"You really think that poking and prying behind my back is going to make me trust my wife?" he demanded incredulously. "Believe me, ma'am, I repose no confidence in you whatsoever. I don't know how you wormed your way into a part of my life I chose to keep closed to you, but I tell you now, it did you no good." He turned back to the mirror with a gesture of dismissive disgust.

She said painfully, "Jack, please. I didn't worm my way into anything. George told me you had a sister that you believed lost in the Terror. He told me you were very close-"

"I'm grateful to him," he said. "Remind me to express my grat.i.tude in suitable fashion."

"It's not George's fault. It's your own," she declared, anger now chasing away the paralyzing guilt. "If you weren't so d.a.m.ned closed-mouthed about yourself . . . if you didn't hold yourself aloof from anyone who wanted to come close to you . . . I wouldn't have needed to ask about your life . . . about what was important to you."

He turned to her and was very still again. "And what else did you ask George, my sweet, deceitful wife?"

"I am not deceitful," she fired back. "If anything, you are. Why would you keep so much from me? What are your secrets, Jack?" She came over to him. "I challenge you to tell me." Her chin led the challenge and her golden eyes were aflame.

He turned away from her and she grabbed his arm, dragging on it, trying to force him to face her again. He shook her off as if she were an irritating horsefly and spoke with weary patience. "Leave me alone, Arabella."

"No." She grabbed his arm again. "Why did you marry me if you despise me? And you do despise me, don't you?" She bounced around to his front, still hanging on to his arm, forcing him to look at her. "Don't you?"

There was a silence that seemed eternal and then he said, "No . . . no, I don't despise you."

She stared at him in dawning comprehension. "What did my brother do to you, Jack?"

Jack stared over her head into the b.l.o.o.d.y turmoil of the slaughterhouse that had been the prison of La Force on that September night. "He betrayed my sister."

Arabella was cold suddenly. Shivers running down her spine, p.r.i.c.kling over her scalp. Her hand dropped from his arm. "I don't understand."

"Then let me explain, my love, in words you will understand." Bitter irony laced every word. "In order to save his own precious neck, your brother betrayed my sister to the securite. She was murdered in the prison ma.s.sacre at La Force." His voice became suddenly distant, his eyes blank as if he was looking into a black hole. "I traced her to La Force. They were dead . . . all of them, in the courtyard. Bodies tumbled in blood, pieces of flesh, hacked limbs . . . and my sister was one of the first to be dragged down there. I spoke to a woman, a filthy crone . . . a tricoteuse . . . who had seen the bayonet thrust that brought her to her knees. She could not have survived that slaughter."

She heard the agony now in his voice, as for the first time he entertained the possibility that he had been wrong . . . that the months and months of suffering could have been averted. He drew his hands down over his face as if wiping something away.

She moved backwards and sat down abruptly on the bed. "Frederick was always a coward." It was a plain statement of fact. He would have sold his soul to the devil if the bargain had been offered. And it seemed that it had been. "And so you drove him to his death." She shrugged slightly. "Some might say it was an apt vengeance. But why me, Jack? Why did you marry me? Was I part of this vengeance?"

His silence was answer enough.

She crossed her arms, hugging herself tightly as she stared into a grim wasteland. She would always be tarred with Frederick's brush. She would never be able to see herself in Jack's eyes as free of her brother's stain.

"I'm coming with you," she said, standing up as a cold pillar of resolution stiffened her spine.

"You will not," he stated, and his eyes were as cold as the Arctic. "Do you think I want a Lacey anywhere near my sister?"

No, never free of the stain. But she wouldn't argue with him. This was not the real Jack, the one she knew, the one his friends knew. He was in the grip of a force as destructive as anything Frederick had done. She got up from the bed and left him, at the door to her own bedchamber saying only, "I wish you good fortune, Jack."

Chapter 20.

Arabella went directly to Meg's apartments and in a very few words told her the whole. Meg, as always, listened in silence. "I'm a.s.suming he will take a boat from Dover to Calais. It's the quickest route between London and Paris," Arabella concluded. "I can take a hired post chaise to Dover, take the same paquet to Calais, and confront him at some point that seems sensible."

Meg frowned. "Bella, I don't mean to pour cold water but do you really know this man?"

Arabella considered this. "It doesn't really look like it, does it?" she said with a rueful grimace. "But I'm going to have to try." She put her hands over her friend's and squeezed tightly. "You do understand that?"

"Oh, yes," Meg said.

Arabella was silent for a moment, then she stood up with renewed determination. "I'll need to hire a post chaise." She frowned. "Where does one go to do that, do you know?"

Meg, who was now standing at the window, said, "Ask Tidmouth. Jack's just leaving, he'll know nothing about it."

Arabella went to stand beside her. She watched Jack remount his horse, a portmanteau strapped behind him. "He's going to make more speed on horseback than I will in a post chaise," she murmured.

"He can't run that horse seventy miles or so without a change or a rest," Meg said. "He'll have to stop for some part of the night."

"But a post chaise, with frequent changes, could go through the night," Arabella said. "Why don't you go and tell Tidmouth to hire a post chaise. He'll probably think it's for you and he won't ask any awkward questions."

"I'm sure he won't ask questions," Meg rejoined with a chuckle. "He'll be only too pleased to see the back of me. He's the stuffiest creature I've ever come across."

"I know, totally unredeemable," Arabella agreed. "But he's utterly devoted to Jack. Tell him you want the chaise within the hour. I'll put a few things together."

"Charlotte . . . Jack's sister . . ." Meg said hesitantly.

"I've already thought of that. I'll take clothes, underclothes, what medicines I can lay hands on . . . just in case it's her," she added, instinctively crossing her fingers. She wanted the unknown woman to be Charlotte more than she'd wanted anything. She stopped at the doorway. "I don't even know whether my clothes will fit her, Meg. Does she look like Jack? I mean, apart from the silver streak. Is she like him at all?"

She thought of Claude Flamand. She thought of consumption and lack of food, of months of ill treatment, and a wave of despair washed through her. How could any woman survive that? Particularly a woman who had never known hardship.

What could she possibly do to make up for Frederick's responsibility for Charlotte's suffering? For a minute a sense of futility, of helplessness, fogged her mind.

Meg saw the fragility in her friend's eyes and said swiftly, "Shall I come with you, Bella?"

Arabella shook her head. The offer renewed her strength. "No, Meg. Thank you, but I need to do this alone. Besides, you need to be here to deflect questions. If Jack and I disappear from Town without a word of explanation, there's going to be speculation. If you're here, you can make it seem quite natural . . . that we've gone away for a few days, some needy relative or something, and you're waiting for us to get back. There would be no need for you to go home if we're only going to be gone a short while."

Meg nodded. "I'll see to it. Don't worry."

An hour later Tidmouth, to his consternation, saw the d.u.c.h.ess and her maid into the hired post chaise and was left with Miss Barratt and two inconsolable red setters.

Becky's presence had been necessary to give the expedition credibility and respectability but she had no idea where they were going or why. She'd obeyed the series of unusually brusque orders she'd been given and now she sat in the corner of the post chaise, a small reticule on her lap, and gazed at the d.u.c.h.ess, who was lost in thought and offered no enlightenment.

Eventually Arabella became aware of Becky's dismayed silence and said with what she hoped was a rea.s.suring smile, "When we get to Dover, Becky, you'll take the post chaise back to London."

"Yes, Lady Arabella." Becky didn't look rea.s.sured. "But what of you, ma'am?"

"I'm going to France. But the duke and I will be back very shortly."

"France, m'lady!" Becky stared at the d.u.c.h.ess. "But there's all those goings-on over there. It's full of foreigners, it is, all murdering each other. Even Mr. Tidmouth said . . . and that Mr. Alphonse in the kitchen-oh, ma'am, he goes on something chronic about it."

"Well, it's not as dangerous as it was," Arabella offered, wondering how true that really was. Paris was still torn apart with bread riots. The populace still, from all accounts, roamed the streets in lawless bands, but the guillotines were less busy in the public squares.

Becky looked doubtful. But the d.u.c.h.ess had spoken with a degree of confidence and would surely know better than her maid, so Becky settled into her corner to enjoy the novelty of the journey. It ceased to be a novelty when, instead of stopping the night on the road, they changed horses for the fourth time and the chaise continued its journey with cross, grumbling coachman and outriders. The promise of a considerable tip for this journey, however, ensured that they kept their grumbles sotto voce.

At the first posting inn, Arabella was relieved to be told that a rider from London had stopped several hours earlier to eat and exchange his horse. His chestnut was resting and would journey back to London in easy stages with a hired groom. At least her guess that he would take the Dover-to-Calais crossing had been correct. She was hard on his heels. On reflection she didn't think he would spend more than a couple of hours resting during the night-but even so, he could not be too much ahead of her. When the chaise pulled into the yard of the Swallow Tavern in Dover just after dawn the following morning, she climbed down, her legs stiff, her back aching, and inquired casually of one of the ostlers if they'd had any other visitors at such an early hour.

The man pushed his cap back and scratched his head. "Funny you should ask, ma'am. A gentleman rode in about two hours ago . . . still dark, it were. Bespoke a bed, I believe. Poor nag he was riding could barely stagger."

"Must have been urgent business to keep a man riding through the night," Arabella observed carelessly, as if the subject was of no real interest.

She went into the inn and asked for a private parlor, breakfast, and a bedchamber with a truckle bed for her maid. Becky, unlike Arabella, had slept in the chaise and was in quite good spirits. Of course, extreme youth and resilience went hand in hand, Arabella reflected ruefully, painfully aware of her own aching back.

"I trust this will suit your ladyship." The landlord opened the door onto a snug parlor just off the hallway. "I'll have a good breakfast sent up straightway."

"Thank you . . . and . . ." she detained him as he was bustling away. "Do you know if there's a paquet going to Calais today?"

"Oh, aye," the man said cheerfully. "Gentleman came in a while ago . . . don't usually get folks that early, got me out of my bed . . . he wanted to know the same thing. I told him, Tom Perry's Sea Horse is sailin' on the afternoon tide. Late last evenin' the mail coach delivered a load of mail to the quay. Tom's the one what takes it across the Channel."

"Thank you." Arabella smiled and dismissed him before turning to Becky. "Becky love, go down to the dock and buy me pa.s.sage on this Sea Horse," she instructed, handing over a sheaf of bills. "I want a private cabin . . . make absolutely certain that the boat's going to Calais, you understand. Not Le Havre or Boulogne. It must be Calais." She closed Becky's fingers over the bills.

Becky nodded, frowning in concentration. "Yes, m'lady. Calais. One cabin. Where'll I find this boat?"

"On the quay . . . where the sea is," Arabella explained, trying not to sound impatient. "Ask for a Captain Perry . . . Tom Perry."

"The sea," Becky said wonderingly. "I've never seen the sea, m'lady."

"Well, now's your chance," Arabella said. "And when you get back, breakfast will be here, then you'll take the post chaise back to London."

"I'd rather go back to Kent, m'lady."

"If you really wish it, when I come back, you shall," Arabella said. "But I need you to do this for me now, Becky."

Becky looked a little more cheerful. "If you're coming back, m'lady, then I'll be happy to stay."

"Of course I'm coming back," Arabella said with a confidence she didn't quite feel. She would be coming back to England, but whether to live as the wife of the duke of St. Jules was another matter.

Becky went off and an inn servant came in to lay the table for breakfast. Arabella regarded the preparations with little enthusiasm. She'd been awake all night, and the previous night, a night that had happened to another person in another universe, had given her little sleep. She was aware of a bone-deep fatigue that her racing brain ignored. She drank coffee gratefully and waited for Becky.

"I got it, m'lady." Becky came in flourishing a paper in triumph. "Oh, and I saw the sea . . . it's so big, it goes all the way to the sky." She shook her head in amazement.

Arabella smiled absently and took the paper. "Sit down and break your fast, Becky."

The girl sat down and attacked the sirloin. "It's a cabin with a porthole, the sailor said. And he says it'll take twelve hours to get to Calais, given the wind and the tides, and they're leaving at four o'clock."

"Splendid," Arabella said warmly. "I don't know what I would do without you, Becky. I've hired a bedchamber abovestairs. You must sleep for as long as you like and tomorrow the chaise will take you back to London. You must order anything you wish for from the inn."

"Anything?" Becky's eyes widened.

Arabella smiled. "Anything. Food, drink, a maid to press your clothes . . . anything. But for now, I'm going to sleep for a couple of hours before I go down to the docks."

"Shall I come to the boat with you, m'lady?"

"No," Arabella said definitely. "This I do alone, Becky."

At two o'clock that afternoon Arabella went down to the dock with her piece of paper. A lad from the inn carried the small cloak bag in which she'd packed anything she thought might be useful for Charlotte. She'd brought very little for herself, a change of linen, a couple of simple cambric gowns, essential toiletries.

She reasoned that Jack would leave it to the last minute before he boarded, because why would he endure more stuffy discomfort on board than he needed? She herself would be well hidden in her cabin when he came aboard.

A sailor examined the paper, hoisted the small leather bag on his shoulder, and escorted her to a tiny s.p.a.ce just above the waterline, occupied by a narrow bunk set into the bulwark and a stool bolted to the floor. A fly buzzed. The bed linen looked none too clean. The chamber pot, while empty, had clearly been used before. But there was a small round porthole, albeit firmly closed.

"How many pa.s.sengers do you have for the voyage?" Arabella asked as the sailor set her bag on the floor. The little paquets that ferried mail back and forth across the Channel usually had room for very few pa.s.sengers.

"Just one other, ma'am. A gentleman," he told her.

"Could you open the porthole?"

"Aye, ma'am. But once we're at sea you'll be wantin' it closed." He thrust open the small pane of green gla.s.s.

"Then I'll close it," she said, handing him a coin. He touched his forelock, she offered a smile of farewell, and as soon as the door closed on him she fell on the cot. She had merely dozed at the inn listening enviously to Becky's deep breathing, but now, with nothing further she could do and no point in fretting about the future, she fell into a sleep so deep it resembled a coma.

When she awoke it was to the sounds of straining timbers and the roll of the anchor chain as it was hauled up. She had a second's panic in case Jack had missed the sailing, but of course he wouldn't have. She staggered off the bunk, feeling muzzy as if she'd had too much wine, and grabbed the bulkhead as the floor pitched beneath her. The cabin was hot and airless, despite the open porthole, as the afternoon sun filled the tiny s.p.a.ce. She bent to peer out of the porthole. They were still maneuvering their way out of the crowded harbor, making their way to the harbor bar in the company of a flotilla of craft taking advantage of the tide.

A tap at the door made her jump. "Come in," she called, and turned to greet the sailor who had shown her to her cabin.

"If you'd care to come on deck once we're clear of the 'arbor bar, ma'am, cap'n says you'll be welcome," he said, touching his hat.

"Thank you, I'll be glad of the fresh air." Her eyes felt sticky from her deep sleep and her hair probably looked like a bird's nest. "Would it be possible to get a jug of water for washing?" she asked.

"Can't get any 'ot, ma'am," he informed her. "Can't light the galley fire till we're clear of the 'arbor."

"Cold is fine. Anything will do," she said hastily. "I need to freshen myself a little."

"Right y'are, ma'am." He offered another salute and went off moving easily with the boat's motion.

Arabella opened her little bag and found her hairbrush and a small hand mirror. She held it up and examined her reflection grimly. It was every bit as bad as she feared. She'd slept all afternoon in the same riding clothes she'd worn yesterday and overnight in the chaise and she looked as grimy, sticky, and sweaty as she felt. And then she thought of the woman in the Chatelet and was sickened by her own selfishness. When had Charlotte-it was Charlotte-last seen clean linen? A toothbrush? A hairbrush even. Did she have access even to cold washing water?

The sailor knocked and came in at her call with a ewer and tin basin that he set on the stool. "Will that do you, ma'am?"

"Amply," she said with a warmth that surprised him given the paucity of his offering.

"Cap'n'll be pleased to welcome you on deck in about 'alf an hour, ma'am."

"Thank you." She locked the door after him. If she was going to strip naked, she needed to be certain no one would barge in. She shook out her creased skirt, waistcoat, and jacket and spread them over the bed, then rolled up her stockings and undergarments and tucked them into the cloak bag. Bracing herself against the rolling deck, she sponged her body from head to toe with the slightly brackish water. It refreshed her a little, and her head began to clear. If she accepted the captain's invitation and went up on deck, she would come face-to-face with Jack. Should she surprise him in public? Or go and find his cabin first?

In public, she decided, brushing her hair with vigorous strokes. He would have to be superficially polite and by the time they were alone the first flush of fury would perhaps have faded. Not that she cared whether it did or not. She was in the right and Jack was in the wrong. He could rage all he wanted, she would be calm and steadfast in her conviction.

For some reason, however firmly she talked to herself, the flutters in her belly wouldn't quiet down. She put on a light gown of cream cambric with a bronze sash at the waist, changed her stockings, and thrust her feet into a pair of simple kid slippers, the only other footwear she had apart from riding boots. She looked tidy, but that was the best that could be said.

She stood with her hand on the door, for a moment unable to summon the will to open it. She wasn't afraid of her husband, for G.o.d's sake. Was she? But she mustn't get it wrong. Her future . . . their future . . . depended on her taking charge and getting it right.

She opened the door onto the narrow wooden corridor. Light came from the top of a set of steps at the end. The companionway, the sailor had called it. Using the wall for support she made her way to the steps and climbed up into the bright sunlight of late afternoon.