by Clee, Adele
After straightening his crooked spectacles and combing straggly brown hair over his bald pate, the man cast a wary eye over Lucius Daventry. “There’s nothing in the library but books.” Clearly he feared they’d come to steal the coin box.
Daventry stepped forward. “I believe introductions are necessary. Mrs Eden is an enquiry agent from London. My name is Lucius Daventry.” He gestured to Bennet. “Allow me to present the Marquess Devereaux.”
Daventry omitted to mention he was the son of a duke. Bennet suspected he would rather say he was the son of a cobbler.
Bennet removed an engraved silver case from his pocket and handed the fellow a calling card.
The poor man’s eyes bulged as he studied the elegant script. “My lord, what an honour. I’m Mr Davies, keeper of the library. Please, please, come in out of the cold.”
Bennet had to duck to clear the lintel. His stomach rumbled when he caught a delicious waft of beef stew. Mr Davies lived alone but for a lazy tabby cat. Despite numerous efforts to shoo the devil from its seat, the creature refused to vacate the fireside chair.
“We’re investigating a murder in Hampshire.” Julianna perched on the edge of another chair while everyone else stood. “We found a book at the scene, borrowed from your library some time ago, and we’re looking for the address of the person who failed to return the volume.”
Mr Davies scratched his head. “We keep a record of non-returns and issued fines. Do you know the title or author of this book?”
Julianna looked at Bennet, and he gave an inconspicuous shrug.
Daventry knew the answer, of course. Finlay Cole was extremely thorough. “William Enfield’s The History of Philosophy.”
Julianna turned to the librarian. “Perhaps a generous donation to the library might convince you to examine your records. We seek information regarding the gentleman who borrowed the book.”
Mr Davies nodded. “I cannot let you into the library after hours, but I shall fetch the ledger. Might you have the gentleman’s name? It will help to locate the records.”
“Branner. Jonathon Branner.” Plagued by a sudden pang of remorse, Bennet was compelled to add, “Had he spoken about his problems, his death might have been avoided.”
Mr Davies offered his condolences and promptly left the cottage.
With its master gone, the cat leapt from the chair to investigate the newcomers. They spent the next fifteen minutes stroking the affectionate thing.
Bennet breathed a sigh of relief when Mr Davies returned carrying a heavy brown ledger.
“I found no record of a Jonathan Branner.” He placed the musty tome on the small dining table and flicked to the relevant page. “Jonathan Blanchard borrowed Enfield’s book four years ago and failed to return it. That’s the only fine ever issued. Mrs Blanchard paid for the book and cancelled his subscription. I have her direction here.”
Blanchard, not Branner?
The name meant nothing to Bennet. A point he reiterated when Daventry asked him to cast his mind back to his father’s journals. Still, it could not be a coincidence.
“Either way, Mrs Blanchard’s son is dead. We must inform her at once.” Daventry reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded note. “I believe I’m to make this payable to the Bristol Library Society.”
Behind his crooked spectacles, Mr Davies’ eyes brightened. “Goodness. That’s very generous, sir. Very generous.”
“Do you have pen and ink?”
Mr Davies hurried to a cupboard in an old oak cabinet and brought the wooden inkstand to the table. “We appreciate any amount you can spare.”
“I’ll need Mrs Blanchard’s address.” Daventry dipped the nib in ink and scrawled his signature on the note. He handed the pen to Mr Davies, who scribbled Mrs Blanchard’s address onto a scraggy bit of paper.
The men exchanged notes.
They thanked Mr Davies and left the cottage, spent a minute brushing cat hair from their clothes before climbing into the carriage.
Before settling into his seat, Daventry instructed the coachman to take them to Great George Street. “Think, Devereaux. Can you not recall seeing the name Blanchard amongst your father’s papers? Has your father ever had a mistress of that name?”
“No.” It was an unusual name, and he would have remembered.
Julianna touched Bennet’s hand. “Mr Branner must have had cause to give a false name. He must have used the alias when he worked for Lord Morton. Else you would have noticed the discrepancy on his reference.”
Daventry glanced at the scrap of paper in his hand. “Instinct says we’re about to find out why.”
* * *
Great George Street consisted of a row of elegant townhouses on a steep incline facing an extensive park. Daventry’s carriage followed the trail of lit street lamps to the top of the hill and stopped outside a house of the same architectural design as the library.
Bennet peered out of the window at the impressive facade. “You’re sure Branner lived here?”
Daventry glanced at the note. “This is the address recorded in the ledger.”
Doubts surfaced.
Mr Davies must have made a mistake. Why work as a steward when one’s family were wealthy? The answer was obvious. Branner worked at Witherdeen to be close to Bennet. And he wished to be close because he held a grudge. Still, it tested all logic and reason.
“Bennet, knock on the door and present your calling card.” Did Julianna realise she had spoken his given name? “It’s late. We shall all look rather intimidating gathered on the front steps.”
Daventry nodded. “Sometimes it pays to have a title.”
Aware of the resplendent coach parked outside, the butler opened the front door as soon as Bennet stepped onto the pavement. Daventry’s equipage had an air of grandeur, despite the scruffy coachman hired from the Golden Eagle.
Bennet introduced himself. He offered his card and asked if he might speak to Mrs Blanchard. The butler invited him into the hall and went to fetch his master, not his mistress.
“My lord.” An elderly gentleman with thinning white hair appeared wearing a green silk banyan. His bow reflected the depth of his esteem. “Welcome. Welcome. What a pleasure it is to receive such a prestigious guest.”
Would the man be as welcoming if he knew Bennet was to marry a courtesan’s daughter? “Mr Blanchard?” In his excitement, the gentleman hadn’t offered his name.
“Blanchard? No. No. Good heavens, no.”
“I’ve come seeking Mrs Blanchard.”
The gentleman beamed. “I knew your uncle. John Devereaux.”
John Devereaux?
Bennet froze. Pieces of the puzzle slotted into place. “I’m sad to say I never met him.” It wasn’t a lie. Loneliness had plagued him since his father’s death. Perhaps long before that.
The gentleman seemed surprised. “That is sad. He was a remarkable fellow. I lived at number seven when he owned this house.”
Bennet observed the elaborate gilt furnishings and grand staircase. “This was once John Devereaux’s house?”
“Indeed. Indeed.”
But Bennet’s uncle had lived on an estate in Kent. “Forgive me. I was told Mrs Blanchard lived here.”
Compassion coloured the man’s pale cheeks. “Yes, yes. She used to live here, many years ago.”
Keen to save the fellow any embarrassment, Bennet came straight to the point. “She lived here when my uncle owned the house?”
“Indeed. Now she lives in the cottage at the bottom of Bigwood Lane. Take the first right, and it’s but a minute’s walk.” He sighed. “It’s not been easy for her. I helped her when your uncle died, helped put the boy through school.”
The boy? He surely spoke of Branner.
Bennet might have asked a host of questions but knew not to trust second-hand information. He thanked the man, declined the offer of supper and port and an opportunity to warm himself by the fire, then returned to the carriage and told Julianna and Daventry what he’d learnt.
“Mrs Blanchard must have been your uncle’s mistress. Mr Branner might be John Devereaux’s son. It would explain why the handbills bore the title The Reckoning.” Water welled in Julianna’s eyes. She reached for Bennet’s hand. “In all likelihood, Mr Branner was your cousin.”
“Or Mrs Blanchard was related to John Devereaux by some other means.” Daventry did not race to conclusions.
But Bennet felt the loss too keenly for there to be another explanation. If only Branner had told him of their connection. Bennet would have acknowledged him publicly. Yet some murdering devil had robbed them both of the opportunity to heal old wounds.
“We’ll all visit Mrs Blanchard.” Daventry opened the carriage door and vaulted to the pavement. “Her son is dead. Based on your father’s mistreatment of John Devereaux, you may receive a frosty reception.”
A frosty reception was an understatement.
The frail, grey-haired woman gripping the door stumbled back upon hearing the name Devereaux. The painful silence lasted seconds before she charged at Bennet, cursing him to the devil, shouting and screaming for him to leave and never darken her door again.
Bennet took her abuse.
He took the blame for his father’s cruel deeds.
Julianna intervened. She wrapped her arms around Mrs Blanchard and whispered soothing words to calm her spirit. “Bennet Devereaux is a good man. He’s nothing like his father, but we must come inside and speak to you. We have news of your son.”
Mrs Blanchard jerked to attention. “My son? You’ve seen him?”
“Let’s go inside.”
Hearing Julianna’s grave tone, Mrs Blanchard burst into tears. “He’s dead, isn’t he? He’s dead. I’ve known it for years.” She turned on Bennet. “You devil. Hell will freeze over before you set foot in my house.”
“Lord Devereaux wishes to help you. You may have every faith in his character.” Julianna hugged the woman and led her into the cottage. “He knew nothing about you until a few minutes ago.”
For an hour, Bennet sat in a threadbare chair in the small parlour, listening to Mrs Blanchard’s wails and racking sobs. Julianna spoke of Branner’s vendetta, explained how the terrible deeds had led to his death, paused periodically to hug the distraught woman and to make tea.
Eager to confirm Branner was indeed Jonathan Blanchard, Daventry asked, “Were you aware he was working as a steward at Lord Devereaux’s estate?”
“No. He left four years ago. I’ve not seen him since.”
“But Jonathan was John Devereaux’s son?”
The woman nodded then launched a scathing attack on Bennet’s father. She cursed his black soul, blamed him for killing her lover, killing her son, spat vile words.
“Why would he choose the name Branner?” Daventry was persistent in his need to prove the men were one and the same.
“Branner was my mother’s name.”
Daventry’s shoulders relaxed a little.
Mrs Blanchard stared at Bennet as if he were the devil reincarnate. He was innocent of any crime, yet guilt flowed through his veins. In the end, he could not remain silent.
“If I had known we were related, I would have spoken to your son. I would have tried to help him, but he went to great lengths to hurt me. We believe his accomplice is responsible for his death. Despite all he’s done, we won’t rest until we’ve apprehended the villain.”
The woman turned ashen. She put her hand to her mouth as if she might retch. “Oh, Lord! It’s all my fault. I let bitterness fill my heart. We should have moved back to Somerset, closer to my family. But when you lose someone you love, all you have are the memories.”
Bennet met Julianna’s gaze. They exchanged a silent message—a promise to grasp happiness with both hands. A promise they would both keep.
“My father deserved your contempt. John lost a substantial sum in the mining scheme. People say the stress of it killed him.”
“It broke him, broke his spirit.” Mrs Blanchard—who used the title merely to hide the fact she’d had children out of wedlock with her married lover—dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. “I hated your father, hated him for what he did, and I made sure my children inherited that hatred. It’s their only legacy.”
Mrs Blanchard continued to express the depth of her loathing, complained that John had been forced to sell their house, that she’d hated his wife as much as she hated the old marquess.
But one word uttered in passing hit Bennet like a lightning bolt.
Daventry was as sharp as ever and waited for Mrs Blanchard to take a breath before saying, “Children? You had more than one child with John Devereaux?”
Tears tumbled down the woman’s cheeks. “Oh, poor Portia. Does she know about her brother? They left for London together and will have surely kept in contact. You must find her. Explain—” Mrs Blanchard stopped abruptly. She gripped the arms of the chair and froze in horror.
Bennet didn’t want to suggest her daughter was Branner’s accomplice and was rather thankful Julianna spoke up.
“Mrs Blanchard, you must give us a description of your daughter. She may have assisted her brother in his campaign against Lord Devereaux. We must find her, reason with her, save her if we can.”
Bennet feared it was too late.
During an argument, Portia had probably killed him.
Mrs Blanchard looked up at Julianna, perched on the arm of the woman’s chair. “You say you’re an enquiry agent, Mrs Eden, yet Lord Devereaux looks at you as if you’re lovers. Take my advice. The life of a mistress is a life of loneliness and heartache.”
Perhaps Mrs Blanchard should have some compassion for John Devereaux’s wife. Was her life not blighted by loneliness and heartbreak, too?
Julianna opened her mouth to correct Mrs Blanchard’s assumption, but Bennet said, “Mrs Eden is not my mistress. She is soon to be my wife.”
The woman almost slipped off the chair in shock. “You’d marry a widow who works for a living?”
“I would marry a widow who works and whose mother was a courtesan.” And be blissfully happy for the rest of his days.
Julianna’s eyes widened in silent reproof. “I haven’t accepted his proposal, but everything his lordship says is true.”
Mrs Blanchard stared at Bennet for the longest time. “Is it too late to save Portia?”
Bennet couldn’t lie. “If she intentionally killed her brother, then yes. But we won’t know until we find her. If she kills me, she will most definitely hang.”
“We have a list of possible suspects,” Daventry said. “We need you to confirm her identity.”
After an evident tussle with her conscience, Mrs Blanchard nodded. “People always commented on her hair. Mine was the same when I was young. It’s one of the things John loved about me. You’ve hair like spun gold, he used to say. Portia is the same.”
Julianna gasped. “Is your daughter fond of talking?”
“Heavens, no. She’s always been the quiet sort. You often find that with pretty girls. Portia would be a diamond of the first water if she’d not been born on the wrong side of the blanket.”
Chapter 19
“Come to bed, Bennet.” Julianna came up on her elbows, her gaze finding his muscular silhouette in the darkness. Dressed in nothing but a pair of breeches hanging low on his hips, he stood at the window of their chamber in the Golden Eagle, staring out into the night. “Even if Miss Ponsonby hired a carriage, she won’t reach Bristol tonight. And Mr Daventry said the next mail coach from London doesn’t leave until first light.”
Bennet ran his hand through his hair and cast her a sidelong glance. “Get some sleep, love. We must have our wits tomorrow, and you hardly slept a wink last night.”
Was it only last night that he proposed marriage and made love to her twice? When Mr Daventry said they were to share a bedchamber, Bennet had grinned like a schoolboy and clearly hoped they’d be intimate again.
“I’ll not leave Mrs Eden alone in a chamber when there’s a mur
derer on the loose,” Mr Daventry had said when they arrived. “And I’ll not sleep in a room with anyone but my wife. I told the innkeeper you’re married. Gave your names as Mr and Mrs Drummond.”
But Bennet had been plagued by a crippling sense of guilt since learning of his cousin’s identity. And Julianna couldn’t give herself to him knowing Mr Daventry occupied the room across the hall.
Despite the frosty nip in the air, Julianna slipped out of bed and padded to the window. She ran her hand over Bennet’s shoulder and massaged the tense muscles. “Nothing about this situation is simple.”
He sighed. “My mind is in turmoil.”
“Because you don’t want to believe Miss Ponsonby killed her brother?”
“Because when I think of her situation, I think of you.” He glanced over his shoulder and covered her hand with his. “Was your father married? Did he love Giselle more than his wife?”
Talk of her father tugged at the wound she thought had healed. “My mother refused to tell me his name. She said men like to own things, and I was not for sale. Later she proved she was just as calculating and callous.”
“It wouldn’t be hard to find him.”
“He knew my mother had a child.” All a child wanted was love and recognition. “If I was important to him, he would have moved heaven and earth to find me.”
“Nothing would keep me from seeing my child.”
No, he was extremely determined with those he loved.
“I stopped blaming myself for my parents’ failures. No one is perfect. You must stop blaming yourself, too, Bennet.”
He fell silent and stared out over the deserted stable yard.
Julianna wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him. There was something about the warmth of his skin, the natural masculine scent that made her feel safe, content, protected.
Her thoughts turned to Miss Ponsonby, or Miss Blanchard, as she should call her now. The friendly chatter had been an act—a means to get close to Bennet. Surely the ultimate aim wasn’t to kill him?
