by Clee, Adele
“And you’ve made a stupid mistake. I’m not Lord Devereaux’s mistress. I’m an enquiry agent for the Order, hired by the marquess to discover who sent the obituaries.” She felt quite proud of the fact, truth be told. Yes, she would never make a good agent, but she had helped to solve this case.
The news came as a shock, but Miss Ponsonby soon recovered.
“It seems we’ve been deceiving each other, Mrs Eden.” Her hateful gaze could bore through one’s soul. “So, you’re the hired help. Perhaps all is not lost. Perhaps we might strike a bargain. I shall give you a share of the inheritance once we’ve killed Lord Devereaux.”
An icy chill penetrated Julianna’s bones. Mrs Blanchard had raised devils. Devils who didn’t know that bitter people always perished. Devils who didn’t know that forgiveness was about saving the victim’s soul, not the perpetrator’s.
“Why would you think there’s an inheritance?”
The woman grinned. “John Devereaux wrote to Jonathan and said he was aware we were his half-siblings. If he inherits the marquessate, I shall prosper, too.”
“But at what cost?” Wickedness came at a price. “Your brother is dead. Killed by your own hand.” Julianna took a wild stab in the dark. “He didn’t want to kill Lord Devereaux. People will believe he was the architect of this harebrained scheme, but you’re the master manipulator.”
Portia’s nostrils flared. “The fool wanted to tell Devereaux everything. He’d taken a fancy to Miss Winters and changed his mind about blaming her. It would have been so easy to frame that conceited bitch for murder. But no! Jonathan said the marquess would welcome us as family. There’d be no need for John Devereaux to inherit.”
When this was over, and assuming Julianna survived, she would let Miss Winters know that Mr Branner had spoken in earnest. Such a simple thing as the truth might determine how she conducted herself in future.
“But your brother had missed the point.” The only way Miss Ponsonby could honour her father and get vengeance was by ensuring she stole everything from Bennet. “It was all about The Reckoning, about getting even.”
“And it still is, Mrs Eden. My father died because of the Marquess Devereaux, and I intend to make sure his son dies because of me. An eye for an eye. Isn’t that justice?”
“You’ve misunderstood the principle.” Resentment had left the woman somewhat deranged. “But why the elaborate notes? Why smash gargoyles and lie about the gravestone? Why go to the trouble of causing a fire in the stable block?”
Portia grumbled incoherently. “Because I want Bennet Devereaux to suffer the same mental cruelty inflicted on my father. My mother told me all about the marquess’ systematic torture. It’s only right his son experiences the same injustice.”
Julianna considered her next move. There was no hope of saving Miss Ponsonby. Her heart and soul had withered and died.
There but for the grace of God, Julianna thought. She had every reason to seek vengeance, too. She might have grown to hate Bennet Devereaux were it not for that wonderful year spent at Witherdeen.
“I must be honest with you, Miss Blanchard.” Julianna stressed the woman’s real name. She drew all the strength she could muster. “I’m to marry Bennet Devereaux, and so I cannot help you in your scheme. Indeed, I cannot let you leave this carriage. So it appears we’ve reached a stalemate.”
The woman’s sinister smile said otherwise. “Not a stalemate, Mrs Eden.” Miss Blanchard pulled her hand from her muff, cocked and aimed her pocket pistol. “I believe it’s checkmate.”
* * *
Bennet ignored the sick feeling in his gut. He tried to ignore the cruel words assembled on the last handbill, a portent to the evil he feared was about to unfold. Holding on to the last threads of composure, he focused on the only important thing—finding Julianna.
Daventry and Roxburgh entered the bedchamber.
Daventry scanned the empty room. “Mrs Eden left of her own accord. There’s no sign of a struggle. We would have heard a commotion had Miss Ponsonby taken her under duress.”
He spoke so matter-of-factly, Bennet had to curb his temper.
“Why would she leave?” But Bennet knew the answer. Julianna sought to protect him. Her inquisitive mind had her hunting for all the reasons Roxburgh had journeyed to Bristol. Logic said she’d overheard the conversation in the taproom or glimpsed Miss Ponsonby exiting the carriage.
“Why the devil would Miss Ponsonby kidnap Mrs Eden?” Roxburgh said.
“Her name isn’t Miss Ponsonby. She’s my cousin seeking vengeance for her father. It’s a long story. I’ll explain later.”
Bennet noticed a gap in the curtains though he recalled closing them before climbing into bed. He strode to the window and peered into the yard. Roxburgh’s vehicle sat in darkness.
“Julianna must have seen Miss Ponsonby in your carriage.”
Daventry nudged Bennet aside and observed the stables with hawk-like intensity. “Roxburgh, what’s Miss Ponsonby wearing?”
Roxburgh gave a nonchalant shrug. “When a man has no interest in bedding a woman, he pays little attention. But if I had to hazard a guess, then a blue bonnet and pelisse, a muff the size of a small dog. She cradled the thing as if it were a beloved pet. I had to resist the urge to strangle the blighter and bury it in a roadside grave.”
Daventry swung around. “Miss Ponsonby doesn’t know me. I shall enter the stable yard and check the carriage. Devereaux will wait at the window for my signal. Roxburgh, return to the taproom and wait outside. Miss Ponsonby has no means of travel and so plans to remain in the area.”
Without further comment, Daventry marched out of the bedchamber.
Roxburgh looked at the crumpled bedsheets. “One suspects there was a little tussle in here tonight.”
“Do be quiet. You’re the fool who brought the devil here. If anything happens to Julianna, I shall castrate you and send you to live in a monastery in France.”
“It’s good to see you’ve not lost your sense of humour.” Roxburgh attempted to brush the creases from his coat. “And I spoke with Daventry’s agent before leaving London. Finlay Cole waited outside Lowbridge’s house. He witnessed Miss Ponsonby playing the hysterical maiden and suggested I bring her to Bristol. He said he would follow, though I’ve not seen hide nor hair of him since.”
The information failed to calm the panic pounding in Bennet’s chest. He sent Roxburgh back to the taproom, turned to the window, and watched the yard through a gap in the curtains.
Daventry appeared, moving like a panther on the prowl. His sleek steps spoke of a man who’d stalked many crooks and criminals. He came up alongside the carriage and glanced inside before moving to the stables. Daventry spoke to a young groom who pointed to the woods.
Everything happened quickly then.
Daventry beckoned Bennet downstairs.
Bennet took to his heels and was in the yard in seconds.
“Two women left the coach. They walked arm in arm and entered the woods. Took the track leading to the old church.” Daventry gestured to the bank of shadows swaying in the breeze. “Miss Ponsonby told the groom to wait for ten minutes before alerting you.”
“Then why the hell are we standing here?” Bennet’s blood pumped through his veins at too rapid a rate. “They can’t be far ahead.” He caught himself. “You believe Miss Ponsonby has a weapon. Julianna would have overpowered her otherwise.”
“Precisely. Follow the path but proceed with caution. The groom said I can access the church by another means. He’ll show Roxburgh a third route. Together we’ll corner her inside the ruin.” Daventry gripped Bennet’s shoulder. “The aim is to capture Miss Ponsonby without bloodshed.”
Bennet wasted no time. He darted across the cobbled yard, stopped to hone his senses, and then disappeared into the woods.
A man would think he’d entered Satan’s underworld. Darkness swamped everything. Trees were but tall, black shadows surging up from the earth like Lucifer’s army. The air smelled death
ly cold, smelled of earth and rotting vegetation. Twigs cracked like bones beneath his feet.
In the distance, streaks of moonlight caught the mossy green walls of a ruined church. Ivy, rich and verdant amid the bleak landscape, clung to the walls like God’s supporting hands.
Bennet headed to the vast stone archway, a gawping mouth of an entrance, and paused. Angry voices sliced through the stillness—a harsh contrast to the wind’s gentle whispers.
“Portia!” he cried. “It’s me you want. Let me take Mrs Eden’s place.”
“Bennet! Don’t come any closer!” Hearing Julianna’s voice proved reassuring and terrifying. “She has a pistol and means to use it.”
If she killed Julianna, she’d be ripping out Bennet’s heart and soul, too. But he drew comfort from the fact Miss Ponsonby was unlikely to have a good aim, and he was her intended victim.
“Portia! Why didn’t you tell me who you were?”
Silence.
He slipped into the church, kept his back pressed to the damp walls. “Portia! We’re family. Put the pistol away and let’s talk.”
“It’s too late!” came Portia’s irate reply.
Bennet followed the sound of her disgruntled mumbling, moved stealthily through a hole in the wall and entered what must have been the nave. All four walls stood intact. All four walls had a doorway or opening of some sort. Even if Roxburgh and Daventry approached, Portia could use the remaining exit.
“Stay back, Bennet.” Julianna stood in the middle of the roofless nave, near an oak tree that towered twenty feet high. Terror kept her eyes wide, her body rigid. “Please, don’t come any closer.”
Portia thrust Julianna forward, using her as a shield. A sliver of moonlight caught the barrel of a small pistol she held against Julianna’s temple.
Merciful Mary!
Fear lanced through him.
Bennet raised his hands in surrender and took a few tentative steps closer. “If you’d told me who you were, this could have been avoided.”
Portia snorted. “Your father murdered mine. Nothing but your death will suffice. Had that fool Granger not attacked Mrs Eden, I would have crept into your bedchamber and slit your throat while you slept. Of course, I would have left a lock of red hair to incriminate Miss Winters.”
“Just like you did when you murdered your brother?” Bennet rubbed his neck, though was unwilling to accept a reprobate like Granger had unwittingly saved his life. “You were an infant when your father died. By all accounts, he was a kind and loving man.”
“He was generous and giving, and your father killed him.”
John Devereaux was hardly a saint. “A man might wear an affable smile and make benevolent gestures, but it’s his actions to those he loves that tells the most about him.”
“Yes!” she cried. “He loved us more than anything.”
“Did he? A man who loves his family does not leave them destitute, does not leave them to accept the charity of their neighbours.”
Portia’s hand shook. She struggled to hold the pistol to Julianna’s temple and was forced to push the muzzle to her back instead.
“We lost everything because of the marquess.”
“No. You lost everything because your father sought to betray his vow to his wife, to betray the child he had in wedlock, and take another family who were destined to suffer for his selfishness.”
Portia shook her head. “What? No! That’s not what happened.”
“It’s exactly what happened.” Hopefully, if Bennet kept pressing her, she would take aim and fire at him. “John Devereaux let lust cloud his judgement. He was a slave to his appetites.”
“No! No! Your father ruined everything.”
Bennet’s father was guilty of driving the man to the edge of insanity. He was not responsible for his brother’s moral conduct.
“John Devereaux was weak, and his children inherited the same trait. Weak people destroy themselves in the name of vengeance. Happiness is the best revenge. It takes courage, one single act of forgiveness, to mend a feud. Had you come to me, I would have welcomed you as family, and we might have salvaged something worthwhile from our fathers’ misdeeds.”
Daventry stepped into the nave through the doorway to the west. Seconds later, Roxburgh entered from the east. Both men blocked Portia’s escape.
Like a frightened doe, her gaze darted left and right. Her only route out was through the crumbling hole in the north wall.
Tension thrummed in the air.
“Lower your weapon, Miss Blanchard.” Daventry’s menacing tone echoed through the ruins. “Don’t make matters worse by shooting an innocent woman. Devereaux does not deserve to die for his father’s failures.”
Portia was panting as she struggled with her dilemma. Then, like the calm before the storm, she shoved Julianna aside and confronted Bennet.
“My brother was a coward, a traitor to his family. One of us must make our mother proud. One of us must make the Marquess Devereaux pay.” Portia aimed her pistol at Bennet. “I’ll hang for my brother’s murder. I may as well hang for yours.”
Bennet might have darted for cover had Julianna not thrown the contents of a glass bottle in Portia’s face.
“Argh!” Portia coughed and sneezed. She dropped the pistol and rubbed her eyes. “No! No!” She stumbled, bent forward and cupped her face. “I can’t see!”
But it was another example of her superb acting ability. Indeed, she kept her head buried in her hands while plotting her escape. Without warning, she grabbed her skirts and bolted through the only exit.
Bennet took to his heels and shouted for Daventry to give chase.
“Wait!” The master of the Order charged after Bennet and grabbed his arm just as he reached the north wall. “Don’t move!”
“What? We can’t let her leave!” Portia Blanchard would make her way to Witherdeen and seek another opportunity to murder Bennet. He’d be forever looking over his shoulder, forever worried about losing Julianna.
“The groom said the terrain to the north is unsafe. An old underground tunnel connects this church to one a mile away. That’s why—”
A high-pitched scream rent the night air.
Bennet strained to listen, but heard no pained groans, no cries for help, heard nothing but deathly silence.
“Damnation!” Daventry swung around. “Roxburgh, fetch the innkeeper. We need someone to guide us through these woods. Bring lanterns. Hurry.”
Roxburgh didn’t offer a witty quip about being the errand boy, but sprinted through the east door with surprising agility.
Bennet’s thoughts turned to Julianna.
She stood motionless, dazed, hugging her chest as she stared into the gloom. Bennet quickly closed the gap between them and wrapped his arms around her trembling body.
“It’s all right, love. She can’t hurt you now.” He kissed her temple, told her they were safe, that fate had better plans for them. “You don’t need to be afraid.”
She held on to him as if she might never let go. “I wasn’t scared for myself, Bennet. I was scared for you. Fate has been unkind to me in the past. It’s hard to believe we’ll ever be happy.”
“When it comes to happiness, there are no guarantees. But we have each other. We have honesty and trust and a desire to let love be our focus.” It seemed like the perfect recipe for happiness.
She looked up, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “With your strength of heart, we’re bound to succeed. I could kiss Mr Daventry for pairing us together on this case.”
“Daventry is busy scouting around the nave for sticks, so you’ll have to kiss me instead.” Bennet stole the opportunity to press a chaste kiss to her lips.
The pounding of footsteps on the hard ground caught their attention.
Finlay Cole darted through the east doorway. “Roxburgh’s following behind with the innkeeper in tow.”
Lucius Daventry did not seem surprised to see his agent so far from home. The man was rooting through debris and merely g
lanced up. “We need sticks to test for unstable ground. Help me find some.”
The men spoke in hushed whispers and continued searching the dead vegetation until Roxburgh arrived with the innkeeper and lanterns.
“It’s madness to trek through the woods at night,” came the innkeeper’s warning. “A woman’s missin’ ye say?”
“She left through the north door and screamed less than a minute later.” Daventry twirled his four-foot stick as if preparing for combat. “Stand in the doorway and direct me. Everyone bar Cole will wait here.”
“I should be the one to go.” Bennet would not have two men risk their lives while he waited like a milksop. “It’s a family matter. I must insist.”
Julianna tugged his arm. “No.”
The innkeeper’s beady eyes widened. “Yer a few eggs short of a dozen if you venture out there at night.” That was the extent of his helpful comments.
Daventry considered Bennet for a moment, though Lord knows what he was thinking. “You’ll follow me, Devereaux. Watch where I place my feet. We’ll walk slowly, three paces apart. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
“Cole, hand Devereaux your stick.” Cole threw the baton to Bennet, and he was somewhat relieved he caught it with ease. When dealing with the men of the Order, anyone would feel inadequate.
Bennet kissed Julianna on the forehead. “There’s nothing to fear. I’m with Lucius Daventry. The man has nine lives.”
She grabbed his arm. “Hurry back. I’ll be waiting.”
Taking slow, tentative steps, Bennet followed Daventry through the hole in the north wall. Each carried a lantern in one hand, a sturdy stick in the other. They moved hesitantly along the narrow walkway leading through dead bracken. Bennet grew accustomed to the rhythmical beating of Daventry’s stick hitting the hard ground. But when they passed a danger sign and entered a clearing, the repetitive thuds became eerie echoes.
Daventry came to a crashing halt. “Stop! The tunnel runs beneath us.” He used his stick to prod and poke the earth.
