‘Exactly,’ said Dickie, ‘and now, do your duty to me, wife.’
‘That’s what Ben Wolfe needs,’ murmured Emma, turning happily into her husband’s arms. ‘A wife.’
Chapter Ten
Ben said nothing of the attack on him, and the only others who had immediate knowledge of it were Dickie and his wife, and Jess Fitzroy, whom he told when he reached home, so it was surprising that, by the next afternoon news of it was circulating in the ton. Since Dickie never mixed with the ton and Jess had been sworn to secrecy, it told Ben that the only person who could have set the story on its way was the person who had ordered the attack.
He puzzled over the motive for such an odd action and concluded that the notion was that it proved Ben Wolfe to be a shady character if someone was determined to maim or kill him.
He passed a restless night pondering on who his enemy might be. He finally determined on three names: Samuel Mitchell, Lord Babbacombe and Herbert Jamison, with whom he had had some dealings which ended in acrimony as a result of Jamison’s dishonesty. The result for Jamison had been bankruptcy, but Ben did not honestly believe that he could have behaved otherwise. Babbacombe and Mitchell had reason to hate him, but would they kill him? For what purpose?
When morning came he decided against going to his counting house—his face was heavily bruised and he did not wish the sight of it to encourage gossip. Instead he sent for Jess, on whom he could rely, with instructions, not only for him, but for his clerks, regarding both the business with the Rothschilds and the attack of the previous night. He also complainingly agreed with the doctor whom Jess had called in that he should rest for two or three days before returning to work.
By mid-morning on the second one he was already feeling better and ready for action again, but he also felt regretfully compelled to keep his promise to Jess that he would obey doctor’s orders.
That afternoon Madame and Susanna were enjoying themselves at the piano. Madame was playing and Susanna was singing, when Lord and Lady Exford were announced. Both of them looked exceedingly grave. Madame rose to greet them and offered them refreshments. Lady Exford settled for tea but Lord Exford, usually an abstemious young man, asked for sherry.
‘For,’ he said, ‘I have just heard some unwelcome gossip. It appears that Mr Wolfe was attacked three nights ago when he was walking home from his counting house in the City. Report has it that he was only saved from being injured by the intervention of a group of workmen. Report also says that he is confined to his home until his injuries improve.’
He looked at Madame, and said heavily, ‘As if that were not enough, someone has also revived the old scandal about his father. This, as you must know, Madame, affects me since my late mother, as well as Charles Wolfe’s wife, was involved, and the last thing which Lady Exford and I wish is that it shall become the commonplace of gossip again.’
Susanna, drinking her tea, now had an explanation for the inscription in the Maximes—the Wolfes and the Exfords had been friends—but none for the nature of the scandal.
She would not have been human if she were not curious, but she said nothing. Madame commiserated with the Exfords without giving anything away, but the effect of their news was to throw a cloud of melancholy over the afternoon.
After they had departed, Madame did not take her seat at the piano again, but instead came and sat near Susanna, saying, ‘I did not like to speak of the matter with the Exfords present, but it seems to me that, since the rumour is going the rounds, you ought to know the truth of it lest you unwittingly say something untoward. The truth being almost certainly different from the rumour. I must warn you that it is not a pretty story and will be painful for me to relate.
‘When Ben Wolfe was but a boy his mother and father were bosom bows with the late Lord Exford and his wife, all of them being of a similar age. I am speaking of some twenty-five years ago. The Exfords were staying with the Wolfes at The Den when, one afternoon, Lord Exford went shooting with some local gentry and Charles Wolfe was engaged in business with the then Lord Lieutenant of Buckinghamshire at his seat, Beauval, nearby.
‘The two women decided to go for a walk in the grounds without taking an attendant footman. Mrs Wolfe was a skilled amateur painter and Lady Exford was carrying a book: the Maximes of M. de la Rochefoucauld. Both the men returned home in the early evening to find the servants in an uproar. Their wives had not returned although they had been gone for over three hours and a search party was being prepared by Mr Wolfe’s agent, one Thomas Linacre.
‘They were not in the spot by a small stream where they had told their lady’s maids that they were going: Mrs Wolfe to sketch, Lady Exford to read, although her book—the one I have borrowed from Lord Exford—was found thrown down nearby, together with the shawl she was wearing. There was no sign of Mrs Wolfe and she has never been seen since that fatal afternoon. Her sketching equipment was found floating downstream later that evening. Lady Exford was eventually discovered some distance away from her book and shawl. She had been dragged into a copse and left for dead after being criminally assaulted.
‘When she recovered consciousness her memory had gone. The last thing which she could recall was being in the drawing room after nuncheon. She remembered nothing about her and Mrs Wolfe’s decision to go for a walk and what had occurred during it. Consequently she had no notion of what might have happened to Mrs Wolfe. One might have said that nature was merciful to her, given what she must have suffered, except that that mercy left such a dreadful mystery unsolved. She never recovered her full health and died within the year…’ Madame paused.
Susanna was puzzled. ‘But why did that create a scandal involving Mr Wolfe? From what you have told me he was far away at the time.’
Madame sighed. ‘As soon as the matter was investigated a number of contradictions came to light. It turned out that no one could say with any certainty that the two women had left together. The stories of the servants differed. And although there were plenty of witnesses to testify that Lord Exford was with a group of gentlemen all afternoon, it turned out that Mr Wolfe had left the Lord Lieutenant’s home after spending only an hour with him. Yet he did not arrive back at The Den until two hours later, although the journey from Beauval should have taken him no more than half an hour.
‘Lord Babbacombe’s agent testified to having seen him not far from the spot where Lady Exford was found around forty minutes after he had left Beauval. As though that were not enough, Lord Babbacombe, who lived nearby, testified that, at a dinner he gave the night before, Lord Exford and Mr Wolfe had had a fierce argument, although Lord Exford later said that what had passed was of little import since each had been joking with the other.
‘He would never hear a word said against Mr Wolfe although gossip began immediately that Mr Wolfe had come across Lady Exford alone, had made advances to her which she had refused, that he then overcame and mistakenly left her for dead, but was interrupted by the arrival of his wife—whom he then killed in her turn. All this despite the fact that both couples, until then, were famous for their happy marriages and for their friendship, and with no evidence to support such a theory.
‘But an on dit, although supported by no real evidence, once started on its way is hard to refute. No action was taken against Mr Wolfe because the evidence that he might have been involved was so tenuous. At the same time his financial situation became difficult—some said because either grief, or guilt, had caused him to become careless. He never ceased to search for his wife. Eighteen months later he was found dead, again in odd circumstances, and it was assumed that he had committed suicide. His death proved that his ruin was absolute and he left his son penniless. Young Ben was sent to an elderly relative who turned him out when he reached sixteen, giving him only enough money for a passage to India where he enlisted as a private soldier.
‘The rest you know.’
Susanna sat transfixed.
‘So it was Lord Babbacombe who started the rumours on their way—which expla
ins why Mr Wolfe hates him so.’
Madame nodded. ‘Exactly—and there is another twist to the story. Ben Wolfe was his father’s only male heir. If he were proved to be not the late Charles Wolfe’s son, then the Wolfe estates would revert by a female entail to Lord Babbacombe—since his mother was Charles Wolfe’s father’s only sister.’
‘And were Lord Babbacombe and Charles Wolfe friends?’
‘Not particularly. Charles Wolfe and m’lord both wished to marry the same young woman, who later became Charles’s wife and Ben’s mother. Lord Babbacombe was particularly eager, he said, to discover Mrs Wolfe’s fate, for he claimed to be still in love with her and disappointment at losing her had prevented him from marrying another. What is true was that he did not marry George Darlington’s mother until some years after Mrs Wolfe’s disappearance.’
Susanna said shrewdly, ‘So you are hinting that Lord Babbacombe has a direct interest in trying to prove Ben Wolfe an impostor? But surely he would gain very little in inheriting what is left of the Wolfe estates, seeing that the majority of them were sold after Mr Wolfe’s suicide to pay off his debts, leaving him only The Den and its immediate surroundings?’
‘I warned you that I was not about to tell you a pretty tale and where the truth lies is unknown, and may, indeed, never be known. After all, this happened twenty-five years ago. There is another problem: the agent who reported seeing Mr Wolfe near the spot where Lady Exford was found himself disappeared shortly after telling his story to the magistrates. That was one reason why Mr Charles Wolfe was never arrested.’
She fell silent, but not before adding, ‘Now you know why Mr Ben Wolfe is such a strong and stern man: he has had much to overcome. It is to his credit that he has carved himself a fortune and been able to restore his family home to its former glory. But his misfortunes have inevitably left their mark on him.’
‘You have spoken of his family home,’ said Susanna slowly. ‘Does that mean that you do not believe him to be an impostor?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Madame, ‘I am sure that he is not. As sure as I am of anything. Lord Exford must think that he is not, too, and he must believe that Ben’s father was innocent of wrong doing or he would not receive Ben in his home. As for what Lord Babbacombe has to gain, it is possible that if a Writ of Ejectment were to be served on Ben by Lord Babbacombe and the courts found against him, they might rule that Ben should pay heavy damages to m’lord for having cheated him of his inheritance.’
Seeing Susanna looking puzzled, she said, ‘If someone thinks that their rightful inheritance, or their property, has been stolen by an impostor they take out this Writ to compel them to come to the Law Courts in order to prove that they are the rightful owner. If the person on whom the Writ is served loses his case, he is ejected from his property and it is restored to the complainant. It is a long, complicated and expensive procedure as those who have used it have often found. Some seventy years ago James Annesley regained his home and his title through such a Writ.’
Susanna made up her mind. ‘You will not think me forward, I hope, if I ask that we may visit Mr Wolfe as soon as possible to show that we, at least, believe that the rumour about him being an impostor is a lie. Of what happened to his mother and Lady Exford twenty-five years ago I cannot speak. Time, perhaps, may yet tell.’
‘Of course I do not think you forward, and I heartily agree with your suggestion. I shall ask John Coachman to drive us there this afternoon instead of to our usual rendezvous in Hyde Park. We must assure Ben that he still has loyal friends who will rally around him in his time of need.’
‘If he is well enough to receive us,’ qualified Susanna.
‘True, if he is not we may put off our visit until he is, and grace the Park instead.’
Ben was well enough to receive them and they found him in his drawing room before his escritoire where a pile of papers and ledgers betrayed that he had been working. He rose to meet them, pleasure written on his stern face.
‘I never knew who my true friends were,’ he told them, ‘until I was attacked. There has been a small procession of them here over the last two days. Lord and Lady Exford have just left. They told me that they had visited you and informed you of what happened three nights ago. What no one has told me is who informed society of it, seeing that I have said nothing, nor, I am sure, has my rescuer, or Jess, who is busy doing my work for me.’
‘Not all of it,’ said Madame, gesturing towards the laden escritoire. ‘Perhaps your servants started the story on its way.’
‘Oh, that!’ he exclaimed of his pile of papers. ‘That’s some small nothings. And you may be right about the servants.’
Susanna, who had been relieved to see that although his left eye was black, and that side of his face was bruised, he was not, as she had feared, so badly injured that he was crippled in any way.
‘Lord Exford told us that you were walking home on your own—which surprised us after all the warnings we have been given about not going out alone at night.’
Ben smiled ruefully. ‘Foolish of me, wasn’t it? It served me right for being conceited, I suppose. I had imagined that I could fight off one or two men, but it was a small army who attacked me. It was fortunate that by chance the attack occurred outside George Dickson’s place of business. He and his men rescued me or I should have been cats’ meat by now.’
Susanna shuddered. ‘Never say so! You will take more care in future, I hope.’
‘If you agree to order me to do so, then I will, Miss Beverly. I only exist to oblige you.’
He had bent forward a little to answer her, and his voice was teasing her, but his eyes told her a different tale. Madame de Saulx, watching them, thought that Ben Wolfe’s hard heart was at last being touched by a woman—something which she had thought she would never see.
‘I wish I could believe that,’ Susanna told Ben, forgetting that they were not alone, intent only on answering the unspoken message of his eyes.
‘Believe it,’ he said, astonished to discover that his gratitude for his salvation lay partly in his barely conscious desire to know more of the woman who intrigued him so. He suddenly knew that he did not want to go to his grave unloved and unmourned. More than that—since he had met Susanna he had become aware of how lonely he was and, what was worse, was likely to remain, if he let no one into his life.
For a long moment they looked into one another’s eyes before Susanna half-whispered, ‘I think that I will, Mr Wolfe.’
‘Good,’ he said, straightening up again and resuming all his usual arrogance, ‘for you must understand that my word is my bond, and what I promise, I always fulfil.’
She could believe that of him, and it almost frightened her, for it told her what a dreadful enemy he would make. On the other hand, it meant that he would also make a staunch friend—as Jess Fitzroy had once assured her.
She told him so—that she would sooner have him for a friend than an enemy.
‘Which shows your good sense,’ he said, smiling at Madame as he spoke. ‘And now, may I offer you some refreshment? Ladies usually require tea, and I can ring for some immediately. My cook has, I am told, a nice line in Sally Lunns; perhaps you would care to sample them.’
Susanna laughed. ‘I always associate you with food, Mr Wolfe. May I remind you that from the very first moment that we met you have been plying me with it. Yes, pray bring on the Sally Lunns and the tea.’
Ben smiled, not something which he often did. ‘You also remind me that I once asked you to call me Ben. Pray oblige me on that. There can be nothing improper in it when Madame de Saulx is happy to humour me by doing so.’
Susanna cast her eyes down primly and muttered. ‘Yes, Ben. Certainly, Ben. By all means, Ben.’
Ben could not help himself. He bent down, caught her chin in his hand and tipped her face towards him—to find that she was quietly laughing at him while teasing him with a show of grudging agreement. Had Madame not been there he would have swept her into his arms and taught her wha
t was what in double quick time. As it was, he released her, muttering softly, ‘Minx,’ and nothing more.
The rest of the afternoon passed like lightning. Tea was brought in and after it Ben asked Madame and Susanna to play and sing for him on his new Broadwood piano.
‘I cannot play myself,’ he said, ‘but one of my happiest memories is of my mother playing and singing nursery rhymes to me when I was a little boy. I must hope that my visitors will oblige me by performing on it.’
Of course, they promptly did and Ben had the pleasure not only of hearing Susanna sing some old Scottish airs, but of watching her mobile face as she did so. Her voice was light but true, and delighted him more than those of the most celebrated Grand Opera divas.
On the way home Madame said thoughtfully, ‘In all the years I have known him I have never before heard Ben Wolfe speak of his mother. I believe that to be your influence, my dear. You know how to talk to him without being either frightened of him or flirtatiously forward—he must feel safe with you.’
‘If so, I wish my influence over him would extend to compelling him not to take unnecessary risks as he did the other night,’ sighed Susanna, thus revealing to Madame—if such a revelation were needed—how much she was beginning to care for Ben.
She need not have worried. Grumblingly Ben consented to Dickie Dickson finding a reliable bruiser for him to act as bodyguard. He was provided with a former soldier who was a useful hand with a pistol and who would keep an eye on Ben as discreetly as his duties would allow.
‘I feel a rare old woman,’ he told Dickie and his guest in Dickie’s snug little parlour on his way to the counting house on the first day that his physician thought it wise for him to go out again. ‘A fine milksop you have been making of me!’
Dickie’s guest—who looked something like the bruiser who was sitting outside in Ben’s landau, keeping watch—smiled. ‘No one looking at you, sir, would think that.’
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