “That still doesn’t explain the coat.”

“No.” Valentine was speaking like he was a grandfather clock winding down. “It does explain the coat. Because the coat ...”

“Yes?” said Belle.

“The coat . . .”

“Yes,” said Mr. Bogstwaddle.

“Is a gesture of respect. You see”—Valentine appeared to have found his footing—“he was killed in a particularly bloody and brutal fashion. And his face was left ... unrecognisable.”

Belle was still staring. “Do you truly think this is helping?”

A vein was pulsing at Valentine’s temple. “You try explaining it then.”

“Why do I have to explain it? This is your fault.”

Mr. Bogstwaddle’s eyes were flicking between them as though he were chasing ants. “If he’s dead, where are you taking him?”

“Where are we taking him, Valentine?” asked Belle sweetly.

Valentine’s mouth opened and closed a few times. “I don’t know. I just ... I don’t know.”

“It’s because the Duke of Malvern murdered him,” Belle offered, “and has forced me to aid him in hiding the corpse.”

“What?” The pie was beginning to slide slowly between Mr. Bogstwaddle’s fingers, gravy splatting onto the floor like blood drops.

“Oh yes. He’s a very dangerous man. Beneath his facade of”—Belle’s eyes slid sideways to Valentine—“not being dangerous at all.”

Mr. Bogstwaddle swallowed with an audible gulp . “I should probably ... probably ... be going to bed.”

“Yes,” said Belle. “Yes, you should.”

He slithered awkwardly past them in the narrow corridor, trying not to jostle them or drop his pie, and then walked away with the rigid calm of a man who believes he may have turned his back on a bear in the woods.

“He’s going to summon a magistrate, isn’t he?” asked Valentine, with an air of resignation rather than distress.

Belle nodded. “Most likely.”

“Devil take it.”

“You were the one who—”

“I’m aware.”

She took a moment to assess the situation. “Consider the positives. Your being arrested could well provide Sir Horley and me with a useful diversion.”

“And my being hanged?” Valentine’s tone remained unexpectedly mild. Either he had discovered a deep well of personal resilience, or his mind had buckled under the stress of the evening.

“They can hardly hang you for the murder of a still-living man,” Belle pointed out.

“Who is in Scotland.”

“I believe people in Scotland are generally understood to be alive.”

“I was thinking more of the distance.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. We will make our return just in the nick of time to save you from the gallows.”

“Will you?”

“Of course. It’s the trope.”

This did not seem to reassure Valentine as it would have reassured Bonny. But, in the midst of an extremely spontaneous elopement, it was the best Belle could manage. At the very least, it allowed her to hurry Valentine—and along with him Sir Horley—through the abandoned, though recently pie-denuded kitchen, and out into a well-kept herb garden that was quickly rendered simply a herb garden by their passage. Pressing tight to the wall of the inn, they crept towards the stable yard, where Valentine’s carriage was waiting. Unfortunately, this also brought them close to the taproom, where Bonny was doggedly performing amateur theatrics in front of the very window they were needing to pass.

“Get down.” Belle dropped to the ground, pulling Valentine and Sir Horley with her and hopefully out of view.

“I’m not sure this is mud,” whispered Valentine.

“Right now, the least of my concerns,” Belle whispered back.

“But I’m quite concerned,” he insisted.

“Live with it,” she insisted back.

Reaching a hand carefully above her, she felt through the moss and a stray cobweb until she was able to crook a finger beneath the frame. Thankfully, in the excitement of the evening, the window had not yet been latched, and she was able to ease it partially open.

“—clearly not well,” Miss Carswile was saying, her voice falling on Belle’s ears with impossible sweetness after that long, dark, and emotional night.

“There’s clearly something not right with him,” Sir Horley’s aunt agreed, albeit without sweetness.

“Excuse me.” Bonny sounded genuinely outraged. “There are lots of things not right with me.”

“This is a waste of time.” That was Mrs. Greenleaf again.

“Is it not,” asked Miss Carswile, “our moral duty to help him in some way? His sister is missing too. And he seems”—she broke off, clearly at a loss—“delirious?”

While they were distracted, Belle took the opportunity to distract Bonny in return. “Psst,” she tried.

Bonny twitched. Then half turned. Then jumped. Then tried to pretend he had done none of those things. “What are you doing?” he mouthed. As best as one could mouth without moving one’s mouth.

Belle flicked her fingers in a “Do something” gesture.

“Like what?”

“Anything.”

“Are you talking to yourself?” demanded Mrs. Greenleaf.

“What?” Bonny at least sounded plausibly startled, if not plausibly like he hadn’t been mumbling out of a cracked-open window. “No. No, I’m— look over there .”

Risking a peep over the sill, Belle discovered neither Mrs. Greenleaf nor Miss Carswile looking over there. They were, in fact, still looking directly at Bonny, Mrs. Greenleaf with an expression of unmitigated disgust, and Miss Carswile bewildered pity.

With a muted squeak, Belle huddled down again. “I think we’re fucked.”

“My dear Belle,” murmured Valentine, “we are long-standing recipients of fuckery. It began early, continued vigorously, and has yet to cease. This has been one of the most protracted fuckings of my life.”

It was at that moment that Mr. Bogstwaddle burst into the taproom with such ferocity, and at such velocity, that the door slammed into the wall with a glassware-rattling crash. “Help,” he cried. “Murder! Pie thievery! Kidnapping!”

At any other time, Belle would have enjoyed the chaos. For there was much of it: raised voices, barking dogs, rapid footsteps, and the clatter of furniture being knocked over or pushed aside. As it was, however, she merely took the opportunity to make a run for the carriage, clambering into it while Valentine hoisted Sir Horley in after.

The inn, meanwhile, had gone full hue and cry. Although some of the cries were the innkeeper, wanting to know if five stars from a duke still counted if the duke was a known criminal.

“Belle.” Valentine caught her wrist and held it, admittedly somewhat muddily, but there was warmth there too. “Are you sure this is what you want?”

Exhausted, she lifted a shoulder in the barest approximation of a shrug. “If it isn’t, it’s too late now.”

The moonlight had transformed his eyes to silver. And they gazed up at her, earnest and uncomprehending. “Don’t do this. Stay. I can find the life that fits you.”

“Maybe you can.” Leaning forward, she pressed her lips briefly to his brow. “With all your wealth and power, education and intellect, I’m sure there’s little you could not accomplish.”

“Then let me.”

She shook her head. “I would rather a life I chose.”

“Even if it makes you unhappy?”

“As long as it is mine.”

It seemed as though he wanted to argue with her. But either he thought better of it, or there was no opportunity. Instead, he stepped away from the carriage, while Belle folded up the steps and pulled the door closed.

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this,” Valentine told the coachman. “But ... to Gretna Green? As fast as you can.”