“Foliffe? The man who . . . er, gave your mother shelter after she was widowed?”
“Yes.” Arabella turned her head away and stared at the rosebushes, at the delicately tinted petals, at the sharp thorns. “He opened his house under the guise of friendship, and then he told my mother that he expected payment for his generosity.”
“Didn’t he die? Didn’t his curricle overturn—?”
“He’s not dead. He broke his back.” She glanced at him again. “He’s bedridden.”
“That’s justice for you.” St. Just grimaced. “Who was Miss Greene?”
“Greene? She was my mother’s maid.”
His face hardened. “The one who made off with your money?”
Arabella looked away. “I gave it to her.”
“Of course you did.” St. Just’s grip on her hand tightened. “You were a child! You trusted her.”
Arabella said nothing.
“If you’re not going to pursue revenge on her, I shall,” he said grimly. “She deserves to hang for what she did.”
“I thought so, too.” She looked at him. “A few years ago, I had Polly hire a man to find her.”
St. Just frowned. “And did he?”
“He found her grave. She died not long after my mother. Of the pox.”
“The pox?” His eyebrows rose. “Syphilis?”
Arabella nodded.
“An unpleasant way to die.” There was a note of satisfaction in St. Just’s voice.
“Yes.”
They strolled in the cloister and its rose garden for several minutes. Arabella tried to feel comforted by his hand holding hers; instead, the panic began to rise in her again.
“We should tell your grandmother,” St. Just said. “I warn you, she won’t be pleased. She doesn’t like me.”
“My grandmother’s opinion is of no weight.”
St. Just hesitated, and then said, “She loves you.”
“No, she doesn’t. She didn’t love her son. She doesn’t love me.”
“Are you certain she didn’t love him?”
“If she’d loved him, she wouldn’t have turned away from him,” Arabella said fiercely.
“But your grandfather—”
She pulled her hand free. “A mother doesn’t abandon her children. Not if she loves them.”
St. Just looked at her silently. His face, his eyes, were grave. “Did you take revenge on your grandparents?” he asked softly.
Arabella bit her lip and looked down. St. Just was dressed for riding, in top boots and breeches.
“Bella . . . you didn’t steal from them, did you?”
“Of course I didn’t!” she said, looking up, flushing.
St. Just studied her. His eyes were narrow, thoughtful. “But you did something, didn’t you?”
Arabella bit her lip again. She turned her head and stared at the roses.
“What did you do, Bella?”
She gripped her hands together. “I told them I don’t know where my father is buried.”
St. Just was silent.
“They disowned him. They didn’t deserve to know!” She looked at him, expecting to see condemnation; instead she saw compassion. She swallowed. “My mother’s buried there, too. Alongside him. I thought . . . I was afraid they’d move him, and then she’d be alone—”
“I understand why you didn’t tell them.” He reached out and took her hand again. “But your grandmother has lost all her children. Three sons. Don’t you think she should have the chance to mourn at your father’s grave?”
Arabella shook her head. “No.”
St. Just put his arms around her and pulled her close. He pressed a kiss into her hair and then sighed and released her. “Come,” he said. “Let’s tell your grandmother.”
THEY FOUND LADY WESTWICK in the round drawing room, standing at one of the windows. The sunlight was cruel on her face, illuminating every wrinkle, every hollow. She looked elderly, and tired.
“Madam,” Adam said, bowing. “Your granddaughter and I have something to tell you.”
Lady Westwick stiffened. She moved away from the window.
They sat. Lady Westwick perched on a rosewood chair. Adam took a place alongside Arabella on the sofa.
“Arabella?” Lady Westwick said, her voice a trifle sharp. “What’s this about?”
“Your granddaughter has done me the very great honor of agreeing to be my wife,” Adam said. He reached out and touched Arabella’s hand with his fingertips. Mine.
Lady Westwick shook her head. “Arabella, is this . . . are you certain this is what you want?”
Arabella didn’t reply immediately. Her pause was long enough that, for a few seconds, Adam was afraid of her answer. “Yes,” she said.
Lady Westwick shook her head again. He thought he saw grief in her eyes.
Adam leaned forward. “Madam,” he said. “I know I’m not the husband you would choose for your granddaughter, but believe me when I say that I’ll do everything in my power to make her happy.”
Lady Westwick didn’t appear to hear him. She stared at her granddaughter, her face etched with loss.
Adam looked from Lady Westwick to Arabella. They sat so stiffly, with such a gulf between them. It shouldn’t be this way. He hesitated, and then said, “Madam . . . why did you allow your son to be cast off?”
He was aware of Arabella swiftly turning her head. “Adam!” she said in a low, fierce voice.
Adam didn’t look at her; he watched Lady Westwick. Her face stiffened, and then the stiffness crumbled and he saw her pain. “It was William’s decision. I had no say in it.”
Arabella moved slightly. Adam glanced at her. He saw contempt on her face. Lady Westwick saw it, too. “I tried to persuade him,” she said, leaning forward on the rosewood chair. “I got down on my knees and begged. But your grandfather said . . .” Tears filled her eyes. “He said that two sons were ample . . . as if Edward was something he could just discard, like a piece of furniture!”
Lady Westwick fumbled for a handkerchief. “I told him he was wrong, but he . . . he hit me. And I was too much a coward to argue further.” A tear slid down her cheek. She wiped it away. “I should have fought harder. I should have stood up to William.” Her hand clenched around the handkerchief. “Edward died, and then Arthur, and then Henry. I lost all three of them. That was my punishment.”
Adam shifted uncomfortably on the sofa.
“I loved Edward,” Lady Westwick said. “And I loved your mother. She was such a lovely girl.” She wiped another tear away. “But your grandfather refused to see any
