Blackhaven Brides (Books 5–8)

by Lancaster, Mary

  “That was when the visitations lessened?” she asked.

  He nodded, casting her a curious glance. “You’re very quick witted, Miss Grey.”

  “Thank you.”

  He sank onto the window seat she had vacated only minutes before and fixed her with his direct, curious gaze. “Are you not frightened away by this intrusion?”

  She thought about it. It might have been his presence, but she didn’t feel scared at all. “No. I believe I would like him frightened off. He may be no physical threat to Rosa, but any stranger in her home is alarming and inexcusable. Hence my advice to inform the magistrate. Mr. Winslow is most helpful.”

  “He may be, but I shall have him—our intruder—next time. All I have to do is find where the passage opens.”

  Caroline frowned. “The clanking we heard must have been the secret door opening and closing.” She went to the fireplace wall, knocking it in various places with her knuckles in search of a hollow sound. The big fireplace made a likelier noise, so, under his apparently amused scrutiny, she knocked and poked in various places, eventually crouching down to try the lower tiles and twisting the decorative roses at the bottom.

  “Enough, Miss Grey,” came his voice behind her, so close that it made her jump. She had been so involved in finding the passage that she hadn’t seen him move. His boots were planted close beside her. His hand appeared as he bent to help her rise. “While I appreciate your enthusiasm, I fear your continuous knocking is more likely than the howling to disturb Rosa and Marjorie.”

  She flushed and tried to rise without his aid, but he caught her fingers and tugged her to her feet more swiftly than she was prepared for. She clutched the mantelpiece with her free hand, while he held on to her hand until she was steady.

  “I apologize,” she said, mortified. “I’m afraid I got stupidly carried away. You are quite right.”

  He stood too close. His warmth seemed to seep into her own. She could smell his distinctive scent, soap and sandalwood, and the hint of wine on his breath. Though it took conscious bravery to meet and hold his gaze, he did not appear to be angry. In fact, there was a hint of humor in those hard, grey eyes.

  “There is no need for apologies,” he said mildly. “If Williams and I find it tomorrow, you will be the first to know. Though we had best keep it from Rosa, at least until we’ve caught the miscreant and blocked up the passage.”

  “She is bound to hear you knocking from the schoolroom,” Caroline pointed out.

  “Then we’ll pretend to be checking for woodworm.”

  “And if you don’t find the passage?”

  “Williams or I will sit in here every evening until our intruder returns. One way or another, we will find it.”

  His eyes weren’t really hard at all, she decided, just veiled, secretive. In fact, reflecting the glow of the candles on the mantel shelf, they were warm, intense and rather beautiful. The shadows emphasized the strong lines and hollows of his face, and she had the sudden, insane urge to touch the ridged scar on his cheek.

  Somehow, she managed to nod. She didn’t seem able to breathe freely enough to speak. His lips curved into a faint smile, drawing her gaze, and her wayward thoughts. How would they feel against hers? How did such a man as Javan Benedict kiss?

  Shocked by her own speculation, she almost snatched her hand free and slipped past him.

  “Yes, please do let me know what you find,” she managed to say as she walked to the door. “I shall be most intrigued. Goodnight, Mr. Benedict.”

  She wasn’t sure he answered, but she did feel the heat of his gaze burning into the back of her neck as she fled.

  Chapter Five

  It was some days before Serena, the new Marchioness of Tamar, noticed the absence of her sisters’ governess. For one thing, she was absorbed in the wonder of her marriage and the joy of being with her new husband. For another, no one troubled to mention it to her. She only discovered it when Tamar set up his easel in their bedchamber one morning, and she used the opportunity offered by his preoccupation to go in search of her sisters.

  Her sisters had visited her new apartments several times since the wedding, and she and Tamar had dined with the family after her mother and brother’s failed departure for London. But Miss Grey’s absence had, stupidly, not occurred to her until she walked into the schoolroom and found it empty. When calling for her sisters elicited no response, she wandered down to the drawing room. In the long gallery, she encountered her brother, striding off to his study, no doubt, since the steward was at his heels.

  “Gervaise, where are the girls?” Serena asked. “Are they out somewhere in the rain with Miss Grey?”

  Braithwaite paused. “Ah. Go on to the study,” he instructed his steward. “I’ll join you directly. Serena…” Drawing her further away from the drawing room, where, no doubt, their mother lurked, he said low, “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about Miss Grey. She had a letter from home that upset her.”

  “She’s gone home?” Serena said in surprise. “I wish she would have said goodbye!”

  “Well, no, not home,” Braithwaite said uncomfortably. “I found her alone in the schoolroom—upset, as I said—when I was looking for the girls. I stayed to offer a word of comfort, and of course, Mother walked in and immediately read the worst into an entirely innocent situation. The devil was in it that the door had blown over and she chose to believe Miss Grey had closed it deliberately and was somehow trying to trap or inveigle me into marriage.”

  Serena’s jaw dropped. “Miss Grey?”

  “Well, exactly. I won’t say I haven’t noticed her because I have. But I would no more act upon it than…than…well, I just wouldn’t! Besides, she is so proper and efficient that I have no idea where mother got the stupid notion. She could easily have passed it off, but she chose to dismiss Miss Grey on the spot.”

  “She what?” Serena said furiously. “And for such a reason? Has she any idea how that will affect Miss Grey’s future?”

  “None, until she stops and thinks about it. Which she will, eventually, as you know. And she will be sorry in the end, so I sent Miss Grey up to Haven Hall for a week or two while Mother cools off.”

  “Haven Hall?” Serena repeated in accents of horror. “How could you, Gervaise? What on earth is there for her in that place?”

  “A pupil,” Braithwaite said impatiently. “Benedict has a daughter. Benedict being the tenant himself, whom I ran into when I was riding last week.”

  “What is he like?” Serena asked, distracted in spite of herself. “Miss Grey encountered him while walking one day and found him strange and grumpy.”

  Her brother shrugged. “Well, I wouldn’t say he was friendly, but he was not boorish.”

  “How did you find out he had a daughter?”

  “She was with him,” Braithwaite said in surprise. “Didn’t I tell you that? Pretty child but shy. A year or so younger than Helen, perhaps.”

  “And was he kind to the child?” Serena asked anxiously.

  Braithwaite blinked. “Well, he did not beat her in front of me! But she looked perfectly content to be with him, if that’s what you mean. Listen, though, since you brought the subject up, Mother and I are making another attempt to go to London tomorrow, now that the wretched coach is finally repaired. I shall have to write when Mother relents about Miss Grey.”

  “You’ll forget to ask her,” Serena said indignantly. “Why don’t I just bring Miss Grey back once you’ve gone? Then you may write here whenever you remember to get Mama to relent and I’ll write back as though I’ve only just brought her.”

  Braithwaite scowled. “You are untruthful and Machiavellian,” he said severely and strode away. It was noticeable, however, that he had not forbidden her. Not that Braithwaite’s prohibition would have made the slightest difference to Serena.

  *

  Considering the oddity of the household, Caroline grew used to it much more quickly than she’d expected. Although the morning after the intruder’s visit, s
everal items including umbrellas, hats, and plates had indeed been moved randomly around the ground floor, it didn’t reoccur over the next week. She knew either Williams or Mr. Benedict spent time in the library each evening in the hope of catching the intruder, but without any luck. Nor did they find a way to open the passage they were convinced was there. Caroline knew, because she made a point of asking Mr. Benedict.

  Neither, fortunately, was there a repeat of the heartrending cries of that first night, though Caroline confirmed a little more about their origin. One day, when she went looking for Rosa after luncheon, she found her in one of the bedchambers on the other side of the house from the schoolroom—the same chamber, she was sure, where she’d seen Mr. Benedict waiting that first night.

  This time the door was open, as were the bed curtains inside. The lady who’d thrown the cake the day Caroline had arrived lay on the bed. Miss Marjorie Benedict. Rosa stretched out beside her, gently stroking her hair.

  It was a private scene, and Caroline chose not to interrupt it. She withdrew silently and went to the schoolroom to wait for Rosa.

  That evening, when she and Rosa entered the dining room, Miss Benedict was already there, flitting around the table as though checking the simple place settings were in order. Rosa ran to her immediately and hugged her, receiving a hug in return, after which she took her aunt’s hand and all but dragged her toward Caroline.

  Caroline curtsied.

  “Ah, you are Miss Grey,” the lady said with a surprisingly sweet smile. Close to her, Caroline could see family likeness, not only to Rosa but to Mr. Benedict. There was something around her eyes and the shape of her face. In Miss Benedict, the features were softened, but she was quite clearly related.

  So much for the cook’s conviction that she was his wife.

  Miss Benedict offered her hand. “I have heard so much about you. Welcome to Haven Hall. I have been ill, you understand, or I would have welcomed you before and helped you find your feet here. Is everything comfortable for you?”

  “Most comfortable, thank you.”

  At that moment, Mr. Benedict limped in. “Well met, Marjorie,” he said without any surprise. “I see you’ve introduced yourself to Miss Grey. Shall we sit? The soup is on its way.”

  There was certainly more chatter at dinner than Caroline had grown used to. Miss Benedict initiated conversation on many topics, from the latest novels to possible peace with France, interspersing it all with questions about Caroline’s teaching experience. It was kindly done, as though the lady were satisfying herself as to the new governess’s suitability without appearing to be interviewing her. Caroline knew she was right when she intercepted Mr. Benedict’s sardonic glance.

  He said little on any subject, merely smiled sourly when Bonaparte and the French were mentioned. Clearly, he had opinions he chose not to share. Intrigued, Caroline opened her mouth to ask him, but his sister had changed topics suddenly.

  “And do you find our Rosa a good pupil?”

  Caroline turned to her civilly. “Indeed I do.”

  “Is her learning advanced for her age?” Miss Benedict inquired.

  “In some areas, yes,” Caroline replied.

  “Just in some?” Miss Benedict seemed inclined to take umbrage at this.

  “For her years, she is excellent at reading and writing, arithmetic, geography, and the sciences,” Caroline replied. “It is only in the ladylike accomplishments that she has little training so far. But she is quick, and the matter is easily remedied.” Caroline caught her pupil’s gaze with mock severity. “If she works hard.”

  Rosa gave her a mischievous smile.

  “Ladylike accomplishments,” Miss Benedict repeated in triumph. “Well, there you are. Javan does not have many of those.”

  Caroline’s gaze flew to Benedict’s. “You have been teaching, Rosa?”

  His lips twisted into a wry smile. “Is it so hard to believe I have been educated, too?”

  “Of course not,” Caroline said hurriedly. “Then it’s from you she developed her interest in botany?”

  “It’s a hobby of mine,” Mr. Benedict allowed.

  “Hobby,” his sister disparaged. “He is most learned, is even writing a book on the subject.”

  “But even I know music and watercolors are more important to a young lady’s education than botany,” Mr. Benedict said. “Hence, the necessity of a governess.”

  An idea arrived in Caroline’s head. “If you wish her to be a cut above the ordinary in painting, I believe I could arrange a few lessons with Lord Tamar, who is Lord Braithwaite’s brother-in-law and a most accomplished artist—”

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” Mr. Benedict interrupted. “You are tasked with teaching my daughter.”

  Caroline flushed. “Of course,” she said stiffly. “I beg your pardon.”

  She was spared further embarrassment by the entry of the servants to clear the plates and serve the pudding.

  Abruptly, Mr. Benedict said, “How do you find the piano?”

  It might have been an olive branch, or a way of showing her he was not angered by her presumption. Or he might just have thought of it.

  “A little out of tune,” she replied. “But not enough to hurt the ears. Otherwise, it works perfectly. We have had only a couple of lessons so far, but I believe Rosa is enjoying it.”

  Rosa nodded enthusiastically, and Miss Benedict began to plan her niece’s first recital.

  *

  When Rosa was in bed, Caroline read to her for a little, before handing the book over. They agreed Rosa should read by herself until her father came to say goodnight. Caroline was just crossing to the door which connected to her own chamber, when the passage door opened and Mr. Benedict came in. He paused at sight of her, as though surprised.

  “Good night, sir,” she said civilly.

  Unexpectedly, he changed direction, and opened her bedchamber door. “Good night, Miss Grey.”

  There was something unspeakably intimate about walking past him into her bedchamber. It wasn’t just that he controlled the door, or that crossing the threshold brought her so close to him that she could smell the warm spice of his skin and the wine and coffee on his breath. She made the mistake of glancing up at him to prove she was not intimidated. His hard, grey eyes glowed in the candle light, flaming with a heat that seemed to scorch her. Her stomach plunged as she recognized the look for what it was. Lust.

  Go in before I forget I was once a gentleman.

  By the time he closed the door softly behind her, his heat seemed to have spread to her own trembling body. She released her breath in a rush, trying to laugh at herself or him, wondering which of them she truly feared.

  *

  With the knowledge of his presence on the other side of the door, Caroline’s foolish heart beat too quickly to allow her to settle to anything. Which was ridiculous, since this happened every evening. This time, was just more.

  But she would not think of that. In desperation, she lit another candle and took out her sewing box. She’d retrieved two pairs of Rosa’s stockings which needed mending, and now, suddenly, seemed the best time to do it.

  While she worked, the occasional murmur from the other chamber died away. She heard a faint rustle, his uneven footfall as he crossed the room. She held her breath, waiting for what, she couldn’t imagine, although she’d lowered her work into her lap and all her concentration focused on the connecting door. She even imagined a hesitation in his step…before it continued and Rosa’s door to the passage opened and softly closed, and his footsteps faded on into the distance.

  She released her breath in a rush of relief. At least, she called it relief, though the feeling was made up of so many more conflicting emotions, including a bizarre disappointment, and a wish that things were different. That she was different.

  Taking herself to task, she forced her brain and body to calm by concentrating once more on her mending. It wasn’t easy in the dim light, especially as the rising wind now rattled the windo
w panes and made the candles flicker, but she didn’t make a bad job of it. After that, she began to patch together some old material she’d horded over the years to make a lining for her old boots. It might provide some protection from the rain until she could get to the cobbler in Blackhaven.

  She had to stop in the end because her eyes were too tired to see properly. The rain battered against her window in a sudden squall. Caroline put another shawl around her shoulders to protect against the fierce draughts and huddled a little closer to the fire while she finished her letter home.

  She had been waiting to hear from her mother that she had received the money she’d sent via Lord Braithwaite, hoping to hear good news of Peter’s health before she sent her own letter. She could only suppose the silence meant the emergency was over, but anxiety nagged at her. She finished her letter with an urgent appeal for her mother—or Eliza—to write back at once, even if only a few words to tell her Peter was recovering.

  Finally, she thought she might be tired enough to sleep. It was late. Even the servants had retired and the house would have been quiet save for the storm raging outside. On impulse, she walked to the window and drew back the curtain and the shutter. The night sky was filthy, thick, scudding clouds obscuring the moon and stars. The rain had let up, in a temporary kind of way but the wind, lashing and bending the trees, was, if anything, even fiercer.

  Caroline began to close the shutter again, when something below caught her eye. A dark, male figure moving from the house through the untamed garden toward the encroaching woods. Their intruder? Had he been into the house again? So far as she knew, neither Mr. Benedict nor Williams had found the entrance to the suspected secret passage, despite a thorough “examination for woodworm”. But there was nothing furtive about the man outside. He simply ploughed his way through the wind and rain. Why? Where on earth could he be going? Certainly, it was a wild night for a tryst.

  “True love,” Caroline murmured disparagingly, but still her hand lingered on the shutter, holding it open, for though she could barely make out the shape, let alone the features of the brave figure, he moved in a slow, uneven manner. With a limp.