by Clee, Adele
“His lordship’s not the pompous sort who insists on rigid rules. His friends call him Devereaux, and I’m sure he’ll afford you the same courtesy.”
The only way Julianna would survive the brief visit was by keeping to strict boundaries. Her heart was already in her throat at the prospect of being alone with Bennet in a place that held many fond memories.
The narrow corridors widened as Mrs Hendrie led her from the basement into the main house. Julianna glanced at the entrance hall’s chequered floor, at the stag heads and dreary paintings lining the wall, at the wooden panel disguising the old lord’s torture chamber, and couldn’t help but recall every harrowing detail of the night she’d left.
Part of her wanted to clap her hands with joy at being back at Witherdeen. Part of her wanted to take to her heels and run because her visit would surely end in heartache.
Mrs Hendrie knocked on the study door, and a deep masculine voice called for her to enter. “Miss Julianna has arrived, my lord. Do you wish to receive her now?”
The marquess sighed. “Mrs Hendrie, the girl we remember is a grown woman. We should afford her the courtesy of calling her by her married name.”
“Yes. Forgive me, my lord. Mrs Eden has arrived.”
“Then you may show Mrs Eden in.”
Heavens. Julianna lacked the courage to cross the threshold. Her heart thumped in her throat. Everything seemed a little blurred, distant.
Wearing a beaming smile, Mrs Hendrie returned to the hall. “His lordship will see you now. Send for me when you’re ready, and I’ll take you to the cottage.”
Julianna nodded. She touched the housekeeper affectionately on the upper arm. “It’s so good to see you, Mrs Hendrie.”
Mrs Hendrie gave Julianna’s hand a reassuring squeeze, then gestured to the open study door. “Best hurry. His lordship likes to keep the room warm.”
Julianna drew a deep breath and entered the study.
Had she found Bennet Devereaux dressed appropriately, consumed with the vast array of ledgers and papers spread over his imposing desk, she might have greeted him without her voice breaking. But he stood in shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, displaying strong, muscular forearms. His gold waistcoat gripped his shoulders and clung to his chest like a second skin.
“G-good afternoon, Lord Devereaux.”
“Mrs Eden.” He did not reach for his coat or attempt to make himself presentable. He simply bowed. “Welcome to Witherdeen.” A smile tugged on his lips.
“Thank you, my lord.” The click of the door closing had Julianna’s pulse pounding. It was so hot in the room she could barely breathe. “Everything is as I remember.”
“Not everything,” he teased. “We’ve both grown somewhat.”
He’d grown considerably. She couldn’t help but glance at the dark hair on his forearms. “Gone are the days when we might hide undetected behind the curtains.”
“I don’t know. Perhaps we won’t giggle quite as much.”
“Your laugh is contagious, my lord, and got us into terrible trouble.”
His gaze slid slowly over her figure before lingering on the red curl bobbing against her cheek. “I see your hair is still wild and unruly.”
“One learns to live with certain flaws.”
“It’s not a flaw.”
She swallowed deeply. “You used to say I had a head full of piglet tails.”
“It was a compliment.” He laughed, but his amusement quickly faded. “I’m sorry, Julianna. Sorry for making a promise I didn’t keep.”
Oh, she’d hoped he would avoid discussing the past in detail. And why had he seen fit to use her given name? Panic ensued. Did he think that paying her a fee came with certain entitlements? She was not Giselle de Lacy. She could not be bought, not anymore.
“And I should not have promised to return knowing it was impossible. But we were children, consumed by heightened emotions.” Although she was eager to know how long it had taken him to forget her. “A lot has happened since then. But we should remember I’m here to work, nothing more.” While she had come to rescue him from his nightmare, that didn’t mean history would repeat itself.
“Then forgive me again if I appear over-friendly.” He sounded a little irate. “Am I permitted to ask if you’ve eaten?”
“I ate on the journey.” Miss Trimble had made up a basket of delicious treats to keep in the cottage and a cold platter to have en route.
“Would it be inappropriate to ask you to dine with me this evening?”
Share a lavish meal in an intimate setting?
Had he lost his mind?
“Would you ask Mrs Hendrie to dine with you, my lord?”
“Mrs Hendrie has never been as close to me as you once were.”
“Were being the operative word.” She sounded cold, but it was the only way to protect her heart. “I have a duty to investigate the strange occurrences here. My future prospects depend upon me doing a thorough job. Let us leave our treasured memories in the past where they belong and focus on the pressing affair that led to you hiring an enquiry agent.”
Time was of the essence. The longer she stayed at Witherdeen, the more she would grow attached to the place, the servants, the handsome master.
The marquess planted his hands on the desk and leant forward. “If you’re asking me to treat you like a stranger, I cannot.”
“Then you should have made that clear before I accepted the position.”
“Devil take it, Julianna, we need to speak intimately if we’re to find the villain sending the handbills. Am I to be the only one baring my soul?”
Good God! Surely he didn’t expect her to reveal every harrowing detail of her life. Julianna swallowed past the lump in her throat. She would rather he remember her as a lively girl, not the emaciated young woman sold to feed her mother’s addiction.
“My lord, I must insist you call me Mrs Eden.” She hated the name. Her widowhood was akin to the understairs cupboard—a dark place full of horrible memories. But the sooner they focused on the case and not their past attachment, the better. “I must insist we concentrate on what’s important, which is finding the person who sent the threatening notes.”
He remained silent as he glanced out of the window at Witherdeen’s grounds. A strange melancholy settled in the air, and it felt suddenly colder despite the fire roaring in the grate.
“Then you should sit, Mrs Eden. Make yourself comfortable, take notes. Allow me to present all the facts so you can make informed decisions.”
All the facts?
“There are things you’ve omitted to mention, my lord?” Was this a ploy to gain her sympathy, to test her resolve?
“Just another handbill, and the ghost of a monk who walks the grounds after resting peacefully for three hundred years.”
Intrigued, Julianna studied him for a moment. She’d learnt to look for the subtle signs of deception—exaggerated hand movements, a slight change in word choice or intonation—but noted nothing that might rouse her suspicion.
“Perhaps you can escort me to the cottage. On the way, you can reveal that which you failed to tell Mr Daventry. I trust you still have the handbill.” If they walked, he would need to wear a coat, need to cover those strong forearms that proved equally distracting.
Bennet Devereaux took the small key hidden beneath the ink stand. He opened the desk drawer, removed the note and handed it to her.
Julianna tried to read the words pasted to the page, but her traitorous gaze drifted to the marquess as he rolled down his shirtsleeves and pushed his muscular arms into his black coat.
“The note arrived three days ago,” he informed her as he rounded the desk.
As children, they’d been of similar height. Now, he stood almost a head taller, stood too close as he watched her read the obituary. His commanding presence proved a little suffocating, and so she turned to the window under the guise of concentrating on the words cut from a newspaper and assembled with care.
“This one repor
ts that you died in a house fire.” Her stomach twisted into knots as she reread the next line. “It says Witherdeen was reduced to rubble, that your charred body was found amongst the remains.”
Julianna wasn’t sure why the threat rocked her to her core. Stories of gargoyles and of gravestones found amongst abbey ruins were the constructs of gothic tales. Devices used to strike fear in the hearts of mere mortals. But houses of all sizes and descriptions had burned to the ground because of dirty chimneys and faulty candle wicks. Equally, one needed no skill to start a fire that could ravage a mansion house within hours.
She turned and met his gaze. “Has there been a fire?”
“Not yet.”
The hint of sadness in his tawny eyes sent her hurtling back to the day she found him crying in the cupboard. The need to comfort him sparked anew.
“A coward sent this,” she said, her voice full of contempt for the craven devil. “Someone without courage or honour. Someone too weak to seek satisfaction at a dawn appointment. Probably a jealous woman. Either way, I shall help you solve the mystery, help you any way I can.”
He looked at her like he did the day he’d peeled back the napkin folds and found a slice of cake—with gratitude and wide-eyed wonder. “Though we hardly know each other now, Mrs Eden, having you here brings immense comfort.”
Oh, why did every word from his lips stir such odd sensations?
Tears welled. She turned away on the pretence she may have left something on the seat. “Come, let’s walk while we talk. It’s sweltering in here. The fresh air will do us a wealth of good.”
“We’ll pass by the ruins. I shall show you where my steward found the gravestone.”
She needed to inspect the grounds, discover who’d seen the ghostly monk. Indeed, there were so many lines of enquiry to explore, Julianna feared she would be at Witherdeen for a week.
A week?
Heaven help her!
She had been at Witherdeen less than an hour and was struggling against a range of emotions. No. She’d committed to two days and would have to work through the night if necessary. Besides, she could trust Mr Bower to perform certain tasks.
“We need to sit down and construct a timeline, my lord,” she said as they moved from the study to the entrance hall. “Perhaps we might do that during our tour of the ruins.”
The marquess seemed distracted. He came to an abrupt halt, took to glancing around the vast space as if witnessing the grandeur for the first time.
“My lord?”
Bennet Devereaux jerked in response. “Yes? Oh, you mentioned a timeline. I am at your disposal, Mrs Eden, and will give you any information you require.” Stealing another glimpse at the broad oak staircase, he said, “Do you recall the last time we stood together in this hall?”
“With remarkable clarity.” Sadly.
She could remember everything about that night. The patter of raindrops on the windowpane obliterated by the thud of footsteps on the landing. The rumble of thunder drowned out by the roar of angry voices. The taste of damp earth in the air, salty tears on her lips. And yet time and time again, it was the fear in Bennet’s eyes that appeared in her dreams, her nightmares.
“One must question if we’re at war with our memory.”
“At war?” It wasn’t such an odd phrase. Her inner battle began the moment she was reunited with Bennet Devereaux.
“Does the mind not spread propaganda?” he said. “Does it not ignore happy times and focus on painful memories?”
“We tend to cling to what we’ve lost and not appreciate all we’ve gained.”
As a married woman, Julianna had gained respectability. And she didn’t have to listen to her mother’s harebrained plans or partake in her devious scheming. But in marrying Edward Eden, she had lost every shred of dignity, lost all hope of falling in love and having children. Had almost lost her sanity.
“The year spent at Witherdeen was the happiest of my life,” she said without her voice breaking. “But I’m no longer that girl. Now I strive to make each new day worth living.”
He held her gaze long enough for her to feel that spark of connection. “Then come. You’ve never been inside the cottage near the ruins, and I think you’ll find it rather charming.”
Everything about Witherdeen held a certain allure.
That was the problem.
They left together through the huge oak doors, walked side-by-side down the sweeping stone staircase. It was impossible not to think of the last time she’d hurried down the steps.
The marquess offered his arm as they crossed the damp grass. “Grimley is attempting to fill the mole holes, and I’d hate for you to sprain your ankle.”
“Would you afford Mrs Hendrie the same pleasure?” she said, feigning amusement, because the thought of touching him sent her pulse soaring.
“Are we to judge everything based on my treatment of Mrs Hendrie?”
“She knows your secrets yet still knows her place.”
Indeed, Julianna would do well to take a leaf from the housekeeper’s book. Somehow she had to immerse herself in Bennet Devereaux’s world while attempting to remain indifferent.
Chapter 4
Rekindling his friendship with Julianna proved harder than Bennet had expected. She insisted on erecting barriers, building giant walls no mortal man could scale. She hid behind imagined structures, used every excuse to leave him out in the cold. But every impenetrable fortress had a weakness. It was just a matter of locating hers and entering with caution.
“Daventry said you’re interested in history and archaeology.” Bennet guided her across the lawn and headed towards the grey, moss-covered walls of the old abbey.
The building had stood on the grounds since the thirteenth century. Once a place as inaccessible as Julianna’s emotions, its crumbling walls were now open to the elements. The only living things seeking sanctuary were the wild plants growing in the gaps in the lime mortar and the oak saplings taking root around the perimeter.
“My husband toured the country, cataloguing buildings destroyed in the dissolution.” Julianna’s expression was as indifferent as her tone. “Other than history books, there was little else to read in the house. I couldn’t help but take an interest in Edward’s work.”
“Did you accompany him on his excursions?” Bennet had no desire to speak about Edward, yet he wished to know everything that had happened since she’d been torn from his arms on that stormy night.
“Sometimes. Mostly he visited sites with a colleague, an artist.”
Ah, he caught a hint of bitterness.
Did she resent the artist or resent being cast aside?
“It can be tiresome journeying from place to place.” Surely a devoted husband sought any opportunity to spend time alone with his wife. “No doubt Mr Eden considered your comfort a priority.”
“No doubt he did.” Her tone rang with insincerity.
They fell silent and left the lawn to trudge along the dirt track. Gone were the days when they’d hold hands and race towards the ruins, laughing and talking incessantly. Now, their steps bore the burden of responsibility. His, from the pressure of inheriting a marquessate. Hers, from having to provide the basic needs, of surviving in a world where the odds were stacked against her.
When they reached the abbey’s boundary wall, Julianna stopped. She removed her glove and pressed her palm to the mottled stone as if it held the propensity to heal her wounds.
“It’s hard to believe these stones have been here for hundreds of years. Long before your great-grandfather built the house.” She spoke with a sense of wonder. “Imagine all that has passed, yet they stand strong. A testament to faith.”
If only people were as resilient, Bennet thought.
“It’s so peaceful here,” he whispered, as if the monks who once roamed the claustral buildings might chastise him for speaking. “Something about the air cleanses the soul.”
She inhaled deeply, testing his theory. “Indeed.”
Bennet opened the studded door in the wall and led Julianna into the old courtyard, now a sea of grass meandering through every damaged doorway and crevice. What remained of the abbey’s walls looked to have burst up from the earthy depths below, a vast, awe-inspiring structure that dominated the landscape.
“All the lancet windows are intact and just missing the glass,” she remarked. “They’re perfect examples of bar tracery. If one looks at the huge clerestory window in the hall beyond, one can gauge the true height of the internal walls.”
Was this how she spoke to Mr Eden? Cold. Formal. Did she impress him with her knowledge so he might appreciate the intelligence of the woman he had purchased for a pittance?
“When I come here, I don’t imagine a place of worship.” He saw a haven for childhood fantasies. Tended not to think of the abbey as being intact but a broken place for broken people.
Julianna glanced at him. “If you examine the architectural remains, it’s not difficult to imagine how things used to be.”
“If I wanted to remember how things used to be, I would take myself to what’s left of the kitchen and light a fire in the hearth.”
There, he could not say it plainer than that.
Her eyes brightened at the memory. “It’s hard to toast bread without a roasting fork, though you did build an excellent fire. Shame the gardener saw the smoke and came running.”
“Next time I decide to eat outdoors, I shall bring the correct tools and use seasoned wood. Warn Grimley that I can do what the hell I like now I own the land.”
“As master of Witherdeen, why not have Cook prepare a basket?”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
She scanned his face, her amusement fading. “Have you not found other ways to entertain yourself, my lord? I’m not sure Miss Winters will want to sit on the cold ground, eat burnt bread and inhale fire smoke.”
