Chapter Twelve

Two weeks later

H ettie stared at the food on her plate as if it might actually try to bite her. It had been days since she'd eaten anything of consequence. Days enough for her to come to terms with the shocking realization that had come upon her only weeks earlier. She was with child. One indiscretion. One gloriously passionate moment followed by so much regret, and now she faced the ultimate consequence from such an encounter.

How long would it be before one of the servants told Arthur that she had not bled? How long would it be before he demanded to know who the father of her child was? Would he denounce her? Would he proclaim the child a bastard and cast her off? It was certainly possible. And regardless of how reprehensible his behavior had been from the very outset of their marriage, her one sin, in the eye of both society and the law, would far surpass the plethora of his.

She would have to tell Honoria the truth, and Vincent. He could not protect her when he did not know what she required protection from. But would he tell Mr. Ettinger ? And she forced herself to think of him thusly. As Mr. Ettinger. Thinking of him as Joss allowed the memories of their night together to creep in. And those memories were a weakness she could ill afford.

Would Vincent tell him? Likely, she supposed. If positions were reversed, she would. And he did have some entitlement to the knowledge, regardless of what he chose to do with it. But she wasn't ready to face it. Not just yet.

"The duck is not to your liking?" Arthur asked. "Perhaps we should hire some French chef... more fashionable than our English cooks. Can't abide their rich sauces. Frogs and snails. Slimy things." The last was accompanied by a shudder.

Hettie had to place her hand over her mouth to keep from retching. It wasn't even Arthur's fault. In his own way, since her abduction and subsequent rescue, he'd been at least a tolerable husband. They'd struck their bargain, and he was adhering to it. He left her alone most of the time. They only ever saw one another for dinner or social engagements that they were both required to attend. Those were few and far between. Given the scandal of her abduction and Honoria's marriage to the veritable king of London's criminal underbelly, they were no longer high on anyone's list of exalted guests.

"Arthur, my head is positively splitting," she said, "Would it be too terribly difficult to just eat this meal in silence?"

He bristled at the question. Shoving his chair back from the table, he rose and tossed his serviette onto the linen table cover. "Fine. You wish to enjoy your meal in silence, I will simply take my leave of you... I liked you better before."

"You didn't like me at all before," she pointed out.

"And less so now," he countered before stalking out of the dining room. Moments later, the front door slammed. He would go to his club or to one of the gaming hells he frequented. He would drink and lose heavily and return home in a foul mood, likely the following morning. But he'd stay far from her, and that was all she could ask for.

Hettie pushed her plate away from her, unable to bear the sight of it any longer, and signaled for a footman to take it away. When the food had been removed, she rose and retreated to the small morning room which she'd taken as her own personal respite. It was the least objectionable room in the house, likely because it had never been redecorated by Arthur's first wife. Apparently, the previous Lady Ernsdale's taste had been atrocious. Everything in the house was fussy and overdone—too ornate, too gilded, too everything, really. But that room, with settees and chairs upholstered in a soft blue offset against darkly stained wood and a cream and blue carpet, offered up a peaceful spot in an otherwise often chaotic home. And she needed a bit of peace. Desperately.

Taking a seat at the small writing desk near the window, she began to pen a letter to her sister. She hated to do it, as they'd only just returned to town and were likely exhausted from their journey. But she'd never needed her sister's counsel more.

*

Arthur Dagliesh, Lord Ernsdale, muttered to himself as he strode down the dimly lit street toward his favorite gaming hell. Well, not favorite, really. He was no longer permitted entry at his favorite. There had been an unfortunate disagreement and nasty allegations of cheating. A duel had only narrowly been avoided. Since then, he was no longer welcome in that lovely establishment. The same could be said for any number of others. It was getting to the point where he was running out of places where he was welcome. Of course, none of that had been aided by his wife's sister marrying into the criminal class. Now, due to his unfortunate and quite involuntary association with the Hound of Whitehall, he was looked on as suspect by many.

Sympathy should have been with him, he thought bitterly. After all, following Henrietta's abduction and rescue, it was quite clear that he was the injured party. What man wanted a wife who may have been defiled by others? The truth of it was that he'd have been better off had they managed to kill her. Not that he cared one whit whether she lived or died beyond how it might benefit or bedevil him. If she had died, then he'd have access to the entirety of her fortune and not just the small bit that the trustees her father had named chose to dole out. It was galling that he'd only married the chit for money and discovered too late he'd only get his hands on it in piecemeal fashion.

The establishment he'd chosen for the evening's entertainment was only steps away. The Plum Pearl dealt primarily in cards and dice, but there were other avenues of entertainment in there, as well. In particular, there were hidden passages that allowed one to observe the bedchambers many of the "ladies" used to entertain their guests. Watching had always been his preferred pleasure, and many of those ladies specialized in very specific types of pleasure. His introduction into that world of bondage and restraints, the deprivation of pleasure to the point of agony, had been enlightening, to say the least. Was it any wonder that he couldn't feel any sort of excitement at the thought of bedding his frigid, virginal wife?

"Ernsdale?"

Arthur's steps faltered. But he didn't stop, nor did he turn. He wasn't a man who was well liked, and he knew it. There were many who would do him harm, and since this person was following him, rather than waiting to speak to him in the club or calling on him at home, it indicated that it was not someone whom he would want to deal with.

Picking up his pace, he had just reached the steps, one foot poised to push up when he felt it. One hand grabbed his shoulder, pulling him back. And then there was just a small sting, a slight prick of pain followed by a spreading coldness. Dropping his head, he saw the crimson stain spreading over the front of his waistcoat.

The blade had been so thin it was almost painless. It had slipped easily between his ribs. But then pain exploded when that sliver thin blade was turned, twisted brutally inside his chest, and then yanked free. His blood steamed in the cold air as it seeped out, the little puffs of white silhouetted by the gas lamp that burned beside the door of the establishment that would have offered him solace.

He stumbled, turning to face his attacker. But he never saw him. He never saw the man who had killed him because he was already gone, vanished into thin air. Another glance showed that the front of his waistcoat was now entirely saturated with blood. The deep crimson appeared almost black in the dim light.

The world was spinning, the darkness around him growing, creeping in ever closer. He fell, pitching forward into the street. He never heard the carriage wheels or the beating hoofs that approached. And before the first one had struck him, he had already breathed his last.