Chapter Eight
The night was not going well for Dominic in the gaming den.
He looked at the cards in his hands and, despite all his resolutions, thought again of Arabella. Two nights had passed since the night of the masquerade. Only two nights and in that time he had thought of little else.
‘Arlesford,’ Hunter prompted by his side, and he realised that everyone at the table was waiting for him. He shoved some more guineas into the pile at the centre of the table.
And, contrary to his usual play, promptly lost them. Indeed, he had not won a game since entering the seedy surroundings, much to the delight of the rather rough-and-ready patrons of the establishment. But then Dominic knew he was more than a little distracted.
It was a small tavern in the East End, most of the patrons of which looked like men you would not wish to meet on a dark night. Their clothing was coarse, their language too. The gin and beer flowed freely, in the hope of addling the wits of those that were fool enough to come here.
It was, surprisingly enough, the very latest place to be seen for Gentlemen of the ton. Although, Dominic thought wryly, those young fops that ventured in here would soon realise they had bitten off more than they could chew. Young Northcote had ignored all of Dominic’s warnings and was now grinning to hide his nervousness and both drinking and betting more deeply than was wise. The boy was ill at ease in the surroundings, even if he did not want to admit any such thing; it had, after all, been his idea to come here.
Did she wonder as to his absence? Did he gnaw in her thoughts as she gnawed in his? Did she feel this same craving that plagued him night and day? He doubted it. To women like Arabella, their arrangement was nothing more than business. To women like Arabella… He caught the phrase back, and thought bitterly that there were no other women like Arabella.
He stared across the room, seeing not the overly warm, smoky den with its scored tables and rickety chairs and the men with their blackened teeth and their stubble-roughened faces, but the woman whose image had haunted him through the years.
The cards had been dealt. Again.
He lost. Again. And saw the way young Northcote’s eyes widened with fear as the youngster realised the extent of his own loses even at this early hour.
Dominic ached for Arabella, wanted her with a compulsion that bordered on obsession, but each time he touched her it was both ecstasy and torture. When he took her in his arms he felt the wound inside him tear afresh.
She was Arabella Tatton, the woman he had loved, the woman who had so callously trampled the youthful tenderness from his heart. And he could not separate that knowledge from his body’s craving for her. There would never be anything of relief. Yet he needed to be with her more with every passing minute. Even knowing that he could not touch her, even knowing the torture would be greater with her than without, he could not fight this growing addiction.
Dominic pushed his chair back, its battered legs scraping tracks through the sawdust that covered the floor.
‘I think I will call it a night,’ he said to the others and gestured for his hat and gloves to be brought.
Several faces looked up, surprise soon turning to menace.
Even Bullford seemed caught unawares. ‘A tad early for you, Arlesford.’
‘Certainly is, your Grace,’ said a large ruffian employed by the establishment. ‘Stay, see if you can win back them golden guineas that you’ve lost.’
‘Perhaps another night, gentlemen,’ he said.
The men did not look pleased, but Dominic met their gaze directly, knowing that he could handle himself against them. They looked back but only for a moment, then deliberately moved their attention elsewhere.
Hunter stood by his side.
‘Best not leave Northcote here. They will only chew him up all the more and spit him out afterwards,’ he said quietly to Hunter.
So the two of them guided Northcote out into the street.
After the haze of cigar and pipe smoke within the den the clear chilled night air seemed to hit Northcote so hard that the boy staggered.
Dominic hailed a hackney carriage and helped Hunter manoeuvre Northcote into it.
‘You are not coming with us?’ Hunter asked.
Dominic met his friend’s eyes. An unspoken understanding passed between them.
‘You do not have your cane with you tonight,’ said Hunter.
Dominic said nothing, just looked at his friend resolutely.
Hunter gave a sigh. ‘Very well. Just have a care if you are so intent on walking to her,’ said Hunter. ‘The coves back there were not too keen to let you go. It is only a little after midnight and they had hoped to fleece you for hours yet. Watch your back, Dominic.’
‘I will.’ Dominic clapped Hunter on the shoulder and watched the carriage depart before he turned and began to walk in the opposite direction.
He had not gone far when he became aware that he was being followed. He scanned the street, seeing that one of the lamp-posts was out a little further along, just at an opening between the buildings. A nice dark spot and a conveniently positioned alleyway. He knew that was where they would attack him.
They struck just where he had expected. Two attackers, one large and burly, the other smaller with no teeth in his head. He recognised them both from the gaming den.
He dodged back into the alley to avoid the first punch.
‘Not so fast, your Grace,’ a coarse voice said so close to his ear that he could smell the foulness and feel the heat of the fetid breath. A fist swiped close to his face. Dominic ducked and retaliated with a blow hard and low in the belly and had the satisfaction of hearing the man grunt and stumble away clutching at his guts as he bent double and retched against the alley wall. As he turned the second assailant was almost upon him. Dominic twisted to avoid the blow arcing towards him, and managed to avoid the blade—almost. The sting of it sliced across his ribs.
Dominic grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted. He heard the soft crack of bone and the yelp of pain as the man fell to his knees cradling his wrist. The knife clattered to land in the wet and filth of the cobblestones below. Dominic picked it up, and then grabbed the kneeling man’s hair, jerking his head back and touching the edge of the blade against the exposed throat.
‘See that the same does not happen to my friends. Do you understand?’
The man croaked a desperate acquiescence.
Dominic pushed the man away, then walked to face the man cringing against the wall, touching the knife’s tip ever so lightly against the fat of the villain’s belly. ‘You too.’
‘They won’t be harmed, I’ll see to it personally, your Grace,’ the rogue promised.
Dominic stared at him for just a moment longer and then he slipped the knife into his pocket and walked away.
The ruffians were kicking at the door, laying siege to it with a hammer. The thuds of the splintering wood reverberated right through Arabella’s body. She protected Archie with her body, but the men pulled her aside and wrenched the golden locket from around her neck. And when she looked across the road to the other side of the street where the narrow houses with their boarded windows should have stood, she saw the park and her mother standing waiting there. It was all mixed up and wrong, of course, but Arabella did not notice that in her nightmare.
She woke suddenly, with that same panicked feeling of fear in the pit of her stomach. But the sky was still dark with night, and she remembered that this was Curzon Street and there were no robbers and thieves here. She breathed her relief and relaxed her head back down on to the luxury of a soft feather pillow, and as she did she heard a voice cry out in shock. The cry was cut off as if abruptly hushed. She heard the low murmur of voices in the hallway below, the quiet opening and closing of a door. Hurried footsteps across the marbled floor tiles of the hallway.
Archie!
Arabella scrambled from the bed and, using only the glowing remains of the fire to guide her, was out of the bedchamber door and running down the stairs.
All of the wall sconces in the hallway had been lit. A maid, clad in her nightdress and robe, was coming out of the library with a bottle of brandy in her hand.
‘Anne?’
‘Oh, ma’am!’ The girl jumped and spun round and Arabella could see that her face was wet with tears.
‘What is wrong? What are you doing?’ The fear was squirming in Arabella’s stomach.
‘I got such a fright when I saw him.’ The maid’s face crumpled and she began to sob again.
‘What has happened, Anne?’
The drawing door opened and James the footman appeared. ‘What on earth is taking you, girl? I would have been quicker fetching it myself.’ And then he saw Arabella, and gave a quick bow. ‘Begging your pardon, ma’am. I did not see you there.’
‘What on earth is going on here?’ Arabella demanded.
‘It’s the master, ma’am.’
‘Dominic is here?’ The thought had not even entered her head. Even though it was his house. And she was his mistress.
‘His Grace has had a bit of an…accident.’
‘An accident?’ Arabella’s stomach dropped to the soles of her feet. Her heart was thumping a fast frenzied tattoo of dread.
The footman lowered his voice even more. ‘Not the best of sights for a lady to see, but he won’t let me fetch a doctor, ma’am.’
A chill of foreboding shivered right through her. She pushed past James into the drawing room.
Three branches of candles had been lit, yet still their warm flickering glow did not reach to the shadows of the room, nor barely touched the tall dark figure that stood near to the cold fireplace. He had his back to her, but he appeared to be as he ever was, smartly dressed in dark tailcoat and pantaloons, with the air of authority and arrogance that he carried with him. He seemed well enough. She could smell the damp night air that emanated from his still figure. One hand hung loose by his side, the other looked to be tucked into the inner breast pocket of his tailcoat.
‘I should not have come,’ he said without looking round. ‘I had not realised that the hour was so late.’
‘James said you met with an accident.’
‘James exaggerates. I did not mean to wake you. You should go back to bed.’ Still he did not move. And the apprehension that had faded on her first sight of him was back as if it had never left.
‘What has happened, Dominic?’ she asked carefully.
He turned then, and still nothing appeared out of place, except that his right hand remained tucked beneath the left breast of his tailcoat.
‘A minor altercation. Nothing of concern. As I said, go back to bed.’
And then she caught sight of the dark ominous stains upon the white cuff that protruded beneath the dark woollen sleeve of his coat and, lifting the closest candelabrum, she walked towards him.
‘Arabella,’ he said, holding out his exposed hand as if to stay her. But she kept on closing the distance between them, for she had a horrible fear of just what those stains were.
‘This is not for your eyes.’
She felt sick to the pit of her stomach. Her body felt stiff and heavy with dread. ‘Take off your coat.’
‘Arabella…’ One last warning.
She ignored him and took hold of his lapel, pulling back the left breast of his tailcoat.
She gasped at the sight that met her eyes. His white shirt and waistcoat were sodden with blood. She froze, and in that single moment everything changed in her world.
‘Dominic!’ she whispered.
His hand took hers, his grip strong and reassuring. But she felt that it was wet and when she looked she could see the blood that stained it glisten in the candlelight.
‘Oh, my God!’
‘It is but a scratch that bleeds too much.’
But there was blood everywhere, and all of it was his.
‘Go. James will help me.’
She took a deep breath and raised her gaze to his. Their eyes held for a fraction of a second, a heartbeat in which everything she had told herself she felt about him these years past was revealed as a lie.
‘No,’ she said. ‘I will help you.’ And then she glanced round at the footman and prepared to do what she knew must be done.
Dominic watched as Arabella shifted from shock to take charge of the situation. She sent the maid for clean linen and a glass, and instructed the footman with equal calm proficiency, directing James to help divest him of his upper clothing while she half-filled the glass with brandy.
Only once he sat on the sofa wearing only his pantaloons did she pass him the glass. ‘Drink it.’ Her voice was calm, but brooked no refusal.
He did not argue, just did as she directed, downing the contents in one go.
As he drank she rolled up the sleeves of her nightgown, tore a strip off the linen and dowsed both it and her hands in brandy.
Then she sat down by his side, eased him back a little against the sofa.
Her gaze met his. ‘This is going to sting,’ she warned. And her eyes held a concern that Dominic had never thought to see there again. It touched his heart much more than he could ever have imagined.
‘Do your worst,’ he murmured.
He could not prevent himself flinching from the initial touch of the brandy to the wound and saw the pain mirrored in Arabella’s eyes. Yet she did not hesitate, or weaken from her purpose.
Her touch was gentle, her movements reassuring. She worked methodically and with a calmness that seemed to stroke away his tension despite the pain. With strip by patient strip of brandy-soaked linen she cleansed the blood away until all that remained was a thin red line against the paleness of his skin.
‘We should send for the doctor. He may wish to stitch the wound.’ She had not looked at him, not once, since she had taken control of the situation.
‘No doctor,’ he said. ‘The cut is shallow. A week of binding and the skin will knit together well enough.’
‘Dominic—’
‘No doctor,’ he said again.
‘Very well.’ She laid a pad of linen against the wound, then bound it in place. And then she got to her feet, passed the tray of bloodied rags to James.
‘Thank you, James, Anne. You may leave us now.’
She waited until the door closed behind the servants before she sat back down. Side by side they sat on the sofa. Not looking at one another. Not speaking a word. The tension was still between them. But it was different somehow, as if some barrier that had been there before had given way.
The silence seemed to stretch between them.
He slipped his hand to cover hers.
‘Are you going to tell me what happened tonight?’ she asked.
‘A small disagreement with two gentlemen from a gaming den.’
‘I did not know you frequented such places.’
‘There is a lot you do not know about me, Arabella.’
‘And too much that I do know,’ she said quietly. ‘I cannot forget…’
‘Nor can I.’
The clock’s ticking seemed too loud. It seemed to match the beat of his heart.
‘It was not supposed to be like this, Arabella.’
‘None of it was supposed to be like this,’ she said and he heard the huskiness in her voice.
‘Arabella.’ He looked at her, willing her to look round at him.
She shook her head at first, but he could hear the slight sob in her breath. He stroked his thumb against her fingers where his hand covered hers.
She turned her face to his, then met his gaze, and the emotions he saw there were as raw and aching as those that beat in his own heart.
‘Dominic,’ she whispered and the tears spilled from her eyes. He took her in his arms and he kissed each one away and then he held her.
He held her and the minutes passed.
He held her. And then as if by some silent communion they both rose. He blew out all save one branch of candles, then he took her hand in his and together they walked out of the drawing room.