“That woman,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing his eyes. “She is driving me mad.”
“Are you referring to Her Grace?” Brandon asked carefully, though a faint hint of amusement danced in his eyes.
“Who else?” Harry replied with a crooked smile. “I attempted to speak with her yesterday, and she rebuffed me at every turn. She did not wish to converse, she refused to dance with me—before you say anything, I am well aware that husbands and wives do not often dance together at such events, but I thought we might flout convention, given our circumstances. But I was mistaken. She wanted nothing to do with me. I cannot make sense of it.”
Brandon clasped his hands behind his back, considering his words before he spoke. “Your Grace, do you suppose it is because of your uncle?”
“That was my initial thought,” Harry admitted. “But I do not know what more I can do. I have already promised her she would not have to endure his presence again. Yet, that assurance seems to have done little to ease her mind.”
Brandon hesitated, then ventured, “Might I speak frankly, Your Grace?”
Harry’s instinct was to remind him that he was always free to be candid, but in truth, Brandon’s unfiltered honesty often cut too close to the bone. Still, he nodded. “Go on, then. At this point, it hardly matters.”
“I believe Her Grace has sensed that something is amiss. That there are matters you have not fully disclosed to her—matters concerning your uncle and your cousin, Miss Helen.”
Harry’s heart clenched at the mention of his cousin. “I cannot tell her, Brandon. If I do, it will only put her in greater danger. My uncle is a dangerous man.”
“But is she truly in danger?” Brandon asked, his tone more insistent. “Your Grace, I have never understood what he has held over you all these years. I know you care deeply for Miss Helen, but we have arrangements made. She could be sent to Scotland at any moment, and she would be safe with the family there.”
Harry pressed his lips together. It was true, the family in Scotland seemed an ideal host for Helen. He had longed to relocate her to a haven far from London, and farther still from her father’s clutches. The letters he had received from the Scottish family were filled with warmth and understanding—they had a deep expertise in caring for young women like Helen, and they had even welcomed Mrs. Hollingsworth.
“They do seem to be kind people,” Harry conceded, “and Mrs. Hollingsworth would be able to accompany her. But the truth is, I do not wish to send Helen so far away. And besides, my uncle might ruin me. He could ruin my reputation, and Arabella’s too.”
“How would he manage that, Your Grace?” Brandon asked, a note of exasperation creeping into his voice. “You have never explained why you fear your uncle so much. It must be more than just Miss Helen.”
Harry opened his mouth to answer, but the sound of a horse neighing in the courtyard drew his attention. He turned toward the window and saw Arabella alighting from a carriage—Lord Worcester’s carriage. And there, in the distance, he saw another figure.
Was that Lady Emma? Had she gone into town with Arabella? His thoughts scattered in all directions, his focus shattered.
“We shall finish this conversation later,” he said abruptly, dismissing his valet with a wave of his hand. “I must speak with my wife now.”
Brandon shrugged and then departed.
Harry left his study and hurried down the stairs. He was determined to speak with Arabella, to uncover why she had been in such a mood despite his best efforts to make her comfortable.
As she entered the house, he noticed she was clutching something in her right hand. Was that a drawing?
“Arabella,” he called out, his voice strained with irritation and concern. “Where have you been? Did you visit an art gallery?”
Arabella shook her head, her expression calm yet determined. “No, I did not visit an art gallery, but I did see an artist. We must speak, Harry. I require honesty from you. I will not tolerate any more lies.”
Harry took a step back, caught off guard. “I do not know what you mean. I have been truthful with you. I have not lied.”
“Lies by omission are still lies,” Arabella countered, her voice firm. “I may not agree with my father on many things, but on this, we are united.”
His stomach twisted with anxiety. “Arabella, I truly do not know what you mean.”
She turned the drawing around, revealing it to him, and his heart skipped a beat. That drawing… those pencil strokes… he would recognize them anywhere. It was Helen’s work, the drawing she had made of Arabella based on his descriptions. How had Arabella come to possess it?
“Where d-did you get this?” he stammered, his voice barely above a whisper.
“The artist gave it to me,” she replied, her gaze unwavering.
“Helen?”
This was the first time he had uttered her name in Arabella’s presence, and it felt like he had given up a secret he had guarded fiercely for years.
“Yes, Helen. I have discovered that those drawings you claimed as your own were, in fact, hers. Is that not so?”
