Blackhaven Brides (Books 5–8)

by Lancaster, Mary

  “It always amazed me,” Richard continued, “how he managed to bring live plants home from the most obscure and war-torn areas of the world. Intact, too, usually. I would have expected his mind to be on other things. I expect it was his way of dealing with situations most of us would have found intolerable.”

  Caroline suspected it still was. She worked in silence for a few minutes.

  “You have been good for them all, I hear,” Richard murmured.

  “I hope I have taught Rosa a little, but I have not been here long.”

  “I don’t just mean Rosa. Marjorie, for example. I find her much brighter, and she likes you.”

  “The two aren’t necessarily connected, but I’m glad if I’ve found favor with her.”

  There was a pause then, “You’re being very proper, aren’t you?” he said with a hint of amusement. “Don’t you wish to ask me about Marjorie? Most people would.”

  “Miss Benedict has shown me nothing but kindness,” Caroline said. “I have no intention of discussing her with a stranger, even one who is related to her.”

  “Very proper,” Richard drawled. “It’s a melancholy,” he added after a moment. “It has afflicted her periodically since she was a young girl little older than Rosa. Sometimes, she takes to her bed for weeks on end. On top of everything else, Javan found her like that when he came home and Louisa died. No one was looking after her except servants. I include myself, by the way. I was in the country at the time. Javan took her with him when he left London. Everyone thought Marjorie a poor choice to care for Rosa, but that was never his reason. He looks after both of them, even locks Marjorie in her room when things are bad and she is liable to hurt herself.”

  “I know.” If she hadn’t known, she’d certainly guessed. She looked up from her writing and set her pen aside before she looked at him directly. He leaned one hip against the farthest corner of the desk, watching her. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Because Javan is one of the very few men I admire. I am curious as to how you regard him.”

  “As my employer and Rosa’s father,” she said coolly.

  “And how does he regard you?”

  “As Rosa’s governess.” The words didn’t come so easily this time as she struggled to prevent the color seeping into her face. “If you wish more information, you must apply to Mr. Benedict himself.”

  “Oh, I have and I will,” Richard said.

  Caroline couldn’t help it. She laughed. “Mr. Benedict, are you warning me off? I’m afraid you must trust me when I say that I am well aware of my own position in life and his.” She stood, reaching for her cloak and bonnet and allowing him to see her in all her dowdiness. “I am no Circe, am I?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. The rumor is Lord Braithwaite found you tempting enough.”

  Caroline closed her eyes. “He did nothing of the kind. Repeating such rubbish is unkind, both to me and to Lord Braithwaite. I shall not discuss the matter with you. If Mr. Benedict is satisfied with my work and my past, I see no reason for you to cast aspersions.”

  Richard threw up his hands. “Acquit me, dear lady. I merely seek out the lie of the land.”

  “Allow me to leave you to your seeking while I go to church.” It was an excellent parting line, though she would have been happier with it if she hadn’t heard his breath of laughter behind her. In that, he reminded her of Javan.

  Chapter Twelve

  Blackhaven’s picturesque little church was packed for the Sunday service, Mr. Grant being a popular vicar, both with gentry and lesser mortals. Caroline barely managed to squeeze onto the end of one of the back pews. Behind her, several people, including the servants from Haven Hall, were standing.

  When Caroline had been before, she had occupied the Braithwaite pew at the front of the church. But while her current position was less comfortable, it afforded her a better view of the congregation. Half way through the first hymn, as she gazed about her, she glimpsed the pale man who had run from the castle party at sight of Javan Benedict.

  He sat across the aisle from her, as though he, too, had squashed himself in at the last minute. Under her scrutiny, he glanced around and met her gaze. Somewhat to her surprise, he inclined his head. She returned the gesture and hastily averted her gaze to the vicar. For the rest of the service, she made a point of never glancing in his direction again.

  And yet, as she emerged from the church, feeling somewhat stronger than when she’d entered it, thanks to Mr. Grant’s uplifting sermon, she knew this man followed behind her. He was there when she paused to speak to Mr. Grant and to Mrs. Grant who was admiring a fisherman’s baby close-by.

  In the street, Williams and the cart—already full of the hall servants—waited for her. Some distance from them, Serena and her sisters waved madly at her. To go to them, Caroline walked across the grass toward the side gate.

  “Excuse me,” a male voice said politely behind her.

  Caroline turned and faced the pale man, who bowed to her.

  “Forgive me,” he said humbly. “I know we are not acquainted, but I understand you are Miss Grey, Rosa Benedict’s governess.”

  “I am.”

  “My name is Swayle. Marcus Swayle.” He seemed to expect the name to mean something to her. When she only gazed at him somewhat blankly, he said anxiously, “Please tell me…how is she?”

  Caroline frowned. “How is who, sir?”

  “Little Rosa.”

  “She is very well,” Caroline replied.

  Mr. Swayle smiled deprecatingly. “I can see you are wondering what business it is of mine, and legally speaking, the answer is none. However, you should know that I regard Rosa as a beloved daughter.”

  “You do?” Javan’s warning about this man echoed through her mind. “Someone who must never, ever be anywhere near Rosa.

  “This is hard,” Mr. Swayle said ruefully. “I can only imagine what that man has told you about me.”

  “To the best of my recollection, he has never mentioned you at all.”

  This seemed to take Mr., Swayle aback, though only for a moment. “I expect he is ashamed, for I know all. The cruel way he treated his wife and daughter.”

  “Cruel?” she repeated, startled. Even when she’d first known him, his only sign of gentleness had been toward his daughter. “Sir, you are mistaken.”

  She began to turn away, but he flung out one hand to detain her, only swiftly withdrawing it again with a hasty apology. But belatedly, his possible identity struck Caroline with all the force of a hammer.

  “You were her—” she blurted, only just breaking off before she uttered the word lover.

  “Her lover?” Swayle said bitterly. “That is what he told you? It is true I loved her before he even met her and forced her to marry him. He wanted her money, for she was a wealthy heiress. You may think this wrong of us, but it was such a relief to us when we thought he was dead. I married her, was living with her as her husband. She and Rosa and I were a happy family at last and blissful that she was expecting my child. And then he came home. Clearly not dead at all. Enraged at finding us together, he beat me, half-killed me—as you see, I am still recovering. That, I can forgive. But Louisa’s death, that of my unborn child, that is firmly at his door. And I fear so for Rosa.”

  Caroline’s ears rang with his terrible accusations. She felt almost dizzy. Williams strode purposely through the side gate, glaring at her.

  “Care for her, I beg you,” Swayle said urgently. “And please, should you need help, or just wish to know more, you may find me at the hotel. Goodbye, Miss Grey.”

  Bemused, she stared after his retreating back as he walked back toward the church, leaning heavily on his cane.

  “We’re going home, Miss,” Williams said abruptly.

  “Of course.” She turned with him to walk to the side gate.

  “What did he want?” Williams demanded aggressively.

  “You know him? I wondered if he was a little mad.”

  Williams snorted. “
Not he. Nor even deluded, though he pretends. Best if you ignore him. What did he say to you?”

  “He asked after Rosa,” Caroline replied vaguely. “Mainly.”

  Williams paused. “You do know you mustn’t let her see him?”

  “Let her see him?” she repeated. “Does she want to?”

  “No,” Williams said flatly. “And don’t believe a word that bas—that man—says.”

  *

  Marcus Swayle walked directly from church to the rather disgusting town tavern. Although he wasn’t much of a man for slumming it—he liked his comforts—this was the second time in two days he’d found himself there. The first was yesterday after coming upon Javan Benedict at the castle rout.

  He knew almost at once that he shouldn’t have fled the castle, leaving Benedict, as it were, in possession of the field. But the shock had been great. And in truth, he was physically afraid of the man. It was only in the tavern, drinking a restorative brandy, that the possibilities for revenge had begun to percolate.

  After the death of Louisa, Benedict had seemed to disappear from the face of the earth. Nursing his bruised body and aggrieved by the removal of Louisa’s funds from his reach, Swayle had merely been glad of his enemy’s absence. By the time he had recovered enough to re-enter London society, the juicy gossip of Benedict’s return to England had almost died down—until Swayle had added fuel to the flame.

  It had begun as mere vitriol against the man who had taken everything from him. And yes, perhaps there was a little shame in being beaten so comprehensively in a fight with a man who could barely stand. So, he never mentioned Benedict’s injuries in his version of events. And it was then he had invented two ingenious fictions—that he and Louisa had been so convinced of Benedict’s death that they had married, and that he feared for Rosa’s life at the hands of her monstrous father. Society had lapped it up greedily. Only when Richard Benedict had returned to London, had Swayle felt it politic to depart the capital for the sake of his “shattered health”.

  He’d never expected to find the Benedicts here in Blackhaven, of all places. He was short of funds and in search of a wealthy woman to part from her fortune. Preferably a sickly widow, since she was likely to be more grateful for his attentions. And of course, she might die and leave him free to enjoy his inheritance unencumbered. Having obtained an introduction to Lady Tamar, he had expected her rout to be the best place to begin his search…until he had looked into the cold eyes of his enemy.

  Well, his departure had been more of a tactical retreat than a defeat. For in the tavern, he had heard all Blackhaven’s rumors about the family at Haven Hall. And had begun to tell his old stories.

  Today, he had almost missed Miss Grey as the cart in front of him had disgorged several female servants. It had taken several seconds to connect her dowdy, respectable person to the beautiful lady he’d seen with Benedict last night. He’d followed her into church from instinct, listening and learning as he went.

  Oh yes, there were possibilities there. Smiling, he raised his brandy to his lips just as someone large and clumsy bumped into him. Remembering where he was, he slapped his hand to his pocket and caught a grubby hand. It belonged to the man who had bumped into him, a big, villainous looking individual with his hat pushed to the back of his unclean head.

  Swayle did not underestimate the difficulties here. The landlord didn’t like trouble and apparently, he didn’t take a moral stance over events like this, just took the quietest way out. Swayle was likely to be thrown out for any accusations of theft. Or the villain could simply stab him where he sat and walk away.

  He suspected the man thought about it. Then the brute grinned. “Can’t blame a man for trying,” he observed. “Not when he’s hard-up.”

  An idea began to dawn in Swayle’s head. He would find a way to a devastating revenge on the man who had humiliated and impoverished him. But he would need help.

  “Hard-up,” Swayle repeated. “Then you are a man open to earning a little money, with no questions asked.”

  The large man pushed his hat even further back. “Might be,” he admitted. He smiled in what he probably imagined was an ingratiating manner, but in fact was quite terrifying. “They don’t call me Killer Miller for nothing.”

  *

  “I was thinking,” Miss Benedict announced at luncheon.

  “Congratulations, Marjorie,” her brother said provokingly.

  She cast him a quelling look.

  “What were you thinking?” Richard asked.

  “That we should invite Lord and Lady Tamar to dinner,” Marjorie said in a rush.

  Javan laid down his knife.

  “Ah, the mythical Lord Tamar,” Richard observed, “who turned out not to be a myth at all. Did he really marry Braithwaite’s sister?”

  “Yes,” Caroline said since no one else answered him.

  Javan’s gaze was locked with his sister’s, though he looked more stunned than annoyed. Eventually, he picked up his knife again. “Ask the Grants, too, if you like. He’s a good man for a vicar.”

  Marjorie’s jaw showed an initial tendency to drop at this easy victory. Then she frowned. “You confuse me. Isn’t a vicar meant to be a good man?”

  “Never confuse your definition of the word good with Javan’s,” Richard advised. “The Reverend Mr. Grant will no doubt be discovered to be a man of wit and sound strategic knowledge in military matters. And probably learned in botany.”

  Javan raised his wineglass to him.

  “I hope they have well sprung carriages for getting up the drive,” Richard added wryly.

  “Try to contain your concern,” Javan said. “I have some men coming over to clear and repair it next week.”

  “Have you?” Marjorie said in surprise.

  “They should be here first thing in the morning, so there’s no cause for panic if you hear a racket.”

  “Goodness,” Marjorie said, clearly impressed. “What evening shall I invite them, then?”

  “Whichever suits. I have,” Javan said self-deprecatingly, “no unbreakable plans.”

  “Wednesday?” Marjorie suggested. “Richard, you will still be here, will you not?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it,” Richard drawled.

  “Excellent. Miss Grey, should we invite the Braithwaite children?”

  Rosa’s head snapped up as she smiled from her aunt to Caroline and back.

  “They are quite civilized,” Caroline replied, “and will be thrilled to attend an adult dinner. Especially with Rosa. I’m sure Lady Tamar will be happy to bring them.”

  Miss Benedict beamed.

  After lunch, Caroline and Rosa went for their daily walk. As was usual, Javan and Tiny accompanied them, although rather to her surprise, Richard did not.

  “Does Mr. Benedict not care to walk?” Caroline asked lightly.

  Rosa grinned, pointing to her feet and then leaping back as though horrified by the mess appearing on her boots.

  Javan laughed. “You think he’s afraid of dirtying his fine footwear? He has a very superior valet to clean his boots. I expect he’s just tired after his journey. It’s a long way from London.”

  Rosa shrugged and ran ahead with Tiny. Silence lapsed between Caroline and Javan, but in truth, she only noticed when he said, “You are quiet. Are you wondering how to treat me after yesterday evening?”

  Caroline drew a breath for courage. “Actually, no. I have been wondering whether or not to worry you with something else entirely.”

  “My shoulders are broad,” he said flippantly. “Go ahead and worry me if you can.”

  “I spoke with Marcus Swayle this morning.”

  Although she was gazing deliberately straight ahead at Rosa throwing a stick for Tiny, she was aware Javan’s head turned toward her, almost felt the new tension tighten within him.

  “More accurately, he spoke to me,” she corrected herself. “Outside church.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He asked about Rosa.” At last, sh
e met his intense yet veiled gazed. “And he warned me against you.”

  Javan curled his lip. “I would expect nothing less. I’m sorry he chose you to bleat at, though. I was hoping he’d fled the country.”

  “He said you beat him to within an inch of his life.”

  “A slight exaggeration. Given what I suspect now, I wish I’d hit him harder. What else?”

  “That you…that you forced your wife to marry you for her money and that you were responsible for her death.”

  He kicked a stone out of his path. “Perhaps I was,” he said moodily.

  “And he said that you mistreat Rosa,” she blurted.

  He glanced at her with contempt, though for what or whom she could not be sure. “And you believe that?”

  “No. I suppose I might have believed the rest if it hadn’t been for that, but I know nothing could induce you to harm Rosa.”

  “You can’t know that,” he snapped. “One never knows what oneself is capable of, let alone what another person is. What you mean is, you hope I would never harm Rosa, because for some reason I have yet to fathom, you like me.”

  “And that is why you hired me?” Caroline retorted. “In the mere hope that I would not harm her?”

  A smile twisted his lips. “Exactly.”

  She waved one dismissive hand. “You are impossible. Sir, if Mr. Swayle took the trouble to speak to me in this way, he may well be traducing you in Blackhaven to anyone who will listen.”

  “I’m sure it’s all grist to the rumor mill,” he said without interest. “Which, judging by the way you looked at me when we first met, has already been working hard.”

  “I had no idea who you were when we first met.”

  “Do you know any better now?”

  She held his gaze, watching with fascination as the icy contempt and fury behind them drained into something far warmer. “A little,” she whispered. “I think.”

  His hand brushed her wrist among the folds of her cloak, and his fingers threaded through hers. “How did I exist without you, Caroline Grey?” His fingers curled convulsively. “How will I exist without you.”