Miss Masters eyed Benedict warily. “Perhaps Madame Zula knew I was about to be abducted because she was involved in arranging the entire thing! Have you considered that he is a fraud, that they are colluding with one another in an attempt to swindle you?” Realizing what she’d said, she closed her lips firmly together and turned to him. “Forgive me, Mr. Mason, I do not mean to offend. I speak in hyperbole simply to make a point.”
“I am not offended,” he replied easily. “It would be foolish of you not to take such things into consideration. I have found you, in our short acquaintance, Miss Masters, to be many things… but foolish is not one of them.”
She stared at him for a moment longer and, as if uncertain of his motives, finally looked away and continued to make her case to the madwoman who was her employer. “Lady Vale, while I am greatly appreciative of his assistance in saving me from a fate I cannot even begin to imagine, that does not necessarily mean that he is a man to be trusted… for all we know those three ruffians, this man, and Madame Zula could all be part of some elaborate charade!”
He realized that, on some level, he should be offended, but he was not. She had a suspicious turn of mind and he found himself not only intrigued by her thinking, but also curious about her past and what might have introduced her to the kind unscrupulous behaviors that would allow her to think so badly of others.
Still, there were more pressing matters to see to than dissecting his pretty fox’s storied past. While her statement was untrue, at least for his part, it was still quite plausible. Given that he was now certain Lady Vale was unhinged, it seemed that dissuading her from that belief was the best course of action even if it did require besmirching his own character. Wisely, Benedict held his tongue.
“He would hardly allow himself to be shot in order to gain our sympathy, Miss Masters,” Lady Vale insisted. “He could have died from such a wound!”
“Perhaps, things went awry, my lady. Perhaps, the larger man didn’t know his own strength and did greater injury to him than anticipated. Perhaps, in the fog, the shooter’s aim was off and he actually hit his target rather than missing him as planned,” Miss Masters continued. “We cannot jump to conclusions.”
Lady Vale whirled toward him then. “You are my son. I would know, wouldn’t I? Do you not think that a mother would recognize her own child?”
Seizing that moment to insert himself into a conversation that appeared to be bordering on utter chaos, he used his most soothing tone to address Lady Vale. “Madame, I cannot say what a mother would and would not do. What I can tell you is that I believe you to be mistaken about my identity. I am not your son. It’s impossible for me to be your son.”
“Why is that?” she demanded. “You were so very young when you were taken! A boy of barely four, you would hardly remember anything of that life as a grown man… and with the trauma endured from the abduction, it’s hard to imagine what that might have done.” She stopped there, giving in to tears as she sobbed brokenly, clearly haunted by the memories of what she had endured and the long decades of grief since.
He was distinctly uncomfortable. Her words sparked something inside him, some desire for it to be true, he realized. What would it be like to be mothered by someone who so clearly loved and held her child in such esteem? The woman who’d raised him had barely bothered to acknowledge his existence beyond boxing his ears or screaming at him that he’d ruined her life.
Rousing herself, Lady Vale came to her feet once more. “And somehow, I will prove it to you both!”
“I don’t—” Miss Masters’ protest was cut off sharply by Lady Vale.
“You may be employed as my chaperone in these matters, Miss Masters, but this is still my house and until Branson elects to lock me up in Bedlam, I will do as I please!” Lady Vale’s sharp reply brooked no argument.
Realizing that Miss Masters was not in a position to speak reason to the woman, he felt compelled to attempt it himself, yet again. “Lady Vale,” he began, “I think it’s highly unlikely that if I were your long lost son, our paths would have crossed in such a fashion. Surely, you must realize how farfetched all of this appears?”
She stood her ground, meeting his gaze directly. “Who am I to question the auspicious contrivances of fate, Benedict? It’s brought you back to me… and of all the boys and men who have approached me over the years, claiming to be my son in order to gain access to the title and associated wealth, no one has ever looked the part as much as you. Perhaps you are not my son, but I must exhaust every possibility. Surely, you understand that?”
He wasn’t without sympathy for her, but he was also on a mission himself. And Mary’s disappearance could not simply be ignored while he allowed her to pursue what was likely a pointless endeavor. “I do understand that, madame. But the events that led me to be at that address are pressing. I cannot simply halt my own search for a missing woman to appease you.”
“You are in no position to argue. Weak as you are, what would you possibly do if you found her?” Lady Vale demanded. “I have investigators at my disposal, dear boy. You will set them to looking for whoever this woman may be. I assure you that they are competent and will find whatever information is available. While they take up the search, you will remain here to recuperate and we will explore the possibilities of your identity together!”
“So competent that in nearly two decades they could not locate your son?” he queried. “I cannot risk it.”
With that pronouncement, he pushed back the covers and struggled to a sitting position. He was still weak and the room spun hazily around him as he forced himself to his feet. He could hear Lady Vale crying out in alarm. Miss Masters stepped over and blocked his path with outstretched arms.
“Sir, your health is still in too fragile a state for this! You must return to your bed at once!” she insisted.
He glared at her. “If I’m a kidnapper or a criminal, why should that matter?”
“Those were merely examples of why we should not rush to any conclusions, sir. They were not accusations!” she insisted. “Please return to the bed while you can still do so under your own power!”
“I must find my—I must find Mary. She needs me,” he insisted and took a step forward, intending to move her from his path. The room pitched alarmingly and he tipped forward, falling helplessly against her. Together, they toppled to the floor. He managed, but only just, to shift his weight so that he did not land directly on her. His conscience was pocked enough without adding the crushing of some poor girl to his long list of many sins.
Still, she was trapped beneath him, their legs and arms entangled. Even in his present weakened state, the sensations were familiar enough to stir the more animalistic aspect of his nature.
Lady Vale squeaked in alarm. “Oh, dear. Let me help you up!”
It was his little fox who uttered in her ever sensible fashion, “He is far too heavy. Fetch the footmen to help or we’ll only drop him and do further injury!”
“You’re right, of course!” Lady Vale agreed. “I’ll go fetch them straightaway!”
Benedict managed to shift his weight enough to make eye contact with Elizabeth just as Lady Vale exited into the corridor, shouting for help. “We seem to keep winding up in this position, Miss Masters. First, on the street and now here… if I didn’t know better, I’d think you were trying to take advantage of me!”
She rolled her eyes heavenward. “Arrogant, egotistical and utterly impossible! I was attempting to save you from your own foolish pride! You have been shot, sir. I cannot imagine that even if you were to encounter whatever villain has made off with this woman you seek, if that has, in fact, happened, that you’d be properly capable of mounting a rescue!”
He started to respond, but then the room began to grow very dark. Without ceremony or warning, Benedict promptly slipped, once more, into unconsciousness, brought about solely by his own foolish pride.
Chapter Seven
Lying on the floor, nearly crushed beneath his weight, al
l the while feeling the warm rush of his breath against her neck, Elizabeth fumed. It wasn’t anger at him, so much, though there was a goodly portion of it. She was angry at herself, angry at the reawakening of her true self.
She’d been convinced that she’d put her lustful ways behind her, that she would never again fall prey to her own desires. Yet, there she lay, consumed with lustful thoughts for a man who was practically at death’s door. If ever she’d required proof that true wickedness lurked in her soul, it had certainly been amply provided.
Lady Vale entered, two of the stronger footmen rushing in her wake. They managed to lift Mr. Mason off her and place him back into the bed. She felt immediately bereft of his warmth and the press of his body against hers.
What on earth is wrong with me?
He was a stranger, a man she’d only just met. And yes, it was certainly true that he had very bravely placed himself in danger in order to save her, but that certainly did not warrant her throwing herself at him like some wanton hussy.
Lady Vale fussed over his covers, getting him tucked into bed much like she would if he was a small boy.
“He was always willful,” she said. “Very determined.”
“If he is your son… it is a very big if, my lady, and a remarkable coincidence, do you not find it strange that Madame Zula, a woman proved to be a charlatan before our very eyes, warned you that he was closer than you ever imagined only to run into this man right outside her home? It smacks of collusion between them at best!” It was one more attempt at reason and, while she knew it would fall on deaf ears, Elizabeth felt compelled to make it.
Lady Vale sighed heavily before turning to face her. She wore an ardent expression as she pleaded her case. “I grant you, Miss Masters, that it is all very strange. And naturally, your distrust of Madame Zula is well founded… but I would rather believe every young man I meet to by my Benedict returned to me than to become so jaded and cynical that I might actually meet him and disavow him one day. What would you do, Miss Masters, if you had a child that had been taken from you so cruelly?”
In the face of such an argument, Elizabeth could do nothing other than relent. “I concede, Lady Vale. I cannot begin to conceive of what you suffered. I only wish to spare you more pain and to protect you from those who would exploit what you have already suffered.”
“Because you are well compensated to do so,” Lady Vale pointed out.
There was an accusation buried within that statement that perhaps any expression of concern was motivated entirely by monetary compensation rather than any moral or ethical concerns. It was insulting, but it was also, given the history of individuals who had used the tragedy of Lady Vale’s life to further their own ends, understandable.
Setting her hurt feelings and pride aside, Elizabeth explained, “It is what I have been appointed to do by Mr. Middlethorp, yes. But it is also the right thing to do… the moral and just thing to do. I am not attempting to be the villain of the piece, Lady Vale. Only to do what I have been asked—what you agreed to with Mr. Middlethorp as one of the conditions for allowing you to maintain a separate household! My purpose here is to protect your interests and to prevent others from taking advantage of you. I am sorry that you do not agree with my assessments of the dangers of this situation, but that doesn’t change them.”
Lady Vale was chastened, but far too proud to admit it. She rose to her feet with all the haughtiness of a queen. “I have some correspondence to attend to, Miss Masters. You will continue to oversee the care of our guest?”
“Certainly, Lady Vale. I will see to it,” Elizabeth agreed.
Lady Vale exited the room and Elizabeth sank into the chair beside the bed. Her gaze drifted to the too-handsome man who, for all intents and purposes, appeared to be sleeping in quiet repose.
Reaching out, Elizabeth touched his brow with the back of her hand. His earlier antics had spiked his fever again. His skin burned beneath her and she feared that if it continued to grow worse they might never have answers.
Before she could pull her hand away, his came up. Large fingers clasped her wrist, circling it so firmly she could not break free. The hold wasn’t painful, but it was quite forceful.
His eyes opened, but only slightly. “I have to find my Mary.”
“Then let Lady Vale’s investigators help you,” she urged.
“But you want me gone from this house… far from your half-mad mistress who sees a ghost in every face she passes,” he replied.
“I wish for you to discourage her belief that you are her son. Do not allow her to pin her hopes on such an unlikely outcome. Will you not help me dissuade her from this?”
He laughed, though the sound was more bitter than amused. “It has been my experience that a determined woman is never dissuaded… even when reason and evidence demand it.”
“Then in lieu of discouragement, a lack of encouragement will suffice. Accept her help… I certainly can’t imagine what any woman taken by those ruffians must be feeling. As frightened as I was by an attempted kidnapping, she must be terrified.”
His frown deepened. “Mary is not unfamiliar with fear and even with brutality, sadly. Whatever is happening to her, she does not deserve it and I should have been more diligent in my duty to protect her. Regardless, she will persevere and prevail. That is what we do.”
Elizabeth would have asked more questions. What he’d said piqued both her curiosity and her sympathy for both her rescuer and the missing woman, whoever she was to him. But his hand slipped from her wrist and his eyes closed once more. Given the injuries he had sustained, it was unlikely he would wake again for some time.
As she sat there with him, the silence of the room was broken only by the soft cadence of his breathing, strangely peaceful. In a house where she had no friends, either because the servants distrusted someone who was not yet one of them and not yet a member of the upper class or because they disliked her allegiance to Mr. Middlethorp, she’d had no human contact, no intimate conversations, in her life for years. She found herself in a situation where she could pour out all the things she’d been holding inside with no one the wiser.
As he slept on, she found herself speaking in hushed tones of her life before—of the mistakes she’d made, of the regrets she had and the painful truth. “I wonder who this woman is to you. This Mary? Your lover or your betrothed? Perhaps she is a relative? Or even your wife—I will never marry… I’d have to confess all my past transgressions to a husband. It would only be right, after all. And what man wants to marry a woman who is—who behaved so recklessly and improperly when no promises had been made or understandings reached? Certainly, I believed that Fredrick loved me and that we would one day wed. Why would I not have?”
Anger bubbled inside her, anger and resentment. No, Freddy hadn’t made promises. But she’d spoken of their future together, of getting married once the scandal surrounding her family’s loss of fortune had passed. In all the times she’d talked so excitedly of that future, he’d never once corrected her, never once stated that what she wanted for them had become an impossibility. He hadn’t lied to her, but he hadn’t been truthful either. Instead, he’d permitted her to lie to herself because it had been convenient for him… until it had not been.
She could still feel the crushing weight of rejection when she’d heard the news that he’d announced his engagement to someone else. The humiliation she’d felt when people had whispered and stared while they sat in their respective pews on the opposite side of the small village church on Sunday mornings. All those humiliations could have been borne, but not the humiliation she’d felt when he’d made the assumption that their relationship would continue in spite of his newly betrothed status. He’d thought she would simply be his mistress, had truly believed that she would accept that status and be grateful for it. It was then that she’d recognized the truth. He’d never loved her, and her love for him had been naught but an illusion, a fantasy created by a young girl too gullible and naive to recognize him for w
hat he was.
Elizabeth looked back at the man lying in the bed. He wasn’t that sort. She didn’t trust him. In truth, she did not trust any man. Yet, she believed with her whole heart that he was not the sort to simply lie without cause. But finding his Mary—for that cause there was nothing he would not do, and that meant she’d have to guard her heart and her more amorous feelings very well against him lest she fail in her duty to protect Lady Vale.
*
Fenton Hardwick stood before the man he feared and loathed beyond anything in this world. He’d been summoned, brought by carriage with a hood pulled low over his face, same as it was every time he was brought before his master. His whole life had been spent in servitude to the monster before him. Dressed in fine clothes and moving through the highest levels of society didn’t hide the evil in him. Fenton could see it. Had seen it plain as day the very first time he’d laid eyes on the man. It was a pocket he wished he’d never picked.
“Where is the girl?” the man asked. He paused in sipping brandy from a cut glass snifter to brush an imaginary speck of lint from his finely tailored coat. The words were uttered softly, but they were no less menacing for it.
“We didn’t get her,” Fenton admitted. He didn’t question that the man already knew, that he’d known from the outset of sending for him. He had eyes and ears everywhere. If the bastard didn’t know, he wouldn’t have bothered having Fenton fetched like a misbehaving schoolboy.
Fenton had tried to run from him once, to escape it all. It had been a woman, of course, who prompted such hopefulness within him. It had been quashed easily enough and he’d learned, as he’d watched her walk away from him to become the mistress of a wealthy and powerful man his employer had sold her to, that loving anyone, caring for anyone while in his employee would only see them destroyed.
The man cocked his head to one side. He still wore the wigs that had been popular a generation before. The elaborately-coifed curls brushed against the gold embroidery that bedecked his frock coat. “But I paid you to get her, Hardwick. I pay you to get all of them. That is your job, is it not?” Despite his seemingly civil tone, there was a wealth of menace in his voice. Fenton had seen him kill men for less.
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