“I do not care, Mrs. Hollingsworth. You know this.” His voice was firm, though the weariness in his eyes softened the sharpness of his words.
Mrs. Hollingsworth nodded knowingly. “I do.”
Together, they ascended the narrow staircase to the second floor. The interior of the building was damp and dark, withonly a few tall candles flickering in the hall, their dim light casting long shadows on the walls. The air was filled with an unfortunate, rancid smell that made Harry want to pinch his nose, but he refrained.
Mrs. Hollingsworth did all she could with the meager budget allocated to her, but the house was a wretched place, and there was only so much one could do.
As they rounded the railing on the second floor, he heard a horrid creaking noise.
Mrs. Hollingsworth gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh, Your Grace, I forgot to tell you. The railing is loose. You must not pull too hard—there’s bound to be an accident if it’s not fixed.”
“I am aware. I’ve already informed Mr. Hove, but he says there’s no money for repairs. Nonetheless, I will pay for it,” Harry offered, his tone brooking no argument.
Mrs. Hollingsworth smiled a sad, resigned smile and shook her head. “You cannot—you know this. Mr. Hove would wonder where the money came from. It would raise questions.”
“And who cares if it does? No matter, I will find a way.”
They came to a stop in front of a door on the second floor. Mrs. Hollingsworth nodded and then poked her head inside. “Dear? You have a caller.”
“Is it Harry?” a sweet, soft voice called from within, the sound like a balm to Harry’s troubled heart.
She always called him by his name, never by his title. Her voice reminded him of sugar lumps, sweet and delicate.
“Yes, it is,” Mrs. Hollingsworth replied, glancing back at him with a knowing look.
“Will you help me get out of bed, Mrs. Hollingsworth?” the voice inside asked.
Harry placed a hand on the old woman’s shoulder. “There is no need, I will not stay very long. And if she truly needs to get out of bed, I will assist her myself.”
Mrs. Hollingsworth nodded and then excused herself, leaving Harry to slip inside.
As he entered the dimly lit room, he prepared himself for the visit with the only person in the world who could offer him a sliver of comfort in his otherwise turbulent life.
Arabella’s eyes were fixed on the house before her. They were in Islington, a fair distance from Mayfair and one of London’s less prosperous neighborhoods. Why did Harry’s mistress live here? Surely, he could relocate her to one of the nicer neighborhoods.
From the outside, the building looked just like any other on the street—tall, narrow, and respectable. But the bricked-up windows made it stand apart, giving it a desolate, almost sinister look. A narrow staircase led up to the front door, and a small garden, surrounded by a cast-iron fence, matched those of the neighboring houses.
Arabella had watched Harry approach the house and seen an old woman, likely the housekeeper, admit him without hesitation. After that, there had been nothing more to see, but she had instructed the coachman to remain where he was.
A few minutes later, candlelight flickered in a room on the second floor, and a cold wave of realization washed over her. That had to be Helen’s room. Harry was with her right now, possibly embracing her, whispering sweet nothings in her ear.
Arabella’s stomach twisted in knots as she imagined the scene—Harry, the man she had grown so fond of, the man she had thought she loved, holding another woman, caressing and kissing her. Her fingers curled tightly around the curtain string, and she rubbed her index finger along it as if to release some of her agitation, but it did no good. The desire to leap from the carriage, storm across the street, and bang on the door consumed her. She wanted to catch them in the act, to see their faces when they were discovered, to see their shame, their embarrassment.
But she didn’t.
Deep down, a small voice whispered the bitter truth.He doesn’t care.
Even if she caught them in the middle of a kiss, what would it change? She could confront him, could move out of Ridlington Manor, but that was all. He wouldn’t apologize. If he were truly sorry, he wouldn’t be doing this in the first place. And he would probably come up with some tragic story about Helen—how she had always been the love of his life, how he had been forced to marry Arabella for reasons beyond his control.
No, she couldn’t do this now. Emma’s advice echoed in her mind. She would wait until morning, and then she would come back with her sister. Emma would help her keep her emotions in check, would ensure that she didn’t do anything rash.
“Masterson,” she called out of the carriage window, “please take me home.”
“Are you quite sure, Your Grace?” the coachman asked, his tone cautious.
A thought came to her then. She leaned out of the window further. The coachman had been standing beside the carriage door for a while, periodically asking if she wanted to leave, which struck her as odd.
“Have you been here before?” she asked, fixing him with a steady gaze.
