by Clee, Adele
“Confidentiality is of paramount importance.”
Julianna swallowed down her nerves. “You may have faith in my integrity, my lord.”
She saw the challenge in his eyes, alluding to the promise made and broken. She might have hurled her own accusations. Why had he not looked for her? Why had he not written? It would not have been difficult. Everyone knew of Giselle de Lacy’s conquests, knew she had died of a laudanum overdose in a flea-infested pit in Paris.
Mr Daventry pushed the handbill towards her. “Study this for a moment.”
Julianna retrieved the fabricated notice, though performing the simple task took effort when done under the weight of Bennet Devereaux’s stare.
The bold heading leapt from the page—The Reckoning.
It sounded like the name of a novel or play—a story of vengeance and retribution. A victim’s tale. She raised her gaze and considered the marquess. Had the kind boy grown into a heartless devil? Had his father beaten the goodness from his soul and left this insensible peer in his place?
Bennet Devereaux watched her intently as she read his obituary. Assembled on the single sheet of paper was an ugly collage of words, an account of the terrible accident that had occurred at Witherdeen, a tragic and abrupt end for the young Marquess Devereaux.
She looked up and frowned. “It says you were killed by falling masonry.”
“A grotesque gargoyle, to be exact.”
“Days after receiving the handbill, Devereaux found a stone gargoyle smashed to pieces on his front steps,” Mr Daventry explained. “His steward inspected the building and found no damage. Someone staged the scene to unnerve him.”
Julianna studied the page. “The fact it’s entitled The Reckoning says we’re looking for someone you’ve wronged, my lord. A mistress perhaps?”
He shifted in the seat. “Perhaps.”
“We’ll come to suspects in a moment.” Mr Daventry removed another handbill from the leather portfolio and handed it to her. “Again, read the obituary.”
The report carried the same title and stated that the marquess had died of syphilis in the Lock Hospital on Hyde Park Corner. That he was to be buried amid the abbey ruins at Witherdeen.
“Someone erected a gravestone during the night,” the lord informed her, “though my death is recorded as being March 1824, two months hence. It’s clearly a threat. Now you understand my urgency in finding the devil responsible.”
“The woman responsible,” she corrected. “Only a woman would act with such malicious intent.” Giselle de Lacy had resorted to devious tactics to hurt her lovers. “Based on my experience, it should not take long to find her, though you will need to share details of your personal affairs. The names of the women you’ve bedded this last year. A list of those you elevated to the role of mistress.”
Lord Devereaux gulped. A brief look of embarrassment passed over his handsome features. “Perhaps there are men who would like to see me suffer. Men my father wronged. It would be unwise to assume this amounts to nothing more than an ex-lover’s spite.”
And what of the men Bennet had wronged?
“Devereaux has made it known he’s in want of a wife,” Mr Daventry said calmly, though the news hit Julianna like a vicious blow to the stomach. “As you can imagine, many powerful men would like to align with the house of Devereaux, so we could be looking for a jealous debutante, a disgruntled father or jilted suitor.”
“Is there a particular reason you’ve decided to marry now, my lord?” Julianna fought to maintain a professional air amid a flurry of odd emotions. “It may not be a coincidence.”
“I have a duty to wed, Mrs Eden.” He spoke bluntly, the last two words carrying a hint of contempt. “As daunting as that may be.”
“A duty to your father?”
“To king and country. A duty to raise sons with the strength to carry us forward into a new, modern age. An age of scientific advancement.”
Her snort echoed her disapproval. “I pray you’ve not told your prospective brides that’s the reason you wish to wed. Some ladies like to imagine a marriage based on love.”
“My father insisted romantic love was for the lower classes.”
“I must disagree,” Mr Daventry interjected. “Despite being the son of a duke, albeit an illegitimate one, I am deeply in love with my wife.”
“Then you’re one of the fortunate few, Daventry.” Bennet turned to her, those brandy pools for eyes taking in her wild red curls and simple green day dress. “Am I to understand you were deeply in love with your husband, Mrs Eden?”
The question caught her off guard. “My personal affairs are not open to scrutiny, my lord.” She refused to discuss her marriage with anyone. Ever.
Mr Daventry’s curious gaze shifted between them. “We’re digressing and should return to the matter at hand. Do you have an idea where you might begin, Mrs Eden?”
Yes, she might begin by gathering her skirts and bolting for the hills.
“I would compile a list of suspects, observe those who work at Witherdeen, interview the keepers of every coaching inn within a five-mile radius. Then I would return to town and work through his lordship’s list of conquests. As the daughter of a woman who wangled her way into every lord’s bed, it shouldn’t be difficult to gain his mistress’ trust.” She paused for breath. “Shall I go on?”
“No, that seems sufficient.” Mr Daventry turned to the marquess. “Well, will you hire Mrs Eden to uncover the identity of the person who sent the handbills?”
Hire? The thought left a nasty taste in Julianna’s mouth. Giselle de Lacy had been nothing more than a body for rent. The fact Bennet Devereaux would pay for her services roused a deep unease. But Mr Daventry intended to use the funds to help other impoverished women, so she could not forgo her fee.
“And we would say you’re at Witherdeen to study the abbey?” the marquess asked, but did not wait for an answer. “There’s an empty cottage near the ruins that you could use for the duration of your stay. I wouldn’t expect you to sleep in the servants’ quarters. And if I grant you a chamber in the house, everyone will assume we’re lovers.”
Lovers!
The word dripped off his tongue so smoothly heat flooded her cheeks. Despite the fact she was not remotely interested in this man, she couldn’t help but feel drawn to him in some inexplicable way.
Mr Daventry cleared his throat. “Mrs Eden will visit Witherdeen in a professional capacity. I expect you to treat her with the utmost respect.”
The marquess’ gaze softened. “As children, we formed a bond, helped each other through a difficult time. Regardless of what Mrs Eden may think of me when she delves into my affairs, I would never do anything to hurt her.”
And yet, just by sitting there—a magnificent specimen of masculinity—he had unwittingly cut out her heart and destroyed every cherished memory.
Chapter 2
The memory of them huddled in the cupboard, scared to the marrow of their bones, of Julianna being ripped from his grasp, haunted Bennet to this day. If he closed his eyes, he might see her dainty hand pressed to the viewing window as the carriage charged down the drive. He might feel the sharp stones digging into the soles of his feet, experience the gut-wrenching pain that followed their separation.
Promise you’ll return if you can.
He’d had many friends since—no one like Julianna.
And while Bennet had come to accept he would never see her again, understood they walked different paths now, like an angel of light she’d appeared unexpectedly. It had taken every effort not to hug her, stroke that wild hair from her face and beg to know where she had been for the last seventeen years. Anger had bubbled to the surface, too. Why had she not come to visit him at Witherdeen? But then he had not tried to find her either.
“We should make a list of suspects.” Lucius Daventry handed Julianna a pencil and a small brown notebook. “Mrs Eden will record their names.”
Mrs Eden!
Her husband was dead,
yet Bennet wanted to wring his damn neck.
“Be honest with us, Devereaux,” Daventry added. “No one is here to judge.”
Thankfully, the housekeeper arrived with the tea tray and set about pouring three cups. Bennet helped himself to a shortbread biscuit but would need a stiff brandy if he were to reveal intimate details of his affairs.
“We should start with the name of your current mistress.” Julianna seemed mildly annoyed. “I doubt it will mean anything to me, but Mr Daventry might like to offer an opinion.”
Hell, Bennet felt as if he’d been dragged before the quarterly assizes. Surely every virile man of twenty-seven sought meaningless liaisons.
“Miss Isabella Winters,” he said begrudgingly.
Julianna’s hand shook as she scribbled down the name. “I assume you pay Miss Winters a monthly allowance.”
“If you’re asking if I pay for Isabella’s affections, then the answer is yes.”
Disappointment flashed in her vivid blue eyes. “Does Miss Winters know you are in want of a wife? Perhaps she fears she may lose the coveted place in your bed, my lord.”
“No, I’ve not told Isabella I intend to marry.”
“May I ask why not?”
“Does it have any bearing on the case?” Daventry interjected, as he must have sensed her hostility. “With your upbringing, you can guess why he has not been forthcoming with the information.”
Bennet did not wish to be reminded of how Giselle de Lacy had mistreated her daughter. “Mrs Eden wants to know if I intend to keep a mistress when I’m married.”
“Do you?” She turned to Daventry. “Lord Devereaux is fooling himself if he believes Miss Winters doesn’t know of his desire to marry. Women who earn a living warming rich men’s beds keep abreast of the gossip. Either she is seeking his replacement or doing her utmost to keep her position. Therefore, it is relevant to the case.”
Daventry inclined his head. “Of course.”
“I’ve not inherited my father’s habits, Mrs Eden.” He was not an arrogant reprobate who collected mistresses as if they were trophies. But he needed female company like every other man. “I shall be faithful to my wife and will expect the same in return.”
“A task made more difficult if you’re not in love with her, I might add.”
Daventry sighed. “We are not here to advise his lordship on the pitfalls of marriage, Mrs Eden, even if I wholeheartedly agree with you. Now, I assume Miss Winters had a predecessor.”
Bennet contemplated telling them both to mind their own damn business, but there was no one else he could trust. And while he had given Daventry two handbills, he’d not given him the third note, not told him about the hauntings.
“Before Miss Winters, I was involved with Mrs Bancroft.”
Daventry frowned, and Bennet knew why. “Captain Bancroft’s widow?”
“Indeed.”
Both women had silky red hair, though not as vibrant as that of the siren currently sitting opposite. Both women possessed blue eyes and pale complexions, had bow-shaped lips that were nowhere near as alluring as Mrs Eden’s. A man had a vision of what he liked in a woman, but despite meeting his physical criteria, they both lacked that special something.
“I see.” Daventry sat back in the chair and steepled his fingers. “I wonder if your past connection to Mrs Eden might cause problems. I wonder if Miss Gambit might be better suited to the case.”
Panic seized Bennet by the throat. In his mind, Julianna was back at Witherdeen, within arm’s reach, there to talk to when he couldn’t sleep, his only friend and confidante. Fate had thrown them together again. Though he prayed they were not destined to be torn apart under tragic circumstances.
“Mrs Eden knows my housekeeper,” Bennet urged. “Surely that gives her an advantage.” But the voice of reason said Miss Gambit might be the better choice. Miss Gambit wouldn’t stir old feelings. Miss Gambit wouldn’t look at him with disdain when he spoke about past lovers.
Julianna looked confused, for she couldn’t know that every woman Bennet had bedded bore a likeness to her. He’d been looking for Julianna de Lacy for seventeen years, but in all the wrong places.
“Forgive me if my forthright approach has caused offence, sir,” she said, oblivious to Lucius Daventry’s concerns. “But if I am to help Lord Devereaux, I must know every intimate detail of his life.”
Every intimate detail? The prospect of discussing his liaisons proved as daunting as the silence that followed.
“I’ll be honest,” Daventry began after some thought.
Bennet held his breath.
“You were close as children. I fear your connection may hinder your progress.” Daventry’s eyes flashed in silent warning. It was suddenly evident why most men feared this bastard son of a duke. “As an agent of the Order, Mrs Eden is under my protection. Her safety is paramount. I cannot have her distracted.”
Julianna sat forward. “Sir, we’re no longer those children. We’re so far removed it’s as if we’re strangers.”
Strangers!
Bennet firmed his jaw.
If suddenly struck blind, he could find her in a crowded room. Those unruly red curls would still feel like silk against his cheek. The scent of her skin and hair would evoke visions of an apple orchard. He would know her sweet cadence amid an orchestra of voices.
“I don’t know this man.” Julianna gestured to him as if he were a vagabond she’d stumbled upon in the street. “And once I have narrowed down the suspects, there’ll be no need for us to spend time together.”
Even as a child, Julianna had been logical while Bennet was prone to flights of fancy. Now, there was little point imagining something that could never be. He had a duty to marry the daughter of a duke. Duty did not permit a friendship with a courtesan’s daughter.
“Do you think you can solve this case, Mrs Eden?” Daventry said.
“Yes, sir. I understand your concerns but assure you I shall treat his lordship like any other client.”
Daventry considered her reply. “Then you may go to Witherdeen, but you will take Bower.” He turned to Bennet. “Bower is a trusted servant and an ideal companion when one needs a man skilled in combat. He will assume the role of coachman and assist Mrs Eden where necessary. Having a spy amongst the ranks will prove useful, too.”
Yes, and the fellow would be there to ferry Mrs Eden back to London should Bennet overstep the mark.
“I shall ensure there’s a bed ready for him in the coach house.”
“If Mrs Eden is to remain at Witherdeen beyond a week, I shall have Miss Gambit visit for a few days.”
Anger flared, but Bennet held his temper. “Mrs Eden’s wellbeing will be a priority, I assure you.” He snatched another biscuit from the tray and stuffed it into his mouth, lest he tell Daventry what he really thought.
“Now that’s settled,” Julianna began, seemingly unaffected by the implication that Bennet might ravish her once he had her alone at Witherdeen, “we should continue making a list of suspects. I’m sure his lordship’s time is precious, and our tea will be cold if we continue to digress.”
At the mention of tea, they took their respective china. With an unsteady grip of the sugar tongs, Julianna dropped three lumps into her beverage. Bennet might have drawn attention to the fact she still had a sweet tooth, but didn’t wish to provoke Lucius Daventry.
“Have any of your mistresses reacted irrationally when you gave them their congé?” came her blunt question as she absently stirred her tea. “Are any of them capable of murder?”
Murder? Hell, Isabella could barely rouse the energy to climb out of bed. She had a footman perform the arduous task of buttering her toast and lacked the mental capacity to think of anything but her next modiste appointment.
“No. But we’re talking about four or five women, not a harem.” He wasn’t a complete reprobate.
“Which is it, my lord? Four or five?”
He huffed. “Five.”
She scribbled that in
her damn notebook.
“And what about prospective brides?” Daventry said. “Have you entertained any prominent families in town or at Witherdeen?”
Bennet explained he’d invited three notable families to Witherdeen for a few days last November: Lord Pilkington, Lord Ledbury and Lord Addison. “I’ve spoken privately with the Duke of Pembridge. While he discussed his eldest daughter, I made no mention of forming an alliance.”
Julianna did not look up from her notebook, but continued writing more than the names of the peers Bennet had mentioned. “Do any of the ladies have reason to think you might offer for them, my lord?”
“No, Mrs Eden. It was purely a social gathering to become acquainted with those ladies on the marriage mart.”
She nodded, unaware that another teasing curl had escaped her simple coiffure. “May I ask who will inherit the marquessate should you die before siring an heir?”
The heir presumptive had been the first person on Bennet’s suspect list.
“My cousin John Devereaux, but he’s currently in the Bay of Bengal serving as Post-Captain on his Majesty’s frigate The Argyle. I dined with Lord Melville—First Lord of the Admiralty—last night. He confirmed what I already knew.”
“Is John Devereaux married?”
“I believe so, but I have never met his wife.” Before she could ask the most obvious question, Bennet said, “My father despised his brothers. When he inherited, he refused to entertain either of them again. He feared Charles would murder him in his sleep and claim the title. And so he set about secretly ruining both men. I had the unfortunate pleasure of reading my father’s journals after he died. The written word has a way of revealing the depraved depths of a man’s mind.”
Reading of his father’s delusions, of his hostility and imagined conflicts, went some way to explain the lord’s sudden acts of aggression. Perhaps John Devereaux had taken a commission in the navy because he wished to be as far away from England—as far away from the marquess—as possible.
“May I read the journals?” Julianna asked. “The threats made against you seem deeply personal. Vengeance is the obvious motive. But the perpetrator may have had a grievance against your father.”
