by Clee, Adele
“I hadn’t thought of inviting Miss Winters.” Isabella would never stoop so low. She’d need a gilded chair and servants to fan the flames. “Besides, I spoke to Miss Winters when I left Daventry’s office yesterday. We agreed it was time to part ways.” He’d not visited Isabella much of late. Entertaining a mistress now Julianna was back in his life seemed abhorrent.
“What? You’ve tired of Miss Winters already?” Julianna didn’t wait for a reply but strode ahead. As she passed through the archway, she stroked the stone like it was a magical portal to the past.
Bennet caught up with her near the giant clerestory window, a majestic frame for the heavens now. “You make me sound like all the lords your mother entertained.”
“You do pay women to warm your bed.”
“I pay for exclusivity. Should I remain celibate until I find someone I wish to wed?” He wasn’t Isabella’s first lover and wouldn’t be her last.
“And what of Miss Winters?”
“Her generous settlement means she need never take a lover again.”
Bennet thought Julianna would be pleased he’d taken his responsibility seriously, but she scoffed. “Settlement? You may have provided for her financial needs, but have you considered the negative impact on her emotions?”
Her emotions! Clearly Julianna did not know Isabella Winters. The woman boasted of having had offers from other lords and knew how to manipulate men.
“Would it please you if I wrote to her and asked about her health?”
Julianna shook her head. “You don’t need to please me, Bennet.”
She was angry, yet had spoken his given name with a familiarity that diffused the need to retaliate.
“I’m not perfect, Julianna. I’ve made mistakes.” He kept calm. “As a marquess, people presume I have all the answers. That’s not the case.” He was an imposter. A simple man living a complicated life. “We all need love in one form or other.”
She gazed up at the ancient window, at the clouds drifting idly by. The world kept moving, even if one felt they were standing still.
“Witnessing our parents’ version of love has made us cynical.” Her comment sounded like a veiled apology. “And you lost your mother at a young age. Such tragedies make us behave in ways that often don’t make sense.” She paused. “All I’m saying is, Miss Winters is likely using you to further her own ends. Don’t mistake your liaison for love.”
“I’m perfectly aware of the limitations,” he said, equally aware that this was the only honest conversation he’d had in seventeen years. He decided now was the best time to ask the question gnawing at his insides.
“Did you love Mr Eden?”
The silence stretched to excruciating lengths until she eventually muttered, “I’m sure you’ve heard the tale of Giselle de Lacy’s downfall. Heard how she sold her daughter into marriage to feed her laudanum habit.”
“I have not heard it from you.”
From her intense stare, he knew she was tempted to explain her sad story. But then a voice called out from beyond the ruined cloisters and Bennet’s steward appeared.
Damnation!
“My lord.” Branner approached and doffed his hat. “I saw you entering the ruins and thought to offer my assistance. I’m more than happy to give Mrs Eden a tour of the grounds.”
Bennet wasn’t sure what roused his ire most. The fact Branner had interrupted an intimate conversation, or that when the man smiled, one could almost hear a chorus of angels singing. Still, he kept his temper and introduced the steward.
“Do you know much about monastic history, Mr Branner?”
Julianna maintained a confident facade, but Bennet sensed her retreating to the safety of her fortress. He imagined most women would find the steward’s charming manner and athletic build attractive. No doubt Julianna knew enough about cads to know when one was trying his utmost to impress.
Branner scanned the ruins. “This was an Augustinian monastery. They formed over a thousand years ago but only settled on English soil in the thirteenth century.” He glanced at the crumbling walls towering forty feet high. “I’m familiar with the structural layout, know something of the demolition. Indeed, the dissolution deed is amongst the documents in his lordship’s library.”
Branner was being helpful, so why was Bennet so annoyed?
“You appear to be a fountain of knowledge, sir.”
“Hopefully, I may be of use to you when you’re gathering research for your book, Mrs Eden. Though one must ask, will it be a story of the abbey’s historical background or a tale of the terrifying hauntings?”
Julianna glanced at Bennet. They had not discussed who amongst the staff knew about the threatening handbills. However, she knew the steward had dealt with the matter of the smashed gargoyle and would presume he knew about the gravestone buried within the ruins.
Even so, she spoke with caution. “Are you trying to tell me you’ve seen a ghost, Mr Branner?”
“That depends. Do you suffer from a nervous disposition, madam?”
“I find the living more terrifying than the dead.”
Branner laughed. “I’m not sure you’d say the same if confronted by a faceless monk swinging a thurible.”
“Is that what you saw, sir?”
Branner pointed through the arched doorway where two huge fireplaces stood intact. “He passed from the kitchen to the refectory.”
Julianna frowned. “If the ghost was faceless, why are you so certain it was a man?”
Branner jerked slightly. “Are monks not always men?” From his odd reaction, clearly he was unused to people contesting his wild tales.
“We’re not talking about a monk, sir. We’re talking about a phantom or a person out to cause mischief. Did you see the apparition at night?”
“Yes, sometime after midnight. Before you ask, I was in full possession of my faculties.”
“I presume you live within the estate’s grounds.”
“Yes, in a cottage a half-mile walk from here.”
Julianna gazed at the crumbling walls. “The ruins are some distance from your house. May I ask why you were here at such a late hour?”
Branner grinned. “You sound like the magistrate, Mrs Eden. Is it a crime to be out after dark?”
Despite the steward’s mocking tone, her confidence did not falter. “While my research will focus on monastic life and the abbey’s demise, a chapter about the hauntings will enchant the reader. I’m afraid I must ask many questions, sir, but please don’t think it’s a personal attack.”
Bennet disliked the way Branner ogled Julianna Eden. The thirty-year-old steward was intelligent, witty, educated, and unmarried. He was assessing her, no doubt contemplating the possibility of them becoming friends, lovers, maybe more.
“Then forgive me, madam, if I sounded defensive.” Branner slapped his hand to his chest to show he spoke in earnest. “Perhaps you might like to interrogate me at length once you’ve settled into the cottage.”
The bounder made interrogation sound like seduction.
Bennet stood there like a blasted chaperone to a courting couple. He would have dismissed Branner, but Julianna needed to question him.
Branner turned to Bennet. “I shall leave last month’s account ledger on your desk later today, my lord, along with the report detailing the necessary improvements to the stable block. I have an hour until I’m to meet with the tenant farmers and can remain with Mrs Eden while she inspects the ruins.”
“That won’t be necessary, but make yourself available this evening. Mrs Eden may want to question you at the house.” Pleased that in a rare moment of jealousy he’d not told his trusted servant to sod off, Bennet added, “And if you could locate any old records of the abbey, it may save Mrs Eden some time.”
“Certainly, my lord.” Branner inclined his head. “I look forward to continuing our discussion this evening, Mrs Eden.”
Julianna smiled. “I shall try not to bombard you with questions, sir.” She watched the stewar
d walk away, waited until he’d disappeared from view before facing Bennet. “Do you like Mr Branner?”
“I don’t dislike him.” Not until ten minutes ago, at any rate. “He’s an excellent steward, trustworthy, meticulous in his work. Why do you ask?”
“How long has he worked here?”
“Two years. My father employed him before he took ill. Mr Branner replaced the light-fingered Mr Weaver.” Who might never have been caught had Bennet not examined the estate’s accounts.
“Mr Weaver stole from your father?” came the next abrupt question.
“Yes, over a period of years.”
“Why didn’t you mention it when discussing possible suspects?”
“The man is sixty and would have been strung from the scaffold had my father prosecuted. No, Mr Weaver wouldn’t dare show his face in these parts.”
Anger simmered. Like Branner, Bennet disliked the brusque questions. Not because he had something to hide, but because Julianna seemed so cold, so detached.
“And your father died eighteen months ago?”
“Yes.”
“Was it of natural causes, or might—”
“That’s enough, Julianna.” Bennet could no longer hold his tongue. He hated seeing her like this, an empty vessel going through the motions. “I’m happy to answer any questions, but you’re like an automaton firing at random without waiting to see if you’ve hit the mark.”
Her eyes widened. “I’m here as an agent of the Order to ask questions, to determine if your life is in danger. Perhaps you’re used to women pandering to your every whim.”
Bennet stepped closer. “I’d rather hear your angry remarks than your cold questions, but one hopes you may stumble upon a more tolerable way of speaking.”
She stood stiff, rigid. The Julianna of old would have stuck out her tongue, challenged him to a duel with sticks, thrown a mud pie. Instead, she darted away.
“Julianna!” He caught up with her near the boundary wall, grabbed her hand and swung her around to face him. “What the devil’s wrong?”
“Please, Bennet, let me go.” She tried to tug free of his grasp. “I can’t stay here. It’s too familiar. It brings back too many memories.”
“Good memories, surely.”
Eager to escape, she looked back at the open door. “Please, I must go.”
“Don’t leave.” Hell, he sounded like his ten-year-old self. But he knew if he released her, she would have Bower ferry her back to London, and he would never see her again.
“Mr Daventry will send Miss Gambit to serve in my stead.”
Miss Gambit? He didn’t want Miss Gambit.
“I need you.”
“No, you don’t.”
“What shall I say to the staff? That Miss Gambit wants to write a damn book about the ruins now? It will rouse suspicion.” He caught hold of her other hand, held it as tightly as he had the night they’d hid in the cobwebbed cubbyhole. “What’s wrong, Julianna? The girl I knew always faced her fears.”
The comment hit a nerve.
She hung her head, dejected.
Bennet considered pulling her into an embrace but had already overstepped the mark. “Do you remember what you said to me the day my father tanned my behind and you found me sobbing? Do you?”
“Of course I remember.”
“Well?”
She raised her head. Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. “I promised tomorrow would be a better day. I promised to make you smile.”
She had done more than make him smile. Her impressions of the servants had left him rolling about the floor, crying with laughter. In some twisted way, he’d grown to like the crack of the cane across his thighs. Julianna had a way of turning his torment into moments of pure magic.
“Our friendship grew from strength to strength.” He cared for no one the way he’d cared for her. “Yes, we’re different people now, but I’m making you the same promise in the hope we can start anew. Become friends again.” He squeezed her hands. “And if not, let us at least be kind to one another while trying to find the devil who wants to kill me.”
She stared at their clasped hands and sighed. “You’re right. Solving the case is important to us both. I need to prove my worth as an agent if I’m to support myself, and we must put a stop to these veiled threats.”
Relief washed through him. “Then let us agree to put the past behind us and concentrate on working together.”
Julianna nodded. An errant red curl bobbed in agreement, too. “I’ve made a terrible mess of things already, Bennet.”
The fact she had used his given name spoke of progress.
“How so?”
“I’ve raced ahead, haven’t written a timeline or asked the basic questions.” She tried to draw her hands from his grasp. Reluctantly, he let go. “I’m much better suited to the role of governess, but there’s not a family in London who’ll have me.”
He might have feigned ignorance, but friends didn’t lie. “Daventry said the Servants’ Registry struck you off their list.”
“The pompous fool. Do you know how hard it is to find work without a reference?” She laughed as her gaze swept from his neck to his navel. “Of course you don’t. You insist on employing the best.”
A host of questions flooded his mind. The most prominent being why Mr Eden had failed to provide for her after his death. How had the man died? God, had he been old and decrepit? Bennet needed to make his own timeline, beginning with what happened to Julianna after she left Witherdeen.
“Most things can be bought for the right price.” The stupid words tumbled from his mouth before he realised what he’d said. “You can purchase references easily, but I’d rather you work for Lucius Daventry than a profligate who abuses his children’s governess.”
Another weary sigh escaped her. “I do like living with the ladies of the Order. And it would be good to remain in the same place for more than a few months.”
“It’s settled then. I’ll escort you to the cottage so you can unpack. Come to the house this evening, and I shall relate the events in chronological order, answer the basic questions.”
She managed a faint smile. “Yes, I need to concentrate on gathering evidence. Forgive me. Being back at Witherdeen is overwhelming.”
“I understand.”
Their gazes locked. Bennet felt the same physical jolt he’d experienced upon first setting eyes on her again. God, how he wished he could go back and do things differently. But then he’d be in the same predicament he was now—not knowing how to help her.
“Do you remember how to find the cottage?” he said.
“Yes, you continue along the path for a few minutes.”
“Good. First one there earns a privilege pass.”
“A privilege pass! What?” She jumped to attention. “No! You can’t expect me to run in long skirts.”
Bennet grinned. “I’ll give you a few seconds to gather your skirts, and then I’ll start counting your ten-second lead. One. Two.”
Panic had her gaze darting left and right.
“Hurry. I’m about to begin the proper count,” he teased.
Flustered, she grabbed her skirts and dashed through the doorway in the boundary wall, laughing as she went.
Bennet had no intention of letting her win, not the first race. Holding a privilege pass meant she would have to agree to his choice of game. He needed it as leverage for the next time she decided to flee Witherdeen.
“Ten!” he shouted loud enough for her to hear.
He raced through the open gate, saw that she was a hundred yards ahead, though inwardly groaned when he caught sight of her trim ankles.
She clutched her bonnet to her head and glanced behind, squealed, laughed, then pushed harder.
Bennet waited until he saw the thatched cottage before breaking into a sprint. “You need practice.”
“No!” She caught sight of him charging up the flank. “It’s not fair. Your strides are much longer than mine.”
“You had a head start.” He eased back a little, wishing the moment might never end. He liked seeing her like this, so confident and carefree.
They were fifty yards from the cottage when he increased his speed and darted past her. He vaulted the low garden gate, much to her chagrin, for she had to stop to fiddle with the latch.
“Had I been wearing b-breeches,” she paused to catch her breath, “I w-would have won.”
“We shall test your theory tomorrow.” He opened the cottage door and stepped back for her to enter. She edged past him. So close their clothes touched, so close his stomach muscles clenched. “I hope you like it here.”
She entered the parlour and gazed around the small room. The oak-beamed ceiling and quaint stone fireplace made the space seem cosy, intimate. A man might imagine curling up on the sofa with a certain woman, not a book.
“There’s a kitchen through the far door and two bedrooms upstairs.” Bennet gestured to the open staircase. “Let me show you.”
“No.” Her nervous gaze moved swiftly from him to the staircase. “Honestly, there’s no need.”
“Don’t make me use my privilege pass.” He’d need it for another time. Like persuading her to stay an extra day, a month, a year.
She arched a challenging brow. “Then use your pass. Nipping upstairs will probably be less taxing than any game you have in mind.”
She referred to his love of leapfrog, but that was not the game he wished to play with her now.
“Very well.” Bennet raised his hands in mock surrender. “I shall save my pass and leave you in peace. Bower will bring your luggage down.”
“Thank you.” She seemed relieved as she escorted him to the front door. “One more thing. When might I read your father’s journals? They could contain important information relating to the case.”
Unease settled in his bones. His father’s twisted account of his relationship with Giselle de Lacy made for uncomfortable reading. One needn’t be an expert in human nature to know it stemmed from jealousy and heartache.
“I’ll have a footman bring the trunk to the cottage and will give you the key this evening.”
“The trunk? How many journals are there?”
