“It’s just so awful, not knowing,” she replied, shaking her head. “And for someone to be so desperate or so very wicked. I don’t understand it.”
He laughed then and it was a rather darker sound than she’d heard from him before. “Who can say what goes on in the mind of a killer,” he replied, leaning on the balustrade beside her. “Or how desperate a man must be. It could be me of course,” he said winking at her.
“Oh, Oliver, don’t,” she replied feeling really rather sick. “Don’t joke about it.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, reaching out and taking her hand. “Truly, that was in bad taste. Though it seems I am indeed a suspect.”
“Oh, don’t worry, Ben has the edge on you there,” she said, not bothering to disguise the bitterness in her voice.
Oliver was silent for a moment. “Phoebe, please, don’t take this the wrong way but ... have a care around Ben won’t you.”
“What?” she demanded, incredulous as she turned to stare at him.
He looked hesitant, as though he wasn’t sure whether to speak or not.
“It’s just ... I love Ben like a brother, you must see that but ... well he’s got a shocking temper. He’s really put the wind up me a time or two when we’ve fallen out. Handy with his fists too. I just ... I still don’t think Tony was murdered, that’s not him but ... I could see him killing Harold in the spur of the moment.”
Phoebe gaped at him, a cold feeling shivering over her skin.
“V-very well, Oliver, I will take care I assure you.” She took a breath and smiled at him. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll retire now. I think all that running about this afternoon has caught up with me. Goodnight.”
Phoebe turned and walked away, trying not to look as if she was hurrying and with a feeling of deep foreboding growing within her.
***
The next morning Phoebe found herself desperate to talk to Benedict and unload the burden of her suspicions. But neither he nor Oliver were present for breakfast. Oliver had apparently left to go into town and would be away a few days. Lord Rutland glowered at her and left the room as she entered and his wife always breakfasted in her room so she found only Lizzie, Lady Rothay, and the children who were just getting up to leave and cause mischief. Sylvester had apparently long since finished, always being an early riser. Thankfully Miss Pinchbeck was also absent.
Lady Rothay looked red-eyed and pale and Phoebe knew that the weight of suspicion hanging over her eldest son must be wearing on her. She tried to smile as Phoebe came in but it was a shadow of her normal vivacious beauty.
“Good morning, Phoebe dear,” she said, picking half-heartedly at a bread roll.
“Lady Rothay,” Phoebe replied, smiling as she sat down beside her.
“Oh do call me Lucilla, dear.” She clasped her hand over Phoebe’s and squeezed her fingers, her eyes full of such worry. “After all, if things were different ...” She pressed a handkerchief to her mouth and took a breath. “I think you should know I ... I should have dearly liked you for a daughter.”
With that astonishing remark she gave a muffled sob and ran from the room leaving Phoebe and Lizzie alone.
“Oh,” Phoebe gasped, quite taken aback at such an endorsement from Benedict’s mother.
“The poor dear,” Lizzie said, with a despairing look in her eyes. “She’s so terribly worried about Benedict. Mr Formby has told him that if no other evidence is forthcoming he’ll be arrested Friday morning.”
Phoebe cried out in shock. “No! No, he can’t.”
“Oh, Phoebe,” she said, shaking her head and looking sickened. “He can and he will. Whatever can we do? Miss Pinchbeck has been ranting at him all morning, but I have to say I don’t think that’s the correct approach to take.”
“No indeed,” Phoebe said, her determination growing. “I must speak to Benedict at once.”
“He’s down by the river,” Lizzie said with a soft smile. “He made certain that I should tell you that. Follow the path that leads down past the chapel and when you get to the river, turn left. You’ll find him.”
Phoebe let out a little sigh of relief. “Thank you, Lizzie.”
Lizzie inclined her head with a smile. “He didn’t eat any breakfast by the way.”
Phoebe got to her feet, deciding she was not really hungry. “You know I have the sudden urge for a picnic,” she replied, casting Lizzie a grateful expression before heading to the kitchen.
She made her way down the back stairs to the lower floor and the servant’s domain. It was cool and dark down here and she paused outside the kitchen door as she heard raised voice.
One of the footmen was being reprimanded for something and Phoebe stilled as she recognised the rather annoyed voice that was chastising them. Taking a breath she gave a brief knock and entered.
Mr Keane looked up as she entered and gave her a warm smile. “Miss Skeffington-Fox,” he said, dismissing the unfortunate footman with a curt wave of his hand. “And to what do we owe the honour of this visit?”
“Hello, Keane,” she replied closing the door behind her. “I was wondering if a picnic could be prepared. For two people please?”
“Why certainly, miss, and a lovely day for a picnic it is too.”
“Yes,” she replied nodding and looking at him carefully. “Is ... is everything alright?”
For just a moment Keane’s eyes looked a little troubled and he frowned at her.
“I ... I heard a disagreement,” she said, gesturing to the door she’d just come through. “Is someone in trouble?”
“Oh,” Keane grinned at her, his face clearing. “No, miss. Just one of the wretched footmen, forgot to black Lord Rutland’s boots.”
“Oh dear,” she replied with sympathy. “In a devilish temper was he?”
Keane gave her a reproachful look and cleared his throat. “I couldn’t possibly say, miss,” he replied with a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. “The picnic will be waiting for you in half an hour, if that suits you?”
“Perfect, Keane, thank you so much.”
A little over a half hour later and carefully dressed in her favourite yellow muslin gown and Phoebe followed the path that Lizzie had explained to her.
It was, as Keane had so rightly observed, the perfect day for a picnic. Ox Eye daisies bobbed their jolly heads as a soft breeze stirred the grasses in the meadows and the sun was warm on her face as she carried the little picnic basket along the dusty pathway. Finding herself facing the river she stood for just a moment and admired the scenery. The water burbled with a merry chuckling sound as it slid and tumbled over smooth green rocks, and dragon flies darted with quick, sharp movements, back and forth across the surface of the water.
Turning left as she’d been told, Phoebe hastened her step, more than anxious to find Benedict.
She found him in his shirt sleeves, fishing rod in hand and felt her heart leap in her chest as she took in the wonderful image before her. He was not dressed in the carefully pristine manner he normally would be and she found herself delighted by it. His hair was ruffled, as though he’d been running his hands through it as he often did when he was under pressure and his cravat had been abandoned, showing his throat and the strong line of his jaw. Phoebe gave a sigh of longing before closing the distance between them.
Benedict looked up as she drew closer and she was more than relieved to see the way his face lit up as he saw her approach.
“You came!” he said, smiling at her as she dropped the hamper and ran into his arms.
“Well of course, you idiotish creature, as if you doubted it for a moment!” she added, laughing at him.
He gave a heavy sigh, his face growing darker. “You wouldn’t if you had any sense at all,” he replied.
“Well you must by now have realised I don’t have the slightest amount of sense.”
“I do,” he said, his tone heavy though there was a warm look in his eyes. “And so I ought to be sensible for both of us, only ...”
“Only?” she whispered, seeing the expression on his face fill with longing.
He put his hand to her hair, stroking the thick curls and allowing them to wind around his fingers. “Only I had to see you. I can’t bear it, love. I want to be with you so badly.”
Phoebe silenced any further words and gave her own reply by reaching up to hold the back of his neck, tugging his head down until his lips met hers. It was still new and wonderful, this feeling of his mouth on hers, at once warm and tender and fierce. Possessive in a way that made her heart beat fast and her skin ache for more.
He pulled away, his breathing harsh as he gave her a smile and stepped away from her. “Don’t encourage me, Phoebe, for heaven’s sake. You’re hard enough to resist.”
“Then don’t,” she said, with perfect sincerity.
Benedict gave her a fierce look of warning before taking a deep breath. “Is that a picnic I see?” he asked, and she frowned, annoyed that he was changing the subject.
He went to fetch it and spread out the blanket he had brought on the bank of the river. Once they were comfortably arranged, Phoebe began to unpack the food, handing Benedict a dripping, cold bottle of beer.
“Benedict,” she said, feeling a chill all over again as she remembered last night’s conversation and this morning’s revelation. “I have things to tell you.”
“Oh?” he paused with the bottle half way to his lips and his eyes narrowed with obvious concern. “What the devil have you been up to now?”
Chapter 17
Love, all alike, no season knows, nor clime,
Nor hours, days, months, which are the rags of time. - John Donne
“Nothing!” Phoebe exclaimed, unwrapping a parcel to find several chicken drumsticks and thrusting one towards Benedict. “Two things have happened and I didn’t go looking for them. For example, I was on my way to the kitchens to fetch this picnic when I overheard a man speaking, he was obviously angry and I realised I recognised the voice that Lord Rutland had been speaking to, the man he was blackmailing.”
Benedict chocked on his beer and stared at her. “Who?” he demanded.
“The butler, Keane!”
“Keane?” he repeated, frowning. “Good Lord, whatever can John have on the man, and what on earth was he expecting to get in return. I can’t believe he has anything vast in the way of savings?”
“No, of course not, but don’t you remember. John said you have access to it. It must be something in the house, something John wants him to steal.”
Benedict continued to frown, staring at the river in silence. “Are you perfectly sure it was the same voice, Phoebe? We can’t make a mistake in this.”
“Yes of course I’m sure, I wouldn’t say so if I had any doubt. It was Keane, I know it was. Why, don’t you believe me?”
Benedict gave her a sudden smile and put down his beer to grasp her hand. “Of course I do, love. It’s only ... Keane is a good man. One of the best in my opinion and I know he’s loyal. Yet John said he’d already betrayed this family’s trust badly. I ... just don’t think it’s possible. Keane is proud of his position with us and I’d swear he loves Sylvester.”
Phoebe nodded. “I agree, Ben. I like Keane enormously but perhaps whatever it was only seems like a betrayal to John. You know what a stuck up prig he is. Nothing is more important to him than his wretched dogs and his own consequence.”
Benedict laughed at her, obviously amused by the heat with which she had summarised the man’s character. “Well I don’t disagree with you.”
“I think we should speak to Keane, perhaps he’ll confide in us?” Phoebe said, handing Benedict a plate filled with sandwiches before she tackled the wax paper parcel of pigeon pie.
“We shan’t do anything of the kind,” Benedict replied, his tone firm. “I do think it’s a good idea that I speak to him, however.”
Phoebe paused in unwrapping the wax paper to glare at him. “You’ve just said that Keane is a good and honest man, loyal to the family, which I agree with. So there is no danger in speaking to him. Furthermore, he’s more likely to talk to me. He said only the other day that there is something about me that makes him say things he didn’t ought to.”
Benedict snorted at that. “Well he’s got that right.”
Phoebe stuck her tongue out at him which was childish but made him laugh. “We speak to him together, Benedict.”
“Oh, ho, Benedict is it now?” he teased her, grinning. “Very well, I suppose I have to agree or we’ll be back to my Lord Rothay.”
“Indeed,” she said, nodding her agreement and placing a generous slice of pigeon pie on his plate as he puffed out his cheeks at the way his plate was filling. “Well you did say you were hungry.”
“And the second thing you discovered?” he asked, before taking a large bite from a chicken sandwich.
“Ah,” she said, knowing this was going to be much harder. She took a moment to pour out a glass of lemonade and took a sip, finding it sharp and sweet and cold. “Well. I was on the terrace last night when Oliver came out to speak to me and ... Oh, Ben, I’m so sorry but he told me to be careful around you. He more or less told me you murdered Harold and I should stay out of your way.”
Benedict’s face clouded over and he nodded. “He’s said some pretty damning things to Formby too,” he said, his expression bleak. “I must say that I’m beyond hurt that he could believe such a thing of me.”
“Oh, Ben!” Phoebe exclaimed in frustration, almost knocking her glass over as she threw her hands in the air. “Don’t you see? It’s him! It has to be. He’s trying to deflect attention from himself.”
Benedict scowled at that and hesitated, but a moment later he shook his head. “No, Phoebe. If he’s wanting the title there is still John, myself and young Jessamy standing in his way. I can’t believe his nefarious plan intends to have all of us bumped on the head.”
“Well, before last night I wouldn’t have believed it either,” she admitted. “But you weren’t there, Benedict, and I can only tell you that there was something about him that frightened me, and I don’t frighten easily. There was something in his voice. I hate to say it but ... I wouldn’t be the least surprised if he did mean you, John and even poor little Jessamy harm, and getting you out of the way by getting you convicted of his other murders would be a pretty neat way of removing you. Then an accident to finish John off on the hunting field shouldn’t be so very hard to arrange. As for Jessamy, he’s just a little boy ...” she said, her hand closing around her throat as real fear pricked at her eyes.
“Now, love, come along,” Ben said, shaking his head. “You’re getting yourself all het up.” But nonetheless he stilled and became pensive as this information filtered through. “Just stay away from him,” he said, looking up at her, his eyes intent. “I have to say I’m not convinced and I pray you’re wrong, but ... if what you say is true he’s ruthless and he’ll stop at nothing.”
Phoebe shuddered and nodded her agreement. “Oh, you don’t need to tell me I assure you. At least he’s away for a few days. Perhaps we could search his room while he’s gone?”
“He’s gone?” Benedict repeated.
“Yes,” she replied, picking at a sandwich with little appetite. “Back to London it appears, but only for two or three days I think.”
Benedict nodded, looking thoughtful. “Yes, I could check his room out, and no, you may not help me.”
He laughed as she pouted at him and he lifted her hand to his lips, kissing her fingers. “Don’t be cross, love. You have to let me have my own way now and then you know, it’s only fair.”
She laughed despite her annoyance. “Oh very well then,” she said, trying to sound cross and failing.
They didn’t talk any more about the murders by unspoken agreement and the rest of the picnic passed in a delightful manner, despite the glowering darkness on the horizon of their futures. For now Phoebe knew that both of them wanted to enjoy this moment, to hold these precious hours close, to remember if things
did not work out the way they needed them to. But they would, she told herself, they had to. She couldn’t allow anything else.
She looked up at Benedict as he tipped his head back to drain the last of the beer from the bottle before setting it aside. But what if she failed and never knew what it was to be loved by him? The idea was so appalling that she caught her breath.
Benedict looked around and must have seen the desperate look in her eyes for it was reflected in his own.
“Phoebe,” he whispered, as helpless as she was to deny the feelings that were growing between them.
Before he could allow any nobler intentions to get in their way she leaned forward and kissed him, pulling at his neck as she lay down, forcing him to follow her.
He did as she wanted though he lay beside her, his lips still gentle and tentative and she knew he was determined to control himself. But that she didn’t want.
Phoebe reached for the opening of his shirt and slid her hand under the fine linen, inhaling as her fingers smoothed over a tangle of wiry hair and the surprisingly silky skin beneath. Ben’s breathing hitched as her hand moved lower, gliding over the defined ridges of his abdomen.
“Your skin is so soft,” she said, delighted at her discovery.
He gave a little huff of laughter and pulled her hand from his shirt. “Did you expect scales, love?”
“Don’t be silly,” she replied, indignant as she pulled his mouth back to her. Frustrated by the space between them she tugged at his hips but he remained stubbornly distant. Determined that she would not be thwarted she decided to make greater advance in her strategy. With that in mind she lowered her hand and, albeit a little nervously, allowed it to slide over the fall of his trousers.
Ben sucked in a breath and cursed, low and with some force as he reached to take her hand away.
“No,” she replied, her voice adamant as her hand slid back and forth over the hard length that was only too obvious beneath the material of his trousers. “Let me, please.”
Ben may have been the first man she’d ever kissed but she was in no way ignorant of what men liked in this situation. Growing up around an army she had overheard and seen many things that any other lady of her birth would never have been exposed to. So although the technical aspects of what she was attempting might be guesswork, she knew what she was doing and was not about to be deflected.
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