The Devereaux Affair by Adele Clee

Chapter 2

The memoryof them huddled in the cupboard, scared to the marrow of their bones, of Julianna being ripped from his grasp, haunted Bennet to this day. If he closed his eyes, he might see her dainty hand pressed to the viewing window as the carriage charged down the drive. He might feel the sharp stones digging into the soles of his feet, experience the gut-wrenching pain that followed their separation.

Promise you’ll return if you can.

He’d had many friends since—no one like Julianna.

And while Bennet had come to accept he would never see her again, understood they walked different paths now, like an angel of light she’d appeared unexpectedly. It had taken every effort not to hug her, stroke that wild hair from her face and beg to know where she had been for the last seventeen years. Anger had bubbled to the surface, too. Why had she not come to visit him at Witherdeen? But then he had not tried to find her either.

“We should make a list of suspects.” Lucius Daventry handed Julianna a pencil and a small brown notebook. “Mrs Eden will record their names.”

Mrs Eden!

Her husband was dead, yet Bennet wanted to wring his damn neck.

“Be honest with us, Devereaux,” Daventry added. “No one is here to judge.”

Thankfully, the housekeeper arrived with the tea tray and set about pouring three cups. Bennet helped himself to a shortbread biscuit but would need a stiff brandy if he were to reveal intimate details of his affairs.

“We should start with the name of your current mistress.” Julianna seemed mildly annoyed. “I doubt it will mean anything to me, but Mr Daventry might like to offer an opinion.”

Hell, Bennet felt as if he’d been dragged before the quarterly assizes. Surely every virile man of twenty-seven sought meaningless liaisons.

“Miss Isabella Winters,” he said begrudgingly.

Julianna’s hand shook as she scribbled down the name. “I assume you pay Miss Winters a monthly allowance.”

“If you’re asking if I pay for Isabella’s affections, then the answer is yes.”

Disappointment flashed in her vivid blue eyes. “Does Miss Winters know you are in want of a wife? Perhaps she fears she may lose the coveted place in your bed, my lord.”

“No, I’ve not told Isabella I intend to marry.”

“May I ask why not?”

“Does it have any bearing on the case?” Daventry interjected, as he must have sensed her hostility. “With your upbringing, you can guess why he has not been forthcoming with the information.”

Bennet did not wish to be reminded of how Giselle de Lacy had mistreated her daughter. “Mrs Eden wants to know if I intend to keep a mistress when I’m married.”

“Do you?” She turned to Daventry. “Lord Devereaux is fooling himself if he believes Miss Winters doesn’t know of his desire to marry. Women who earn a living warming rich men’s beds keep abreast of the gossip. Either she is seeking his replacement or doing her utmost to keep her position. Therefore, it is relevant to the case.”

Daventry inclined his head. “Of course.”

“I’ve not inherited my father’s habits, Mrs Eden.” He was not an arrogant reprobate who collected mistresses as if they were trophies. But he needed female company like every other man. “I shall be faithful to my wife and will expect the same in return.”

“A task made more difficult if you’re not in love with her, I might add.”

Daventry sighed. “We are not here to advise his lordship on the pitfalls of marriage, Mrs Eden, even if I wholeheartedly agree with you. Now, I assume Miss Winters had a predecessor.”

Bennet contemplated telling them both to mind their own damn business, but there was no one else he could trust. And while he had given Daventry two handbills, he’d not given him the third note, not told him about the hauntings.

“Before Miss Winters, I was involved with Mrs Bancroft.”

Daventry frowned, and Bennet knew why. “Captain Bancroft’s widow?”

“Indeed.”

Both women had silky red hair, though not as vibrant as that of the siren currently sitting opposite. Both women possessed blue eyes and pale complexions, had bow-shaped lips that were nowhere near as alluring as Mrs Eden’s. A man had a vision of what he liked in a woman, but despite meeting his physical criteria, they both lacked that special something.

“I see.” Daventry sat back in the chair and steepled his fingers. “I wonder if your past connection to Mrs Eden might cause problems. I wonder if Miss Gambit might be better suited to the case.”

Panic seized Bennet by the throat. In his mind, Julianna was back at Witherdeen, within arm’s reach, there to talk to when he couldn’t sleep, his only friend and confidante. Fate had thrown them together again. Though he prayed they were not destined to be torn apart under tragic circumstances.

“Mrs Eden knows my housekeeper,” Bennet urged. “Surely that gives her an advantage.” But the voice of reason said Miss Gambit might be the better choice. Miss Gambit wouldn’t stir old feelings. Miss Gambit wouldn’t look at him with disdain when he spoke about past lovers.

Julianna looked confused, for she couldn’t know that every woman Bennet had bedded bore a likeness to her. He’d been looking for Julianna de Lacy for seventeen years, but in all the wrong places.

“Forgive me if my forthright approach has caused offence, sir,” she said, oblivious to Lucius Daventry’s concerns. “But if I am to help Lord Devereaux, I must know every intimate detail of his life.”

Every intimate detail? The prospect of discussing his liaisons proved as daunting as the silence that followed.

“I’ll be honest,” Daventry began after some thought.

Bennet held his breath.

“You were close as children. I fear your connection may hinder your progress.” Daventry’s eyes flashed in silent warning. It was suddenly evident why most men feared this bastard son of a duke. “As an agent of the Order, Mrs Eden is under my protection. Her safety is paramount. I cannot have her distracted.”

Julianna sat forward. “Sir, we’re no longer those children. We’re so far removed it’s as if we’re strangers.”

Strangers!

Bennet firmed his jaw.

If suddenly struck blind, he could find her in a crowded room. Those unruly red curls would still feel like silk against his cheek. The scent of her skin and hair would evoke visions of an apple orchard. He would know her sweet cadence amid an orchestra of voices.

“I don’t know this man.” Julianna gestured to him as if he were a vagabond she’d stumbled upon in the street. “And once I have narrowed down the suspects, there’ll be no need for us to spend time together.”

Even as a child, Julianna had been logical while Bennet was prone to flights of fancy. Now, there was little point imagining something that could never be. He had a duty to marry the daughter of a duke. Duty did not permit a friendship with a courtesan’s daughter.

“Do you think you can solve this case, Mrs Eden?” Daventry said.

“Yes, sir. I understand your concerns but assure you I shall treat his lordship like any other client.”

Daventry considered her reply. “Then you may go to Witherdeen, but you will take Bower.” He turned to Bennet. “Bower is a trusted servant and an ideal companion when one needs a man skilled in combat. He will assume the role of coachman and assist Mrs Eden where necessary. Having a spy amongst the ranks will prove useful, too.”

Yes, and the fellow would be there to ferry Mrs Eden back to London should Bennet overstep the mark.

“I shall ensure there’s a bed ready for him in the coach house.”

“If Mrs Eden is to remain at Witherdeen beyond a week, I shall have Miss Gambit visit for a few days.”

Anger flared, but Bennet held his temper. “Mrs Eden’s wellbeing will be a priority, I assure you.” He snatched another biscuit from the tray and stuffed it into his mouth, lest he tell Daventry what he really thought.

“Now that’s settled,” Julianna began, seemingly unaffected by the implication that Bennet might ravish her once he had her alone at Witherdeen, “we should continue making a list of suspects. I’m sure his lordship’s time is precious, and our tea will be cold if we continue to digress.”

At the mention of tea, they took their respective china. With an unsteady grip of the sugar tongs, Julianna dropped three lumps into her beverage. Bennet might have drawn attention to the fact she still had a sweet tooth, but didn’t wish to provoke Lucius Daventry.

“Have any of your mistresses reacted irrationally when you gave them their congé?” came her blunt question as she absently stirred her tea. “Are any of them capable of murder?”

Murder? Hell, Isabella could barely rouse the energy to climb out of bed. She had a footman perform the arduous task of buttering her toast and lacked the mental capacity to think of anything but her next modiste appointment.

“No. But we’re talking about four or five women, not a harem.” He wasn’t a complete reprobate.

“Which is it, my lord? Four or five?”

He huffed. “Five.”

She scribbled that in her damn notebook.

“And what about prospective brides?” Daventry said. “Have you entertained any prominent families in town or at Witherdeen?”

Bennet explained he’d invited three notable families to Witherdeen for a few days last November: Lord Pilkington, Lord Ledbury and Lord Addison. “I’ve spoken privately with the Duke of Pembridge. While he discussed his eldest daughter, I made no mention of forming an alliance.”

Julianna did not look up from her notebook, but continued writing more than the names of the peers Bennet had mentioned. “Do any of the ladies have reason to think you might offer for them, my lord?”

“No, Mrs Eden. It was purely a social gathering to become acquainted with those ladies on the marriage mart.”

She nodded, unaware that another teasing curl had escaped her simple coiffure. “May I ask who will inherit the marquessate should you die before siring an heir?”

The heir presumptive had been the first person on Bennet’s suspect list.

“My cousin John Devereaux, but he’s currently in the Bay of Bengal serving as Post-Captain on his Majesty’s frigate TheArgyle. I dined with Lord Melville—First Lord of the Admiralty—last night. He confirmed what I already knew.”

“Is John Devereaux married?”

“I believe so, but I have never met his wife.” Before she could ask the most obvious question, Bennet said, “My father despised his brothers. When he inherited, he refused to entertain either of them again. He feared Charles would murder him in his sleep and claim the title. And so he set about secretly ruining both men. I had the unfortunate pleasure of reading my father’s journals after he died. The written word has a way of revealing the depraved depths of a man’s mind.”

Reading of his father’s delusions, of his hostility and imagined conflicts, went some way to explain the lord’s sudden acts of aggression. Perhaps John Devereaux had taken a commission in the navy because he wished to be as far away from England—as far away from the marquess—as possible.

“May I read the journals?” Julianna asked. “The threats made against you seem deeply personal. Vengeance is the obvious motive. But the perpetrator may have had a grievance against your father.”

Had anyone else asked, Bennet would have refused. But Julianna had lived at Witherdeen for a year. During that time, she had witnessed his father’s vile temper, had seen the violent outbursts, knew he had a grandiose sense of self-importance and blamed everyone else for his failings.

“I shall make them available to you when you arrive at Witherdeen but must insist you discuss the contents with no one but me.”

“Of course.”

She continued writing in her notebook, and Bennet couldn’t help but wonder what impression he had made. Was the vision before her a terrible disappointment? Had she thought about him often during the last seventeen years? Or, like Giselle de Lacy, was Julianna oblivious to the devastation caused by her departure? Had she made a new friend, found Bennet’s replacement?

“What of you, Devereaux?” Daventry’s voice pulled Bennet from his reverie. “Was there not an incident with Mr Mullholland some months ago?”

Bennet gritted his teeth. Mullholland was the youngest son of a viscount, but had the arrogance of an eldest son. The man made his money breeding thoroughbreds and betting on the Turf.

“Mullholland called me out over an issue of race fixing when my horse beat his at Cleeve Hill, Cheltenham. We settled the matter there and then, choosing a bare-knuckle brawl in the stables, where my timely uppercut to his jaw put him out for two minutes.”

“Mr Mullholland has every reason to despise you,” Julianna stated.

“Yes, he lost a substantial sum that day.”

“And was the race fixed?”

Daventry’s sharp inhalation reflected Bennet’s shock. Ladies rarely questioned a gentleman’s honour, not openly at any rate.

Sensing the sudden shift in mood, she added, “Honest men may find themselves victims of blackmail or duped by a corrupt jockey. Men are made and broken at the racecourse, my lord. The question has no bearing on your character. I merely ask if Mr Mullholland had good reason to assume he’d been cheated.”

“Mullholland’s colt beat mine by a furlong in a race two days earlier. My horse won on the day, at greatly raised odds. Accusations were made against me and my jockey, but the Club ruled in our favour and could find no evidence of race fixing.”

“Having lost a significant sum, Mr Mullholland must be bitter.”

“One would imagine so.”

Silence ensued, though her constant pencil scratching grated.

She studied her notes, absently tapping her lips with the tip of the writing implement. Bennet might have told her it was an unladylike habit, but he welcomed the opportunity to stare at her mouth.

“My lord, does anyone else have a grudge against you?”

Only you, he thought.

Did she blame him for breaking his promise?

“Not that I am aware.”

She took to rubbing her finger over her lips as she thought. “Assuming Mr Daventry agrees, might I come to Witherdeen tomorrow? I would like to observe the staff and examine your father’s journals. I would prefer to have a clear picture before investigating Mr Mullholland and making friends with your mistress.”

Bennet’s heart raced. “You need to befriend Isabella?”

“If I am to find the culprit without discussing the threats made, I will need to work covertly. Trust me. Those with a motive will reveal themselves.”

Bennet stared. It should come as no surprise that a courtesan’s daughter possessed such a calculating mind. Giselle de Lacy’s greatest skill had been manipulation. And yet, he refused to believe Julianna had inherited her mother’s wicked traits.

“While you’re at Witherdeen, I shall make enquiries into Mr Mullholland’s background,” Daventry said. He leant forward, gathered the handbills, slipped them into the leather portfolio and handed it to Julianna. “And I shall take tea with Lady Perthshore. She is always abreast of the latest gossip and may know if anyone else has a gripe with you, Devereaux.”

Lady Perthshore often invented tales. No doubt Daventry was skilled enough to distinguish between lies and truths.

“Then I shall return to Witherdeen and await Mrs Eden’s arrival.”

The memory of him standing on the gravel drive as a ten-year-old boy flashed into his mind. For an hour, he’d waited in the rain, his sodden nightshirt clinging to his shivering body, praying Giselle de Lacy would have a sudden change of heart. That Julianna would come back to him, back where she belonged.

“Excellent.” Daventry focused his attention on Julianna. “I shall ensure Bower is fully briefed and will expect your return within the week.”

“I cannot imagine being at Witherdeen for more than two days,” she said in the indifferent manner of a Bow Street constable. “But will send word if I’m delayed.”

Two days wasn’t enough.

Enough for what?

Enough for him to plead for forgiveness?

Enough for him to pretend they might still be friends?

She rose from the chair. “If you will excuse me, I have much to do if I’m to leave for Hampshire in the morning.” She looked at Bennet, a ghost of a smile gracing her lips. “Until tomorrow, my lord.”

“Until tomorrow.” He couldn’t bring himself to say Mrs Eden.

Bennet watched her as she spoke to Daventry, continued watching her until she left the room. The old feelings surfaced. The flutter of panic that he might never see her again. The ache in his chest at the thought of losing his one true friend. Feelings he had buried long ago. Feelings stamped down by the weight of responsibility, the pressures of his position.

Daventry crossed the room. He glanced into the hall before closing the door and returning to stand with Bennet. “Beneath Mrs Eden’s confident facade lies a fragile woman who has endured many hardships. I trust you know how her mother died.”

Of course he knew. “Of a laudanum overdose.”

Lord Denver’s son had told him one night at White’s. Giselle de Lacy had lived like a pauper, selling herself like a backstreet whore. Bennet had asked about Julianna, and the fop had shrugged.

Such women are meant to be used and discarded.

Denver had echoed the sentiment shared by most men. It had taken immense effort for Bennet to keep his fists at his sides and not pummel the living daylights out of the cad.

“They say her body was so emaciated she was like a bag of bones.”

“Giselle was sick long before she became addicted to laudanum,” Daventry said with some vehemence. “When she exhausted her funds, she sold Julianna de Lacy to the highest bidder.”

“Sold her!” Bennet covered his mouth with his hand as his stomach roiled. He should have tried to find her. But what could a ten-year-old boy do?

“Thankfully, Mr Eden treated her well enough, or so she tells me.” Daventry suddenly gripped Bennet’s shoulder. “It’s obvious she meant something to you once. Her work for the Order is a way to earn an honest income and improve her prospects. I trust you will bear that in mind when she visits Witherdeen.”

Bennet shrugged out of Daventry’s grasp, annoyed at the man’s hypocrisy. “You fear for her safety, yet place her in precarious situations. There are better ways to earn a living than chasing criminals.”

In a half-mocking tone, Daventry said, “Do not mistake me for a fool, Devereaux. I knew of your history with Mrs Eden before you arrived today. Just as I knew you had a penchant for women with red hair. The last hour has been about helping Mrs Eden settle into her new role. Why do you think I chose her to help with your dilemma?”

“Because she’s the obvious candidate given her background.”

“And because you’re intelligent enough to solve this matter yourself, were you so inclined. I suspect you will work with her to find the culprit, and that means I’ll sleep easier at night.” Daventry’s hair might be as black as Satan’s soul, but his heart brimmed with compassion. “It’s unfortunate she bears an uncanny likeness to her mother, though that’s where the similarity ends.”

“Julianna is nothing like her mother,” Bennet echoed.

“People would disagree. I found her sobbing on the steps of the Servants’ Registry. The wife of her last employer recognised her and threw her out. No one wants Giselle de Lacy’s daughter playing governess to the ton’s little lords and ladies. The wife complained, and they barred Mrs Eden from the Registry.”

The sad story caused a tightening in Bennet’s chest. How many times had Julianna been the object of people’s disdain? “I would offer her a position at Witherdeen if I thought she might accept.”

“A position as what? Housekeeper? Mistress? Governess to your children when you marry? I’m sure your prospective wife would have something to say on the matter.”

Bennet threw his hands up. “Then what the hell do you want from me?”

“Help her solve the case. Help rebuild her confidence. Put her needs before your own. Perhaps be the friend you once were.”

He wanted nothing more than to rekindle their friendship, to dance with her in the great hall, picnic in the ruins, talk as they used to all those years ago. Helping her would ease the guilt he felt for not caring enough about her welfare.

“I will assist in any way I can, though she seems determined to keep me at bay. I’m not the sweet boy she remembers.” No, the years had hardened him, made him cynical. “One imagines she’s developed a distrust for all men.”

“People have abused her trust so many times over the years I doubt she will have faith in anyone again.”

“Is mistrust not an advantage in your line of work?”

“It’s a strength when investigating cases, a weakness when it comes to Mrs Eden finding true happiness.”

Bennet considered the powerful man standing before him. Perhaps Lucius Daventry was a mender of broken hearts, not just the master of a band of ruthless enquiry agents.

“It won’t be easy,” Daventry added.

“What? Finding the devil responsible? Mrs Eden seems to think she’ll have the matter concluded within the week.” Though how she would get the culprit to confess was anyone’s guess.

“No, being friends with a woman you’d like to bed. One only need look at your mistresses to know you’re attracted to Mrs Eden.”

Bennet inhaled sharply. He might have closed his eyes to shake the thought, but knew his mind would conjure an image of them writhing passionately in bed. The innocent love of a child had quickly become the lustful urges of a man.

“I made a promise seventeen years ago, a vow I failed to fulfil. I said I would find her when I came of age.” At the time, he’d meant every word. “But—”

“The months stretched to years, and it’s easier to dismiss a pledge given when one is too young to know better.”

It was a reasonable excuse but did nothing to ease Bennet’s conscience. “I shall do what I should have done years ago. Befriend Mrs Eden in the hope of rescuing her from her tragic past.”

Daventry arched a brow. “You mean to restore her faith in humanity?”

“I mean to show her I’m the one man she can trust.”