Page 15 of A Night of Forever
Because the thought should terrify him. If she was not involved with her stepmother’s schemes, he could never tie himself to a woman as pure and innocent as Isobel.
He’d done things he was not proud of. He’d sunk as low as a man could go, driving himself relentlessly, desperately, only to discover he could not outrun the baseness of his own nature, never escape the self-recrimination. And when for a shining moment he’d believed there was hope he could rise above his past and cleanse his soul, a beautiful woman had made him party to his best friend’s murder. A friend who had known what he’d done to survive, yet still helped him. She’d murdered his friend and left Arend an exceedingly wealthy man. A good man, an honest man, was dead, and he—neither good nor honest—was alive.
His friends thought he walked on water, the big adventurer who’d had so much success in finding a diamond mine. They had no idea how low he’d sunk before Jonathan had saved him. Before his naivety and lust had gotten Jonathan killed. Guilt ate at him every day, and he could never fill the aching void in his soul. He did not deserve joy or passion or a family.
He deserved everything Victoria might do to him.
So, for once, he would do the right thing. He would be the hero his friends thought him—and if he could not defeat Victoria, if his death appeased her, then so be it.
Chapter 5
Upon leaving the park, Arend went directly to Gentleman Jack’s. Tension wound tight in his neck. Excitement at the commencement of the game warred with worry at his lack of plan.
The betrothal was a start. It would give him the opportunity to uncover Isobel’s secrets.
Was her request for him to investigate her father’s purported murder merely a clever ruse to learn what was contained within the journals?
He arrived at Gentleman Jack’s to find a good crowd watching the fights. There were plenty of men he could pummel to work off some of this tension.
As he removed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves, waiting for his turn in the ring, he knew he was the subject of gossip.
“It would seem you’ve lost your bet.”
He knew who was speaking before he turned round. Bloody Philip Flagstaff, the Earl of Cumberland.
“You owe me five hundred pounds,” Philip drawled. “If the gossips are to be believed.”
“Save your congratulations,” Arend said through gritted teeth. “I’m still waiting for her answer.”
Philip’s eyes went wide in mock horror. “Swipe me down with a feather—itistrue. I thought the men were in their cups. Didn’t we make a pact that we would not consider matrimony until we were at least fifty?”
Philip was aware of the enemy they faced but, to protect Isobel, Arend wanted as many people as possible to believe that his betrothal was real. “One does what one must for the sake of begetting the heir.”
Philip’s eyebrows rose. He lowered his voice and leaned in closer. “I’m putting on a good show, old chap. Once I heard to whom you were betrothed, it became obvious that you have a plan.”
Arend ignored his knowing wink. “Once you have met the right woman, there is no need to wait. I prefer to marry her now while I’m young enough to enjoy her and the children we may have.”
He spoke loudly enough for several of the men standing close to hear, and soon he was the subject of congratulations and teasing in equal measure. It wasn’t often that one of London’s renowned rakes stepped willingly into matrimony.
“She is a beauty,” Lord Rutherford proclaimed. “And of course she has a very large dowry. I believe her father left her more than comfortably off. Not that you need her money.”
No. He only needed Isobel. “She is yet to accept me,” he told the rambunctious crowd.
“Of course she’ll accept you,” one man jeered. “You’re wealthy beyond measure, in your prime, and handsome to boot.”
“He’s also a total jackass,” Philip said.
Arend took the banter, teasing, and congratulations in stride. Fortunately, it wasn’t long before his turn came to get into the ring.
He spent the next twenty minutes pounding his sparring partner, easing the knots that still had every muscle tight.
But even slamming his fists into someone couldn’t ease his dread of telling his friends what he’d done. He hadn’t shared his plan with any of them. He was sure the Libertine Scholars would not agree with his using Isobel in this way.
As he stepped out of the ring, dripping with sweat, a towel hit him between the eyes. With muffled thanks he rubbed it over his head and brow, and only when he lowered his hands did he see who had thrown it.
Hadley stood there, hands on hips, thunder on his face. “What the bloody hell are you playing at?”
Arend tossed the towel back. “Keep your voice down.”
