James, smiling, came up to her swiftly and kissed the side of her head and said, “Kate, my darling.” And then, seeing Arabella, he said, “Arabella.” And then his face changed and Catherine knew he had seen the torn dress, the blood.
Catherine finished pushing Arabella up the front steps, trying to block the other two men from seeing Arabella’s appearance, and said to James warningly, “Don’t say a word.”
She got Arabella into the house and took her up the stairs and into her bedchamber. Arabella’s lady’s maid Green was there.
“That will be all, Green,” Catherine said. “I will speak to you tomorrow.”
Green, white-faced, scampered from the room.
“Green knows nothing of this, Mama,” Arabella said.
“If that’s true, and she keeps her mouth shut, she won’t lose her position,” Catherine said.
In the lamplight of the room, Catherine looked at Arabella. So lovely despite the torn and bloody dress, the disarrayed hair. She had her shoulders back, her chin up, and she was facing her mother bravely. With pluck.
Catherine went to the wash basin and pitcher and felt the water there.
“The water is slightly warm. Do you want to wash before we talk?”
Arabella’s shoulders sagged momentarily but she rallied. “Yes, Mama.”
“Do you want my help, Arabella?”
“No, thank you, Mama.”
Catherine left the room and stood outside her daughter’s bedchamber door and wondered what she would say to her when she went back into the room.
She heard a soft voice saying, “You can come back in, Mama.”
Arabella was in her nightdress in her bed, her hair brushed. There was no sign of the torn dress.
Catherine sat on the bed and looked at her daughter. She had a hard time remembering that Arabella was eighteen. Even though Arabella was a full inch taller than she was, Arabella was still her baby girl.
Yes, yes, yes, Arabella had begged and so Catherine had allowed Arabella to have her first Season just as she turned sixteen, but Catherine had thought Arabella just wanted the pretty dresses and the dancing and the late nights that went with the balls. She had not thought Arabella wanted a husband, a lover. Yet. There was plenty of time for that, wasn’t there?
She should have remembered that she had always thought Arabella was so very like herself. And Catherine had left home at age sixteen to become an actress and by age nineteen was the mistress of a dangerous man ten years older than herself. Catherine should have known. Catherine should have been on guard. Watchful. But she had been so caught up the last two years with her own love story, marrying James, having baby Sebastian last autumn at the age of forty-six. She had neglected Arabella.
“The most important question is,” Catherine cleared her throat, “were you a willing participant in what happened tonight?”
Arabella looked at her mother. “Yes.”
“Good,” Catherine said and bit her lip. She would not have wanted it otherwise, but how could have Arabella been so foolish? “Did the man in question use a French Letter, a prophylactic?”
“No,” Arabella said. “He spilled outside of me, at the end.”
“Are you in pain?”
Arabella took a shaky breath in. “Not now.”
“Is there anything you want to tell me or ask me, Arabella?”
Arabella shook her head.
“In a bit, I am going to go downstairs. I don’t know if your brothers-in-law saw anything but I know Jamie will have some questions. And one of those questions will be the name of the man who coupled with you. He will ask me. And tomorrow, he will ask you. I am going to lie to my husband tonight and tell him that I do not know, that I did not see the coat of arms on the door of the carriage. And I beg of you, tomorrow, no matter what, do not tell him the name either.”
Arabella started to protest but Catherine took her hands and shushed her.
“Has this man asked you to marry him?”
