When We Touch (30 page)

Then, of course, there was the very simple fact that he and Arianna were destined to be married. It was something Jamie would surely bring up to Arianna, when she'd had time to come to terms with her grief. When she reached her majority. And Arianna clearly adored her cousin. What could be more natural? Jamie, with all his knowledge of the property and estates—the male who had inherited the title—taking on the old lord's daughter as his wife.

Arianna, whom he knew so well, an absolutely stunning beauty—as even Mireau had been quick to point out.

She was a fool, putting herself into position for greater pain and humiliation. And yet . . .

When he touched her, it was as if he did so because he had to, as if he had no other choice in the world, as if she were the greatest, most alluring treasure in existence . . .

“So! He forced you to be the well-behaved widow, eh?” Mireau demanded, slightly amused. “I must say, at least you were safe in my absence.”

“Safe, yes,” she murmured. Well behaved? Certainly not in the visions and memories that had so haunted her every moment since Jamie had walked out that night—apologizing.

“I—um, I guess I'll have to stay out of Whitechapel for a while, I imagine. Until they catch that monster.”

“They may not catch him,” Mireau said unhappily. “And, quite frankly, Maggie, it's never been safe. There's so often something terrible happening there. Just not usually quite this awful.”

There was a tap at the door.

“Your tea, mum!” Mrs. Whitley called.

Maggie walked to the door and opened it. “Thank you so much, Mrs. Whitley. Oh! Mrs. Whitley, would you be so good as to go ask Arianna if she'd care to join us?”

The girl wouldn't come down, Maggie knew it. But she wanted to make sure that her invitations were constant.

“As you wish, madam.”

Maggie closed the door on her. She walked to the tea service, preparing cups for the two of them. “My brother, so it seems, has taken an interest in politics.”

Mireau grinned. “So he has. He's been listening in to many of the arguments going on. He is a baron, of course, and has a place, should he choose to take it.”

“I hope he does. How wonderful it would be to see Justin . . . happy.”

“I think he's in love,” Mireau said.

“Oh?” Maggie was definitely surprised.

“Oh, don't go getting too happy—he saw the girl once, so he told me. But she had the most beautiful face in the world, and he plans to make himself worthy, and then find her—whatever it takes.”

“Wonderful. My brother is finally in love—with a mystery woman.” She sighed, then looked at him. “Mireau, I'm going to go mad here, always afraid and . . . I can't bear it. I'm supposed to be a guardian to a girl who despises me. I'm good at the work I do with the poor, but now, I'm banned from going where I'm needed.”

“Surely, once some time has passed and you're not expected to be in deep mourning, you'll be receiving all kinds of invitations.”

“I don't want a bunch of social invitations, Mireau.”

“Then you can join me at more of the writers' tables.”

“I haven't the patience.”

“But you have the opinions!” he reminded her. He studied her. “My dear! You are restless. You have the strangest look about you.”

“I don't. There's nothing strange about me at all,” she assured him.

“Yes, you're different. There's the most amazing blush flooding to your cheeks now and then.”

“Don't be ridiculous.”

“But you are different. From just those few days ago. From the time . . . when Lord James caught us in that cab!”

“It's the baby, of course. I've been worried about her. And you!”

He shook his head, studying her. Then he suddenly grinned. “‘Methinks thou doth protest too much!'” he quoted.

She was saved by a knock at the door. It was Mrs. Whitley. “Yes?”

“The Lady Arianna says that she is still feeling poorly.”

“Really?” Maggie said, as she glanced back at Mireau, who was getting far too close to the truth of her agitation. “I think I shall run up and ask if Arianna doesn't wish to see a doctor,” she told him.

“By all means,” Mireau told her.

Maggie started out, past Mrs. Whitley.

“My lady! I'm sure it's nothing that serious!” Mrs. Whitley cried to her.

“I'll just see.”

Maggie marched up the stairs, aware that Mrs. Whitley was following her, and determined to ignore the woman. She knocked on Arianna's door. There was no answer.

“She was just there, really,” Mrs. Whitley said.

Maggie frowned, then a feeling of dread rushed through her. What if the girl really was ill? She pushed open the door and entered the room. Arianna was not in it, and her maid, Fiona, was just picking up clothing from the flloor.

“Fiona, where is Arianna?” Maggie asked.

“I . . . believe she just left.”

“But she just answered to me!” Mrs. Whitley protested.

“She must have just . . . run out, then,” Fiona said. Maggie, however, didn't move. She'd gotten to know Fiona a bit in the days since she'd come to Moorhaven. And Fiona looked scared. Very scared.

“I'm sorry, m'lady, really,” Fiona said.

“But she was ill,” Maggie told her.

“Perhaps she needed fresh air,” Fiona said.

Maggie stood very still, listening to the girl. She realized that, sometimes, especially when she was unnerved, as she was now, she had a really pretty lilting sound of old Eire in her voice. Sometimes, when she was careful with her speech, she did not.

“Strange,” Maggie said.

“What, my lady?” Fiona asked.

“Well, no one came down the steps . . . and I didn't hear the door open or close.” She walked toward Fiona, who looked very uncomfortable. “Do you know what I think?” Maggie asked her very softly.

Wide-eyed, Fiona shook her head. “What—my lady?”

“I don't think that Arianna was here at all just now. I think that you have been in this room—and that you answered for her.”

Fiona was not at all good at lying. Her face flooded with color. “No!”

“Oh, yes, Fiona.”

“Fiona! You're fired. You must leave instantly!” Mrs. Whitley cried.

“No, you're not fired,” Maggie said, casting a stern glance in the woman's direction. She might have been Charles's housekeeper for many a year, but Maggie did not intend to have her place usurped. And she was angry, as well, because Mrs. Whitley either knew something, or was an idiot. Fiona seemed to be their connection to Arianna.

“Where is she?” Maggie demanded sharply.

Fiona seemed frozen.

“Fiona, listen to me, and listen well. In her mood, she could easily place herself in harm's way. Tell me, where is she?”

“I don't know, m'lady, honestly, I swear, I don't know!”

Maggie sat calmly at the foot of the bed. “Mrs. Whitley, will you please tell Mr. Mireau for me that he must make himself at home? I'll be speaking with Fiona for a few minutes.”

“But, my lady! You may need me,” Mrs. Whitley protested. “I am the head housekeeper! If there has been something going on—”

“Beneath your very nose?” Maggie said. “You needn't worry. I will deal with this.”

“But my poor Lady Arianna!”

“My stepdaughter. Yes, the poor innocent. Mrs. Whitley, please convey my message to Mr. Mireau. This is my household, like it or not, and I will deal with matters my way. If you can't accept that . . . well, I will give you excellent references.”

Mrs. Whitley pursed her mouth, but then snapped her lips as tightly shut as if she were a clam. She turned abruptly and left.

“Now, Fiona,” Maggie said firmly.

Fiona stared at her. Then words seemed to rush from her lips. “I was never spying on you, really! I was supposed to have been . . . I told Arianna that you were really nice and decent, and I didn't think that you'd ever do any harm to Lord Charles!”

“Fiona,” she said dryly, aware that the girl had seen her at her worst, “thank you for that vote of confidence. But it doesn't matter.”

“You're firing me, aren't you? I guess you have to.”

“I'm not firing you! I need your help. Where is Arianna?”

Fiona shook her head, tears welling into her eyes. “I don't know. I really don't know.”

“But you know something.”

“I know that she . . . she wanted to get even with you.”

Maggie felt a chill. She said, “I'm more worried about her right now than myself. Talk to me, help me, please. When did she leave?”

“She's been gone . . . a few days now.”

Maggie gasped. “You've been answering as her—
for several days
?”

“I'm so sorry. You've a right to be angry.”

“I am angry—but angrier with myself than I am with you. And I need you. Please. Fiona, you must tell me what you know.”

“I . . . I know that she met with a man. In Whitechapel.”

“In Whitechapel?” Maggie repeated, truly alarmed.

Fiona nodded miserably. “Where?”

“I can show you the pub.”

Maggie shook her head, trying to maintain a sense of calm. “Fiona, with her looks, with the finery she wears, she would have been a victim of some thief... or worse. Almost instantly.”

Fiona shook her head strenuously. “No . . . she had clothing, poor clothing. We rented a room, a rat trap! And we went and traded even the servants' things we brought.”

Maggie stood. “We're going to that room right now. And if we don't find her there, we'll go to the pub.” She rose, truly alarmed. Then she spun back. “Fiona, what was she trying to do in Whitechapel?”

Fiona hesitated. “She wanted to work for a mesmerist.”

“A mesmerist?”

“You know . . . a mesmerist, or a spiritualist.”

“Why?” Maggie said, frowning. “Was she trying . . . to contact her father?”

Once again, Fiona shook her head miserably. “She wanted . . . she wanted to lure you to this person, and . . . I'm not sure what then,” Fiona said.

Maggie stiffened. She could well imagine what Arianna would envision for her.

And still . . .

“Dress as poorly as you can. And hurry. We've got to find her.” Maggie went running out of the room. As she suspected, the housekeeper, Mrs. Whitley, was back up the stairs—hovering very close to Arianna's door. Eavesdropping.

“Mrs. Whitley, please—just get out of my way!” Maggie told her.

She literally moved the woman, managing not to shove her, and raced on down the stairs, bursting into the library.

“Mireau!”

“Yes?”

“We've got to get back to Whitechapel. Now!”

“But Maggie—”

“Find Darby. Have him help you get into some shabby clothing, and be quick!”

“But Maggie! Jamie will have your throat—”

“He will have to hang me, then. Wait, we need more than just the right clothing.”

“Oh, God, Maggie . . . we can't do this. What, have you lost your mind?”

“Mireau, Arianna is there, somewhere.”

“What?”

“Fiona has been confessing to me, Mireau. She's been out there several days; she met with a mesmerist, a spiritualist, knowing that I would be tempted to come, once I heard about the operations.”

“Maggie, you can't just go running around the streets of Whitechapel.”

“You're right, we must go in more than poor clothing. We're going to have to be seriously disguised.”

“Maggie, we're all going to get into serious trouble. This is a matter for the police.”

“Mireau! First, we've got to try to find her. If we go barging in somewhere with the police, I'm afraid we could put her life in danger. Fiona knows where they took a room—”

“They took a room? In the East End?” he said incredulously.

“Mireau, please, just move!”

“I'll have to head back to the Mayfair house, find the wigs and disguises—”

“Yes, yes . . . wait! No.”

“Why not?”

“What if—what if Adrian Alexander is still out there, in disguise himself, starting over? What if he's the spiritualist that she found?”

“There are hundreds of thousands of people out there, Maggie. If you're in such a hurry, what do you suggest?”

She thought for a moment, then exclaimed. “Cecilia!”

“Who?”

“Cecilia, Lady de Burgh. Mireau, she's at her town house. Go to her now, and tell her that we need something very different. And please, please, hurry. Get back here, for me, as soon as possible.”

* * *

Once upon a time, Arianna had thought that she knew misery. Her father's death had been the greatest pain she had imagined possible.

Now, she knew that there could be worse things than hurting for the loss of a loved one. There could be living as she was now, and it had been just a matter of days, and already she had learned a bitter and sad lesson.

It went beyond the filth and the squalor of her living conditions. The lack of privacy. The fear that touched her heart constantly. It was in all that she was forced to see, and the realization that she had become a prisoner, and that if she ever lost her cover and bravado, even for an instant, she would know greater pain and humiliation, and then she would die.

It was true that Jeremiah Heath intended to go for the really large scams to be had; he used the poor people, easily pleased with some small trinket, to convince them that he had communicated with someone lost. The first few hours after her meager “poor” possessions had been taken from the room, she had been moved into a partitioned space in a small set of two rooms. She had protested her nearness to the seven men, and been ignored. Worse. She had seen the leers of the fellows in Jeremiah's employ, and she knew that if she didn't please Jeremiah at all times, she would be fair game for the fellows.