by Clee, Adele
“Not that I’m aware. He severed contact with all family members when he inherited. That’s when he started recording his feelings. Until then, I believe he kept his outrageous thoughts to himself.”
Julianna reached for her notebook and pencil. “Tell me what you know about your uncles.” She scribbled Charles Devereaux’s name. “I recall you mentioning Charles was heir presumptive before you were born.”
“Yes, Charles was a year younger than my father. John, three years younger. Charles had two sons who both died in infancy. Uncle John’s only son is John Devereaux, the current heir presumptive serving on The Argyle.”
“Did you ever meet them?”
“No. Uncle John came to Witherdeen once. My father threw him out.”
“When was this?”
Bennet shrugged. “My father wrote about it in a journal. It was an argument about money. Uncle John invested in a scheme based on the word of a good friend. He lost a substantial sum before learning my father had paid the friend to lie.”
The depth of the late marquess’ deception was sickening. “How awful. To be tricked by one’s own brother.”
Bennet glanced at his father’s elegant penmanship in the open journal on his desk. “I tried to love my father. At least, I tried to love the man I knew in those latter years. But he behaved despicably. His terrible deeds were driven by unfounded fears.”
She remembered the awful beatings, the cruel taunts. Why would anyone want to love a monster? But she understood. For all the mistreatment she had suffered, she always hoped her mother would change. Besides, she had not lived Giselle’s life or walked in her shoes and so could not judge.
“We tried to love our parents even though they struggled to love us in return.” Surely that said a lot about their characters. “Neither of us inherited their bitterness. Each new generation should learn from the last, and we’re certainly a testament to that.”
Bennet’s weary sigh touched her heart. “It might have been easier to fail.”
“Much easier.” Julianna had lost count of the times she had been offered an exorbitant amount of money to sleep with men. “But I admire your desire to raise strong sons, good men who will make a difference to the world.”
“Privilege comes with a responsibility I cannot ignore.”
“No. You have a duty to king and country.” Thoughts of her future pushed to the fore. Would she ever be happy without Bennet? “Perhaps one day I will marry again, have spirited daughters who will defend their sisters’ rights to freedom. Daughters who never have to beg at the Registry.”
Bennet held her gaze. “Daughters as remarkable as their mother.”
Heat rose to her cheeks. “You’ve always been kind to me, Bennet, though you’re often prone to exaggeration. I never did see that giant fish you caught.”
“It was so big it almost snapped the line.”
They both laughed, fell quickly silent. She suspected his thoughts turned to their childhood, to that one blissful summer she would sell her soul to experience again.
They continued reading until the mantel clock chimed five.
“John Devereaux died not long after he lost a fortune in the mining scheme.”
“Yes, in 1801. The year my mother died.”
She had no wish to stir painful memories but had to say, “It was a riding accident, I recall.”
Bennet responded by handing her the journal he had been reading. The pages bore his father’s deluded suspicions and outpourings of grief.
“My mother fell from her horse and broke her leg. She’d told the groom she was heading across country to Bramley, but they found her the next morning in a field near Turgis Green. She died of exposure to the elements.”
“And you were four?”
“Yes, I have vague memories of her.”
Her heart sank. Loss tainted Bennet’s childhood. The loss of his mother and the loss of his best friend. Had it affected him more deeply than she’d known?
“When we left Witherdeen, did your father bring another mistress into the house?” It could be pertinent to the case.
“No. As I said earlier, men rarely move their mistresses into their family home. Your mother was the exception.”
“Giselle had rules. She refused to hide in the shadows. If a man wanted her, he had to declare it openly, treat her like a duchess.” Her mother had oozed class and elegance until her latter years. Until the loss of her looks led to her addiction.
Bennet sat forward. “Then why did you agree to stay here, knowing people would assume you were following in her footsteps?”
“I owe Mr Daventry a debt I must repay. And I cannot leave England without knowing you’re safe.” She was destined to spend her life worrying about his happiness.
“You don’t care that people will compare you to her?”
She would never be as beautiful as her mother.
Giselle de Lacy’s allure drew men in droves.
“Moths don’t become butterflies. But I shall play the role for your sake, and because Mr Daventry’s generous gift will give me plenty of time to find my way in Paris. Who knows? I might enjoy teasing the ton for a while.”
She expected an amusing quip about the upper echelons, but Bennet suddenly shot out of the chair. “Leave now, Julianna, before it’s too late. Go. Take as much money as you need. I have a property in Scotland. It’s yours. Do what is right for you, not for me or Lucius Daventry.”
Stunned by his sudden outburst, she struggled to form a reply.
“What do you want, Julianna? I can tell you it’s not to have the ton call you a whore or have people think I’m paying to bed you.”
“We have been intimate. And you are paying me a fee.”
“You know damn well there is no correlation between the two. I’m paying Daventry a fee. And we were intimate because … because when we’re together, the feelings are too powerful to ignore.”
He was right on both counts. “It’s too late, Bennet. Mr Lowbridge and his sisters will have told half a dozen people or more. By tonight, it will be the topic of conversation in most ballrooms. We have no choice but to see this through to the end.” To the bitter end, for their parting would bring great sorrow.
“I’ll tell them they’re mistaken.”
“The curtain twitchers have seen me entering your house with my valise. And what if the villain decides to hurt me to punish you?”
The comment had him flopping back into his seat. “Then leave for Scotland, not Paris. It’s a pretty shooting lodge on a loch overlooking glorious mountains. You’ll love it there.”
If she had learnt anything from her mother, it was not to become attached to beautiful places.
“And where is the nearest town? Fifty miles away, no doubt. Bennet, I’m tired of being alone and need to find work, meet new people. I like Paris.” She glanced at the mantel clock, desperate for a distraction. “Heavens. Time runs away when we’re together. We must finish reading the journals tonight. I cannot afford to disappoint Mr Daventry.”
With a disgruntled sigh, he buried his head in another book.
It was no good. She couldn’t concentrate, not when she could feel Bennet’s burning gaze. Oh, she had to be the worst enquiry agent in living memory. If only she had Rachel’s strength and determination. Rachel was as skilled and as quick-witted as the men and would solve her first case quickly.
“Did you leave the cottage the second I fell asleep?” Bennet’s husky whisper captured her attention. “When I moved inside you, pushed so deep you cried out with pleasure, were you thinking about making your escape?”
Her sex pulsed at the memory. She couldn’t tell him that she’d watched him sleeping for so long she’d almost stayed. She couldn’t tell him that she loved him as much now as she did when they were children. Daren’t tell him the feelings were more profound.
“I lay there not knowing what to do.”
“You didn’t consider how I might feel when I woke to find you gone?”
I
f she had, she wouldn’t have left. “If I’d stayed, we would have made love again and—”
“Again and again because I could never tire of having you.”
The room grew suddenly hot. Julianna looked to the mantel clock, wishing the hands would move faster, hoping the dour-faced butler would knock on the door, so she never had to think about her reply. Never have to acknowledge that his choice of words reminded her of her mother’s stark warning.
Men are governed by their appetites. They confuse lust with love.
“I left because I don’t want to hurt you any more than I have already. I left because we’re different people from different worlds. In bed, those things don’t matter. Tomorrow, at the Winter Ball, I suspect we will both receive an unwelcome dose of reality.”
And he was wrong. He would tire of her, tire of the cuts direct, tire of being looked down upon by his peers. She had seen the game play out so many times she knew not to pin her hopes on a fantasy. When she drew her last breath, was it not better to remember those magical moments than die angry and bitter?
Thankfully, the butler knocked to say the maid was ready and waiting in the bedchamber.
Julianna informed him she would be along shortly, then gathered two journals. “I think it best I take a tray in my room this evening. After a hectic few days, an early night is in order. You must be tired, too.”
“I doubt I shall sleep tonight.”
She wouldn’t sleep either. “Perhaps you can study the journals, and we can discuss our findings during breakfast tomorrow.” At breakfast, she wouldn’t drink too much wine and be tempted to straddle his lap.
“I’m to ride on the Row with Roxburgh in the morning and must visit Lowbridge to make sure he attends the ball. Daventry has arranged for you to visit his wife’s modiste. The woman is said to work miracles, and I imagine you’ll be out for most of the day.”
Julianna inwardly groaned. She could wear a gown made entirely of jewels and would still walk in her mother’s shadow.
“Mrs Sloane is to meet me at the modiste and take me to her house in Little Chelsea.” Arriving separately seemed unnecessary, but Mr Daventry insisted it would create more of a stir and allow Miss Winters to speak privately with Bennet. “I shan’t see you now until the Winter Ball.”
He held her gaze, the few seconds stirring something deep inside. “You will save a dance for me tomorrow?”
She would save everything for him, every dance, every kiss. “Of course. We must make Miss Winters believe I have replaced her in your affections.”
Again, he stared for the longest time. “Good night, Julianna. Should you change your mind about dinner, or anything else, don’t hesitate to come and find me.”
“Good night, Bennet.”
She left the room, spent the night alone with his father’s journals and the unbearable craving that gave her some appreciation for her mother’s wretched plight.
Chapter 14
Julianna had witnessed many wild parties from curtained hideaways and doors left ajar, though she had never wished to join the rowdy rabble. People behaved foolishly. Acted like buffoons. Lay comatose after consuming ridiculous amounts of punch and champagne.
Themed balls were the worst. Guests hid behind disguises to excuse their vulgar manners, to piddle in potted ferns, and explain why they’d climbed into bed with the wrong goddess Venus.
Lord Newberry’s Winter Ball should have been the exception.
The ballroom glistened like a magical ice kingdom. Footmen wore silver coats and silver breeches, sported silver laurel wreaths in their hair. White chiffon cascaded down walls, and candlelight sparkled in crystal icicles hanging from huge chandeliers.
It would have been the perfect setting if not for the gentleman tearing his tongue from an ice sculpture while his drunken friend mounted a stuffed stag.
Despite the distractions, heads whipped in Julianna’s direction.
“Pay them no mind.” Vivienne Sloane clutched Julianna’s arm and gave an encouraging squeeze. “I imagine they’re jealous of your magnificent gown. It fits you like a glove.”
“It’s a little tighter than a glove.” Julianna placed her hand on her abdomen to calm her breathing. “And I never bare my shoulders.”
She shouldn’t complain. Under Mrs Daventry’s expert supervision, Magdalena had spent eight hours sewing glass beads to the bodice, ensuring the silk skimmed every natural curve.
“What a shame you’re not a courtesan,” Vivienne whispered. “The way men are gawping, you could name your price.” The lady caught herself. “Forgive me. I meant it as a compliment, though I imagine you see it as an insult.”
Julianna smiled reassuringly. “My mother played one lord against another. No amount of money would induce me to do the same.” There was only one man’s attention she craved.
People spoke in hushed whispers as Julianna passed. Men ogled every inch of exposed flesh. Ladies lowered their handheld masks and stared at her wild red curls and elegant gold gown. Their sneers and sly grins spoke volumes, and the name Giselle de Lacy drifted through the room on a bitter breeze.
This was what Julianna had spent her life avoiding—the daggers of disdain, the lecherous grins, the judging, the snarls, the drooling.
“We’re to stand near the fir tree with the frosted branches. Else my husband will never find us in the crush.” Vivienne must have noticed the scornful looks hurled their way. “Hold your head high. It’s that, or I draw my cutlass and show them what a pirate’s granddaughter can do with a deadly weapon.”
Julianna laughed. She was so grateful to have an ally. “I thought your grandfather was a privateer.” Mr Daventry had given her a thorough briefing on his gentlemen agents and their wives.
“He was, but to this pompous lot, it still means pirate.”
They waited near the fir tree for Mr Sloane to bring refreshments.
“Let’s discuss the case before Lord Devereaux arrives. It can help to get a second opinion, and I love solving puzzles.” Vivienne’s eyes shone with barely contained excitement. “You can trust me, Julianna.”
Vivienne and Evan Sloane had solved a complicated case orchestrated by their privateer grandfathers, and so Julianna had no qualms speaking of the strange events troubling the Marquess Devereaux.
“Evidence says Miss Winters has some part to play. But if there’s one thing I know about courtesans, it’s that they never form attachments to their lovers.”
Enquiry agents shouldn’t form attachments to clients either, but that hadn’t stopped Julianna devouring Bennet Devereaux’s mouth.
Vivienne nodded. “Is detachment not the primary rule of survival?”
“Indeed.”
Yet Bennet was no ordinary man. He was intelligent, handsome, and kind. When he kissed her, all her doubts disappeared. A woman might easily fall in love with him. Julianna had.
“And you found nothing in the journals? Nothing to suggest a motive?”
“Nothing other than a delusional man’s ramblings. The old marquess hated his family. He gave them grounds to murder him, yet neither brother sought revenge.”
“And the only heir is five thousand miles away in India.” Vivienne seemed to ponder that snippet of information. “What about his wife?”
“Mr Daventry mentioned her today when he came to speak to Magdalena about my gown.” And to steal a few moments alone with his wife. “Mary Devereaux lives in Kent with her two young children. She’s not left the village since her husband set sail for India over a year ago.”
“Mr Daventry visited the modiste?” Vivienne was more interested in the gentleman’s motive than finding someone with a reason to hurt Bennet. “What suggestions did Mr Daventry make regarding your fitting?”
“That the gown must be elegant, under no terms scandalous.”
Vivienne’s gaze skimmed the beaded bodice and modest decolletage. “It’s a gown fit for a marchioness, not a mistress.”
It was an exceptional dress. “Perhaps he felt gu
ilty for persuading me to play Lord Devereaux’s mistress and thought I should wear something demure.”
“Guilty?” Vivienne scoffed. “Mr Daventry does whatever’s necessary to solve a case. He’s not shy about expressing his opinion.”
Maybe he knew life in Paris would be difficult and wanted to show her the advantages of working as an enquiry agent.
“I assume you’ve named Mr Branner the prime suspect,” Vivienne said.
Sadly, the steward was first on Julianna’s list of those with opportunity and no motive. “He could have produced the obituaries, staged the scenes, and must have lied about the gravestone, but I’m baffled why he would bear the marquess any ill will.”
After spending the morning with him in the village, she couldn’t help but like Mr Branner. He was personable, had an aristocratic bearing. One might believe he was the illegitimate son of the marquess, but Bennet would have been made aware, and the old marquess had made no provision for Mr Branner in his will.
“Jealousy is often a motive. Jealous people torment their victims but rarely seek to murder them. It seems for all the threats, Lord Devereaux’s life isn’t in any real danger.”
No, she supposed not.
So why did she feel an immense sense of dread?
“Jealous people are vindictive.” Mr Sloane interrupted their conversation. With his long hair tied in a queue, he looked ready to plunder the high seas. He came bearing gifts—two frosted glasses of winter punch. “While they enjoy making their victims appear weak and foolish, one should never underestimate an opponent.”
“Two opponents.” Julianna took the proffered glass of punch.
“Mr Branner might be acting alone.” Vivienne smiled at her husband and accepted her glass. “What evidence is there to suggest he has an accomplice?”
Julianna told them about Mrs Hendrie’s ghost and that the third obituary was delivered to Lord Devereaux’s London address. “Mr Branner has not left Witherdeen for two months.”
“Miss Winters can’t be the ghost. You said Granger brought her to Bramley. Mrs Hendrie saw the ghost two days before they arrived.” Mr Sloane scanned the ballroom and gestured to a red-haired woman talking to two gentlemen near the grand fireplace. “From a distance, you look similar. Having heard of your imminent arrival, perhaps Mrs Hendrie imagined seeing you again.”
