by Clee, Adele
Julianna wasn’t sure where the conversation would lead. “You take your responsibility seriously. I’ve never known anyone be so thorough.”
He inclined his head at her compliment. “I never hire an agent without checking their background. I knew of your connection to Lord Devereaux before I decided you would work his case.”
It wasn’t a complete surprise. Still, she was forced to ask, “Do you know why Edward Eden married me?”
“No. Your mother’s history is of more interest to me. Giselle amassed enemies, and I cannot afford for those with a hidden agenda to disrupt our work here.”
“My mother had many lovers. Most of them grew to hate her.”
“None more so than the Marquess Devereaux.”
“He told terrible lies, blackened her name.” Giselle had cursed him to hell many times. “His aggression stemmed from the loss of a woman he claimed to love. There’s a reason it’s called a broken heart. Some cling to the hopeful half, the half that appreciates things change, that life has more to offer. Some grab the bitter half and hold it until it withers away, and they’re nought but an empty shell.”
“Leaving Witherdeen broke your heart.”
“Leaving Bennet broke my heart.”
“Your letter implies you clung to hope.”
“After the life I’ve had, I have every reason to be bitter. But I’ve seen how it ravages the mind and body, and I would never choose a life like that.”
Mr Daventry pursed his lips as if reluctant to speak. “I pray you always choose hope. I pray you break the destructive cycle adopted by your mother.”
Julianna sat there, uncertainty coursing through her veins. Unlike Giselle, Mr Daventry gave no warning he was about to turn her life upside down. The only sign to suggest she would be packing her valise again was the slight downturn of his lips.
“Delaying will not spare my feelings, sir.”
“No,” he said softly.
“I’m hardened to anything concerning my mother.”
He remained silent for long, drawn-out seconds. “While you were at Witherdeen, I spoke to the lords Denver, Carstairs and Montgomery.”
Strange how she could barely remember the nights Giselle dragged her away from those gentlemen’s homes.
“I wasn’t sure whether to believe their claims, but having read the journal Cole brought back from Witherdeen, it seems their suspicions were founded.”
Oh, the wait proved torturous. “Forgive my bluntness, sir, but would you get to the point.”
Mr Daventry smiled sympathetically. “The marquess blackmailed every lover your mother had, beginning with Denver. He bought their vowels, bribed friends and relatives to gain the men’s secrets, used every means necessary to make them banish your mother from their lives.”
Julianna had known Lord Denver was the first man to give Giselle her marching orders. Consequently, her mother’s confidence had taken a knock, later a thump, then a battering.
“My mother despised the marquess, though she never said why. No doubt his aim was to force her back to Witherdeen.”
Love and hate were sides of the same coin.
“Did she say why she fled to France?”
Julianna raised a brow. “Sir, you ask a question yet know the answer.”
“Yes. Because it was the only way she could escape the marquess. But an incident that occurred after Montgomery threw your mother out made life difficult.”
With a heavy heart, Julianna recalled the event. “We took a room at the Dog and Pheasant. Someone entered while we slept and stole my mother’s jewels.”
Thankfully, Giselle kept her diamond ring and ruby earrings in a secret pocket sewn into her corset. And she met a gentleman in Calais who kept them in reasonable lodgings for the next year.
“In the journal, the marquess mentions buying vowels, spreading gossip, making sure no one extended Giselle an invitation.”
“As I said, he clung to the bitter half of his broken heart.”
When Mr Daventry paused, Julianna held her breath.
“Montgomery said the marquess paid someone to steal the jewels. In the journal, the marquess wrote that his man had a successful night at the Dog and Pheasant. You fled to France to escape the marquess. He’s the reason your mother lost everything, the reason she sold you to Edward Eden.”
For a moment, Julianna felt nothing.
The first flicker of anger caught her by surprise. Each painful memory fed the beast. The insults hurled at them in the street. The cruel way men discarded them without a thought for their welfare.
Then the tears came, along with a knot of doubts and insecurities. Why hadn’t her mother loved her as much as she loved men? Why was she not enough for the woman who constantly chased happiness? Why had Giselle sold her to Edward Eden? She had known the truth and committed the worst kind of betrayal.
I’m not selling you, silly girl.
He’s paying for the privilege of being your husband.
Edward loves you.
“Mrs Eden.” Mr Daventry’s words sliced through the chaos.
“Please don’t call me that.”
She was not Miss de Lacy or Mrs Eden. Both names seemed abhorrent now. The lies. The deceit. The evilness. It was like a swirling vortex, threatening to drag her down, hold her under.
The urge to run took command of her senses. She pushed out of the chair. “I must go. I must leave London.” Tears slipped down her cheeks. “I beg you, sir, release me from my contract. Mr Cole can help Lord Devereaux prove his innocence.”
In a shocking gesture of solidarity, Mr Daventry stood and touched her gently on the upper arm. “I cannot let you leave, Julianna. Sir Malcolm insists you remain in St James’ Square while he attempts to prevent a scandal.”
“A scandal?”
“There’ll be riots if a respected peer is accused of murder. Though I’m confident it won’t come to that. You were with Devereaux all night?”
She had no choice but to answer the embarrassing question. “Yes, until I roused Mr Bower and asked him to bring me home.”
“When Devereaux followed you from Witherdeen, I knew you were more than friends. I suspect he will follow you to Paris.”
Her hands started shaking. Not because she believed Bennet was a controlling fiend like his father. But because she was not strong enough to resist him.
“Lord Devereaux must marry and sire an heir, sir. There is no place for him in Paris. As his friend, I pray you will make him see sense.” Her mind scrambled to think how she might make their separation easier. “Perhaps I could stay with the Sloanes in Little Chelsea. Would that not satisfy Sir Malcolm?”
“I’ve confirmed you’re staying with Devereaux. If you remove to Little Chelsea, people will assume he killed his steward.”
She glanced at the closed study door, feeling much like a caged bird with clipped wings. She couldn’t abandon Bennet in his hour of need. No, she had no choice but to deal with her dilemma.
“Then might you grant me one request? Might your coachman take me to St James’ Square? I’d like some time alone before Lord Devereaux returns home.”
Time alone wouldn’t solve her problem.
Time alone wouldn’t stop her loving Bennet Devereaux.
Chapter 17
Across the hall, a door creaked open. The patter of footsteps echoed on the tiled floor, accompanied by a mumbled conversation. Another door opened and closed. Bennet listened intently to every sound, wondering why the hell Lucius Daventry needed a private audience.
The matter concerned Bennet’s father.
Bennet had read the journals, had told Julianna of the bitter remarks, of his father’s need to force Giselle de Lacy back to Witherdeen. It wasn’t a secret. So why squirrel her away to another room and fill her head with nonsense.
“Branner went to a great deal of trouble to torment you, Devereaux.” Finlay Cole was known for being blunt. “I assume you checked his references before hiring him as your steward.”
&
nbsp; Bennet tried to keep his temper. “My father employed Branner six months before he died. He never hired a man without a recommendation.”
“May I ask how he died?” The question carried Cole’s apparent suspicions. “He must have been no older than sixty.”
“Sixty-two. His heart failed. Branner didn’t kill him.”
“Perhaps the timing is a coincidence,” Cole mocked. “Branner never gave you a reason to doubt his loyalty?”
“Never.” Bennet was tired of the probing questions. He didn’t give a damn about the case, cared only about the wicked words Lucius Daventry was busy spouting.
As if conjured by thought alone, Daventry returned and closed the door.
Bennet shot to his feet. “Where is Mrs Eden?” Panic left his heart pounding. Was she drying her tears? Were those her footsteps he’d heard in the hall? Had she made a hasty escape?
“Sit down, Devereaux.” Daventry raised his hand, a plea for patience, and waited for Bennet to sit. “Cole, go home and get some sleep. Before you go, I need to know where Branner’s mother lives. Did you find anything in the cottage with her direction? Devereaux thinks it could be Bath or Bristol.”
“I found no personal effects. Nothing to suggest he has any living relatives. Though there was a book borrowed from the Bristol Library Society and never returned.” Cole removed a small notebook from his coat pocket and flicked through the pages. “A library in King Street, Bristol.”
“Excellent. Sloane, tell Sir Malcolm that Devereaux and I are journeying to Bristol tomorrow to see what we can discover about Branner’s background. We’ll be gone for two days—”
“Two days!” Bennet stood again. “I’m not leaving Julianna alone when there’s a murderer on the loose. The handbill Isabella Winters refused to deliver said Julianna died by my hands. Someone plans to hurt her and blame me.” Bennet glanced at the door. “Where is she? For the love of God, tell me you’ve not let her leave.”
“We’ll discuss it in a moment.”
“We’ll discuss it now!”
Daventry’s grey eyes darkened like a gathering storm. “Solving the case and saving your life is of paramount importance. You will wait while I lay a trap for the blackguard. I trust you told Roxburgh the truth.”
Bennet huffed. “Yes, and he was at a loss to know why one of our friends would go to such extreme lengths. What can any of them hope to gain by my death?”
“Do you suspect him?”
“Roxburgh? No! We shoot and fence together. He could have killed me many times and made it look like an accident. Besides, he can barely raise the enthusiasm to dress each morning.”
Daventry gave a curt nod. “Sloane, we’ll leave at first light. Visit Roxburgh at nine—”
“Nine?” Bennet snorted. “Roxburgh never rises before noon.”
“Drag Roxburgh from his bed. Tell him Devereaux and Mrs Eden are leaving for Bristol to locate Branner’s family. As a matter of urgency, he’s to visit all those who were at Witherdeen the night Branner died and inform them the man is dead, casually mention the trip to Bristol.”
Mrs Sloane spoke up. “The villain must believe it’s possible to find them before they reach Bristol, before they find Mr Branner’s mother.”
Daventry pursed his lips while in thought. “Do you recall the case where Sir Frederick Marley blamed his captain for stealing a tobacco shipment? We caught Sir Frederick paying the real thief at a coaching inn just outside Bristol.”
“The Golden Eagle?” Cole said.
“Sloane, tell Roxburgh that Devereaux is staying at the Golden Eagle. Make sure Devereaux’s friends and Miss Winters know they’ll find him there.”
Sloane nodded.
Through the means of silent communication, Daventry informed his agents it was time to leave. They made their excuses, said good night and headed for the door, though Mrs Sloane asked Bennet to convey a message, a desire for Julianna to visit her in Little Chelsea once they’d solved the case.
Daventry waited until his agents had left the house before speaking. “Now we’re alone, we’ll get back to the matter of Mrs Eden.”
“Where is she?”
“Gone home.”
“Home? To Howland Street? To bloody Paris?”
“To St James’ Square, but you’ll allow her time alone before giving chase.” Daventry crossed the room to the drinks cabinet. “Care for a brandy?”
Bennet’s temper flared. He imagined grabbing the man by the scruff of his coat and shaking the truth from his arrogant mouth. But Daventry raised a glass as an enticement to stay.
“If I lose her, I’ll blame you. Sod your agents. I’ll make your life a living hell. Do you hear?”
Daventry smiled. “Despite every effort to the contrary, you sound like your father. He persecuted Giselle, made her life hell, all in the name of love.”
Bennet firmed his jaw. “I’m nothing like my father.”
“No, you’re not.” Daventry closed the gap between them, thrust a glass of brandy at Bennet and raised his in salute. “You’re so in love with Mrs Eden, you would turn your back on your responsibilities and move to Paris.”
Bennet relaxed, all thoughts of fighting abandoning him. “I’m so in love with her, I would do whatever she asked. But I’m a man at war with my conscience.” It was a gruesome battle between happiness and duty.
Daventry knocked back his brandy and panted to cool the burn. “God, I’m glad I was born a bastard. Do you know what I find so amusing about the nobility?”
“No doubt you plan to enlighten me.”
“You have immense power yet are slaves to your position. You’re the Marquess Devereaux. You can do what the hell you please. No one will dare stand in your way. If you were a gambler, a whoremonger, you’d still be invited to fancy balls and routs. But woe betide you marry someone outside the select little club.”
Bennet swallowed a mouthful of brandy. “Breeding is everything. That’s what we have thrust down our throats from an early age.”
“Surely you can see how illogical it sounds.” Daventry snorted. “You would choose a debutante who whimpers because of muddy slippers over a woman like Mrs Eden?”
“Mrs Eden is superior in every regard.”
“Then marry her. You need a wife, and she has everything you could want in a marchioness.” Daventry winced. “Though after what she’s learnt tonight, she may not have you. To marry you, she must betray her mother’s memory.”
“What the devil did you say to her?” Fear fuelled Bennet’s temper now.
Daventry relayed the stories told by numerous lords, tales of blackmail and revenge, of jewels stolen from the Dog and Pheasant, of Giselle’s mistreatment at the hands of his father.
Shame left Bennet gripping the nearest chair and dropping into the seat. He’d known a milder version of events, knew his father was prone to bouts of cruelty, but what he’d done beggared belief.
“He died a lonely man.” Bennet recalled the deathbed conversations. The deep regrets that skulked out of the shadows when one’s life ebbed away. “But he was a master of his own destiny.”
Daventry refilled his brandy glass and then sat on the sofa. “Now it’s time to decide what sort of man you are, Devereaux. Are you a man who bows and nods and does what is expected? Or a man who challenges the rules and paves the way for the next generation? A man capable of choosing his own bride?”
Bennet’s heart swelled at the thought of marrying Julianna. If she refused him, he was destined to spend his life alone. He could not stand in church and exchange vows with any other woman.
“Life will be difficult for our children.”
“Difficult? Living from hand to mouth is difficult,” Daventry mocked. “Cowards choose the easy path. You’re not a coward, Devereaux. Raise children with the strength to do what is right. Perhaps your daughter will marry my son, and they’ll turn society completely on its head.”
Everything Daventry said made sense. But Julianna would refuse his suit. A cour
tesan’s daughter did not become a marchioness. And having resigned from the Order, all she wanted was peace.
“Your work for the Order is really a plot to take over the world, Daventry. You’re playing matchmaker. Marrying peers to sensible women so their children have the backbone to challenge convention.”
Daventry raised his glass and then downed the contents. “My father-in-law died trying to change the world. His death cannot be in vain. Our country needs rebels. Sons and daughters with the courage to confront their peers.”
They sat for a while, discussing how a forward-thinking man might rock the foundations of the House of Lords. The topic moved to the case, and Daventry warned Bennet that his steward might well have been his bastard brother.
The thought had crossed Bennet’s mind. He’d have welcomed Branner with open arms, treated him like kin. Perhaps it would have filled the void left by his estranged family. But without a confession, what proof was there?
Bennet made to leave, but Daventry spent the next ten minutes discussing arrangements for their trip to Bristol.
Keen to drag himself away, Bennet bid the master of the Order good night. “There’s nothing left to talk about unless you know of a secret mantra that might persuade Julianna to marry me.”
“The desire to have you spouting nonsense all the way home is tempting. Just remember, she’s in love with you. She’ll put your needs before her own. You must convince her your needs are the same.”
“The Augustinian monks were of one mind and one heart. I’ll keep their motto in mind when deciding what to say to Julianna.”
Daventry smiled. “What words could convey centuries of wisdom?”
“It’s a motto you could use—nothing conquers except the truth.”
* * *
Julianna shuffled down beneath the bedsheets and hugged the pillow to her ears so she wouldn’t hear Bennet pacing the floor in the adjoining room.
He’d come home ten minutes ago, entered his chamber but not said a word, not called to her through the locked door, not whispered good night. He’d dismissed his valet, insisting he would manage, asking to be left alone.
