The Devereaux Affair by Adele Clee

Chapter 14

Julianna had witnessedmany 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 guilty 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.”

Julianna caught Miss Winters’ dismissive gaze. They looked similar, had the same porcelain skin and red curls, but it wasn’t like staring into a looking glass. There was a noticeable difference. Miss Winters’ arrogant bearing—the mark of any worthy courtesan—was so opposed to Julianna’s quiet reserve.

“I’d be interested to know when Miss Winters returned to town,” Julianna mused aloud. “Do you know when we might expect to hear from Mr Cole?”

“Cole will remain at Witherdeen until he secures the information he needs.” Mr Sloane chuckled. “Let’s hope his pencil sketches are up to par, else Branner may become suspicious.”

The lively hum of conversation quietened. The crowd parted, and Julianna became the subject of backward glances and shared whispers.

Bennet appeared with his entourage. Miss Ponsonby gazed at the winter spectacle like a child witnessing her first snowfall. Mr Lowbridge left the group within seconds of entering the ballroom. Lord Roxburgh looked thoroughly bored, while Mrs Thorne stared upon the crass display with disgust.

Bennet craned his neck and scoured the room, disinterested in those trying to attract his attention. He was forced to converse with a matron who introduced him to a young woman with a dainty face and golden hair. She was graceful, timid enough to rouse faith in her character, a perfect wife for a powerful peer.

“Poor Lord Devereaux.” Vivienne sighed. “He may reach us eventually.”

“Hopefully before the supper gong,” replied Mr Sloane.

A middle-aged gentleman stepped in Bennet’s way and presented his daughters. Bennet smiled and spoke to both ladies, but continued to glance covertly over their heads.

Then Bennet saw her. Their eyes met across the crowded room, and she struggled to catch her breath. Now she knew why her mother called love a sweet poison. Love radiated from her heart, warming every extremity. Love infused her being. But Bennet Devereaux could never be hers.

The reality was like a poison, a bitter and toxic thing slowly eating away at the happiness, the hope. The physical pain was almost unbearable.

Love is misery hidden in a bottle and passed as medicine.

The debutantes and courtesans didn’t want Bennet Devereaux. They wanted his wealth and title, the power he wielded. Julianna wanted the man, wanted to hear his voice, feel his touch, talk to him until the early hours, laugh with him, make love to him, spend the rest of her days entwined in his embrace.

But they were two people from opposite ends of a spectrum.

Nothing could change that.

Julianna blinked when she heard her name. Lord Roxburgh appeared in her line of vision, looking elegant in black. He bowed as if she were of royal blood. “Mrs Eden, you look remarkable tonight.”

Mrs Thorne’s scowl slipped enough for the ice queen to say, “Gold suits you, Mrs Eden.”

“Thank you. I’m like my mother in that regard. It’s such a shame her gowns are missing.” Not missing. Stolen.

Miss Ponsonby burst into the conversation and clutched Julianna’s hand. “Mrs Eden, tell me you’re well. How you’ve suffered at the hands of that dreadful beast. I knew there was something unsavoury about the devil. Thank heavens for Lord Devereaux.”

“I’m perfectly well,” Julianna lied. Every muscle in her body ached from the weight of this burden. The deceit, the battle to maintain a facade, it was all too much.

Julianna introduced Vivienne Sloane. Mr Sloane had crossed the ballroom to rescue Bennet, who had been waylaid by another swarm of admirers.

“We met at the circulating library,” Julianna lied for the second time in as many minutes. “I had my head buried in a book about the dissolution.”

Vivienne chuckled. “And I stumbled into her while engrossed in a tale of lost pirate treasure. X marks the spot and all that.”

“How fascinating,” Lord Roxburgh drawled in his usual languid fashion. “Unexpected encounters are always the best. Are they not, Mrs Eden?”

He knew! He knew she had been hired to help Bennet find a devious devil, not write tales about ghosts and a king desperate to seize assets. He knew every word out of her mouth was a lie.

“Everything happens for a reason, my lord.”

“Life has a way of forcing us in certain directions, madam.”

“I wish someone would force Lowbridge in this direction.” Miss Ponsonby gestured to her lover, who stood with Isabella Winters. “The man cannot stay put for more than a minute.”

Keen to stir up trouble, Mrs Thorne said, “Lowbridge has always admired Miss Winters. Perhaps you should hurry home and gather up your jewels, my dear. I hear our host is looking for a new paramour should you find yourself wanting.”

It was Miss Ponsonby’s turn to scowl. “You should hope Lord Roxburgh doesn’t tire of his gaming haunts, else you will find yourself completely redundant.”

Mrs Thorne’s cheeks flamed. “Miss Winters came to Bramley to meet someone. Who’s to say Lowbridge isn’t dipping his toe in her pond?”

Had Isabella Winters come to meet Mr Lowbridge?

He seemed thoroughly bored of Miss Ponsonby’s company.

Had Mr Lowbridge persuaded his cousin to act as the go-between?

“Miss Winters is warming the steward’s bed.” Miss Ponsonby beckoned them closer. “I saw her walking to his cottage when we were at Witherdeen in December. I believe she visits him often. If he were wealthy and titled, she’d be his mistress now.”

The news came as no surprise. Julianna had suspected the couple were in cahoots. Loath to admit it, Mr Branner had to be Miss Winters’ accomplice.

“Why dabble with a steward when you’re bedding a marquess?” Mrs Thorne gasped as if she had made a terrible faux pas. “Forgive me, Mrs Eden. I should have spoken in the past tense. I hear you’re Bennet Devereaux’s current distraction. Though one wonders why he’s chosen someone so similar.”

Vivienne sucked in a breath. “You sound jealous, Mrs Prickle.”

“It’s Mrs Thorne,” the woman snapped.

Julianna couldn’t help but laugh at Vivienne’s deliberate mistake. Even Lord Roxburgh pursed his lips to hide a grin. Oh, she would much rather spend time with the wives of enquiry agents than with these insipid women.

“Not jealous of you, Mrs Sloane. Who wants a pirate for a husband?”

“Yes, who wants a man who’d risk his life for one kiss? Perhaps it would be better to be ignored until the creditors come knocking.”

Mrs Thorne gawped like a fish out of water and flounced off in a huff.

Lord Roxburgh’s languid laugh confirmed he was shameless. “What I lack in funds, I make up for in wit, Mrs Eden.”

“Let’s hope wit is enough when it comes to securing a bride, my lord.”

Roxburgh snorted. “Do I look like a man keen to wed?”

“There are many advantages to marriage. Soon, you might find yourself in need of a large dowry.”

“Roxburgh, you’ll have to marry at some point,” Miss Ponsonby chirped. “Think of your poor sister. With your reputation, she’ll never make a good match.”

“Did I hear the words Roxburgh and marriage in the same sentence?” Bennet appeared, looking breathtakingly handsome in black evening attire. “I’d sooner believe in ghosts than the prospect of my friend exchanging vows.”

“And I’ll wager my diamond-encrusted pocket watch you’ll be married within the month, Devereaux.” Lord Roxburgh glanced over his shoulder and met a host of ladies’ stares. “They’re queuing up like prized ewes at auction.”

Nausea roiled in Julianna’s stomach.

Thank heavens she’d be in Paris. Truly, she didn’t care for the place, but in Paris, there’d be no risk of seeing the newly crowned Marchioness Devereaux swollen with Bennet’s child.

Bennet exchanged pleasantries with Mrs Sloane and Miss Ponsonby. And then it was Julianna’s turn to face the man who made her knees weak.

“Mrs Eden.” The name she detested sounded erotic from his lips.

“My lord.”

His intense amber gaze left a scorching trail over her bare shoulders. “You could steal a thousand hearts in that gown. Let’s hope mine is the one you cherish.” A slow smile teased the corners of his mouth. “I hear the first strains of a waltz, and you promised me a dance.”

She knew what to expect when she placed her gloved hand on his sleeve. The ache coiled low and heavy. The sweet poison flooded her veins, her heart, her sex.

Focus on the case, she silently told herself.

“I’m glad you suggested dancing.” She gripped Bennet’s sleeve as he led her onto the floor. Their audience increased in number, but she ignored their smirks and mocking whispers. “It will give us an opportunity to discuss the case.”

Bennet slipped his hand around her waist and pulled her close, a little too close she feared. “We’re to make it look like we’re in love. Daventry said the ruse will reap results.”

Ruse? She had no trouble playing a woman besotted.

She placed her hand on his shoulder, relishing the hardness beneath her fingers. “No. Mr Daventry said to let people believe I’m your mistress, not pretend we’re in love.”

“I thought we could improvise. It might rile Isabella if she thinks I’m in love with you.”

“What? You can fall in love so quickly?”

He pinned her with his heated gaze. “I’ve loved you all my life.”

Those words—those tender, heartwarming words that brought a rush of euphoria—caused her to misstep. Bennet used his skill on the floor to sweep them into a turn.

“Why must you say such things?” So much for focusing on the case. “Would you speak to Mrs Hendrie in this way?”

He laughed. “Thankfully, I did not take Mrs Hendrie to bed.”

“You did not take me to bed. I issued the invitation.” And it was becoming increasingly difficult not to do so again. “I know you like playing the dashing hero but—”

“I did charge across the lawn and save you from a fate worse than death. I have a faint bruise on my jaw as proof.”

Drat! Yes, he had been magnificent in every regard. “You did, and I’m eternally grateful, but you mustn’t say things you don’t mean.”

He firmed his grip and pulled her closer. “Did we not love each other as children? Are we not as attracted to each other now as we were then?” He grinned. “Well, perhaps it’s not quite the same. You buried me in sand when we were young. Now I long to bury myself deep inside you.”

She stumbled again. “If Monsieur Pernoir were here, he’d be cursing. All that money spent on dance lessons, all those hours wasted.”

“You dance beautifully.” He gripped her hand a little tighter. “And you look breathtaking in that gown. People aren’t staring because of your lineage. They’re staring because you’re the most beautiful woman in the room.”

Oh, merciful Mary!

“Are you trying to seduce me?”

“Trying implies one is likely to fail. Determined is the appropriate term.”

Whatever she said, he would follow with something salacious. Best to stick to solving his problem, as she was being paid to do.

“Mr Ashwood was right to suggest coming tonight. Miss Ponsonby told me something you’ll find interesting.”

“Please tell me it has nothing to do with ghosts.”

Julianna laughed. Miss Ponsonby was obsessed with the supernatural. “No. She said Isabella Winters had secret liaisons with Mr Branner. By all accounts, she visits him in his cottage whenever she comes to Witherdeen.”

Bennet firmed his jaw and muttered a curse. “The man needs lessons in loyalty. How the hell can I trust him to keep my accounts when he schemes behind my back?” His face paled in anger. “How long has it be going on?”

Those gathered around the dance floor, watching their every move, would assume they were arguing about Miss Winters.

“She didn’t say, but it would explain why Miss Winters came to Bramley. We’ll know if Mr Branner visited her at the coaching inn when Mr Cole returns.”

Was that why Mr Branner had been so attentive to Julianna when they visited the village? Like Bennet, did he have a penchant for red-haired women? Or was he simply trying to befriend her, to discover what she was really doing at Witherdeen?

Julianna looked up at Bennet, but he was glaring at Miss Winters. “Let’s confront her with what we know. We’ll tell her Branner confessed. See if we can drag the truth from her lying lips.”

“I doubt she’ll speak to us.” And they could hardly bundle the woman into a room and hold her captive. Still, Rachel Gambit wouldn’t dally and dither. She’d simply walk up to Bennet’s ex-mistress and demand an audience.

You’re Giselle de Lacy’s daughter.

You know how to command a room.

Rachel’s words of encouragement flitted into Julianna’s mind.

She lifted her chin. “You’re right. A courtesan’s reputation is based on her allure. Miss Winters will want to speak to me.”

“To compare notes,” he teased.

“She will want to know how I managed to steal you from her bed.”