Duty Before Desire (16 page)

Behind the light self-mockery of his speech, Arcadia sensed something deeper. Lord Sheridan hadn't said that the mob might
perceive
his life as worthless, he'd said that it
was
worthless. Coming on the heels of the discovery of his lost, beloved sister, Grace, Arcadia couldn't so quickly dismiss the statement as just a poor choice of words. Perhaps he meant nothing by it, but maybe—

“Here we are.” They'd arrived at Delafield House. He rounded the carriage, then handed her down. “Best I speak to your uncle now. We've been racing news of our engagement all the way to your door.”

A prickling sensation crawled over her neck, as though she was being observed. Pausing with one foot poised on the bottom step of the front stoop, Arcadia glanced over her shoulder, as if she might espy the gossip winging its way through Town. Instead, she saw a figure emerge from behind a gardenia bush across the lane. The gathering twilight obliterated the person's features, but tatty skirts and diminutive stature revealed her sex. The woman stumbled over the curb, righted herself, and continued towards Delafield House.

Recognition jolted through Arcadia. She cried wordlessly, fingers digging into Lord Sheridan's arm, just as the woman extended a beseeching hand.

Alerted by Arcadia's sound of distress, the groom tending Lord Sheridan's horses shouted, “Off with you! Take your begging elsewhere.” Dropping the horses' lead, he stomped into the street and raised a hand to strike the shabby woman.

Falling to her knees in the middle of the road, the woman raised an arm to shield herself. “Jalanili!” she cried.

“
Rukiye!
Stop!” Arcadia darted in front of the horses, startling the beasts. Heads tossing and harness jangling, the whinnying cattle took the groom's attention away from Poorvaja, allowing Arcadia to reach her ayah before the fellow harmed her.

“Miss Parks!”

Arcadia dropped at Poorvaja's side, heedless of the muck-strewn cobbles digging into her knees, and threw her arms around the other woman's shoulders. “I'm here,” she said in Hindustani. “You're all right now. You're home.”

Her ayah's body shook. Silently cursing the damp English air, Arcadia embraced her all the more fiercely. “Come inside now,” she continued in a hushed voice. “Let's get you warm.”

A whimper escaped Poorvaja's throat. She shook her head against the crook of Arcadia's neck.

Perplexed, Arcadia put her hands on Poorvaja's shoulders and pulled back. “Don't worry about my uncle,” she said. “Everything will be …” Her voice died in her throat when she got a good look at Poorvaja. A dark bruise marred her jaw on one side. Dirt smudged her face. The skirt of her formerly plain but clean dress was half-soaked and caked with all manner of unknown filth.

“What …?” Arcadia breathed. “What happened?”

Lord Sheridan crouched to place a carriage blanket around Poorvaja's shoulders.

“Help me get her inside.” Arcadia held one of Poorvaja's arms and nodded him to the other.

“No,” he answered firmly. “She can't go in there.”

Betrayal stabbed her gut; she sucked a deep breath. “You promised!” she protested. “You said—”

“I know what I said,” he hissed. “But safe to say we both assumed everything would be settled with your relations before we found Miss Poorvaja. I haven't spoken to your uncle yet.”

“Do it now!” she snapped, flinging her arm. “Speak away!”

Straightening, he planted hands on his hips and glowered down at her before turning on a heel. He didn't walk away, just stood there a few seconds. Thinking, Arcadia presumed, as he'd done earlier in the park.

While he busied himself with useless cogitation, Arcadia helped Poorvaja to her feet and wrapped a supporting arm around her waist. Only two days gone, but the Indian woman felt thinner already. What on earth had befallen her during her ordeal?

Murmuring encouragement, Arcadia tried to help Poorvaja to the door but was met with resistance. “No, no,” Poorvaja moaned.

“It's all right,” Arcadia assured her. “Just come inside. I'll sort it out.”

Turning around again, Lord Sheridan took one look at Arcadia's meager progress and sighed. “Let me take her.” Without awaiting her reply, he scooped Poorvaja up and carried her to his curricle.

“What are you doing?” Arcadia hurried after him.

He stopped and looked at Arcadia, his expression registering exasperation. “I said I'd take her. The words
just
left my mouth. Literally seconds ago.” He turned sharply and resumed his course.

Arcadia lifted the hem of her skirt and hurried after him. “You needn't be snide. I thought you meant you'd take her into the house. Look at her, she's shivering and hurt. She needs help.”

“I shall see she has it.” Lord Sheridan lifted Poorvaja and deposited her into the seat Arcadia had occupied just a few minutes ago. The horses had calmed from their fright, and the groom scrambled back to his place at the rear of the vehicle.

Poorvaja seemed half-senseless. Her head lolled, and her eyes were glassy when they settled on Arcadia. “Jalanili?” she said faintly.

“Yes, it's me. I'm here.” A sob caught in Arcadia's chest. She tore at Lord Sheridan's sleeve as he made to go past her. “Where are you going? I have to help her. She needs me!”

He grabbed her by the waist, his large hands nipping into her soft flesh. “What will you do for her, huh?” He shook her once for emphasis; she held his shoulders to steady herself. Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath. When he opened his eyes once more, he was calmer. His thumbs rubbed her sides. “Arcadia, Poorvaja needs tending now, not in an hour or two, after I've asked your uncle for your hand and convinced him to allow her back in the house and said, ‘By the way, my lord, that same servant of whom we were just speaking is on the front step in dire need of medical attention.'” He paused, fingers raising to rub the back of his neck. “Allow me to take her to my brother's home, Lothgard House. I swear, she will have the very best care. In the morning, I will return to speak to your uncle and arrange to reunite you with Poorvaja as soon as possible.”

He pulled her close and dropped his head. For a second, she thought he meant to kiss her. But he stopped short, simply holding her gaze from a distance of several inches.

“But … she's all I have.”

“Trust me Arcadia. Please.”

He wasn't merely trying to reason with her. Beneath that brilliant confidence, Lord Sheridan longed for her trust, her approval. What choice did she have but to give it to him? “All right,” she said, nodding. Then again, more confidently, “All right. Yes.”

After all, she had reached out to Lord Sheridan to enlist his aid in finding Poorvaja, and he'd agreed to help. He deserved at least this much trust.

He gave her a small smile. “Good,” he said, stepping back.

“Poorvaja.” Arcadia moved to pat the woman's knee. “You must go with Lord Sheridan now. He's going to—”

“Arcadia!” came her aunt's voice. “Is that you?”

Whirling about, Arcadia saw the older woman standing in the open door, hand curved above her eyes, peering into the dusk.

“Indeed, we have returned.” Lord Sheridan snapped Arcadia's arm into his own and hustled her right up the steps, stopping just before Lady Delafield, blocking her view of the curricle. “Apologies for the commotion out here. The horses were startled by a cat. Miss Parks kindly kept me company while my groom set them to rights.”

He threw a dazzling smile at her aunt. “Thank you for permitting me the honor of your niece's company, Lady Delafield. Perhaps next time, you'd be so good as to join us? I've noticed your astonishing turbans, and I wonder if you might give me some secrets to pass along to my mother. She despairs of finding a milliner who can properly complement her tastes”—here he leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper—“but I suspect you know just the person, hmm?”

“Oh! Thank you, Lord Sheridan.” Touching a hand just behind her ear, her ladyship preened, turning her head to showcase the rabbit foot and clover adorning today's headpiece. “I should be most honored to share my milliner with the dowager marchioness. Tell her she must see—”

“
Ah-ah!
” Lord Sheridan raised a hand. “Next time, dear lady, next time. There's something so life-affirming about anticipation, isn't there? And what could give a man more reason to arise in the morning than the promise of time spent with a paragon of fashion?”

One more flash of his charming smile dazzled Lady Delafield into speechlessness. He touched a finger to his hat brim and bowed. “Fair ladies, I bid you a good evening. Until we meet again.” As he turned, he caught Arcadia's eye and winked, then skipped down the steps whistling a jaunty tune, seemingly without a care in the world.

Taking her cue, Arcadia hustled her aunt into the house and closed the door before she noticed the passenger in the curricle. In the entry hall, Arcadia bent her head while removing her bonnet and gloves, silently beseeching whomever might be listening to watch over Poorvaja. The larger part of her wanted to race after Lord Sheridan, so that she might tend her friend herself. But that would be foolishness, she knew. Lord Sheridan and his noble brother were plenty capable of providing care.

“Well, gel, tell me what happened,” Lady Delafield insisted.

Caught out in her reverie, Arcadia opened her lips, then closed them again. She couldn't very well tell her aunt about her secret bargain with Lord Sheridan, or the moments-ago discovery of Poorvaja.

“We took a walk,” she finally managed.

“Whom did you see?” Lady Delafield prompted.

Arcadia licked her lips. “See?”

“Which people of note did you greet? It was the fashionable hour; someone of consequence must have been present. And Lord Sheridan being such a favorite of all the ladies, he must have introduced you to several.”

“Oh.” Crossing to the staircase, Arcadia shook her head. “We didn't go to Hyde Park. Lord Sheridan took me to The Mall.”

Her ladyship sputtered. “Wha—The Mall? But no one's gone there during the fashionable hour for years and years!”

“There were people,” Arcadia assured her. “Some children playing, gentlemen riding, others …” Recalling the ribald jests and congratulations from the working-class men, her ears heated.

“Who cares about gutter waifs mucking in the dirt! Honestly, Arcadia, if you hadn't Lucretia's eyes, I'd wonder if you were her daughter at all. You've not got a tenth of my sister's good sense.” Wagging a finger, Lady Delafield continued, “Why, I didn't permit an outing with a known rake so you could swan about Town as you please. The point of the exercise was to be seen with the brother of the Marquess of Lothgard by those worth being seen by. Not go to Hyde Park, indeed,” she added in a dark mutter. Chuffing a breath, she planted a fist on her waist. “If there is any saving grace to this debacle, it is that you almost assuredly were not seen by anyone of good society at The Mall, unlike that fiasco on St. James's Street.”

For once, Arcadia didn't mind her aunt's scold. While she was harangued for her many flaws, Lord Sheridan was carrying Poorvaja to safety. Aiding a loved one shouldn't have felt like rebellion, but it did. Knowing she'd succeeded in thwarting the Delafields' exile of Poorvaja sent a heady sense of triumph trilling through Arcadia's bones.

“I apologize, my lady,” she said, dipping her knees for good measure. She could afford to be graciously humble now, to her aunt's face, with her plans for escape set in motion. “I did not know that particular park was off limits. During our promenade, Lord Sheridan pointed out the residence of the Prince Regent. How funny, that his royal highness's own neighborhood is not considered a good address.”

When her aunt made no reply, she made for the staircase, but paused with her hand on the bannister. Perhaps it was anxiety for Poorvaja, or her exposure to Lord Sheridan's grief for his sister, but Arcadia felt a welling of sadness and anger in equal parts rising in her chest. Turning, she added, “I wish I had the good fortune of my mother's guidance now. She was everything good and gracious when I was a child. After she died, both my father and Poorvaja made sure I never wanted for love or care.” The scuffed toe of her half boot nudged her a single step closer to her aunt. “But since coming here, I have felt motherless in a way I never have before. I never knew the sensible adult you describe, only the lady who smelled of her favorite peppermint candies and told me stories about a faraway wonderland called London. I'd give anything to have her here to help me find my way through Society and offer her wisdom in matters of courtship and matrimony.”

Lady Delafield's throat bobbed on a hard swallow. “Why, niece, I've done everything for you just the way my sister would have wanted. Your uncle and I have afforded you every—”

“She was
my mother
,” Arcadia snapped, pressing a hand to her chest and gliding closer to her aunt. As she advanced, Lady Delafield retreated by slow degrees. “Always with you it is
my poor sister
this or
dear Lucretia
that. You never acknowledge that Lady Lucretia Parks was my mother—
my mother
—or that I lost her when I was but a child. After she died, not once did you correspond with me. I only knew you existed because Mama told me she had a silly, shallow little sister who'd more than once made a spectacle of herself trying to snare a rich husband.”

Arcadia snapped her teeth together, but it was too late. The words were out.

Lady Delafield's face paled; her lips whitened around the edges.

The women shared a long, pain-filled gaze. Apologizing would be the right thing to do, but Arcadia wouldn't. Not again. Since docking in London, all Arcadia had done was apologize, and she was done with it.