by Clee, Adele
Mrs Thorne sneered. “The only garments we found were your mother’s tired old gowns.”
“What a pity.” Julianna appeared unperturbed by Mrs Thorne’s spiteful tone. “My mother was so petite, I doubt they’d have been useful.”
Quick to bite the bait, Mrs Thorne exclaimed, “Nonsense! I was able to squeeze into one of them. Miss Winters took the other. She’s such a vivacious young woman. With her lovely red hair, she looked remarkable in gold silk.”
“Yes, you stole the gold ensemble,” Miss Ponsonby said snidely, “but turned up your nose at the beautiful gown Mrs Eden is wearing this evening.”
Julianna simply smiled. “Gold would have been my preferred choice, but it seems both gold gowns are missing.”
“Missing?” Miss Ponsonby looked horrified. “Missing? How can they be missing? I assure you, Mrs Eden, we returned all your mother’s items the day after the masquerade.”
Everyone shot a curious glance at Mrs Thorne.
“Don’t look at me!” Affronted, she clutched her hand to her chest. “I left my gown hanging in the attic. The housekeeper insisted on packing everything away. Apparently, we’re all dreadfully untidy.”
It was a lie. Mrs Hendrie hadn’t taken note of the items borrowed or returned, though it was unlike her not to be pedantic about such things.
“Mrs Hendrie gets a little confused,” Julianna said, though the fib had to be a ploy to gain more information. “She confessed to seeing the ghost twice.”
“You see!” Miss Ponsonby clapped her hands four times in rapid succession. “A monk is haunting the abbey. Hurrah! We may actually get to see a ghost. Did you hear that, Lowbridge?”
“Hmm.”
“Mrs Hendrie saw the ghost of a woman, not a monk.” Julianna spoke matter-of-factly, but Bennet knew she was assessing everyone in the room.
Roxburgh tossed back his brandy. “Must we continue with this tedious topic?” He turned to Julianna. “Devereaux said you lived here when your mother was his father’s paramour.”
“Yes, my lord. I spent a year at Witherdeen.”
“You were close as children,” the devil pressed, “like siblings.”
“Indeed.” Julianna swallowed. “We were inseparable.”
Bennet fought the urge to jump from his chair and shout, “No!”
Yes, they were inseparable. As close as children could be. But he’d never thought of her as a sister, just a dear, dear friend.
“I never said we were like siblings.” Bennet hoped to God Julianna didn’t see him as a brother. The flash of desire in her eyes, the hitch in her breath whenever they were close said otherwise.
Roxburgh smirked. “Did you not?”
“No.”
“Mrs Eden said she thought of you as a relative.”
“No,” Julianna protested. “I said we were close as children.”
“Enough about that,” Miss Ponsonby interjected, moving to warm her hands by the fire. “Do you believe the housekeeper saw a ghost, Mrs Eden? She seems like quite a reliable woman. Oh, it’s all so fascinating.”
“Who can say?” Julianna’s shoulders relaxed. She seemed more comfortable discussing ghosts than her complicated relationship with him. “I shan’t be convinced until I see an apparition.”
Annoyed that all talk had returned to the supernatural, Roxburgh decided it was time to meddle. “Tell me about your husband, Mrs Eden. Have you been widowed long?”
Bennet silently groaned.
Roxburgh spoke with polite interest, but his objective was to pry into Julianna’s affairs and discover why she had really come to Witherdeen.
“A year, my lord.”
Roxburgh’s keen stare slid over Julianna’s silk gown. “So you’re not long out of widow’s weeds. A woman so spirited shouldn’t wear black. May I ask how Mr Eden died?”
“Of consumption. Tragically, he wasted away to nothing.”
“Was he old?”
“Thirty-eight.”
Did she know her tone lacked emotion? Bennet tried to catch her attention, but she seemed lost in the memory.
“It must have been terribly painful watching him suffer.”
“Edward wished to die in the arms of the one person he loved.” She spoke of Justin, of course, and avoided saying anything more.
“Ah, l’amour—a rare and precious commodity. A man may be as rich as Croesus, but still love eludes him.”
“Love cannot be bought or traded,” Julianna said.
“Nor can trust or loyalty.” Bennet prayed he had no reason to distrust this man. “Are they not equally precious?”
Roxburgh’s brow furrowed in curious enquiry. “Come, Devereaux, what would you choose? A woman who trusts you or one who loves you implicitly?”
Blast.
Bennet glanced at Julianna, and their eyes met. “I’d choose a woman who loves me because she knows there is no one she trusts more.”
Julianna’s gaze softened. “What of you, Lord Roxburgh?”
The lord laughed. “I’m a cynic, and people are fickle. As you rightly said, Mrs Eden, love and hate are sides of the same coin, and I never bet on anything with such frightful odds.”
Thankfully, the clang of the dinner gong proved the saving grace.
With dinner being a relaxed affair, Julianna had asked to sit next to Roxburgh and Mrs Thorne. But Miss Ponsonby tossed manners aside, barged through the group and stole the woman’s seat. Bennet remained at the head of the table with the insipid Mrs Thorne to his right—the wealthy widow’s support of Roxburgh’s gambling habit proved the only attraction—and Lowbridge to his left.
Having consumed the contents of Bennet’s brandy decanter, Lowbridge took to dozing off between courses. Like Bennet, Mrs Thorne was so absorbed with the lively conversation further down the table she only picked at her food.
Granger clearly admired his cousin’s mistress, for he’d taken to calling her by her pet name, too. “Pony, admit it. You’d die if you saw a ghost.”
“Really, Granger, there are no such things,” Roxburgh countered.
“I challenge anyone to meet me in the ruins at midnight.” Julianna’s eyes were bright with amusement. “The sight of the ghostly monk would soon have you whistling a new tune, my lord.”
Roxburgh laughed. “If the monk burst into the dining room and perched on my lap, I’d likely believe myself sotted.”
“What are we to do with him, Mrs Eden?” Miss Ponsonby batted Roxburgh on the arm. “I warrant we should tie him to a chair amid the ruins and leave him there all night.”
“And I’ll happily permit such mistreatment if Mrs Eden agrees to accompany me.”
Was Roxburgh being intentionally provoking?
They continued laughing while Mrs Thorne scowled at her pheasant, and Bennet silently seethed.
“And what of your parents, Miss Ponsonby?” Julianna asked, reminding Bennet she was simply playing a role, digging for information. “Your family cannot be as scandalous as mine.”
“Oh, they were simple country folk who lacked ambition. My brother and I made a plan to escape. He used to hit me on the head if I broke into a Somerset accent.” She laughed and then continued her bird-like chirping about the ghost.
They all removed to the drawing room, though Roxburgh complained that he’d like to take his port without listening to Miss Ponsonby’s inane chatter. And so the ladies remained while the men retreated to the library.
The next hour passed too slowly for comfort.
Terrance Granger left to smoke his cheroot outdoors, though he was gone so long he must have smoked five. Miss Ponsonby dragged Lowbridge away after begging him to walk to the ruins in the dark.
“Are you going to tell me what Mrs Eden is really doing here?” Roxburgh asked while they were alone. He relaxed back in the leather wing chair, cradling a brandy goblet between his long fingers. “I’m quite certain it’s not to write about ghosts.”
Hellfire!
“Is that why you’ve been fawning o
ver her all evening?” Bennet said by way of a distraction. “Mrs Thorne has grown tired of your wandering eye.”
Roxburgh swallowed a mouthful of brandy, savouring the taste as he studied Bennet. “Did you invent the tale of the ghost as an enticement? Did you hear about her work with her husband and use it as an excuse to invite her to Witherdeen?”
“She’s qualified to write about the ruins. I didn’t know Julianna de Lacy and Mrs Eden were one and the same until I met her in London to discuss the project.” Both facts were true.
“But you’re considering taking her for your mistress.”
“No. I am hoping to keep her as a friend.” Together they might decide where to go from there.
“And yet there is a definite attraction. The desire to please men is in her blood. After a year spent in mourning, she’s looking for a virile fellow to fill the void. One senses a wealth of passion just waiting to be unleashed. Hmm. She’s most definitely ripe and ready for plucking.”
Weeks of pent up anger erupted. “Say one more word about Mrs Eden, and I’ll knock that damn smirk off your face! It’s a bloody good job we’ve been friends for years because it’s the only thing stopping me dragging your arrogant arse off that chair and slamming your teeth down your throat!”
God, it felt good to release his frustration. Sod the case. He was tired of dancing to everyone’s tune.
Roxburgh smiled. “Finally, I get to see the Bennet Devereaux I know and love. I don’t know what’s really going on here or what you’re plotting behind the scenes, but you’re as miserable as a murderous Macbeth.”
“I am not the one obsessed with stratagems.” Damn, he’d not meant to say that aloud.
“You speak of Isabella Winters. The woman is a conniving devil. So, Granger told you she persuaded him to bring her to the coaching inn in Bramley. She said she has a friend in the area whom she’d promised to meet.”
God’s teeth!
Isabella had come to stay in the village?
“Whatever her reason for being here, I suspect it has nothing to do with her imaginary friend,” Roxburgh continued. “I’ll visit the inn in the morning and ferry her back to London. See if I can discover what’s behind her ruse.”
The morning might not be soon enough.
It took one spark to destroy a house full of guests.
Perhaps he would have Bower stay at the inn tonight and keep a watchful eye on the devious Miss Winters.
“It might be worth you all returning to town,” Bennet began, fearing his friends could be caught in the blaze, but then Lowbridge returned, followed by a rather harried Mrs Hendrie.
“Forgive the intrusion, my lord. Might I have a moment of your time?” She hopped from foot to foot as if standing on hot coals.
Bennet excused himself. He ushered his housekeeper out into the hall and closed the library door behind them. That’s when the woman had a sudden fit of hysterics.
“My lord, you must come quickly.” Mrs Hendrie flapped her hands. “There’s a fire. A fire in the stables. Hurry.”
Good God!
Bennet darted along the hall and out of the front door, leaving his poor housekeeper trailing behind. He reached the stable block to find every man and boy filling buckets from the water trough, while Bower used his brawn to work the pump.
Like an army of ants, the men raced in single file to the north stalls, depositing the contents of their buckets and sprinting back for a refill. Mr Keenan stood amidst the men, barking orders.
He spotted Bennet and came hurrying over, wiping sweat and soot from his brow. “We’ve got the fire under control, milord. Praise be, no one was hurt.”
“What happened?”
Had one of his friends crept out of the house to cause mayhem? Had Granger used his lit cheroot as a weapon of destruction?
“Young Povey had trouble securing the pulley. The rope snapped and sent the lamps crashing to the floor. Flames caught the dry straw in no time.”
A new pulley system was on Branner’s list of improvements. “We’ll have it replaced as a matter of urgency. What about the horses?”
“The horses bolted at the first sign of the flames, almost trampled poor Povey to death. Saracen’s got a nasty burn to his fetlock, but I’ve Mason tending the wound.”
Saracen! The horse that beat Mullholland’s at Cheltenham? Was Mullholland the culprit? Were his friends innocent of any wrongdoing? Hell, Bennet was as delusional as his father. Indeed, mistrust for everyone flowed in his veins. And where the hell was Branner?
“Question the boy again. Check his story. I want to know the whereabouts of all visiting coachmen and grooms. Have any of the guests been seen in the stables tonight?”
Keenan frowned. “Not that I know of, milord. But I’ll check with Mr Bower. He’s been mighty friendly with the coachmen.”
“Don’t trouble yourself now. Wait until things have settled here. And send the men to the house when they’re done. Cook will feed them, and I’ll have Milford bring up a few bottles of brandy from the cellar.”
Keenan relayed his heartfelt thanks and returned to help the men. Bennet went to check the stalls, seeking reassurance that the fire posed no real risk.
Thoughts of Mullholland circled as Bennet made his way back to the house. Were the notes empty threats, merely a means to torment a man? Had Mullholland orchestrated events to exact his revenge?
What would Julianna make of this new development? Indeed, seeing her was Bennet’s only focus as he charged into the hall and burst into the drawing room.
The room was empty.
He summoned Milford, who explained the ladies had joined the gentlemen in the library, except for Julianna, who had left for the cottage. “Mrs Eden wishes to discuss the notes she made this afternoon, my lord, and asks that you visit the cottage before you retire.”
Excitement sparked. She wanted to discuss what she had learnt in his absence this evening, but the thought of being alone with her in the quaint cottage heated his blood.
Bennet reminded Milford to post two footmen on the landing tonight.
Roxburgh, Lowbridge and Mrs Thorne were the only guests in the library when Bennet entered.
“Ah, the wanderer returns,” Roxburgh teased.
“You look in need of a drink, Devereaux.” Lowbridge shook his empty brandy goblet. “I’ll have another.”
Bennet didn’t need a drink. He needed the company of one woman.
“There was a fire in the stables, an accident it seems.” It wasn’t a secret. The men’s servants would inform them soon enough. “It’s under control, but I must speak to my steward and have him assess the damage.” Feeling a prickle of trepidation, he glanced around the room. “I trust the others have retired for the evening.”
Lowbridge gave a sly chuckle. “Granger is on the hunt. He’s left the house, has his sights set on a particular red-haired beauty.”
So Granger had arranged to meet Isabella at the coaching inn.
“Presumably, he’s off to the village. Why else would Isabella persuade him to bring her here? Perhaps she has her sights set on a trip to Brighton.”
Lowbridge snorted. “Granger isn’t interested in Miss Winters. The rake has set his cap for Mrs Eden.”
Chapter 9
Julianna was not in the habit of inviting handsome men to visit her at such a late hour, but she couldn’t shake the crippling feeling that something dreadful would happen at Witherdeen tonight, and she desperately needed to speak to Bennet. Hopefully, he already knew about Mr Granger depositing Miss Winters at the coaching inn in Bramley.
The woman was up to something.
Why else had she come if not to seek vengeance?
Nevertheless, it would be foolish not to investigate Bennet’s other female guests. Both ladies had left the drawing room to use the pot. Mrs Thorne was gone for thirty minutes and must have ventured outside because she returned with blue lips and frost-nipped cheeks. But what possible gripe could she have with Bennet when her obsession began
and ended with Lord Roxburgh? And Miss Ponsonby’s constant chatter marked her as someone too simple to orchestrate the threats.
Upon her return to London, Julianna would have Mr Bower watch both women, so she might cross them off her suspect list.
Something Lord Roxburgh said during dinner flitted into her mind. While challenging Miss Ponsonby’s belief in the supernatural, he had cited numerous criminal cases of people donning white robes and haunting their rich relatives.
“They torment their victims to such a degree they believe they’ve seen an apparition, believe it disappeared before their eyes.” Lord Roxburgh had spoken in his usual pompous drawl. “But I’d wager my wine cellar there’s a logical explanation.”
There were so many nooks and crannies amid the ruins it wouldn’t be hard to hide. And the mind did play tricks. Julianna was so fearful of Bennet dying in a blaze she could smell smoke carried on the evening breeze.
She stopped walking, tightened her mother’s silk shawl around her shoulders and glanced back at the house as if expecting to see a burst of orange flames licking the gables. All was quiet, but for the distant echo of voices.
She turned to the huge black shadow of the abbey marring the landscape. The ghostly monk had disappeared after passing through the gate. With it being so dark, the secret hideaway would be close to the boundary wall. Unless the villain knew the ruins so well he could navigate the crumbling walls blindly.
Deciding to take one quick look around the courtyard, she hurried towards the abbey’s entrance, swallowed down her nerves and stepped inside.
During daylight, the ruin was a place of wonder. At night one imagined horned devils hiding in the cloisters, bats roosting in the belfry. Blackness swamped her like a shroud, so heavy and oppressive one might easily mistake the place for Satan’s sanctuary.
A shiver rippled across her shoulders. A woman would not brave this terrifying place alone. The person dressed as a monk had to be a man. A man Miss Winters had come to meet at the coaching inn in Bramley.
Julianna stood amid the gloom, silently debating who’d want to hurt Bennet, when the shadows shifted. A tall, slender figure slipped out of the darkness and skulked across the courtyard like a wildcat stalking prey. A sliver of moonlight caught his angular features and golden blonde hair. His iniquitous grin marked him as Lucifer’s lackey, not a man with pious intent.
