The bishop was an odd man indeed. Or he had the dullest, least curious servants in England. Or servants with very short arms.

The key opened the drawers to either side easily. Her fingers sped through files as her frustration mounted. Nothing looked especially odd; it was all correspondence to church officials and records of the Whitechapel School. She had no idea what she was looking for. She had been phenomenally foolish to do this. She’d left Luc standing at the altar and would have nothing to show for it but a furious husband who had just lost his dukedom to a bastard child.

She slid the drawers shut and replaced the key in its hiding spot. Then she took a deep breath. It would be the worst sort of weakness to admit defeat so easily.

Nothing stirred in the corridor so she repeated her earlier stealth and went to the next door. It was a bedchamber, this time with a lock on the door, and sparsely furnished but not currently occupied; the surfaces were bare of personal belongings, and the small bed was not made up. The next was another bedchamber, also with a lock and likewise empty.

The third bedchamber included a shaving stand, clothes press, and dressing mannequin garbed in a complete set of richly brocaded, embroidered clerical robes. Their opulence was at thorough odds with the rest of the house. Arabella had been imagining the Bishop of Barris and Reverend Caulfield like two peas in a pod. This dashed that notion from her head. The Reverend could sermonize for a month of Sundays on the sinful excess of these robes alone.

She stood in the middle of the bishop’s bedchamber, arms folded, and thought about all the lectures on vanity that her adoptive father had given her over the years. A man who exalted personal appearance but who seemed to care nothing for domestic luxury . . . What had the Reverend always said about her vanity and pride? That she could hide her hair and pretty face, but beneath them would be the same sinful girl?

She dropped to her knees on the polished floor and looked under the bed.

It seemed too simple; like the key in the desk drawer, beneath the bed was a cedar chest. She pulled it forth, cringing at the scraping sound across the floor, and opened it.

Her shoulders dropped. More papers on Whitechapel School. Exhaling tightly, she flipped through them.

Her fingers stalled.

Last names of Combe’s tenant farmers with pound figures beside them covered one sheet, including first names, all male, certainly the heads of the households from which he was extorting their income.

She frowned. Mr. Goode’s name was Thatcher. But the name beside Goode on this list was Edward. She closed her eyes, picturing Mrs. Goode’s kitchen on her second visit to the farm, the chipped teapot, the plate of tasteless biscuits, and the smiles of the Goodes’ three sons when Arabella gave them the sweets. John, Michael, and the youngest Teddy, named after his grandfather, Edward.

“Well, well. A lady in the bishop’s bedchamber. Never thought I’d see the day.”

Arabella’s head snapped up.

The man standing in the doorway was large, thick in the chest, and somewhat heavy in the belly where the fabric of his waistcoat strained, with squinting eyes and slick, well-combed hair. With the two first fingers of his left hand he wiggled a toothpick between his lips; the thumb on that hand was missing.

Arabella released the papers, stood and brushed imaginary dust off her skirt. Her shoes dangled from her other hand. “This is not as you imagine it, sir.”

His lips pinched around the toothpick and he nodded thoughtfully. “Actually, I ’spect it’s exactly as I imagine it,” he said with an unhurried grin, “comtesse.”

THE ARCHBISHOP OF Canterbury gestured Luc to collect his lady and hasten to the church for the ceremony. Luc could not, however, tell him that his lady was nowhere to be found; it would expose her to yet more gossip.

Fletcher stood beneath the wedding canopy like a bridegroom, serenely accepting congratulations as though he were head of the family, and in no apparent hurry to shorten this moment of glory. Far to portside, Arabella’s sisters huddled close together, removed from the other guests. Ravenna cast Luc a quick glance then turned away abruptly.

Heart in his throat, he started toward her.

Christos stepped in his way. “La jolie brune had nothing to do with it. Eh bien, very little.”

“Nothing to do with what? Where is my wife, Christos?”

Christos turned about and headed toward the companionway. Servants rushed up the steps bearing trays laden with delicacies. He made way for them then hurried down. Luc followed along the low deck lined with cannons.

“Why the devil can’t I find my wife?” he demanded when his brother finally led him into the captain’s quarters. “And what the devil do you have to do with it?”

His brother peered at him intently. “Do you not know, then? Of the birth of the boy of our aunt?”

“Of course I know.”

“And you have no unhappiness with it?”

“Of course I have unhappi— Of course I’m unhappy about it. And disappointed. But I am rather more concerned with how Arabella has taken the news.”

His brother’s eyes lit with the smile Luc remembered from their childhood, before their father died and the world fell out from beneath them.

Then Christos’s face sobered and he lifted his palm. “Fear not. She has not abandoned you. Rather, she has gone to help you.”

“Help me? What, is she a witch that knows some sort of spell that will change a boy child to a girl?”

A fresh grin split across his brother’s face. “Ah, that you are able to jest at such a time . . .” He shook his head. “I am in great awe of you, mon frère.”

“I am immensely gratified. Now give over, Chris.”

He dipped his head and folded his hands. “She fears for the safety of the child and his patrimony.”

“What?”

“The infant’s guardian—that man—will ruin Combe. She believes he already has, and she seeks proof of it.”

“Damn it, Christos. Fletcher is not the child’s only guardian. I am as well. He will not have complete control over the boy or Combe.”

“But he will control our aunt, as he always has.”

“Then I will take Adina and her son out of his realm of influence. The house in Durham will do for distance. If that does not suffice, Rallis will. Fletcher will never cross the Channel.”

“And what if you die, mon frère?” Christos said matter-of-factly. “Who will protect the young duke from him then?”

Luc stared at his brother, his chest tight. “You do remember. Don’t you?”

“Remember what?” Christos waved it away. “Brother, la belle made me vow to withhold information from you that however you must now be told.”

“Why now?”

“Before, I knew you admired her beauty and courage. Now I know you cherish her heart.”

More than his life. “What information, Christos?”

“She has gone.”

Luc’s stomach twisted. “Where?”

“I cannot say. I made a vow. A man that breaks a promise to a lady is no man at all. But she has taken the stalwart footman with her.”

“Damn you, Christos, tell me.”

“Where would you go now if you were she?”

“As far away from Absalom Fletcher’s poison as I could.”

“Ah.” Christos lifted his forefinger. “But I said if you were she. Not you.”

No.

“Damn it. How could you allow it?”

“I have no authority over anyone, mon frère, least of all myself. And she wished to do it.”

“Why, in God’s name—”

“Pour toi, of course.”

For him.

If he had told her about Fletcher . . . If he had told her the truth . . .

Luc replaced the decorative épée in his belt with a rapier from Tony’s weapons trunk, grabbed up a pistol, and slipped a dirk in the top of his boot, where he’d had a slot sewn for a knife.