“Who would have guessed?” murmured Sebastian, gazing around. “Do you think it’s been in use recently?”
Benedict pushed over one of the crates. It was flat and wide, and when he checked the corners, there were bits of wool stuck to the wood. “I have a feeling it has been. The straw is fresh. I daresay the water doesn’t come in except at high tide, but there’s enough moisture for it to rot if left long enough.”
Sebastian tapped his cane against the broken wood. “Odd shape for a crate.”
Benedict stared at it. He’d seen that type of crate before, many times. All his life, a steady stream of pictures and statuary had come to Stratford Court. The earl had one of the finest collections of art in England. He was well-known for his eye for it, and just as feared for his ruthless pursuit of it. Stratford Court would have rivaled the Royal Academy in London if the earl had ever permitted anyone to see his collection. Of course he never did; in fact, he had his own private gallery where even his family was rarely invited. Heaven only knew what paintings were inside it. Benedict had seen it a few times as a boy. On occasion his father had brought him in to see a new masterpiece removed from its packing and installed for the earl’s pleasure. Benedict had been about thirteen when his father decided he had no eye for art—a grave failing in the earl’s eyes—and after that he hadn’t been permitted in the gallery.
“Not if it’s meant to hold a painting,” Benedict said.
For a moment there was silence, save for the faint rushing of the river. “Smugglers, do you think?” asked Sebastian at last.
He didn’t answer. His father owned this land. Despite it being eighty acres of good riverfront property, the earl hadn’t done a thing to it; it was even wilder than it had been when old Mr. Vane owned it. Benedict had thought his father simply didn’t care about it—why should he clear it and build on it when his own manicured estate lay just across the river?—but perhaps there was another reason. If a small boat were to stop here and unload crated works of art, perhaps at night, no one would notice. Skiffs crossed the river all the time, and besides, this was Stratford’s own land . . . But why would the earl need to go through that subterfuge?
“Sebastian,” he said, his voice loud in the enclosed space, “I don’t suppose there was a lot of looting in the war, was there?”
“Only every chance that arose,” was the wry reply. “The army looks the other way—in fact, they might even prefer that men find their own supplies.”
“But what about finer things? Jewels, coin, valuables . . . ?”
“And paintings?” Sebastian finished when he didn’t say it. “By the officers, certainly. Enlisted men had no way to carry much, but officers could ship baggage at will.”
Benedict nodded. He didn’t want to know more. The war had been over for a few years, but that didn’t mean much. Napoleon’s armies had relocated vast quantities of priceless art from all across the Continent; Stratford had spoken with distaste of the public exhibition of looted treasures in Paris. Even though the Duke of Wellington had ordered stolen artworks returned, it was a monumental task. If even some of that art had fallen into private hands . . . or slippery government hands . . . Benedict doubted his father would have any qualms in acquiring it through any means possible. When Lord Stratford wanted something, he was rarely denied. But smuggling?
He led the way back into the sunshine, dousing the lantern. What was he to do? A few broken crates and discarded straw proved nothing. Benedict knew little about where Stratford’s art came from; he’d never taken much interest in it, even before he was forbidden to see it. Even if he wanted to accuse his father, whom would he report it to? Stratford might be the coldest man in England, but he knew the value of alliances and connections.
“What will you do?”
He started at Sebastian’s question, asked so neutrally. “What can I do? What do a few broken crates prove? I don’t wish to protect him, or ignore any wrong he’s done,” he hastened to add, “but this is only suspicion, and I dare not act without proof.” He grimaced; hadn’t those been nearly the same words he used to excuse saying nothing on Sebastian’s behalf years ago? “But if one were ever to spy a craft landing here, and discover what it left . . .”
His companion got a knowing look. “I daresay Mr. Weston wouldn’t oppose a sentry or two on his property.” He raised one hand and pointed. “The boundary is only there, around that curve.”
A dark smile split his face. “Let’s go see how good the view is.”
They had made it a good distance along the waterfront when Boris began barking, and someone hailed them from the river. A longboat was gliding past, dragging the oars to slow its progress. Sebastian hushed his dog again and raised one hand, and the boat pulled nearer. Benedict stepped forward to see better, and the servant in the boat exclaimed aloud. “My lord!” He stood up in the prow and waved his arm so vigorously, the boat almost overturned.
“I knew they’d be out looking for you,” murmured Sebastian. “The heir to an earldom doesn’t just wash away.”
Benedict’s mouth firmed. He didn’t give a damn about the earldom. If nothing else, Stratford’s reaction to Penelope’s possible murder had hardened his heart until no trace of weakness remained, dutiful or fearful or otherwise. “Yes,” he replied coolly as the boat plowed ashore and the servant leapt out to splash toward him. “Here I am.”
“My lord.” The man gulped for breath. It was Geoffrey from the stables, Benedict realized. “Thank heaven, sir. We’ve been searching since dawn. Her ladyship will be overjoyed that we found you . . .”
Benedict ignored the mention of his mother’s worry. “My wife and I were very fortunate to make it to land. You may tell the earl he shall remain disappointed.” He turned away, intending that cryptic reply to be his final message to Stratford.
“But my lord,” Geoffrey exclaimed. “I can’t.”
“If he sacks you, you have a position with my household,” said Benedict without looking back.
“No, sir. I mean your father is dead. You are the earl.”
Benedict froze. Sebastian inhaled sharply. “What?”
Geoffrey bobbed his head, as did the two men at the oars of the boat. “His lordship your father suffered a fatal attack last night. He expired shortly after he reached Stratford Court, sir. Her ladyship your mother sent every servant in the house to search for you and Lady Atherton—that is, the new countess—as soon as it was light.” He hesitated, then added, “My sympathies, my lord.”
Benedict glanced toward Sebastian, who looked as dumbfounded as he felt. Dead? But that was incredible; just yesterday his father had been as hale as ever. It flickered through his mind that it might be a lie, that Geoffrey had been told to say whatever it took to get him to return to Stratford Court, but it was incredible that Stratford would speak such heresy.
“Will you come with us?” Geoffrey asked again.
He roused himself with a start. “No. You may tell my mother Lady Atherton and I are at Montrose Hill House.” He didn’t want to go near Stratford Court yet. Surely the news about his father was a mistake of some sort.
But it was not.
Less than an hour after he and Sebastian returned to the house, a carriage rattled up the drive. Before the groom could dismount and open the door, the Countess of Stratford threw herself out. Benedict scarcely recognized her. Her hair was a disheveled mess, she wore a plain morning dress, and her cloak was in danger of falling off altogether. She stared wildly about. “Benedict—oh, Ben!”
“Mother.” He strode from the house and caught her as she flung herself at him. “I’m here.”
“They told me you drowned,” she wept. “You and your bride both. They said you had been swept over the side of the yacht and vanished from sight!”
“We are both alive.” He set her back. “But what’s this about Father? Geoffrey said . . .”
She nodded. H
er face was flushed and her eyes glittered as if with fever. It was the least composed he had ever seen her. “He suffered an apoplexy while still aboard the yacht. As soon as Diana reached dock, he was rushed to the house, but never regained consciousness. He expired before midnight; the doctor said it was his heart. There was nothing anyone could do for him.” She touched his face, almost disbelieving. “Lord Clary said he turned white and clutched his chest when he discovered you had been swept overboard, and collapsed in a fit. He died thinking you were lost.”
“Clary?” Benedict asked sharply. “Is he at Stratford Court?”
“No, he left for London early this morning.”
“Why was he on the yacht?”
The countess paused at the urgency of his questions. “He said he’d come to look at a painting his lordship was considering selling. He expressed his sympathy and returned to town at once. Why?”
Benedict shook his head. Of course Clary would run; the bastard. There would be time to see justice done to Lord Clary later. “Father’s really dead?” he asked in a hushed voice, as if to say it too loudly would cause the earl to emerge, lip curled in scorn, from the Stratford carriage.
She sobered. “Yes.” To his astonishment, she tugged his head down and whispered in his ear, “He can never hurt you, or any of us, again.”
His throat closed up. He’d never actually wished his father dead—not much—but he certainly felt no sorrow. It was more like numb amazement. He embraced his mother a little tighter. “I’m not sorry,” he breathed.
A movement behind him caught his eye. Penelope stood watching in the doorway of the house. Everyone else had stayed tactfully away. But his wife was there, waiting, a thick shawl around her and an expression of watchful concern on her face. “But here—you must meet Penelope.”
The countess hung back. “She must have no good opinion of me . . .”
He looked toward his wife and crooked his hand. Without hesitation she started toward them. “Mother, she is the fairest, most generous person I’ve ever known. Be yourself and she will love you.”
She mustered a smile as Penelope reached them. Benedict drew his wife to his side. “Mother, you remember Penelope. Darling, my mother, the Countess of Stratford. Or I should say, the dowager countess.”
Penelope’s gaze flew to his. He’d told her Geoffrey’s report about his father, but also that he didn’t quite believe it. Without a word she dipped a curtsy. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance again, madam. I hope this time we shall truly get to know one another and become friends.”
His mother looked amazed; she glanced from one to the other. Benedict could see the moment she realized the truth. “My dear,” she said in a voice that quavered with emotion, “welcome to the family. I can see that my son adores you, and I can do no less.”
Penelope’s lips parted in surprised delight. “Your ladyship is too kind . . .”
“No,” said Benedict, grinning. He tipped up her chin and kissed her. “She is absolutely right.”
Epilogue
Three weeks later
The gardens were still beautiful, even muffled by the first frost of the year. The air was sharp and clear, and Benedict filled his lungs with it. For the first time in . . . ever, he was glad to be here.
Despite the public observance of mourning for his father, the halls of Stratford Court had never seemed lighter. In part that was because they were filled. Both his sisters had come for the funeral, and stayed to rebuild the bonds of family. Samantha and Gray planned to return to London soon, but Elizabeth and her husband, Lord Turley, were staying until after Christmas, when Elizabeth’s child was due. She had confided a wish to birth her baby here, with her mother by her side, something that would have been unthinkable a month ago. There was black crepe on the doors, but the house felt happier than he ever remembered.
Penelope came up beside him on the step leading down to the garden, and he slipped his arm around her waist. He’d begun doing it when she was still recovering from their harrowing swim through the Thames, and continued even after she insisted she was well because he liked it. Even better, she liked it. She rested her cheek against his shoulder and gave a small sigh of happiness. Benedict smiled. He loved the feel of her beside him.
“I’ve sold the yacht,” he told her. “Lord Marsden had coveted it for some time, and he leapt when I offered it to him.” Marsden was Scottish. If he bought the Diana, there was little chance it would sail up and down the Thames. Benedict didn’t want to keep it, and he knew Penelope would never set foot on it again.
“I suppose that’s a better use for it than chopping it into kindling,” Penelope replied. “I hope you offered him a good price.”
He gave her a sideways glance. “If he’d only offered a year’s maintenance, it would have been a fair price.”
“A shilling would have sufficed,” she muttered, but then she smiled. “May he sail it in good health—his own and all his guests aboard.”
“May he sail it in good health around all the isles of Scotland.”
Penelope laughed, and together they walked out into the garden. The scent of lavender lingered. His mother had spoken of plans to cultivate more roses in the spring, and she’d drawn Penelope into her scheme. Together they had subjected him to a detailed description of the new garden arrangements until he put his hands on his ears and laughingly told them to do as they wished—which, he realized, had been what Penelope wanted all along. Her triumphant smile made up for any suspicion that he might have been manipulated. The budding friendship between his mother and his wife warmed Benedict’s heart more than any horticultural inconvenience could offset.
“I’ve been thinking of selling some other things,” he told her as they walked.
“Not our house in London,” she protested. “After we’d just got it so well arranged?”
He laughed. “Not the house in Margaret Street.” That was theirs, even if it was a bit small for an earl’s household. He led Penelope off the path and threw open the garden door, holding her a little closer when the wind from the river hit them as they left the enclosed garden. “Some land.”
For a moment she just stared at him, then her face softened in understanding. “How much land, my lord?”
“Close to eighty acres.” Across the rolling lawns, on the other side of the river, rose the hill, still wild and untamed. Near the crest one could just make out the chimneys of Montrose Hill House.
“I hope you ask a fair price,” she said again.
He smiled, his gaze lingering on those chimneys. “Fifty pounds is all I’ll take, and not a farthing more.” He glanced down at her. “Let Vane maintain his own side of the river. I’ve got enough here to look after.”
The unanswered questions about his father still lingered at the back of his mind. He had inspected his father’s gallery, but just entering the room made his skin prickle, as if the specter of the earl lurked in the shadows to protect his collection. After noting a number of pictures that would fit perfectly into the crates across the river, he’d left the gallery and locked it again. Perhaps Gray could help him sort it out. And if the gallery turned out to hold stolen or looted art . . . he would deal with that when he was sure. No one had approached the small cave across the river, let alone landed near it. He and Sebastian had set round-the-clock watches on it, all for naught.
The other possible actor, Lord Clary, had vanished. By the time Benedict went to London to swear a complaint against the viscount for attempted murder, Clary had left. Lady Clary was no help, saying her husband had told her he had some pressing business at his estate in Wales. A rider to Wales confirmed that Lord Clary was not there. Benedict doubted he was anywhere near Wales, but until his investigators located the man, there was little he could do. The moment Clary showed his face in society again, though, Benedict would be waiting, and ready.
By far the greater concern was Oli
via Townsend, from whom no one had heard a word. Benedict agreed with Penelope that Clary had probably gone searching for her. But Penelope’s letter to her brother, Jamie, had finally caught up to him; he rode out to Stratford Court two days after the earl’s funeral and peremptorily declared that he would find Olivia. So far they’d received only two brief notes relating his progress—or lack thereof—but Penelope was confident Jamie was much cleverer than Clary and would track down Olivia first. Benedict hoped she was right, as much as he hoped that James Weston left enough of Clary for him to exact his own vengeance.
“Thank you,” said his wife softly, returning his attention to the opposite shore. “It will make things right again.”
His arm tightened around her. “I could never think of that land as mine. If for some reason Sebastian won’t take it back, you shall have to get your sister to speak reason to him.”
“Oh, he’ll accept your offer.” She grinned. “Abigail is quite fond of walking in the woods, you know, and he’ll want more woods for her to explore.”
His mouth curved. “Indeed. I wonder if there were any other long-lost treasures in those woods. Perhaps we should explore them before selling them.”
“What could you possibly mean by that?”
“What?” He stopped dead. “Don’t tell me—have you truly forgotten?” A telling blush rose in her face but she merely widened her eyes curiously. “You do know,” he accused her, winding his arm around her waist and anchoring her against him. “You owe me a debt, madam.”
“It’s too cold to go,” she protested, revealing that she knew exactly what he meant. When she wanted his help clearing Sebastian’s name, Penelope had promised to show him the Hart House grotto. He’d heard stories of it since boyhood, and despite years spent traipsing through the woods, usually with Sebastian, he’d never found it. But at some point Sebastian had, and he in turn had shown Abigail, who told Penelope. There had been a few distractions since she made the promise—a scandal, a hasty wedding, a fitful courtship that finally blossomed into love, to say nothing of the near-fatal yacht trip—but he hadn’t forgotten, or lost his interest in seeing that grotto. “Abby said it was as cold as ice in there, even in summer. I can’t imagine how frosty it will be now.”
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