Petra stood frozen, her mouth still slightly agape. She looked like a mouse paralyzed upon being discovered by a cat.
“I knew the Devils of Dunbar were infamous for many things, but I did not think rudeness one of them,” Jemma said curtly to Arabella. “Do not speak to my cousin in such a way.”
Lady Arabella favored Jemma with a taut smile that could have curdled milk. “Would you please,” she addressed Petra, “leave us and send for tea.”
“Of course.” Petra fairly raced from the room, nearly upending a cluster of figures on a table in her haste to get away.
A satisfied smirk crossed Arabella’s lips. “It boggles the mind that Nick would even have considered her. What little backbone she has would have been destroyed by my brother within a week, and myself the following.”
“I’m thrilled, Lady Arabella,” she kept her tone mild, “that you have graced me with a visit. I know how busy you must be as evidenced by the number of times you’ve refused my aunt's invitations to tea.”
“So you are the girl from Bermuda.”
“Clearly. I believe that has been established.”
“Yes.” Arabella raised a brow. “The traitor's daughter. From Bermuda.” She lay back against the plump cushions of the sofa as if they were discussing the latest fashions.
Jemma tried not to let her surprise show on her face and kept her breathing normal, even though inside her stomach shifted so forcefully she thought she’d be ill all over her aunt’s favorite sofa. How could Arabella know the truth? She clasped her hands calmly in her lap and ignored Arabella’s little speech.
“Do you have something you wish to discuss?” Jemma asked pointedly as a maid brought in tea, setting the tray down gently between Jemma and Arabella. “Or is there more? I'll pour if it will hurry you along.”
Arabella’s eyes narrowed. “My, my, Nick did say you have a bit of a temper.Jem.”
Jem.His nickname for her, and one she did not think he would use in front of his sister or anyone else for that matter.
“Do I?” Jemma reached over to the steaming teakettle and poured for Arabella, then herself. “Sugar? I'mcertainyou could use a bit of sweetening. For your tea, of course.” Jemma had absolutely no intention of cowering in front of this rude, mean spirited girl, nor did she dare give credence to Arabella’s words about Jemma’s father.
A small hissing noise came from Arabella’s lips and she blinked twice. “You would not be so smug were your father rotting in chains and your precious family branded traitors.”
Jemma forced herself to remain calm to Arabella’s baiting. “I’ve a busy day, Lady Arabella, I’ve a wedding to plan and a trousseau being readied. I pray you—”
“I’ve heard the whole of it. I know the truth,” Arabella declared.
“Indeed?” Jemma sipped her tea, the heat of the brew on her tongue helping to steady her. If Arabella knew, what was to stop anyone else knowing?
“Yes. All of it.” Arabella brought the teacup to her lips and inhaled the subtle aroma. “Jem.”
Nick’s name for her coming from his sister unnerved her. “My name is Jane Emily. Forgive me, Lady Arabella, while I find our discussion most entertaining, I fear I must cut our conversation short.” Why would Nick tell his sister when he swore to her uncle to tell no one?
Arabella didn't budge. “My brother calls you that, doesn’t he?” She leaned forward, her eyes narrowed into slits. “Jem.” Arabella's resentment seeped through her words, filling the drawing room with a horrible dark bitterness.
What did Arabella want, exactly? A confession? A confirmation that Jemma’s father was a traitor? If Arabella did not leave soon, Jemma would leap across the table between them and perhaps pelt her future sister-in-law with sugar cubes until Arabella ran screaming from the room.
“Jem,” she said again. “I heard him say your name every evening, weeping, as he sought to drown his grief over you in a bottle of fine Irish whisky. But then, here you are,” she waved her hand, “miraculously alive and returned to my brother, thewealthyduke.”
Arabella’s words cut into Jemma like tiny swords, each nipping at enough of her flesh to leave her bleeding but still aware. She had never allowed herself to truly imagine how news of her death affected those she cared for, and certainly she did not contemplate Nick’s reaction, but the knowledge that he’d wept over her, broke Jemma’s heart. The words she’d said to him in the conservatory made all the more vile by the fact that he had mourned her so deeply. She walked through every day wishing she had not spoken such horrible things to him. Over the last weeks she’d had much time to consider the pastandthe future. Prideful and foolish she may be, but she loved Nick. She hoped he would at least allow her to tell him so.
Jemma's hand shook slightly, and she immediately set her cup down on the tray.
“More tea?” Arabella widened her eyes innocently, clearly enjoying Jemma's discomfort.
“Does the duke know you are here?” Jemma said softly.
The triumphant look in Arabella's eyes faded a bit, and she looked away for a moment.
“I thought not,” Jemma said, her voice neutral.
“I came to ask you something.” Nick's sister put down her cup next to Jemma's. Arabella's eyes, sharp like bits of brown glass, stared Jemma down and her voice took on the same whiskey filtered tone of her brother's. “You already have a betrothed, do you not? Why come to my brother under false pretenses? Have you not had enough of the Dunbar wealth that you must follow my brother to England to claim more?”
