by Clee, Adele
“Twenty or so.” He paused. “Please remember, they’re the words of a bitter man who was often mistaken in his opinion.”
“I understand.”
He didn’t think she did, but he touched her gently on the upper arm. “It’s good to have you back, Julianna.”
She shivered visibly. “It’s good to be back.”
Bennet hovered on the threshold. There was so much to say, so many questions he needed to ask, but he couldn’t risk her fleeing again. Instead, he found the strength to step out onto the path.
Julianna closed the door gently behind him.
But as he walked away, he thought he heard her weeping.
Chapter 5
Julianna wasn’t sure how long she’d stood slumped against the door, crying. Long enough for her cheeks to sting and her breath to come in racking sobs. Long enough for her to heave from the strain, to realise they were the tears of a child, not an adult. Tears she’d suppressed the night she’d been dragged away from Witherdeen. Tears she had kept buried ever since.
Emotions belong to the weak!
That was Giselle de Lacy’s motto. The sentiment drummed into Julianna from an early age. But one could not keep stuffing sad memories into a valise, keep lugging it from pillar to post. Eventually, the bag became so heavy the seams split, and everything tumbled out.
But what had prompted the emotional outpouring?
Racing with Bennet, laughing like they used to, had released something trapped inside. When had she last felt a rush of excitement? Too long ago to recall. When had she last stood alone in a room with a man and had to fight the irresistible impulse to touch him? Never.
Bennet’s note arrived an hour later, slipped under the door while Julianna was busy unpacking and munching on Miss Trimble’s millefruit biscuits. He had arranged for her to dine with Mr Branner and Mrs Hendrie at seven o’clock—an informal supper in the servants’ dining hall where she could question them about the hauntings and the handbills.
The handbills?
So, both servants knew about the veiled threats.
Julianna had every faith in Mrs Hendrie, but had experienced a shiver of apprehension when listening to the steward’s tale.
Indeed, she decided to leave the cottage before seven and spend a few minutes observing the ruins at night. If the ghostly monk carried a thurible and not an oil lamp, how had Mr Branner seen him in the dark? And why was the steward wandering about the estate when everyone else was tucked snugly in their beds?
She shrugged into her pelisse, snatched the lit lantern, and left the cottage.
The night was so cold and crisp she shivered beneath the thick velvet. The damp air, the eerie silence, the blackness creeping ever closer reminded her of the nights she’d slept under the stars, not in the bedchamber next door to her husband’s.
She followed the path to the ruins. Her heart thumped wildly as she drew closer to the monstrous structure that looked like Satan’s palace at night. Most ruins were hideaways for highway robbers. Whoever laid the gravestone within Witherdeen Abbey was just as devious.
Swallowing past her trepidation, Julianna opened the door in the boundary wall and spent a nervous few minutes scouring the darkness. Even while holding her lantern aloft, she saw nothing but the flicker of shadows amid an endless void.
“The intellect is less sharp at night; the vision grows dim,” came the masculine voice that had her jumping out of her skin. “One might easily imagine seeing a spectre.”
Julianna swung around so fast she almost stumbled.
“You fool!” she cried upon meeting the marquess’ amused grin. “You could have warned me you were approaching. My poor heart almost gave out.”
Bennet raised his lantern, sending light dancing across his handsome features. “Forgive me. I came to escort you to the house, but saw you enter the abbey. Is there a particular reason you’re snooping about here at night?”
“I’m not snooping. I’m testing a theory. And you should have sent a footman to play escort, though I don’t know why you would think I’m afraid of the dark.”
As children, they’d often met outdoors at night.
“You should be afraid. A man buried the gravestone in the ground, not a ghost. A man bold enough to trespass on my land. How do we know he’s not hiding in the shadows preparing another fiendish surprise?”
“We don’t know a man laid the stone,” she challenged. Mr Daventry said first assumptions were often wrong. One should not be fooled into believing the obvious. “You suppose it’s a man because the object was heavy.”
Bennet frowned. “A woman could not have carried the stone.”
“Perhaps not on her own.”
“You suspect an accomplice?”
As a complete novice, she suspected nothing, but Mr Daventry said the truth revealed itself as one uncovered the evidence.
“I prefer to keep an open mind,” she said, trying to sound professional. “While we’re here, perhaps you might show me where the blackguard buried the gravestone.”
“Of course. It’s through the courtyard and down a flight of steps.” Bennet led her across the grass-covered courtyard and through a gap in the crumbling wall. “It’s so dark you should hold on to my arm.”
Beneath the glow of the lantern, Julianna studied the weathered steps. Streaks of light illuminated the loose stones and debris, confirming they were indeed a hazard.
She slipped her hand around Bennet’s arm, instantly aware that it was no longer a boy’s lanky limb. Strength vibrated against her fingers. Bennet Devereaux exuded raw masculinity, but his touch roused the warm, comforting feelings of home.
“This was the abbey’s cemetery.” He gestured to the mounds of overgrown grass. There wasn’t a gravestone or marker in sight. “Though nothing remains above ground now.”
Julianna shifted suddenly, aware she’d stood on someone’s grave. “And this is where you found the stone carved with your name?”
Bennet pointed to a place a few feet in front. “Yes, with Devereaux and the date of my demise.”
“Who found the stone?”
“Grimley. He alerted Branner.”
She presumed the gardener was quite robust for a man approaching sixty. Could he have lifted the stone? But what gripe could he have with his master, and would he have sent the handbills? No, she dismissed the thought instantly.
“And where is the stone now?”
“In pieces. Branner smashed it with a sledgehammer and disposed of it in the rubble pit outside the nave.”
Suspicion danced like the devil inside. Why would anyone want to destroy evidence of a potential crime?
“Did you order such an aggressive action?”
“Knowing of the incident with the gargoyle, Branner reacted angrily in my stead. He apologised for not consulting me first.” Bennet paused and narrowed his gaze. “I know what you’re thinking. You suspect Branner destroyed the evidence because he was the blackguard who placed it there.”
Julianna gave a half shrug. “Intact, the stone would be heavy to carry. What if someone tricked Grimley into believing he saw a complete gravestone rather than assembled pieces? Do you have any reason to distrust Mr Branner?”
“None whatsoever.”
“May I see the broken fragments?”
“Tomorrow, during daylight. It’s not safe here at night.”
“Because of the spectre?” Julianna teased.
“Because of falling masonry.”
The comment drew her mind back to the first obituary. Perhaps the grave was a distraction. A means to get the marquess to spend more time amid the ruins. A place where he had a high chance of being killed by the collapsing stonework.
“I assured Daventry you’d have my full protection.” Bennet softened his tone. “Promise me you won’t wander the ruins alone.”
How could she make a promise when the word carried little weight? “I’ve broken one promise. What’s to say I won’t break another?”
He faced her fully, the sad
line of his mouth illuminated by lamplight while his eyes remained in shadow. “We outgrew our promises, Julianna. We didn’t break them. You might think me foolish, but I believe you wanted to return to Witherdeen.”
Oh, she coped well when discussing the case, not so when the conversation turned to the past. Still, she owed it to herself to tell the truth.
“If life were a fairy tale, I would have returned to a glorious fanfare. Your father would have welcomed me, and we’d have remained as we were, young and innocent and happy.”
“If life were a fairy tale, I’d have fought them with every breath in my body. I would never have let Giselle take you.”
She touched his upper arm briefly, her throat tight with emotion. “Now we’ve forgiven each other for not keeping our vows, we should make our way to the house. Mrs Hendrie hates tardiness, and I have many questions for Mr Branner.”
Bennet opened his mouth to speak but only said, “Julianna—”
“On the way, perhaps you might explain what the staff know about the handbills,” she said, desperately trying to concentrate on their present task. “If I’m to question them without arousing suspicion, I must ensure I’m familiar with the facts.”
“Of course.”
He captured her elbow and guided her towards the steps. The flutter of nerves stemmed from the fact she was unused to gentlemanly gestures. That, or just unused to the touch of a man so appealing.
“The hardest part will be extracting information while under the pretence of writing a book.”
He gripped her hand and helped her climb the damaged steps. “That’s why I told Mrs Hendrie I’d join you for supper. So I might help make your story sound plausible.”
“You’re dining in the servants’ quarters?” Julianna was both shocked and relieved. Something about Mr Branner’s friendly countenance made her uneasy. Then again, she distrusted most people. “Won’t Mrs Hendrie think it odd?”
He closed the boundary door behind them. “I dined in Mrs Hendrie’s room many times during the weeks after my father’s death, despite her finding it highly irregular.”
Mrs Hendrie had doted on Bennet, more so in those early years. Naturally, during tragic times, he would seek those who cared.
“And I told her you felt uncomfortable dining alone with me in such lavish surroundings,” he added. “She missed you when you left, and cried for days.”
“She probably feared what would happen to me in Lord Denver’s care. Although your father had a temper, he never took his frustrations out on me.”
“Are you saying Lord Denver did?”
“No.” Majority of the time, she was ignored. “But Mrs Hendrie always suspects the worst. Besides, I’m rather skilled at being invisible.”
“Invisible?” he mocked. “With piglet tails for hair?”
She laughed again—this time with genuine delight. “You can’t tame the devil. That’s what Lord Carstairs used to say when insisting I wore a mob cap. That said, he did make me sleep with the maids.”
Bennet muttered a curse. “I’ll purchase Carstairs’ vowels and make him don a mob cap the next time he dines at White’s.” His gaze came to rest on her red curls. “I can’t be the only man who finds your hair attractive.”
Heat gathered in her chest. He was the only man who’d ever treated her with respect. Mr Daventry and the other gentlemen of the Order did, too, but they didn’t say things that stirred something warm and deep inside.
“You’re the only man who skewers bread with a stick, not a fork. It’s fair to say you’re somewhat of an oddity.”
He laughed. “I can always trust you to speak the truth.”
“Always.”
They walked to the house in companionable silence.
“So, Mr Branner and Mrs Hendrie know about the threatening letters,” she clarified. “They know someone wishes to hurt you but don’t know you hired an enquiry agent.”
“Yes. Under no account should you reveal the true nature of your work.”
“Is there anything else I should know before we dine with them?”
Bennet thought for a moment. “I saw the ghostly figure, too, but ask me about it during dinner. It will give you cause to probe them for information, and it’s the reason I gave Branner for dining with you in the servants’ quarters. The staff are protective of their private space, and I don’t want mutiny in the ranks.”
Bennet had seen the apparition!
She’d assumed Mr Branner had invented the tale.
Questions bombarded her mind. But Bennet was right. It was better to wait and use the information to interrogate everyone about the ghostly goings-on.
Bennet escorted her to the servants’ entrance and along the cold corridor to the dining room. Numerous times he touched her arm or placed a guiding hand on her back. As children, she often took charge. Everything was different now.
Mr Branner and Mrs Hendrie were standing outside the servants’ dining room, conversing in irate whispers. Both jumped to attention upon hearing the clip of footsteps.
“My lord. Mrs Eden.” Mr Branner inclined his head while Mrs Hendrie dipped an elegant curtsey. The steward stepped forward. “Allow me to take your lanterns.”
“Thank you, Branner.”
Mr Branner took the lanterns to the scullery while Mrs Hendrie led them into the dining hall. A roaring fire warmed the chilly basement room. The closed shutters kept out the draughts. Mrs Hendrie had lit more candles than would usually grace the servants’ table.
“Are you sure I can’t summon a footman to serve, my lord?” Mrs Hendrie fidgeted nervously. She liked order and routine. Having the marquess dine with the staff clearly set her on edge.
“Please, there’s no need to stand on ceremony tonight. And I’d like Mrs Eden to feel comfortable asking questions about the abbey.”
Mr Branner returned.
Bennet waited for Julianna and Mrs Hendrie to sit—which left the housekeeper in more of a tizzy—before taking his seat at the head of the table.
“Shall I serve the soup, my lord?” Mrs Hendrie’s chair creaked as she shifted uncomfortably.
“We will serve ourselves, Mrs Hendrie,” Bennet said. “We’re here purely to facilitate Mrs Eden’s research. It will save time if she can question us about the abbey. She plans to return with an artist, but we must give her any information that might help with the writing of her book.”
With that, Bennet stood. He removed the tureen lid and ladled white soup into his dish. Everyone followed suit, and soon they were discussing the mole problem and the tenant farmers’ gossip.
“Flaxman and Brown are still squabbling about the dry stone wall.” Mr Branner’s blue eyes gleamed when he laughed. No doubt the self-assured steward was a favourite with the maids. “They’ve agreed to settle their dispute with a bare-knuckle brawl.”
“You might find a bout between the men entertaining, but I’ll not have the tenants fighting on my land.” Bennet’s tone rang with aristocratic confidence. “Find a compromise. Else I shall visit them myself.”
“Might it be worth speaking to the tenant farmers about the abbey?” Julianna decided it was the perfect time to broach the subject of the apparition. “The locals always have a tale to tell and might know if the ruins are haunted.”
Mr Branner dabbed his mouth with his napkin. “I’d be happy to play escort and assist in your research, Mrs Eden.” He glanced at Bennet. “With your approval, my lord.”
Bennet stared at his steward for strained seconds while imagining wringing his neck. “Mrs Eden may do as she pleases.”
Desperate to ease the crackle of tension, Julianna said, “May we discuss the hauntings, Mr Branner? I’m intrigued to know if you did see something or if fear caused you to hallucinate.”
“Hallucinate?” Mr Branner scoffed. “I have a vivid imagination, but I’m not the only one who saw the ghost.”
“I saw the shadowy figure of a monk,” Bennet confessed on cue.
Julianna feigned surprise. �
��You did? When?”
“Two weeks ago.”
Mrs Hendrie cleared her throat. “Beg your pardon, my lord, but it was three weeks ago. The night before your friends came from town.”
“Three weeks? Yes, Mrs Hendrie, you’re right.”
His friends had been at Witherdeen recently? Obviously, Bennet trusted these men and thought their visit irrelevant to the case.
“Perhaps we should begin with Mr Branner’s sighting.” Julianna wished to examine the steward’s version of events and would question Bennet later. “Can you describe the apparition, sir?”
Looking somewhat unnerved by the terrifying topic, Mrs Hendrie set about clearing the dishes and laying clean plates while Mr Branner began his tale.
“You asked why I was out so late at night,” the steward said. “What with all the strange occurrences lately, I thought it prudent to check the house before retiring.”
“Strange occurrences?”
The steward cast a nervous glance in his master’s direction. “Just estate business. Poachers and the like. They have no bearing on what I saw that night.”
Bennet turned to Julianna. “If you wish to write about the ghost, you should be fully apprised of the recent threats.”
Mr Branner straightened, wariness marring his affable expression. “My lord, I must advise against mentioning the matter. Though I do not wish to cast aspersions on Mrs Eden’s character, the recent machinations would prove a welcome addition to her book. I doubt you want the ton learning of the odd goings-on.”
Evidently, Mr Branner believed all women were merciless gossips.
“Thank you for your words of caution, but I trust Mrs Eden implicitly.” Bennet held her gaze, a look that was more a caress, a need to appreciate every facet before she disappeared from his life again. “She lived here as a child, and I consider her family.”
Family?
The word should have brought immense comfort, but it roused a pang of alarm. Did Bennet Devereaux see her as a sister? Did he feel a familial obligation? She could accept him as a friend, but never as a brotherlike figure.
“You lived here?” Mr Branner seemed shocked by the news. “Then you already knew Mrs Hendrie.”
