He crossed the lawn in a moment. “What is it?”
Collin’s color was high, his collar askew. “We have a visitor, Lord Hartford. And his damnable valet.” He drew a breath. “There is a Lord Blanchard here. An old friend of your uncle. And in his employ is your uncle’s man Kempton. Miss Eden dismissed him. He—he—”
Hart watched the man struggle with his words. “He knew,” Hart said quietly.
Collins flushed and nodded his head. “I want you to know, sir, I never really understood all that transpired here. I didn’t want to know. My Charlotte—” He broke off, looking embarrassed. “I do know that Miss Eden was hurt, and this Blanchard fellow paid us several visits. He’s a randy old goat. And looks down on his luck, too. His cuffs have been turned, his breeches are shiny, and his boots aren’t. Kempton is a blackguard, but he always knew his job. He was an army man. Served at Waterloo, or so he bragged. They want money, I’ll bet.”
Blackmail again. Eden mustn’t be disturbed by this now. She had feared the disgrace for Hart, but he cared nothing for what these men might say. Hart raised an eyebrow and moved behind the hedge with Collins.
“Get rid of them. Send them to the Plough and Plunder.” The ramshackle inn was to no one’s standards, but it was the best and only one Hartford village had to offer. “Tell them I’ll pay the shot and come see them tonight.”
Collins swallowed. “I already tried that, my lord. They won’t budge. Kempton threatened to show Lord Blanchard to the best guest room, smirking like he owned the place, but I’ve put Lord Blanchard in the library with a bottle of your best. Not that he deserves it. Shouting about a spot of lunch, he is, but he’s not going to get it. Kempton’s in the stable seeing to the horses. I sent the stable lads packing. Remembered an emergency.” Collins managed a grin. “Billy and all your boys have gone off somewhere, too. Poor Kempton. What a come-down for him.”
“Collins, you’re a wily old bastard. What about the women? And the girls?”
“Those two won’t find anyone to bully to make their stay comfortable or to tell their tales to. Mrs. Burrell and Josie are keeping to the kitchen with orders not to cook a thing unless you or Miss Eden ask for it. My Charlotte and Mattie have taken the other three youngsters into the village. Mrs. Washburn is visiting her niece, you know, and will be back tomorrow noon.”
Hart placed a firm hand on the old man’s shoulder. “You’ve done a superb job, Collins. He cast his eye back to Eden, who was still in blessed repose. “Perhaps we’ll have all this sorted out before she wakes up.”
Collins looked uncertain but nodded loyally. Hart reminded himself to sweeten the butler’s salary once this day was done. “Stay out here with her, will you? And when she wakes, bring her directly up to our room. The kitchen way’s quicker, and she’s less apt to be seen. Tell her I have unexpected business and cannot be disturbed until dinnertime. Tell her I very much regret I cannot spend this afternoon with her. I’ll make it up to her later. All night.”
Collins actually blushed. The sight made Hart laugh, even in the face of the unpleasantness that was to come. “You say I’ll find this valet in the stables? Perhaps he’d like a drop of my brandy, too.”
Hart’s first stop was to find Kempton amidst some very unpromising nags. He recognized the horses as belonging to Peter Holly, the owner of the Plough and Plunder. Blanchard and Kempton must have come to Cumbria by mail coach then. Not a very comfortable journey in all this heat. Hart would send them back to whatever hotter hell they came from in his own conveyance at the earliest opportunity.
“Good afternoon,” Hart said as genially as he could muster. “Let me give you a hand. It seems I’m sadly short-staffed at the moment.”
Kempton looked up, a sneer on his thin face. “Things were a sight different when I worked here.”
“Yes. There is not a doubt in the world I am not my uncle.” Hart didn’t speak again but dealt with the horses as efficiently as an army officer was trained to do. When he was done, he turned. “You and your employer have fallen upon hard times, I understand.”
“What makes you say—That old fool Collins!” Kempton blustered, his face reddening. “Thinks he knows the way the wind blows. You’ll hear what his lordship wants and then we’ll see who’s fallen on hard times.”
“That seems very much like a threat,” Hart said, careful to keep his voice mild. Hands clenched in his pockets, he watched the dust motes drift down in a shaft of sunlight. The stable was cool and calm, unlike the current pace of his heart. One of the horses whickered and set to drink from the trough.
“No need to threaten.” Kempton’s sour smile was a travesty. “We’ve got the proof!”
Hart raised his golden eyebrows. “Indeed. But proof of what? Perhaps you should join me in the library then when I meet with Lord Blanchard and you both will enlighten me.”
“It’s to do with your whore. Eden,” Kempton all but snorted.
Hart felt the muscle leap in his cheek. “You forget yourself. If this is how you plan to proceed, you’d better let Blanchard do the talking or you’ll be facing the business end of my pistol.”
Kempton laughed and reached into his saddlebag. “I don’t think so.” He produced a gun of his own. Hart recognized it as old military issue. Unpredictable but dangerous all the same. And at this range—
“You’d best not shoot me before you try to get what you’ve come for.” Hart moved forward slowly out of the building, heading toward the set of French doors to the library, the gravel of the path crunching under his boots. One door stood open to the breeze of what had been a perfect day. He prayed Eden was still asleep. What would she think of him being frog-marched into the house, a gun in his side? He pictured her flying across the lawn to his rescue. He smiled to himself.
“Think this is funny? You won’t in a while.”
Hart said nothing. He thought he might be able to take Kempton, gun or no. The man was close to his size, a bit leaner. But far more desperate. Hart could smell it over the scent of horse and unwashed clothing. For some odd reason, Hart didn’t feel desperate at all.
He noted the polished brass door handle as he stepped through the open door. Whose job was it to keep the knob gleaming so? He’d have to find out. Blanchard sat behind the desk, clearly trying to stake his territory. To show he was in control. Spread out on the surface were two yellowing sheets of linen art paper, their edges uncurled by the ink pots and some books. Hart was fairly sure what was depicted on them. He looked at Kempton for the first time. “Where do you want me?”
Blanchard half rose out of the leather chair. “Here, here, Kempton. What’s the meaning of this?”
“Thought he might try some funny business, my lord.”
“We are gentleman, Kempton. Put that gun away. Very fine brandy you have, Hartford. Just as I remember it.” The man actually extended a hand. Hart declined to take it and sat down across the desk in the chair usually occupied by Mr. Pinckney when he made his weekly accounting.
Viscount Blanchard appeared to be in his late fifties, what hair he had left still dark but peppered with silver. He might once have been a handsome man, but years of hard living had left their mark. Deep pouches bracketed his basset brown eyes, and his teeth were stained with decay. Hart repressed his revulsion thinking of that mouth anywhere near his wife. He hoped his uncle had been too possessive to share.
“I’ll come right to the point then,” Blanchard said, returning his unshaken hand to the desk. He smoothed one of the drawings with it and smiled. “I was one of Ivor’s best friends. We enjoyed many of the same interests. The training of young ladies to our tastes, like your lovely mistress, for example.”
Hart fixed his eyes to the right of the viscount’s head and wondered what the price for their silence would be. Whether there were any more samples of his uncle’s hellish handiwork. He’d gone through each of the books in the library himself months ago, ensuring that no extra drawings were tucked away in the bindings before they went up for auction.
Apparently his uncle had passed out pictures as souvenirs. Somewhere behind him, Kempton chuckled.
“I was his guest here for several—ah, demonstrations. Eden is a delightful girl, unusually biddable. Perhaps not a great beauty, but she has other talents, wouldn’t you say? I do hope you’re receiving the benefits of her education. Kempton tells me she was quite frantic to keep her past a secret.”
As if waiting for his cue, Kempton stepped into Hart’s line of vision and seated himself on the edge of the mahogany desk. He let his eyes linger on the images beneath Blanchard’s fingers. “She gave me her baby cup. Solid sliver. Some jewelry and money,” Kempton said, smug. “ ’Twasn’t enough. I knew his lordship the viscount could do better.”
“Yes. Kempton sought me out once he was so rudely released from service here. Fortunately my valet had just met with an accident and died and I was able to employ him.” Blanchard wrinkled a brow. “Ah, that sounds heartless. I’m sure old Russell was a good man in his way.”
Something passed across Kempton’s face during this ridiculous homage. Hart felt quite certain Russell’s accident was no surprise to Kempton. “How did your man die?”
“Shot by a footpad. By chance, Kempton turned up on my stoop the next day. It was Providence.”
“If you say so,” murmured Hart. Kempton shot him a warning look, which Hart ignored. “Whose grand plan was this to accost me in my home and defame my fiancée?”
Blanchard leaned over the desk, an elbow obscuring one of Eden’s thighs and Hart’s uncle’s head. “If you must know, it was Kempton’s. Bright lad, he is. Had the presence of mind to remove these two drawings, and several more, from the premises before he was tossed out. Remembered me from my last stay here. Your uncle always gave me a jolly time. And really, you know, defamation is not at all accurate. You cannot deny Eden did the things in these drawings. I saw her with my very own eyes. Ivor always said he’d bring her to town one day to show the world, but I was the only one of his old friends to know about the tasty peach he had tucked into his back pocket. Most of our little secret society are too reputable for words now anyhow. Wives, sons and grandsons at Eton,” he said in disgust.
“What do you want?”
Kempton laughed harshly. His thin face was triumphant. “Why, money, you dolt. Pots of it. Or we’ll go to your auntie and your nephews and anyone else you care about with these.”
“Go ahead.”
“What?”
“Go ahead. Tell anyone you wish. I love Eden. It doesn’t matter what she did, what she was forced to do. I’ll marry her anyway. If she’ll have me.”
Blanchard’s mouth hung open like a landed fish. “Perhaps you don’t understand. I know people. I have influence. They’ll write about you in the newspapers. You won’t be able to show your face in town. Your children will be outcasts.”
“I’ll manage somehow if I have her by my side.” He’d never spoken truer words.
“But—but—” Blanchard sputtered.
“He’s bluffing,” Kempton sneered.
“Am I? I don’t think you know me well enough to judge me.”
“Won’t matter what I think. Society will judge you. You’ll be a laughingstock, dipping your wick in used goods. She wanted me, too, you know. Offered to fuck me, but she wasn’t worth it. I wanted the money instead. She’s a hot little piece, I’ll grant you that.” Kempton swept his hand over the desk like a conjurer and Hart saw his chance.
Somehow the inkpot tipped as Hart and Kempton crashed onto the desk, rivulets of deep blue running across the papers. Blanchard gave a sharp cry as his chair tipped and he scrambled away from the flying elbows and feet. “Get my gun!” Kempton screamed. “On the table!”
“Careless of you not to put it back into your pocket,” Hart said, snapping the man’s wrist neatly. Kempton let out an unearthly howl. “Right-handed, are you? Or left?”
“Right! Right! Blanchard, you fucking fool! Shoot him!”
Hart looked straight in the devil’s eyes as he broke his other wrist. He rolled Kempton off the desk. The ink-stained drawings fell with him, stuck to the back of his coat. Hart kicked Kempton over, regretting having to touch him with even his boot, peeled off the papers, then crumpled them in one fist. He lobbed the ball into the empty fireplace.
“There are more. Lots more,” Kempton ground out between clenched teeth. “Tell him, Lord Blanchard.”
Blanchard was frozen, but his eyes darted to the table. Hart stood between him and the gun.
“Your—your uncle was a prolific artist,” Blanchard began, sweat beading over his upper lip. He wiped it with the back of his hand. “We have enough pictures of your little whore that we could paper St. James Palace. Tw-twice over.”
Hart took a long stride backward. He picked up the gun and was pleased by its reassuring heft.
“There’s nothing that bitch wouldn’t do. She even offered up her pretty white arse. Ivor buggered her till they were both blind,” Kempton added with some effort from the floor. “We’ve got drawings.”
Hart found himself grinning. Who would imagine such a subject would bring him such joy? “You are both lying, but I believe I’ll have to shoot you anyway.”
Blanchard was as good as his name. He turned absolutely white. “You’ll hang.”
“I doubt it. I was attacked in my own home. And I’ve recently discovered I’m the magistrate in these parts, a duty I’ve sadly neglected.” He cocked the pistol and Kempton sat up clumsily, his useless hands flapping at his side. “Who wants to go first?”
“It was his idea,” Blanchard said, pointing rather unnecessarily. “He stole the drawings. There were just the two. Gone now. I’ll never say a word, I swear it. Kn-known for my discretion. Ask anyone.” He inched toward the French doors.
“You blubbering buzzard! Hang me out to dry, will you?”
In a flash, Kempton was on his feet. He butted the viscount with his head and knocked him backward into one of the doors. Both men fell in a rain of glass and blood. Despite the fact that Kempton’s wrists were broken, he savaged Blanchard with his head, his knees, his feet, even after Blanchard lay still beneath him, a jagged piece of glass lodged deep in his neck.
Hart fired a warning shot into the empty bookshelves. “Stop! He’s dead already, Kempton, or close to it.”
“You’ll pay.” Kempton spat out the blood from his mouth.
“I might have. But it’s you who’ll hang now.”
“I’ll tell them! I’ll tell them everything!”
Hart showed his teeth. “The word of a murderer.”
“You broke my wrists! You killed the viscount.”
“Then why are you covered in his blood? No, it won’t do.” Hart tugged the bellpull, remembering too late that he’d left Collins in the garden. But then the butler stepped through the open door, his face pale as he took in the disarray.
“Find my lads and a stout bit of rope, Collins. And send for Dr. Canfield.” He tossed the gun aside.
Kempton howled in rage again and charged at Hart. Before he could reach his quarry, another shot rang out and Kempton dropped to the carpet, silenced forever.
Hart looked at his butler in surprise. Yes, a raise was very definitely in order.
Collins carefully placed the revolver back in his pocket. His voice shook only a little. “I thought it wise to be prepared, my lord.”
“Were you bluffing?”
Both men turned. Eden stood on the gravel path outside the shattered window. Her eyes were fixed on Blanchard’s body.
Dear God. She had been outside the whole time, hearing every filthy thing those bastards said. “Stay where you are, Eden.”
He had to get her away from the scene. This room. When he had time, he’d have the whole wing torn down. He left Collins alone with the bodies and used the other door to the gravel path. She was as white and still as a marble statue, her hair half-down from her nap in the shade. He put his arms around her.
“Were you?” she whispered. “Did y
ou just say you loved me to get rid of them?”
“No, Eden. You know I love you. You must know. I asked you to marry me a hundred times.”
“Out of guilt. Duty.”
“Yes. Maybe at first. But duty be damned! You’re the only one who doesn’t realize I can’t do without you. And I tried.”
“You love me.”
Tempting Eden Page 32
