“Admittedly, he has a considerable bearing,” someone commented. Ann exchanged a glance with Dorothea, and a slight smile quirked her lips. Dorothea said nothing, but she did not have to. Everyone had remarked his attention to her. For once, she was having to cope with being the center of attention, and much to her surprise, she didn’t enjoy it. She did not comment. What was the point?
“That does not mean he is who he says he is. At first, he claimed to be Benjamin Thorpe, not Benedict. There must be plenty of Benjamin Thorpes in the world, but none of them belong here,” Mrs. Thorpe continued.
Murmurs of agreement followed. “But if he is not the missing marquess, he has a remarkable resemblance to him,” Lady Steeping put in. “And he knows details of the house and the family.”
“You remember him?” Mrs. Thorpe said icily.
“Naturally I do,” the woman said warmly. With a half smile on her face, she carefully chose three chips of sugar and added them to her tea. “He turned society on its head back in his day.” Obviously referring to the duel, she glanced up.
“Hmm.” Mrs. Thorpe was fortunate that her name had not been definitively connected with the notorious duel. “But he left, and now we have this person to contend with. He doesn’t dress well and he has the air of a fortune hunter, a man taking advantage of a situation. Shame on him for doing so. I cannot wait for the day when we may turn him out of doors.”
“Why don’t you do it now?” someone asked.
“Because he will only go to London and cause trouble there. Rather than that, Sir James may make his decision here and now, as quickly as may be.”
A tiny snort from Dorothea’s right told her that her sister-in-law was fighting her reaction. Dorothea made short work of her breakfast and excused herself.
She would take a walk in the gardens, but she needed to change her shoes for sturdier ones. The blue satin slippers she had on wouldn’t last very long outside. Dew lay heavy on the ground, only just dissipating, mist over the fields showing where the growing heat of the sun was dissipating it.
Upstairs, a maid scurried away from her, a full bucket in her hands. They must have just completed service in her corridor. That meant she would be alone for a while, something she appreciated after the fraught atmosphere of breakfast.
A flood of light poured into the corridor from a room whose door was usually closed. The maid must have left it open. Dorothea leaned in to redress the error.
And paused.
That coat hanging outside the clothespress—Ben had worn it last night at dinner. A scent lingered in the air, one she recognized. The faint aroma of sandalwood combined with a masculinity that infiltrated her. It seeped through her skin until she knew she would never rid herself of it. When she closed the door, she was inside the room, not outside.
Ben was occupying a chamber similar to her own, but it had more personality, as if someone lived here all the time. The bed, draped in dark blue cloth, was neatly made, the coverlet smartly in place, but still, he had slept there last night. His body had warmed those sheets.
Papers were strewn on the desk by the window. Several guests walked among the flowers, along the paths that wended between them. To one side, the maze’s green box hedges showed streaks where it was becoming overgrown. Time to gossip and mend the world with words.
Dorothea turned her attention to the papers. Prying did not come naturally to her, but if she could find proof, she could help bring this unfortunate situation to a conclusion. Then Angela would have her answer, and Dorothea could put her mind to assessing what exactly Ben meant to her, this new, more thoughtful man she actually liked.
Letters from Ben’s friend Lord Evington were stacked in a neat pile, the creases and soiled outers showing how far they had traveled. Halfway across the world, carried on small ships that were tossed on the waves like toy boats on a pond. Dorothea took care to precisely replace the one she had picked up. The letter only carried tidings of Louis’s request to have his cousin declared dead so he could inherit the title. But it was evidence that at least one person had been in constant contact with him.
Another pile was official letters from a lawyer’s office. They detailed ships, cargoes, prices. She added up one column, rapidly running down the figures.
Surely, she had miscalculated. The total was a staggering amount. Whoever owned that ship must be a wealthy man. And the owner—Mr. Benjamin Thorpe.
The letter proved nothing except that Ben was wealthier than people were assuming. Quickly, she rifled through the rest of the documents in that pile. Ben Thorpe was wealthy indeed.
So why was he eager to claim the marquessate? The possessions were much depleted since Louis had made hay with them. Did Ben need money? From what she’d just read, she doubted it.
He had crossed an ocean to get here. Only one possibility remained. Ben cared about his inheritance. He had a connection with the title that made it impossible for him to turn his back on the estate.
Before, he had never cared. His dazzling presence had lit up London society like a crystal chandelier, but he’d skimmed over every encounter, never expressed a care for the estate. Only that it was his by right.
Had his seven years away brought him a new appreciation of what he was and what he could be? Certainly, his absence had turned him into the kind of man to be relied on, one that Dorothea could admire as well as...like.
The other word, the evocative, romantic one, she would not use. Dared not, in case voicing it became an expression of the truth. And while she found him deeply attractive, she honestly could not tell what she felt, never having been troubled by romance before, nor even expecting it.
Another stack of papers lay between the two she had just examined. She would take a quick look at them, then make her escape while this side of the house was still quiet.
As she reached for them, a commotion from the corridor outside startled her. She spun around, her skirts catching on the edge of the letters. They tumbled to the floor in a flurry, and she grabbed at them wildly, panic rising to tighten her throat and send her heart into overtime.
Ben entered, flinging the door open so it bounced off the guard preventing it hitting the wall. Reflexively he caught the rebound on the edge of his foot, but paid it no more notice than that.
He was not alone. Benedict had his arm around Lord Evington’s shoulders, almost carrying him. His friend’s hat was gone, and he was reeling like a drunk man.
As he turned, bringing Evington’s body into full view, Dorothea gasped in shock. Evington’s red coat had initially hidden the blood that stained it, but a flood, darker than the coat, had soaked the whole of that side. A kerchief was tightly bound around his arm just above the elbow, but for all the attempts to staunch the flow, the blood still came.
Two men followed closely behind, then a maid, her arms full of cloths and towels. A man dressed more plainly carried a can of hot water and more cloths. He ignored Dorothea completely and headed to the bed. Dragging the coverlet out of the way, he draped a rough blanket over the sheets, folding it expertly so it formed a thick pad.
Ben took one glance at her and jerked his head, a peremptory demand that she should come to him. “Do you faint at the sight of blood?”
“If I did, I’d be flat on the floor by now,” she snapped, only belatedly realizing that a dead faint would have served her purpose better than standing staring.
More people came in. Louis shot a poisonous glare at her, then followed the others to the bed. By the time Ben had laid Hal down on it, a crowd had gathered. Dorothea ignored them and obeyed Ben’s unspoken command, drawing closer.
Benedict had a wicked hunting knife in his hand. He used it to slit the side of Lord Evington’s sleeve, the fabric giving way like butter. As he sliced through the binding over the wound in his arm, a fresh gush of blood started up. Several shrieks from the ladies alerted him to the presence of the crowd. He
spared a glance at his valet. “Get rid of them all, Rougier.” His steely glare pierced her with intent. “Except for her. Dorothea stays.”
He flung off his coat, leaving him in shirtsleeves and waistcoat.
She did not question his decision, but hurried to the bedside. As the valet ushered everyone from the room, his way of herding them efficient enough to rouse Dorothea to admiration, she turned her attention to Lord Evington. “What happened?”
“A stray bullet,” Benedict said shortly.
Lord Evington spoke, his voice thready. “That was no accident, and you know it.”
Dorothea froze. No accident?
“Hush! We’ll talk about that later,” his friend commanded, until the soft closing of the door indicated the valet had carried out his master’s order. “Let’s see to you first.”
Rougier came to stand next to the bed, several clean cloths draped over his arm. A bowl of hot water lay on the nightstand.
“No,” his lordship said. “If this kills me, I want the perpetrator brought to justice. Promise me, Benedict!”
“Of course I promise.” He pitched his voice a touch higher. Dorothea flicked a glance at him. A deep frown carved furrows into his forehead and his mouth was set in a grim line.
“Thank you.” Lord Evington actually smiled, though the expression was more of a rictus than a true smile. Still, few people could show such insouciance in the face of death. While he wasn’t injured in a vital organ, the bleeding could kill him if somebody didn’t do something about it. The binding over the wound had staunched the flow, but it was bleeding freely again.
Ben laid the wound bare, sliced the fabric away.
“This is a bullet wound. I expected pellets from a shotgun,” she said. Ducks were hunted with shotguns, not pistols or rifles, but this was a bullet wound, and as such, potentially more serious than being peppered with shot.
“Many of us had other weapons. Pistols and a couple of rifles. But yes, predominantly we had shotguns,” Ben murmured.
Lord Evington groaned and clenched his teeth. “Shotguns for ducks, pistols for men,” he managed to gasp out.
Had somebody deliberately aimed at him, then?
Without asking, Dorothea snatched a cloth, one long enough to wrap around his lordship’s upper arm. She made a slipknot, tightening it until Lord Evington winced and cried out, a sharp sound that echoed around the room. She glanced up, meeting Benedict’s hard glare.
Sweat beaded his forehead, trickling into the creases formed by his frown. “How did you learn to do that?”
“I helped a maid who’d cut her arm on a kitchen knife.” With domestic staff falling to the ground around her, Dorothea had seen what to do. To her, the action seemed intuitive, to cut off circulation to the vein providing the blood to the wound. “The artery is intact.” Or the blood would have pumped out bright red and put an end to his existence long before they’d reached the house. As it was, Lord Evington would be weak for a few days while he recovered and made up the loss. If he did not take an infection—but she would do her best to prevent that.
Benedict reached out an imperious hand and his valet put a dampened cloth into it. He set about cleaning the wound.
A fair amount of thread and cloth had to be removed from the mess before they could assess the wound. They might have to go digging for the bullet. Shuddering, Dorothea took another cloth and started working from the other end, below the slipknot. Camaraderie born of necessity settled around Ben, Dorothea, and the valet as they worked.
The bleeding was slowing down now that the man was horizontal, and eventually the ligature gave results.
By that time several bloodied, crumpled cloths filled the pot Rougier had put on the floor. Dorothea had little room to move, but enough to do her task effectively. She kept the rags wet until the flow eased, then held a fresh cloth over the arm.
Lord Evington stared at the wound, his blue eyes heavy. He winced as Benedict passed another damp cloth over it.
Benedict sighed, a short “Ah!” of relief once they could see the spot properly. “He’s carved a groove along your skin, but the bullet has gone. A pity, that.”
Evington snorted. “Such a shame you can’t cut the bullet out.”
Ben gave a grunt that turned into a laugh. “You’ll have an interesting scar to show the ladies. Shall I call your man?”
By now, Evington had rallied a little, no longer crying in pain but watching their progress as best he could. “God, no. Mayster faints if he nicks me when he’s shaving me, but nobody is as good with starch as he is.”
Benedict huffed a laugh. “We’re not talking about fashion now. You’ll be fine if the wound is dressed regularly.” His voice lightened with relief.
They worked together until they had cleaned the wound and dressed it, wrapping a fresh bandage around the entirety of Lord Evington’s upper arm. By that time his lordship was breathing heavily, the shock of the incident evidently getting the better of him. “Thank you. Apart from the loss of blood, I believe I will do.” He smiled at Dorothea. “I shall count you my angel.”
“Nobody has ever called me that before.” Straightening, suppressing her groan as her back protested, she dropped the last bloody rag in the bowl.
“They should. You have the face of an angel.”
Ben glanced at his valet and nodded. “Thank you for your help. Please take the mess away and ensure there is nobody lingering outside. Let them know that Lord Evington is recovering, if they ask, and close the door behind you.”
“Of course, my lord.” Rougier gathered the stained cloths, poured the contents of the basin into the water can, and left the room.
Dorothea grunted, drawing Ben’s gaze. His attention lingered on her while she answered his lordship. “Believe me, my lord, I am anything but an angel. I happened to be here, and I knew what to do.”
“That reminds me...” Lord Evington smiled. “I apologize for interrupting your tryst.”
“Tryst?” She shrieked the word, shock reverberating through her. “There was no tryst,” she said, quieter now, but her stomach plummeted. “It was nothing.”
“I beg to differ,” Ben broke in. “Everyone saw you as we came in. They will not forget that you were here first.”
“Oh, so now this incident is about me?” How could they turn this on her? Indignation roared through her. “After all I’ve done, you can’t find some excuse?”
“Unfortunately, there is none. They will gossip. Will you allow it?” his lordship said, turning shrewd eyes on Ben. “You know what’s at stake.”
“I do,” he said grimly. “Sir James is a stickler for correct behavior.”
Oh, so she had compromised herself now? Because she’d wanted to help an injured man? Words failed her. Of course Sir James, with his pernickety way of speaking and his insistence on the rules, would condemn her. But she would still do her best for Angela. “I...I...” She wet her lips.
Ben reached across and urged her chin up, closing her mouth. “Yes, we will talk,” he said, far too gently for her liking. Menace thrummed behind his words. “And soon.”
Lord Evington looked from Dorothea to Ben’s closed features and back again.
“Oh! Oh no, I was merely passing by, and the door was open...” Unwilling to tell an outright lie, she stopped. “Perhaps we should,” she added lamely.
Ben nodded, as if the matter was settled, and turned back to his friend, leaving Dorothea in turmoil. “Are you sure you feel quite well? Brandy?”
“Not yet. If I drink strong spirits now, I will fall asleep directly. I want to talk to you first.” He glanced at Dorothea, then continued. “I believe I can trust you, ma’am.”
“Yes, of course.”
“Though why you should think so I’m not sure,” Ben added dryly. Obviously, he had not forgotten the circumstance of Dorothea’s being here first.
“I know.”
Dorothea swallowed. “Are you sure this was deliberate?”
Ben gave her a terse nod. “It did not have the outcome they wished. But for the time being, outside this room we will call it an accident, if you will.”
Reluctantly, she followed Lord Evington’s example and agreed. “For now.”
“I want them to think I don’t suspect anyone,” Ben added.
“But you do?” she demanded. “Did you expect this to happen?”
“No. But it did, and it was no accident.”
Evington’s voice was faint, but sure. “Ben, we have to come to the inevitable conclusion. I merely got in the way. Someone wanted to hurt you.”
Ben nodded. “But I will not have my friends brought to account for this. I had no intention of drawing you in. God, the man must be desperate.”
“You mean your cousin Louis Thorpe shot at you?” she said, unable to stay quiet. Shock turned to anger. “He would go that far?”
Two pairs of eyes met hers, two intent gazes, one gray, one brown. “Of course he would,” his lordship said. “Didn’t you understand that?”
“Did you see him?” Ben demanded. “Would you bear witness to it?”
Regretfully, Lord Evington shook his head, the short strands of his brown hair catching on the white pillow, now smudged with mud and splashes of blood. “I saw the flash, and it certainly came from where Louis was standing, but I cannot be sure who fired the shot. A lot of people were standing around waiting for the boats to be ready.”
Ben sighed. Dorothea’s attention fixed to his chest. Lord, he must be big under that waistcoat.
Someone had shot at Lord Evington. An accident? Folding her shaking hands together, she stood back while Ben leaned over his friend. “Speak,” Ben said. “I’ll make sure nothing is said outside this room.” He shot Dorothea another glance. She nodded, lips pressed tight together.
The Making of a Marquess Page 8
