The Devereaux Affair by Adele Clee
Chapter 3
Many times over the years,Julianna had imagined herself astride Bennet’s horse, his arms wrapped around her as he nudged the mount along the winding drive back to Witherdeen. She had been but a guest in the sprawling mansion, yet everything about the place carried the comfort of home.
It wasn’t memories of bricks and mortar that left her heart glowing, but memories of happy times spent with Bennet. The picnics by the lake. Slipping off the rope swing and plunging headfirst into the water. Them running away and hiding amid the abbey ruins, pretending it was their home. A sanctuary away from the constant bickering. A delightful fantasy that fed their minds and nurtured their souls.
But dreams were figments of the imagination, stories constructed to chase away the darkness and banish despair. The cold, hard reality was that Julianna had never belonged at Witherdeen. Bennet Devereaux was no longer her beloved friend but a grown man of wealth and title. Were it not for Mr Daventry’s benevolence, Julianna would be slaving to the bone at Bethnal Green workhouse, where the only visitors were the anatomists queuing to claim the dead.
The differences between them were stark amid the light of day.
They had always been worlds apart.
Somehow she had to find the strength to live alongside him for the next two days. But she would work from the cottage, only venture to the house when necessary. There was no need to spend any length of time in his company.
Besides, had Bennet Devereaux not inherited his father’s attitude for casual affairs? Did that not give her every reason to despise him the way she did most men?
Still, her newfound fortitude did not stop her heart lurching the moment she passed through Witherdeen’s wrought-iron carriage gates. Nor did it stop tears springing to her eyes or destroy the memory of Bennet standing cold and wet in the rain.
Promise you’ll return if you can.
When she made the vow, she never dreamed she would return as an enquiry agent, one trying to establish who wanted to murder the master. She’d never expected to see Bennet again.
But fate had intervened.
She caught sight of the ruined Augustinian abbey to the west of the house. The grey gothic transepts soared high above the barren winter landscape. The vast arched window no longer held the intricate pieces of painted glass—the religious depictions designed to uplift and inspire. It stood empty, neglected, the soul ripped out to leave but a stone shell. The grimness of the January morning provided the perfect backdrop, for Julianna could not help but draw parallels between her mother’s tragic life and the splendid structure that had suffered a swift demise.
And then Witherdeen Hall came into view—a majestic building built by Bennet’s great-grandfather—with its sweeping stone staircase and huge loggia supported by impressive Tuscan columns.
Julianna swallowed deeply.
It was as if she were a girl again, terrified the new lord would banish her to a cold corner of the sprawling mansion. Still, it was the thought that Bennet might be overly welcoming that left her most afraid.
She instructed Mr Bower to navigate the cobbled stable yard and deposit her at the mansion’s rear entrance. The staff used the entrance to access the garden and to greet tradesmen and merchants delivering their wares. It would do her well to remember she was employed to perform a service, not befriend the marquess.
Mr Bower drew the carriage to a halt. Before he’d climbed down from the box seat, Julianna had opened the door and jumped to the ground.
“Eager to get started, Mrs Eden?”
The man smiled. Yet it was the scar cutting through his brow that captured her attention. With his dark hair and muscular physique, he resembled Mr Daventry and often acted as a decoy during investigations.
“I’ve but two days to conclude my business, Mr Bower.”
It was nowhere near enough time.
“Then tell me what I can do to help.”
Julianna kept her voice low. “I believe Mr Keenan is still in charge of the coach house and stables. Find out what you can about the mood of those who work here, but don’t rouse his suspicions. Come to the cottage tonight, and we can discuss all you’ve learnt.”
Mr Bower nodded and would have replied were it not for the sudden arrival of the housekeeper, Mrs Hendrie, who appeared at the service door somewhat breathless. Her ebony hair might be streaked silver now, the crinkles around her eyes more prominent, her slight frame more fragile, but her smile was just as endearing.
“Miss Julianna!” Mrs Hendrie abandoned all etiquette. She hurried forward and captured Julianna’s hands. “My, how you’ve grown.” She glanced at Mr Daventry’s elegant coach, at Julianna’s new green velvet pelisse, at the dratted red curls escaping her poke bonnet. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am to see you looking so happy and healthy.”
Like the walls of Witherdeen, Mrs Hendrie knew all the family’s secrets. She had disliked Giselle de Lacy, despised all women who hopped their way from bed to bed. And while she had performed her duties with the indifference befitting her station, behind closed doors, she had smothered Julianna with kindness and affection.
“It’s good to see you again, Mrs Hendrie. I’ve thought of you often over the years.” Memories of the woman’s embrace proved there were loving people in the world. “A lot has happened since I left. I’m a widow now and have come to Witherdeen in a professional capacity.”
“His lordship said you’re to study the ruins, that he’s commissioned you to write about your findings.” Mrs Hendrie clutched her hands to her chest. “When he mentioned he’d met you by chance in town, my heart almost burst with excitement.”
Guilt coiled like a serpent of deceit in Julianna’s stomach. After Edward Eden’s death, she had vowed never to lie again.
“My husband loved history, and we often toured old ruins.” That much was true. “And there’s something special about the abbey here.” There was something special about all those who lived at Witherdeen now.
“You’re a lady of some means. One must thank Mr Eden for that.”
Julianna forced a smile. “Were it not for Mr Eden, I wouldn’t have found my way back to you.” No, she might have been sold to someone far worse. Might have had to ply her mother’s trade or join the Covent Garden ladies and sell her soul for a pittance.
Mrs Hendrie shivered. “Best not stand out in the cold. I’ll escort you to the study. Afterwards, we’ll take a tour of the house.” She cast a nervous eye over Mr Bower’s hulking form. “Seek out Mr Keenan in the stable courtyard. There’ll be a warm welcome there for you, too, I’m sure.”
Mr Bower inclined his head and climbed atop his box.
“Come. Best not keep the master waiting.” Mrs Hendrie hugged Julianna’s arm as she led her into the house. “Milford is still the butler here. Do you remember hiding pine cones in his bed?”
Despite a sudden surge of emotion at being within Witherdeen’s walls again, Julianna laughed. “Milford blamed it on the hall boy. Bennet felt so guilty he had to confess.” And had spent the night in the understairs cupboard by way of punishment. Julianna caught herself. “Forgive me. I shall have to get used to addressing the marquess formally. We’re not children anymore.”
“His lordship’s not the pompous sort who insists on rigid rules. His friends call him Devereaux, and I’m sure he’ll afford you the same courtesy.”
The only way Julianna would survive the brief visit was by keeping to strict boundaries. Her heart was already in her throat at the prospect of being alone with Bennet in a place that held many fond memories.
The narrow corridors widened as Mrs Hendrie led her from the basement into the main house. Julianna glanced at the entrance hall’s chequered floor, at the stag heads and dreary paintings lining the wall, at the wooden panel disguising the old lord’s torture chamber, and couldn’t help but recall every harrowing detail of the night she’d left.
Part of her wanted to clap her hands with joy at being back at Witherdeen. Part of her wanted to take to her heels and run because her visit would surely end in heartache.
Mrs Hendrie knocked on the study door, and a deep masculine voice called for her to enter. “Miss Julianna has arrived, my lord. Do you wish to receive her now?”
The marquess sighed. “Mrs Hendrie, the girl we remember is a grown woman. We should afford her the courtesy of calling her by her married name.”
“Yes. Forgive me, my lord. Mrs Eden has arrived.”
“Then you may show Mrs Eden in.”
Heavens. Julianna lacked the courage to cross the threshold. Her heart thumped in her throat. Everything seemed a little blurred, distant.
Wearing a beaming smile, Mrs Hendrie returned to the hall. “His lordship will see you now. Send for me when you’re ready, and I’ll take you to the cottage.”
Julianna nodded. She touched the housekeeper affectionately on the upper arm. “It’s so good to see you, Mrs Hendrie.”
Mrs Hendrie gave Julianna’s hand a reassuring squeeze, then gestured to the open study door. “Best hurry. His lordship likes to keep the room warm.”
Julianna drew a deep breath and entered the study.
Had she found Bennet Devereaux dressed appropriately, consumed with the vast array of ledgers and papers spread over his imposing desk, she might have greeted him without her voice breaking. But he stood in shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, displaying strong, muscular forearms. His gold waistcoat gripped his shoulders and clung to his chest like a second skin.
“G-good afternoon, Lord Devereaux.”
“Mrs Eden.” He did not reach for his coat or attempt to make himself presentable. He simply bowed. “Welcome to Witherdeen.” A smile tugged on his lips.
“Thank you, my lord.” The click of the door closing had Julianna’s pulse pounding. It was so hot in the room she could barely breathe. “Everything is as I remember.”
“Not everything,” he teased. “We’ve both grown somewhat.”
He’d grown considerably. She couldn’t help but glance at the dark hair on his forearms. “Gone are the days when we might hide undetected behind the curtains.”
“I don’t know. Perhaps we won’t giggle quite as much.”
“Your laugh is contagious, my lord, and got us into terrible trouble.”
His gaze slid slowly over her figure before lingering on the red curl bobbing against her cheek. “I see your hair is still wild and unruly.”
“One learns to live with certain flaws.”
“It’s not a flaw.”
She swallowed deeply. “You used to say I had a head full of piglet tails.”
“It was a compliment.” He laughed, but his amusement quickly faded. “I’m sorry, Julianna. Sorry for making a promise I didn’t keep.”
Oh, she’d hoped he would avoid discussing the past in detail. And why had he seen fit to use her given name? Panic ensued. Did he think that paying her a fee came with certain entitlements? She was not Giselle de Lacy. She could not be bought, not anymore.
“And I should not have promised to return knowing it was impossible. But we were children, consumed by heightened emotions.” Although she was eager to know how long it had taken him to forget her. “A lot has happened since then. But we should remember I’m here to work, nothing more.” While she had come to rescue him from his nightmare, that didn’t mean history would repeat itself.
“Then forgive me again if I appear over-friendly.” He sounded a little irate. “Am I permitted to ask if you’ve eaten?”
“I ate on the journey.” Miss Trimble had made up a basket of delicious treats to keep in the cottage and a cold platter to have en route.
“Would it be inappropriate to ask you to dine with me this evening?”
Share a lavish meal in an intimate setting?
Had he lost his mind?
“Would you ask Mrs Hendrie to dine with you, my lord?”
“Mrs Hendrie has never been as close to me as you once were.”
“Were being the operative word.” She sounded cold, but it was the only way to protect her heart. “I have a duty to investigate the strange occurrences here. My future prospects depend upon me doing a thorough job. Let us leave our treasured memories in the past where they belong and focus on the pressing affair that led to you hiring an enquiry agent.”
Time was of the essence. The longer she stayed at Witherdeen, the more she would grow attached to the place, the servants, the handsome master.
The marquess planted his hands on the desk and leant forward. “If you’re asking me to treat you like a stranger, I cannot.”
“Then you should have made that clear before I accepted the position.”
“Devil take it, Julianna, we need to speak intimately if we’re to find the villain sending the handbills. Am I to be the only one baring my soul?”
Good God! Surely he didn’t expect her to reveal every harrowing detail of her life. Julianna swallowed past the lump in her throat. She would rather he remember her as a lively girl, not the emaciated young woman sold to feed her mother’s addiction.
“My lord, I must insist you call me Mrs Eden.” She hated the name. Her widowhood was akin to the understairs cupboard—a dark place full of horrible memories. But the sooner they focused on the case and not their past attachment, the better. “I must insist we concentrate on what’s important, which is finding the person who sent the threatening notes.”
He remained silent as he glanced out of the window at Witherdeen’s grounds. A strange melancholy settled in the air, and it felt suddenly colder despite the fire roaring in the grate.
“Then you should sit, Mrs Eden. Make yourself comfortable, take notes. Allow me to present all the facts so you can make informed decisions.”
All the facts?
“There are things you’ve omitted to mention, my lord?” Was this a ploy to gain her sympathy, to test her resolve?
“Just another handbill, and the ghost of a monk who walks the grounds after resting peacefully for three hundred years.”
Intrigued, Julianna studied him for a moment. She’d learnt to look for the subtle signs of deception—exaggerated hand movements, a slight change in word choice or intonation—but noted nothing that might rouse her suspicion.
“Perhaps you can escort me to the cottage. On the way, you can reveal that which you failed to tell Mr Daventry. I trust you still have the handbill.” If they walked, he would need to wear a coat, need to cover those strong forearms that proved equally distracting.
Bennet Devereaux took the small key hidden beneath the ink stand. He opened the desk drawer, removed the note and handed it to her.
Julianna tried to read the words pasted to the page, but her traitorous gaze drifted to the marquess as he rolled down his shirtsleeves and pushed his muscular arms into his black coat.
“The note arrived three days ago,” he informed her as he rounded the desk.
As children, they’d been of similar height. Now, he stood almost a head taller, stood too close as he watched her read the obituary. His commanding presence proved a little suffocating, and so she turned to the window under the guise of concentrating on the words cut from a newspaper and assembled with care.
“This one reports that you died in a house fire.” Her stomach twisted into knots as she reread the next line. “It says Witherdeen was reduced to rubble, that your charred body was found amongst the remains.”
Julianna wasn’t sure why the threat rocked her to her core. Stories of gargoyles and of gravestones found amongst abbey ruins were the constructs of gothic tales. Devices used to strike fear in the hearts of mere mortals. But houses of all sizes and descriptions had burned to the ground because of dirty chimneys and faulty candle wicks. Equally, one needed no skill to start a fire that could ravage a mansion house within hours.
She turned and met his gaze. “Has there been a fire?”
“Not yet.”
The hint of sadness in his tawny eyes sent her hurtling back to the day she found him crying in the cupboard. The need to comfort him sparked anew.
“A coward sent this,” she said, her voice full of contempt for the craven devil. “Someone without courage or honour. Someone too weak to seek satisfaction at a dawn appointment. Probably a jealous woman. Either way, I shall help you solve the mystery, help you any way I can.”
He looked at her like he did the day he’d peeled back the napkin folds and found a slice of cake—with gratitude and wide-eyed wonder. “Though we hardly know each other now, Mrs Eden, having you here brings immense comfort.”
Oh, why did every word from his lips stir such odd sensations?
Tears welled. She turned away on the pretence she may have left something on the seat. “Come, let’s walk while we talk. It’s sweltering in here. The fresh air will do us a wealth of good.”
“We’ll pass by the ruins. I shall show you where my steward found the gravestone.”
She needed to inspect the grounds, discover who’d seen the ghostly monk. Indeed, there were so many lines of enquiry to explore, Julianna feared she would be at Witherdeen for a week.
A week?
Heaven help her!
She had been at Witherdeen less than an hour and was struggling against a range of emotions. No. She’d committed to two days and would have to work through the night if necessary. Besides, she could trust Mr Bower to perform certain tasks.
“We need to sit down and construct a timeline, my lord,” she said as they moved from the study to the entrance hall. “Perhaps we might do that during our tour of the ruins.”
The marquess seemed distracted. He came to an abrupt halt, took to glancing around the vast space as if witnessing the grandeur for the first time.
“My lord?”
Bennet Devereaux jerked in response. “Yes? Oh, you mentioned a timeline. I am at your disposal, Mrs Eden, and will give you any information you require.” Stealing another glimpse at the broad oak staircase, he said, “Do you recall the last time we stood together in this hall?”
“With remarkable clarity.” Sadly.
She could remember everything about that night. The patter of raindrops on the windowpane obliterated by the thud of footsteps on the landing. The rumble of thunder drowned out by the roar of angry voices. The taste of damp earth in the air, salty tears on her lips. And yet time and time again, it was the fear in Bennet’s eyes that appeared in her dreams, her nightmares.
“One must question if we’re at war with our memory.”
“At war?” It wasn’t such an odd phrase. Her inner battle began the moment she was reunited with Bennet Devereaux.
“Does the mind not spread propaganda?” he said. “Does it not ignore happy times and focus on painful memories?”
“We tend to cling to what we’ve lost and not appreciate all we’ve gained.”
As a married woman, Julianna had gained respectability. And she didn’t have to listen to her mother’s harebrained plans or partake in her devious scheming. But in marrying Edward Eden, she had lost every shred of dignity, lost all hope of falling in love and having children. Had almost lost her sanity.
“The year spent at Witherdeen was the happiest of my life,” she said without her voice breaking. “But I’m no longer that girl. Now I strive to make each new day worth living.”
He held her gaze long enough for her to feel that spark of connection. “Then come. You’ve never been inside the cottage near the ruins, and I think you’ll find it rather charming.”
Everything about Witherdeen held a certain allure.
That was the problem.
They left together through the huge oak doors, walked side-by-side down the sweeping stone staircase. It was impossible not to think of the last time she’d hurried down the steps.
The marquess offered his arm as they crossed the damp grass. “Grimley is attempting to fill the mole holes, and I’d hate for you to sprain your ankle.”
“Would you afford Mrs Hendrie the same pleasure?” she said, feigning amusement, because the thought of touching him sent her pulse soaring.
“Are we to judge everything based on my treatment of Mrs Hendrie?”
“She knows your secrets yet still knows her place.”
Indeed, Julianna would do well to take a leaf from the housekeeper’s book. Somehow she had to immerse herself in Bennet Devereaux’s world while attempting to remain indifferent.
