Page 131 of A Scandal for the Beastly Earl

"That's what I told him. He's now trying to negotiate with Thistle directly."

"How's that going?"

"Thistle is winning."

By the time they reached Calais, Thistle had somehow become the ship's master, the cats were following him like disciples, and the captain had given up entirely, muttering something about "les Anglais fous" - the crazy English.

"We've been here five minutes and already have a reputation," Julian observed as they disembarked.

"We had a reputation before we arrived," Lucien corrected. "The Beast of Blackthorn travels to France with pregnant wife and criminal dog isn't exactly subtle."

"Don't forget the devastatingly handsome friend," Julian added.

"How could we? You remind us hourly."

"Someone has to maintain standards."

The carriage ride to the estate where Lucien had lived with Matilda was tense. Arabella, finally on solid ground, had recovered enough to be properly supportive, holding Lucien's hand as familiar landmarks appeared.

"That's where Matilda liked to paint," he said quietly, indicating a small hill. "She was terrible at it but loved it anyway."

"A woman of passion if not talent," Julian observed.

"She had talent. Just not for painting."

"What was she talented at?" Arabella asked, genuinely curious about the woman whose ghost had haunted their marriage.

"Music. She could make a pianoforte sing. And languages; she spoke four fluently."

"Impressive."

"She was. In her way."

"But?" Julian prompted.

"But we were wrong for each other. I think we both knew it but neither had the courage to say so."

"And now?" Arabella asked.

"Now I'm married to a woman who argues with me about whether she fell or dived into a lake, teaches my cousin about investments, and corrupts my entire household."

"Don't forget the pregnancy while traveling," she added.

"That too."

"Sounds perfect," Julian said.

"It is," Lucien agreed, kissing Arabella's temple.

The estate, when they reached it, was smaller than Blackthorn Manor but prettier, with a distinctly French charm. It had been repaired since the fire, though Lucien went pale seeing the east wing where Matilda's rooms had been.

"Monsieur le Comte!" The magistrate, a small, fussy man with impressive mustaches, hurried out to greet them. "You received my letter, oui?"

"Both letters," Lucien confirmed. "You said you had new information?"

"Oui, oui. A witness has come forward. Someone who was here that night."

"Who?"