The girl was perfect—shy, articulate, well-curved. Someone who, in time, would attest to his good character.
If the truth “outed,” she would need to say he wasn’t a monster, that every speech he’d made was true, that he wasn’t like his uncle, the man who’d raised him after the deaths of his parents.
Slowing his gig, Arthur dusted the seat beside him, slapping his glove against the worn leather. He had no one, not a soul from his past to attest to his mostly good upbringing. In his old shipping town of Liverpool, most only knew of the villain named Bexeley, the man who had been every inch a monster to everyone but his nephew, Arthur. If the truth ever came out, everyone would think Arthur a monster, too.
The question remained, was Ester Croome the woman who’d vouch for him? He’d know five minutes past midnight. If she appeared and escaped with him, that would prove she had mettle, truly tough insides to weather the scandal if his past came to light. Then he, the loner, had to figure out how to make her love him enough that she could say, without equivocation, that a man raised by a murderer wasn’t one. That he was honorable and true.
He slumped in his seat as he navigated the streets by the glow of the gaslight. The role of a smitten husband wasn’t going to be hard for an actor of his caliber to perform. And Miss Croome was not immune to his charm. He hadn’t made a woman blush so much in quite a while. Could Miss Croome become a woman with complete faith in a husband with a shadowy past?
Chapter Five
Almost Midnight
After twenty minutes of pacing in Mama’s parlor, peeking out of Nineteen Fournier windows and listening to Clancy announce each guest, Ester heard the names she had been waiting for.
“Mr. and Mrs. Fitzwilliam-Cecil.” Clancy’s voice carried above the lull of the music. Out of the parlor like a rabbit, Ester slowed her gait to a leisurely stroll until she grabbed Theodosia in a hug, crushing her fine indigo gown. “I’ve so missed you.”
“Ester,” she said, “I know I’ve been poorly of late, but I am feeling much better.” She hugged Ester more tightly. “What is it? What is wrong?”
Her friend knew her well. “Come with me.” She grabbed Theodosia’s arm, almost dragging her into the parlor.
Her husband, Ewan Fitzwilliam-Cecil, followed. His gaze seemed locked on his wife, and he hadn’t let go of her other hand.
Ester had grown more comfortable with him, and was even fond of him, but she needed to tell Theodosia alone. She released her friend and moved to the parlor door. “Mr. Fitzwilliam—I mean, Fitzwilliam-Cecil—I need to speak to your wife. Something for her ears only. It’s a matter that cannot be delayed.”
He puffed up his chest before kissing Theodosia’s fingers. “Miss Croome, we are a well-matched pair tonight. You’ll have to share this dark secret with both of us.”
Theodosia smoothed his ivory cravat against his damask waistcoat. The man was handsome in black and white. “Ewan. I’m feeling much better. You don’t have to hover.”
Mr. Fitzwilliam-Cecil’s countenance softened, filling with what Ester imagined any girl would want from a husband—a mix of concern and perhaps the desire that only the deepest love could bring. “I intend to crowd you, my dear,” he said, “I haven’t had my fill of you. Don’t believe it possible.”
Theodosia’s pale cheeks darkened. Her coloring was off from her normally healthy bronze features. “There’s no winning when he’s like this, Ester. Not even Phillip’s smiles can break his determination.”
“Well, Phillip’s good looks will break hearts. Just not his papa…stepfather’s.”
His smile dimmed at the truth of their son’s parentage they’d been forced to hide, but a touch of Theodosia’s hand to his cheek renewed the lift of his lips. The two were beaming, so entangled in each other’s confidences that Ester wondered if they remembered she was still in the same room. She gave a cough. “Frederica’s newspaper advertisement. Well, she gave the would-be-groom to me. I’m going to elope with him tonight.”
“Elope tonight? Ester?” Theodosia’s voice sounded low, almost cracking. “Why would she give him to you? A man isn’t a handkerchief to be borrowed. And you. You haven’t indicated that you were ready to marry, let alone elope. Is he here at your mother’s party?”
“Not yet. The man, the handkerchief, is Arthur Bex.”
“Wait. You ladies are still with this newspaper advertisement business?” Fitzwilliam-Cecil squinted. “Theodosia?”
She cast him a look, an arched brow above a sly, crescent-shaped eyelid. “Ewan, it worked out well for us.”
Her husband paced with his hands behind his back, very much the picture of an elegant penguin. “And Bex is in this, too? I told you he’s hiding something.”
Something burned in Ester’s chest at the insinuation. “What has he done? Name an instance of him being untrustworthy.”
The playwright rubbed at his neck. “I know of nothing directly, but no one had heard of him prior to three years ago. Then he had a horrid break with a countess and it was in the papers.”
“He’s famous. I know it must be terrible having your every move scrutinized. I think that would make anyone seek privacy. But to accuse him of something nefarious without proof, that’s wrong. You, of all people, should know to have proof.”
Surely dwelling on his and Theodosia’s bumpy journey back to love, he frowned. “I’m just concerned for you, as I am for all of my wife’s friends. You ladies are special, and there are a lot more villains in this world than heroes.”
Theodosia adjusted her deep blue gloves. “Ewan, Ester Croome’s smart. You don’t have to fret, but I must speak to her alone.”
He nodded and went to the door. “Let me go find my brother and see if he’s still looking in the newspaper for a bride, the next Lady Hartwell.” The man stopped his grousing at the door, his countenance clearing of its frown. “Take care, Miss Croome. I know you’re partial to Bex’s voice, his stage presence. You deserve to be happy.”
