by Clee, Adele
“I sought freedom, respect, a little tenderness. But it was so awful.” Her shoulders shook as she sobbed. “Night after night, I had to listen to them in the chamber next door. Day after day, I had to witness the outpouring of love, love I’ve been denied my entire life. It was pure torture.”
He wanted to say that he cared about her, but that would make him a damn hypocrite. If he’d cared that much, would he not have moved heaven and earth to find her? Would he not have ignored his father’s vile threats and words of warning?
“People have manipulated me my whole life,” she continued. “It cut deep to know I married a man who wished to exploit me, too. Having me in the house meant no one questioned his relationship with our lodger.”
“Lodger? Justin lived with you and your husband?”
“They were barely apart.”
Good Lord. It must have been unbearable.
The sudden crunching of gravel on the path behind forced Julianna to dart back. Bennet felt the loss instantly. He suspected Branner had left the house not long after their departure, and he’d not have the man jumping to the wrong conclusions.
Indeed, the steward gave a polite cough as he appeared from the shadows. He doffed his hat and bid them both good night. From his knowing smile, it was evident he’d witnessed the intimate clinch.
Julianna mumbled her frustration as soon as Branner was out of earshot. “Now he’ll think I’m here to explore more than the ruins.”
“I shall speak to him tomorrow. Explain how fond you were of the place. How it’s overwhelming to be back.” Bennet didn’t want his staff thinking Julianna was anything like her mother.
“Make it clear I am not here to replace Miss Winters.”
“Of course.” He gestured to the path. “We should continue before the chill settles into your bones.”
She nodded and fell in beside him as they walked.
“You seemed suspicious of Branner during dinner. Your comment about the curse and him destroying the gravestone was particularly clever.”
“I doubt Grimley wanders the grounds with a sledgehammer. Mr Branner must have left the abbey, hunted for the tool, and then smashed the stone. It couldn’t have been committed in a fit of rage and was premeditated.”
It was Branner’s job to prevent trespassers. He saw it as a blatant attack on his character, or so he’d said when he burst into Bennet’s study and gave an angry explanation.
“Branner prides himself on doing an excellent job and took it as a personal insult. While he pretends he acted in my stead, he confessed to being annoyed at the intruder’s arrogance.”
Julianna thought for a moment. “Bower can speak to Grimley. Determine exactly what happened that night.”
They fell into a companionable silence, though Bennet’s mind whirled with suspicion. In all likelihood, someone he trusted had betrayed him. The burning question was, why?
Julianna cast him a sidelong glance. “How many guests are arriving tomorrow?”
“Five, I believe. Lowbridge asked to bring his cousin who’s visiting from Brighton. Roxburgh will bring his mistress. There’s a chance Lowbridge will too.”
Julianna raised a disapproving brow. “Then I doubt I shall see you before I leave.”
“You’re leaving?” He couldn’t disguise the mild panic in his voice. “But there’s so much to do. Did you not say we should be on our guard tomorrow?”
“I shall stay tomorrow night. Once I’ve spoken to the tenants and examined the remains of the gravestone, my investigation will take me back to town.”
“Why town?”
“There are so many lines of enquiry, I need the help of the Order.”
“Daventry is investigating Mullholland.”
She pursed her lips as if reluctant to speak.
He drew the obvious conclusion. “You mean to investigate my friends.”
“I must delve into the backgrounds of those in attendance the night someone laid the gravestone in the ruins. I’ll need their names, Bennet.”
He hesitated. “And what if they discover you’re prying into their affairs, learn I’m the one who hired you?” He’d not skulk in the shadows like a damn coward. “I’d prefer to question them directly.”
“You’re missing the point. Devious people hide behind masks. They create convincing facades. Working covertly is the only way to gain the truth. At least until we have solid evidence.”
Again, she spoke logically while he was ready to throw Roxburgh in the pillory and pelt him with rotten apples.
“Then I should return to town, too.”
A twitch of alarm marred her pretty face. “How can I befriend Miss Winters if you’re hovering in the background? I must make her think she has an ally, convince her I detest you, too.”
“You’ll not find that so difficult,” he teased.
But she didn’t smile. “I could never detest you, Bennet. Childhood friends remain in one’s heart forever. But you’re a marquess who must marry well. I’m the notorious Giselle de Lacy’s daughter and must work to earn a living. The reality is we can never be friends, not publicly.”
“We are friends. I’ll not dance about in secret. The ton can go to hell.”
She made no reply but probably doubted his word.
They arrived at the cottage. Seeing the house shrouded in darkness set Bennet’s nerves on edge. What if the devious blackguard lurked amid the shadows? What if the scoundrel wished to punish Bennet by hurting the one person he cared about?
“Perhaps I should find you a room in the house.”
She glanced at the thatched cottage. “Why? I like it here.”
“I don’t like the thought of you being here alone.”
She laughed. “I’ve spent most of my life alone. My mother left me in some wretched places while gallivanting about town with her lovers.”
“Then at least let me come inside and light the fire.”
Bennet stepped forward, but she placed a staying hand on his chest. “I shall go straight to bed and begin reading your father’s journals. I trust you have the key to the trunk.”
He did, but her fingers flexed against his fine silk waistcoat in a gentle caress. Moving would break the enchanting spell that left their breathing shallow, their mouths slightly parted. The desire to lower his head and taste her plump lips proved overwhelming.
“The key?” She swallowed repeatedly and snatched back her hand. “Don’t say we have to walk to the house.”
Bennet reached inside his coat and removed the ornate brass key. Their fingers touched as she gripped the metal, and with it came the profound spark of recognition.
“Thank you. I shall stay out of sight tomorrow and will have Bower bring news should there be any developments.”
He considered inviting her to dine with his friends, but what if they noticed her likeness to Giselle? Curious, they’d make the wrong assumptions, presume Bennet had inherited his father’s obsession. And he’d not have them think so little of Julianna.
“I shall visit the cottage to discover what you’ve learnt.”
She nodded. “Good night, Bennet.”
“Good night.”
He waited until she’d closed the door and drawn the bolt, stood staring for a while longer. When he eventually walked away, he found the irony of his situation amusing. His mansion house afforded every luxury, yet he would sell his soul to spend a night in that cottage.
Chapter 7
Julianna leant back against the wooden door, her trembling hand pressed to her heart, her eyes closed tight. Could Mr Daventry not have found another way to test her fortitude? Could Bennet Devereaux not play the arrogant rogue so she might hate him the way she did most men?
So much for keeping her distance.
In true Giselle de Lacy style, she’d permitted certain liberties, had let him warm her hands and draw her into an embrace. It hadn’t helped that she’d blubbered like a babe. A courtesan’s job was to bolster a man’s confidence, and she’d certainly don
e that.
Bennet’s touch had always brought comfort, but this new sensation was like a ravenous hunger she couldn’t sate. Desire unfurled like spring blooms whenever their eyes met. Heat swirled in her stomach as the urge to know him intimately obliterated all rhyme and reason. Numbing her feelings was nothing new, but it had been easier with Edward. She had never cared a sot for him.
Still, she had broken a vow and given Bennet an accurate account of her marriage. He would ask more questions. She would be forced to explain how the crippling loneliness had robbed her of her sanity. How Edward had known he was dying yet still left her destitute.
She inhaled deeply to clear her head, but the smell of Bennet’s cedarwood cologne teased her nostrils. The man invaded her thoughts, seduced her senses. His scent clung to her clothes. In her prayers, she had begged to see him again, just to gaze upon his face once more. Now, she would rather wallow in ignorance than know they could never be friends.
Releasing a groan, she unbuttoned her pelisse and draped it over the chair. Then she set about lighting the candles, though her hands were so cold it took six strikes to ignite the tinder.
A chill air circled the room, and she hurried to the window to draw the curtains, annoyed at herself for not letting Bennet come inside to light the fire.
Outside, all was dark except for the faint streaks of moonlight stroking the path. Julianna was busy tugging one curtain over the other when she heard the garden gate creak. She froze. Listened. The heavy pad of footsteps preceded the loud knock on the door.
Parting the curtains a fraction, she peered at the shadowy figure looming amid the blackness. The caller turned slightly, revealing his profile. Relieved to find it was Mr Bower, not Mr Branner, she went to welcome him.
Even a man with Mr Bower’s brawn felt the cold. He knelt to light the fire while Julianna lit the stove and made tea. She spoke to him from the kitchen, relayed the events leading to the steward smashing the gravestone. Having Mr Daventry’s man about the place forced her to focus on the task and not her conflicting feelings for Bennet Devereaux.
“Discover anything you can about the night Grimley found the gravestone,” she said, settling on the sofa. “Did the gardener examine the stone? Where was the sledgehammer? See if any of the staff have ever seen the ghostly monk.” She sipped her tea, hoping the beverage would warm her bones. “Did the coachmen or grooms say anything about the marquess?”
“Everyone respects his lordship.” Bower’s voice was as deep as the scar cutting through his brow. His hulking frame filled the chair, and his fists were the size of mallets. The teacup looked like it belonged in a doll’s house when gripped between his thick fingers. “No one here bears him any ill will, ma’am.”
“And what about Mr Branner?”
Julianna had met men of Mr Branner’s ilk before. Beneath his portrait of affability lay a consummate seducer. The lecherous look in his eyes was often at odds with his polite discourse. Despite being educated, he’d behaved like a thug from the rookeries the night he found the gravestone.
“Most folk like Mr Branner. He’s firm but fair. That’s what they say.” Bower drained his teacup. “Mr Keenan remembers your mother. He said it was a shame when she snatched you away, said that’s the only time the master’s ever been truly happy.”
Julianna gulped. “The master? You speak of the old marquess?”
“No, ma’am. Mr Keenan spoke of the current Lord Devereaux.”
“Oh, I see.” Hastily, she moved to the topic of Bennet’s friends. “I know I’ve asked a lot of you, Mr Bower, but I’m keen to know what the staff think of his lordship’s friends.”
“Pay it no mind, ma’am. I’ll help in any way I can. I know they’re none too fond of Miss Winters.”
Yes, she got that impression from Mr Branner.
“Do you know why?”
The answer was obvious. Miss Winters took liberties, lacked breeding. She belittled those beneath her because she feared they might notice she was of less than average stock. Indeed, Mr Bower confirmed that the woman’s arrogance and derogatory comments proved too much to bear.
“When we return to London, I’ll befriend Miss Winters.” The thought made her stomach churn. “Perhaps she has a different tale to tell.”
“Mr Keenan is a friendly chap who only wants what’s best for the master. He seems to think you being here is an omen. A sign the master’s luck is about to change.”
Heavens above! No doubt the servants thought the whole writing-about-the-ruins was a mere story, and she’d come to replace Miss Winters in the master’s affections.
She told Mr Bower about the third obituary note, that she feared the villain might resort to arson tomorrow night, and he was to report to the marquess for further instruction. He took another cup of tea, then stoked the fire before retiring to the coach house.
It was so warm downstairs, Julianna decided to read the first journal before heading to bed. The footman had deposited the walnut trunk in the space beneath the stairs, and she unlocked the latch and lifted the lid. Dust and the musty smell of old paper assaulted her nostrils as she examined the mound of dog-eared journals. Evidently, the late marquess had much to say.
Bennet had placed the books in date order, something Julianna discovered as she rummaged through the top layer. When she read the first page in the journal dated 1797—the year Bennet’s father inherited the marquessate—she realised the extent of the mammoth task ahead. The heading written on the recto page summed up the entire case.
They’ll not rest until I’m dead!
* * *
“Thank you, Mr Branner.” Julianna was about to part from the steward after a lively few hours spent with Bennet’s tenants. “It’s been an education. By all accounts, ghosts are averse to water and sage. If I meet one, I mustn’t run but should ask how I might be of service.”
Mr Branner laughed. “And don’t stare at a looking glass for too long, else a spirit will possess your soul.”
“Yes, I must not forget that, though I imagine it’s an old wives’ tale warning about the dangers of vanity.”
At some time or other, every one of his lordship’s tenants had seen a ghost. There was the demon crow that stalked fields and cursed crops. The ghoul who robbed graves—though she suspected they should look for a man down on his luck. And the mad monk of Witherdeen Abbey who’d escaped confinement and murdered three of his brethren.
“Their wild tales could fill an entire chapter.” Mr Branner’s amused grin seemed genuine. “I’m glad I could be of assistance, Mrs Eden. But if you’ll excuse me, I must find the records of the tenants’ boundaries before Mr Flaxman takes a sledgehammer to the dry stone wall.”
“Of course. Someone must settle their grievance.”
Guilt surfaced as she watched the steward stride towards the house. Perhaps she had misjudged him. Today, he’d been polite and helpful. The tenants treated him like the prodigal son. The children followed behind like ducklings, showing him their bruises and missing teeth.
Was his loyalty to Bennet the reason he’d lost his temper and smashed the gravestone? It seemed quite likely after what she’d witnessed today. Perhaps she might have Mr Bower pick the lock to the steward’s cottage and search for anything incriminating. Yes, she would add it to her list of tasks, along with examining the handbills and hunting around the ruins for the broken gravestone. And there were still nineteen journals left to read.
Bennet was right. There was too much to do.
Julianna was musing over where to start when the crunching of carriage wheels on the gravel drive captured her attention. In a panic, she ran and hid behind the oak tree, for it gave an ample view of the mansion’s entrance. Of course, if Mrs Hendrie glanced across the lawn, the poor woman would squeal and swear she’d seen the red-haired ghost.
A shiver shot down Julianna’s spine.
Was her mother alive?
She had not seen Giselle’s body or visited the grave.
But she quickl
y dismissed the notion. Giselle would not waste time exacting revenge. She would be out hunting for a wealthy lover to pay for her jewels and laudanum tinctures. Besides, it had been Giselle’s decision to leave Witherdeen and take up with Lord Denver, so there was nothing to avenge.
The elegant equipage rattled to a halt before Witherdeen’s sweeping staircase. Two footmen in blue livery descended the stone steps to assist the new arrivals. Bennet Devereaux appeared looking devastatingly handsome, his grey trousers and dark blue frock coat clinging to his impressive physique like a second skin. He brushed his hand through his hair, smiled at his friends as they alighted, though Julianna would stake every morsel she owned the smile failed to reach his eyes.
A hundred yards separated her and the unfolding scene, yet it felt as vast as an ocean. Julianna did not belong in their world. So why did everything about Witherdeen feel like home?
Two gentlemen, both prime specimens of the haut monde, emerged from the conveyance. They fussed with their clothes while the footmen assisted their female companions. The women’s overtly affectionate gestures and excessive flounces marked them as courtesans.
After briefly exchanging greetings, Bennet paid scant attention to the women, though they made their presence known by continually touching his arm.
Jealousy burned inside like the devil’s inferno. Unable to stomach the thought of Bennet entertaining these people, she slipped away and hurried back to the cottage. There was plenty to do indoors, but she resorted to eating all the biscuits from Miss Trimble’s basket and daydreaming on the bed.
Confidence is a state of mind—and you are in control.
Mr Daventry’s wise words jolted her from her reverie. She shot up and scanned the room, fearing the man had come to check her progress.
“Oh, pull yourself together,” she mumbled, dragging herself from a mire of self-pity. “You’re an agent of the Order, not a worthless wife.”
The stern words did the trick, and with renewed faith in her abilities, she headed to the ruins.
