My lips drew into a crooked smile. When I had broken my leg as a child, there had not been the same level of concern. My father guarded his emotions after Mama died, and the entire house followed suit. I had spent much of my recovery alone in the nursery, my storybooks my only company. Perhaps that is why I found it so terrible when I learned that Arabella did not like books.
I wondered again what had caused her to change her opinion of them. When a maid with tufts of red hair bursting out of the top of her mobcaprushed down the corridor toward Arabella’s room, I stopped her. This was the same maid from the bakery in Quillsbury, and I had a feeling she would do anything for her mistress. “Pardon me, but I have a great favor to ask. Will you see that some Shrewsbury cakes are sent to Miss Delafield’s room? She will appreciate the comfort of her favorite treat.”
“What a kind gesture, sir,” the maid said. “Will there be anythin’ else?”
When we were children, there was nothing that Arabella devoured more than those buttery biscuits. I was tempted to send for a small bouquet of violets, but I did not want there to be confusion behind the gesture. Violets might be her favorite, but they also had a romantic connotation. Arabella would hate that they had come from me, and I dared not upset her and delay her recovery.
“No, that will be sufficient,” I finally said.
The red-haired maid dipped into a quick curtsy. “I will tell the cook then, sir.”
Just as she turned away, I added, “Please, refrain from mentioning my name when they’re delivered to Miss Delafield.”
“I won’t, sir.”
I nodded and pushed my way into my room. I wanted Arabella to enjoy her Shrewsbury cakes, and I doubted she would eat them otherwise. In the meantime, I needed to find Hastings and tell him to start packing. Then I would have to find Mr. Delafield. Though, it would be harder to find the opportune time to say goodbye with everyone piled into Arabella’s bedchamber.
“Sir!”
I had almost closed the door behind me, but I pulled it open again and stuck my head out. A footman was striding toward me; this one was opposite from the runner sent for the doctor. He was stout and ruddy faced.
“A letter for you, sir.”
Likely from my father. “Thank you.” I accepted the missive and shut myself in my bedchamber to read it. He would be eager to know if the engagement was official. As his only child, I had never wanted to disappoint him, but it seemed that I must in this.
Breaking the seal, I read through the contents. It was not from my father at all, but the man I had hired to track down the Shakespeare Folios. My eyes raced down the page. He had found it! And in record time. He had found the third and rarest Folio!
My enthusiasm plummeted at the sight of the cost. The sum was more than I had in the bank. I could ask Father for an advance on my allowance, but after he learned that I had failed to engage myself to Arabella, he would see his denial as a way to teach me a lesson.
Sinking onto the edge of my bed, I raked my hand through my hair. Could I borrow from my friends? With our bet on the table, everyone would have to keep their funds available. Even those who had already won should keep their money close, as they would need it to set up their new wives with whatever needs they might have. A loan would get back to Father, and I had nothing to sell of equal value besides my horse, and Argent and I had been together for too long for me to consider it.
There was Arabella’s dowry . . .
No, I would never touch it.
I folded the letter and shoved it into my waistcoat pocket. I would not respond until I had exhausted every other avenue. Pushing back to my feet, I paced the room. A few moments were all it took for me to feel like a caged animal. Letting myself out of my room, I stalked down the corridor. My feet paused of their own accord at Arabella’s door. I couldn’t help but stand and listen in case I heard her sobs again. I prayed I would not.
Taking a step closer to the wood, I set my ear against it. I could hear unintelligible voices but no cries of pain.
Relieved, I continued on my way, jogging down the stairs. I was nearly to the library when I heard male voices in the drawing room.
If Mr. Delafield was inside, it could be my chance to say goodbye. I changed course and let myself through the open door.
To my disappointment, it was not Mr. Delafield but Mr. Mason and Mr. Clodwick, sitting on opposite sofas with their arms spread on the sofa’s backs as they visited. It was too late to turn around, as they’d both seen me.
“Join us,” Mr. Mason called.
“Thank you. I will.” I took a chair by the cold fireplace, my knee bouncing.
“The doctor does not live far,” Mr. Mason explained, likely reading the concern on my face. “He should be here forthwith and reassure us all about Arabella’s health.”
“I’m glad of it.” I hoped he had something to ease her pain. Her groans had been nearly as bad as her tears.
“Should we ring for more cake?” Clodwick asked.
My brows lowered. We were discussing Arabella’s health, and he was thinking of cake? “You must be beside yourself to know that the woman you love is injured.”
Mr. Clodwick frowned. “I should have known that the spirits would follow me here. I will chastise them most profoundly when I return home.”