The Devereaux Affair: Ladies of the Order - Book 1

by Clee, Adele

  * * *

  “They keep the sledgehammer in an outbuilding a ten-minute walk from here.” Mr Bower stood in the deep pit outside the remnants of the nave, rummaging through the dusty old stones.

  “Did Grimley shed any light on what happened that night?” Julianna peered into the hole and pointed to a large brown stone. “What about that one? Can you see any chisel marks? We’re looking for letters or numbers.”

  Mr Bower gripped the stone between his mighty paws and turned it over. “No, ma’am.”

  Julianna straightened and massaged her aching back. “Perhaps it’s my suspicious nature, but I believe someone has removed the stones.” Or Mr Branner lied, and they were never there in the first place.

  “I’ll keep looking, ma’am.” Mr Bower wiped his sweaty brow with his coat sleeve. “Grimley said he saw the tombstone carved with his lordship’s name and alerted the steward.”

  “He did? Did he say what he was doing here at night?”

  “Looking for ghosts. But then I noticed someone had dug up the grass inside the chapter house, and I wonder if he’s not secretly looking for treasure.”

  “Treasure!” Yes, there must be a wealth of items buried underground.

  “Treasure?” a masculine voice echoed. Julianna turned to find an elegant gentleman with thick black hair watching her with bright-eyed interest. “Pray, have no fear. I’m happy to split the loot three ways. Just don’t tell Devereaux.”

  Julianna forced a smile but silently cursed.

  Dissipated rakes played billiards, drank copious amounts of brandy, and tried to tup the maids in the broom cupboard. They did not roam around historical buildings examining the architecture.

  The gentleman bowed and presented himself as Lord Roxburgh. On her part, no introduction was necessary because the dratted footman had mentioned she was staying at Witherdeen.

  “The staff should know better than to gossip, my lord.” She’d been foolish to think they would keep her identity a secret.

  He delved into a silver snuff box and inhaled a pinch. “The poor fellow was eager to please. The fact Giselle de Lacy’s daughter was here writing about the abbey made his country-loving master seem less of a bore.”

  The lord was teasing, but the urge to defend Bennet burned in her veins. “There is no man more interesting than Lord Devereaux. No doubt the footman prayed the information would earn him a sovereign, my lord.”

  Lord Roxburgh laughed. “I must admit, the news came as a pleasant surprise. A much greater surprise to Miss Winters, of course, who arrived with Mr Granger mere minutes ago.”

  Isabella Winters had come to Witherdeen!

  What the devil was she doing here?

  Julianna almost choked in panic. Had Bennet lied about ending their relationship? And if so, why did it feel like the worst betrayal? She had no reason to feel anything but indifference. Having Miss Winters at Witherdeen gave her ample opportunity to befriend Bennet’s mistress. Indeed, it was a welcome development.

  “Forgive me, but I don’t know Miss Winters.”

  “She’s a friend of Lord Devereaux’s, though I fear she’s fallen out of favour.”

  “Is Miss Winters interested in monastic life, my lord?”

  “Ha! She would find much enjoyment in an abbey full of men.”

  “Abbey life was about spiritual devotion.”

  “Ah, then we may have a problem. Miss Winters suffers from delusions of deity. I imagine the monks would have made a bonfire and burned her for heresy.”

  While his peers probably found his nonchalant wit entertaining, Julianna disliked anyone who belittled courtesans.

  “One day, we may live in a world where Miss Winters can express her opinion without fear of castigation. But for now, I would be happy to give her a tour of the ruins.”

  Lord Roxburgh glanced at the abbey’s dilapidated walls. “This place is a perfect example of how opinion has changed over the years.”

  “It’s a perfect example of how a king’s desire divided a nation. Every action has a consequence, my lord. Love and hate are sides of the same coin.”

  The lord stared at her as if she were a box of delicious confectionary. “I’d be interested to hear more about your work here, Mrs Eden.”

  No. Lord Roxburgh’s only interest was of the salacious sort.

  “Sadly, I must return to London tomorrow. Lord Devereaux’s steward is extremely knowledgeable. Shall I arrange for him to give you a detailed tour?”

  He found her comment amusing. “Is the steward as engaging as you are?”

  “He gives a captivating account of the hauntings.”

  She studied the lord closely to see if he blinked excessively or avoided eye contact. Might he have donned a monk’s robe to frighten his friend? No. Most definitely not. She suspected this arbiter of fashion wouldn’t be seen dead wearing anything so crass.

  “Hauntings?” he mocked. “I believe in science and the laws of nature, Mrs Eden. Uncanny events are merely the musings of a weak mind.”

  Did he know Bennet had seen the ghost of a monk?

  Quick to change the subject, Lord Roxburgh turned his attention to the burly figure of Mr Bower. “Is there a reason your man is rooting through the stones?”

  “We’re looking for specific markings. A stonemason often leaves a symbol to identify his work.”

  “How interesting.” His tone suggested he found the notion dull. “If your man grows tired and you need a helping hand, come and find me at the house.”

  Julianna smiled. “I would not wish to draw you away from your companion, my lord. And I think you would soon tire of my forthright opinion.” He needed to know she was not mistress material.

  “I doubt that, my dear.”

  Before she had a chance to reply, Bennet appeared, breathless and agitated. “There you are, Roxburgh. You disappeared from the drawing room without a word.”

  Being as sharp as a new tack, Lord Roxburgh glanced at Julianna and grinned. “You see, Mrs Eden, you have Devereaux flustered because I am stealing your attention.”

  “Lord Devereaux knows any distraction will cost him another day’s pay.”

  “Mrs Eden must complete her work before returning to town tomorrow,” Bennet confirmed.

  “Then there is a simple solution.” The lord gripped Bennet’s shoulder in a firm gesture of friendship. “Mrs Eden will dine with us tonight so that I might quiz her about her fascinating hobby.”

  Julianna inwardly groaned. Why did the gentleman not speak bluntly so she might refuse his advances and continue with her work?

  “Society ladies have time for hobbies, my lord. I’m afraid I must work to earn my keep. Indeed, I have much to do before I leave tomorrow and will barely have time to take supper.”

  “Nonsense. Surely you can spare an hour out of your schedule. No doubt you’re dying to meet Miss Winters.”

  Bennet frowned. “Miss Winters?”

  Lord Roxburgh’s teasing eyes widened. “Did she not arrive with Granger?”

  “Granger came alone.”

  “Did he?” Lord Roxburgh seemed to enjoy feigning stupidity. Did he suspect Julianna was at Witherdeen to study more than the ruins and thought to prove his theory? “Forgive me, my dear. Travel arrangements were made earlier this week, and I presumed Miss Winters accompanied Granger.”

  Bennet’s gaze drifted past Julianna’s shoulder, and he rolled his eyes.

  “So, this is where everyone is hiding,” came a woman’s teasing purr.

  “Ah, my dear,” Lord Roxburgh began, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “If you wish to see a strong man flex his muscles, you’ve come to the right place.”

  Julianna turned to meet the newcomer, both disappointed and relieved to find it wasn’t Miss Winters. The auburn-haired lady observing Julianna with a hawk-like stare sidled up to Lord Roxburgh.

  Bennet made the introductions. “Mrs Thorne, allow me to present Mrs Eden. She’s researching the history of the abbey and intends to publish her findin
gs.”

  “Devereaux is rather forward thinking, is he not?” Mrs Thorne’s mouth was so small it formed a permanent pout. “To employ a woman to do what is invariably a man’s work.”

  So, the lady was prickly by name and nature.

  “Is it a man’s work?” Julianna replied politely. “Did a woman not write the theoretical paper on combustion and invent the concept of catalysis? Was Catharine Macaulay not a highly respected historian who published her work almost sixty years ago?”

  “Mrs Eden is equally respected in her field,” Bennet added.

  Mrs Thorne’s counter-attack came in the form of a sneer as she considered Julianna’s dusty old day dress. “I suppose hard work means you must neglect the usual feminine pursuits.”

  “I have never found discussions of frills and flounces at all entertaining.”

  Lord Roxburgh laughed. “I imagine you could wear a grain sack, Mrs Eden, and still attract a man’s eye.”

  Julianna might have challenged the lord, too. Attracting a man’s eye was not on her list of ambitions. She might have continued her verbal spar with Mrs Thorne, but she had to befriend these people if she hoped to solve the case.

  “Mrs Thorne is right. Working hard means I rarely have time to consider my appearance. But when earning a living, one must make sacrifices.”

  Mrs Thorne narrowed her gaze and stared at Julianna. “Have we met before, Mrs Eden? In town perhaps? You look most familiar.”

  “Not that I recall.” Not unless Mrs Thorne had taken to weeping on the steps of the Servants’ Registry.

  The woman continued pondering the possibility, then arched a neat brow in surprise. “That’s it! There’s a painting of you in the attic, though some devil has slashed the canvas, straight across your pretty face.”

  Bennet cleared his throat. “The painting is of Mrs Eden’s mother.”

  “Her mother?”

  “Mrs Eden is Giselle de Lacy’s daughter,” Lord Roxburgh chimed.

  Mrs Thorne stared in stunned silence. “You’re Julianna de Lacy? Devereaux speaks of you with such fondness. You’re the sister he never had.”

  Sister?

  The word cut like a sharp blade to the heart.

  Julianna fought against the onset of tears. “We’ve been separated for so long, yet still feel a familial connection.” She didn’t dare glance at Bennet.

  “All the more reason you should dine with us tonight,” Lord Roxburgh added.

  Perhaps the urge to flee was in the blood. Julianna imagined stuffing her clothes into her valise, abandoning Witherdeen and its confounding master.

  But she could not abuse Mr Daventry’s trust. The only way to achieve her goal was to don a mask and mingle with people she would rather avoid. To enter the world she loathed to the marrow of her bones.

  Chapter 8

  “Mrs Eden, my lord.” Milford stepped aside.

  Julianna entered the drawing room and Bennet’s heart lurched. She’d styled her hair in a simple chignon, wore her mother’s bronze silk gown that Mrs Hendrie had taken from the attic, aired and pressed. Most women would have thrown a tantrum and remained abed than wear the outdated style, but Julianna carried herself with elegance and grace.

  Captivated, Bennet drank in her heavenly form. Candlelight sparkled in her blue eyes like sunlight on a calm sea. Her vivacious smile held him spellbound, despite it being a mask to hide her disdain for a society that was anything but polite.

  If only life were a fairytale and one snap of his fingers could make them all disappear. All except her—Julianna de Lacy. The woman he’d presumed lost to him forever. The only person in the room he trusted with absolute certainty.

  Indeed, he was wary of his friends’ motives now.

  Had one of them sent the obituaries? Had one of them come to Witherdeen armed with a tinderbox to raze his home to the ground?

  Roxburgh reached the door first, Mrs Thorne scuttling behind to ensure she was not about to receive her congé in favour of this red-haired beauty.

  Bennet stood. His gaze cut through those people surrounding her and locked with Julianna’s. The flash of panic in her eyes had him crossing the room to come to her aid.

  “Let Mrs Eden catch her breath. You can hound her about the hauntings during dinner.” Bennet barged through the group and offered Julianna his arm. “Come, Mrs Eden, let me pour you a sherry.”

  “Thank you, my lord.” She took hold of his arm, gripped his sleeve as if she were teetering on a precipice, about to fall a thousand feet to her doom. “A sherry might settle my nerves.”

  “You looked like you needed rescuing,” he whispered when they reached the drinks table. He removed the stopper from a crystal decanter and poured her a sherry.

  “I’m not sure I can do this.” She kept her voice low, and accepted the proffered glass. “With Lord Roxburgh’s razor-sharp intellect, he’s bound to recognise a fraud. Miss Ponsonby has already asked for my address in London, and I had to lie.”

  “You’re more than a match for Roxburgh. But give the word, and I shall send them away. They can be gone from here within the hour.” Yet he feared she wouldn’t be far behind them.

  “No. The gentlemen of the Order never miss an opportunity to question suspects. It’s too early in the battle to wave a white flag and surrender.”

  Bennet stared at her, a little in awe. After everything she had been through, she had the courage and strength to soldier on.

  “I shall support you in any way I can.”

  “You might regret saying that when I beg you to converse with Miss Ponsonby.” She grinned, giving him a glimpse of the mischievous girl he remembered so fondly.

  Bennet clasped his chest as if mortally wounded. “Please, no. I’d rather stick pins in my eyes than suffer her constant chattering.”

  Were she of noble birth, Miss Ponsonby would be a diamond of the first water. With hair like spun gold and a figure that left men drooling, Lowbridge found the benefits of having her for his mistress outweighed her obvious impediment.

  As if party to Bennet’s silent musing, Miss Ponsonby invaded the private moment. “My lord, you cannot monopolise Mrs Eden’s attention the entire evening. We’re all desperate to hear about this book of ghost stories she’s writing. A monk wandering the ruins of Witherdeen! Who can believe it? Surely there’s a logical explanation.”

  Bennet made a mental note to throttle his loose-tongued footman. “Mrs Eden is writing about monastic life, not the hauntings.”

  Hauntings was not a word one should use when dealing with an excitable woman whose constant chatter sounded like aviary squawk.

  Miss Ponsonby pressed her fingers to her brow as if she might faint. “Oh, did you hear that, Lowbridge? There’s more than one ghost. What next? Are we to meet a headless horseman in the stables, a drowned governess by the lake? Oh, oh, I shall die of apoplexy.”

  “Hmm.” Lowbridge barely glanced in the lady’s direction.

  However, his cousin Terrance Granger stared with fascination. “Perhaps we should extinguish the lamps and call on the spirits of the dead.”

  Roxburgh groaned. “Good God, Granger, don’t encourage her.”

  “I’d rather hear about life with a famous courtesan than ghostly nonsense,” Mrs Thorne said, nestling next to Roxburgh on the sofa. “Was it as exciting as one imagines?”

  Julianna’s feigned smile wavered. “Yes, if one likes spontaneity.”

  Giselle de Lacy was undoubtedly a woman of impulse.

  “Perhaps the ghost brings a message, Mrs Eden.” Miss Ponsonby caught Julianna’s hand and drew her to the sofa where they sat opposite Granger. “More often than not, they come to exact revenge for a past misdeed or to warn of a tragedy.”

  “Oh, do be quiet, Pony,” Lowbridge uttered.

  Roxburgh snorted. “I’m no mystic, my dear, but I’d wager my racing curricle you’ve got a gothic novel on your nightstand.”

  Lowbridge laughed and slapped his thigh. “By Jove, she has! Someone give the ma
n a guinea.”

  Bennet observed the scene, silently acknowledging that he’d been living a lie since his father’s passing. Filling one’s house with fake friends did nothing to ease the loneliness. If left penniless and destitute, who out of this group would come to his aid?

  No one but Julianna.

  Even so, it was hard to believe any of his friends bore a grudge.

  “Can we talk about something else?” Mrs Thorne complained.

  Granger tutted sympathetically. “Are you afraid of ghosts, madam? Are you scared of things that go bump in the night?”

  “One cannot fear what one cannot see. Mrs Eden must consider whether she is to publish a book based on historical facts or one filled with gibberish.”

  Julianna sipped her sherry. “While it’s unwise to label the unknown as gibberish, Mrs Thorne, one must question why ghosts are only seen at night. In the dark, a tired mind might confuse a spectre with a peignoir draped over the armoire door.”

  “Precisely, Mrs Eden.” Roxburgh looked at Julianna with such admiration, Mrs Thorne shuffled closer to her lover until they were practically conjoined.

  “Ghosts have been known to kill people.” Lowbridge spoke in a sinister voice to scare his mistress. “There’s the tale of the man haunted by a woman in a blood-stained shroud. He tumbled down the stairs in a fright.”

  Miss Ponsonby’s eyes widened in horror. “Did he break his neck?”

  “No, Pony. He dropped his candlestick and set the house ablaze.”

  Roxburgh and Granger chuckled.

  Bennet didn’t.

  Set the house ablaze?

  Was Lowbridge the villain? Guilty people did not openly discuss their crimes. Still, Bennet glanced at the devil, unable to decide if he was remarkably clever or downright stupid.

  “Then we must be vigilant tonight.” Bennet observed Lowbridge’s reaction with interest. “I suggest you all stay abed and lock your chamber doors lest one of you trip over the ghost and burn the house to the ground.”

  Julianna snatched a glance at him but quickly changed the subject. “Lord Devereaux told me of the masquerade last summer. I wondered if someone had found a habit in the attic and thought to scare the host.”