The Devereaux Affair by Adele Clee

Chapter 7

Juliannaleant back against the wooden door, her trembling hand pressed to her heart, her eyes closed tight. Could Mr Daventry not have found another way to test her fortitude? Could Bennet Devereaux not play the arrogant rogue so she might hate him the way she did most men?

So much for keeping her distance.

In true Giselle de Lacy style, she’d permitted certain liberties, had let him warm her hands and draw her into an embrace. It hadn’t helped that she’d blubbered like a babe. A courtesan’s job was to bolster a man’s confidence, and she’d certainly done that.

Bennet’s touch had always brought comfort, but this new sensation was like a ravenous hunger she couldn’t sate. Desire unfurled like spring blooms whenever their eyes met. Heat swirled in her stomach as the urge to know him intimately obliterated all rhyme and reason. Numbing her feelings was nothing new, but it had been easier with Edward. She had never cared a sot for him.

Still, she had broken a vow and given Bennet an accurate account of her marriage. He would ask more questions. She would be forced to explain how the crippling loneliness had robbed her of her sanity. How Edward had known he was dying yet still left her destitute.

She inhaled deeply to clear her head, but the smell of Bennet’s cedarwood cologne teased her nostrils. The man invaded her thoughts, seduced her senses. His scent clung to her clothes. In her prayers, she had begged to see him again, just to gaze upon his face once more. Now, she would rather wallow in ignorance than know they could never be friends.

Releasing a groan, she unbuttoned her pelisse and draped it over the chair. Then she set about lighting the candles, though her hands were so cold it took six strikes to ignite the tinder.

A chill air circled the room, and she hurried to the window to draw the curtains, annoyed at herself for not letting Bennet come inside to light the fire.

Outside, all was dark except for the faint streaks of moonlight stroking the path. Julianna was busy tugging one curtain over the other when she heard the garden gate creak. She froze. Listened. The heavy pad of footsteps preceded the loud knock on the door.

Parting the curtains a fraction, she peered at the shadowy figure looming amid the blackness. The caller turned slightly, revealing his profile. Relieved to find it was Mr Bower, not Mr Branner, she went to welcome him.

Even a man with Mr Bower’s brawn felt the cold. He knelt to light the fire while Julianna lit the stove and made tea. She spoke to him from the kitchen, relayed the events leading to the steward smashing the gravestone. Having Mr Daventry’s man about the place forced her to focus on the task and not her conflicting feelings for Bennet Devereaux.

“Discover anything you can about the night Grimley found the gravestone,” she said, settling on the sofa. “Did the gardener examine the stone? Where was the sledgehammer? See if any of the staff have ever seen the ghostly monk.” She sipped her tea, hoping the beverage would warm her bones. “Did the coachmen or grooms say anything about the marquess?”

“Everyone respects his lordship.” Bower’s voice was as deep as the scar cutting through his brow. His hulking frame filled the chair, and his fists were the size of mallets. The teacup looked like it belonged in a doll’s house when gripped between his thick fingers. “No one here bears him any ill will, ma’am.”

“And what about Mr Branner?”

Julianna had met men of Mr Branner’s ilk before. Beneath his portrait of affability lay a consummate seducer. The lecherous look in his eyes was often at odds with his polite discourse. Despite being educated, he’d behaved like a thug from the rookeries the night he found the gravestone.

“Most folk like Mr Branner. He’s firm but fair. That’s what they say.” Bower drained his teacup. “Mr Keenan remembers your mother. He said it was a shame when she snatched you away, said that’s the only time the master’s ever been truly happy.”

Julianna gulped. “The master? You speak of the old marquess?”

“No, ma’am. Mr Keenan spoke of the current Lord Devereaux.”

“Oh, I see.” Hastily, she moved to the topic of Bennet’s friends. “I know I’ve asked a lot of you, Mr Bower, but I’m keen to know what the staff think of his lordship’s friends.”

“Pay it no mind, ma’am. I’ll help in any way I can. I know they’re none too fond of Miss Winters.”

Yes, she got that impression from Mr Branner.

“Do you know why?”

The answer was obvious. Miss Winters took liberties, lacked breeding. She belittled those beneath her because she feared they might notice she was of less than average stock. Indeed, Mr Bower confirmed that the woman’s arrogance and derogatory comments proved too much to bear.

“When we return to London, I’ll befriend Miss Winters.” The thought made her stomach churn. “Perhaps she has a different tale to tell.”

“Mr Keenan is a friendly chap who only wants what’s best for the master. He seems to think you being here is an omen. A sign the master’s luck is about to change.”

Heavens above! No doubt the servants thought the whole writing-about-the-ruins was a mere story, and she’d come to replace Miss Winters in the master’s affections.

She told Mr Bower about the third obituary note, that she feared the villain might resort to arson tomorrow night, and he was to report to the marquess for further instruction. He took another cup of tea, then stoked the fire before retiring to the coach house.

It was so warm downstairs, Julianna decided to read the first journal before heading to bed. The footman had deposited the walnut trunk in the space beneath the stairs, and she unlocked the latch and lifted the lid. Dust and the musty smell of old paper assaulted her nostrils as she examined the mound of dog-eared journals. Evidently, the late marquess had much to say.

Bennet had placed the books in date order, something Julianna discovered as she rummaged through the top layer. When she read the first page in the journal dated 1797—the year Bennet’s father inherited the marquessate—she realised the extent of the mammoth task ahead. The heading written on the recto page summed up the entire case.

They’ll not rest until I’m dead!

* * *

“Thank you, Mr Branner.” Julianna was about to part from the steward after a lively few hours spent with Bennet’s tenants. “It’s been an education. By all accounts, ghosts are averse to water and sage. If I meet one, I mustn’t run but should ask how I might be of service.”

Mr Branner laughed. “And don’t stare at a looking glass for too long, else a spirit will possess your soul.”

“Yes, I must not forget that, though I imagine it’s an old wives’ tale warning about the dangers of vanity.”

At some time or other, every one of his lordship’s tenants had seen a ghost. There was the demon crow that stalked fields and cursed crops. The ghoul who robbed graves—though she suspected they should look for a man down on his luck. And the mad monk of Witherdeen Abbey who’d escaped confinement and murdered three of his brethren.

“Their wild tales could fill an entire chapter.” Mr Branner’s amused grin seemed genuine. “I’m glad I could be of assistance, Mrs Eden. But if you’ll excuse me, I must find the records of the tenants’ boundaries before Mr Flaxman takes a sledgehammer to the dry stone wall.”

“Of course. Someone must settle their grievance.”

Guilt surfaced as she watched the steward stride towards the house. Perhaps she had misjudged him. Today, he’d been polite and helpful. The tenants treated him like the prodigal son. The children followed behind like ducklings, showing him their bruises and missing teeth.

Was his loyalty to Bennet the reason he’d lost his temper and smashed the gravestone? It seemed quite likely after what she’d witnessed today. Perhaps she might have Mr Bower pick the lock to the steward’s cottage and search for anything incriminating. Yes, she would add it to her list of tasks, along with examining the handbills and hunting around the ruins for the broken gravestone. And there were still nineteen journals left to read.

Bennet was right. There was too much to do.

Julianna was musing over where to start when the crunching of carriage wheels on the gravel drive captured her attention. In a panic, she ran and hid behind the oak tree, for it gave an ample view of the mansion’s entrance. Of course, if Mrs Hendrie glanced across the lawn, the poor woman would squeal and swear she’d seen the red-haired ghost.

A shiver shot down Julianna’s spine.

Was her mother alive?

She had not seen Giselle’s body or visited the grave.

But she quickly dismissed the notion. Giselle would not waste time exacting revenge. She would be out hunting for a wealthy lover to pay for her jewels and laudanum tinctures. Besides, it had been Giselle’s decision to leave Witherdeen and take up with Lord Denver, so there was nothing to avenge.

The elegant equipage rattled to a halt before Witherdeen’s sweeping staircase. Two footmen in blue livery descended the stone steps to assist the new arrivals. Bennet Devereaux appeared looking devastatingly handsome, his grey trousers and dark blue frock coat clinging to his impressive physique like a second skin. He brushed his hand through his hair, smiled at his friends as they alighted, though Julianna would stake every morsel she owned the smile failed to reach his eyes.

A hundred yards separated her and the unfolding scene, yet it felt as vast as an ocean. Julianna did not belong in their world. So why did everything about Witherdeen feel like home?

Two gentlemen, both prime specimens of the haut monde, emerged from the conveyance. They fussed with their clothes while the footmen assisted their female companions. The women’s overtly affectionate gestures and excessive flounces marked them as courtesans.

After briefly exchanging greetings, Bennet paid scant attention to the women, though they made their presence known by continually touching his arm.

Jealousy burned inside like the devil’s inferno. Unable to stomach the thought of Bennet entertaining these people, she slipped away and hurried back to the cottage. There was plenty to do indoors, but she resorted to eating all the biscuits from Miss Trimble’s basket and daydreaming on the bed.

Confidence is a state of mind—and you are in control.

Mr Daventry’s wise words jolted her from her reverie. She shot up and scanned the room, fearing the man had come to check her progress.

“Oh, pull yourself together,” she mumbled, dragging herself from a mire of self-pity. “You’re an agent of the Order, not a worthless wife.”

The stern words did the trick, and with renewed faith in her abilities, she headed to the ruins.

* * *

“They keep the sledgehammer in an outbuilding a ten-minute walk from here.” Mr Bower stood in the deep pit outside the remnants of the nave, rummaging through the dusty old stones.

“Did Grimley shed any light on what happened that night?” Julianna peered into the hole and pointed to a large brown stone. “What about that one? Can you see any chisel marks? We’re looking for letters or numbers.”

Mr Bower gripped the stone between his mighty paws and turned it over. “No, ma’am.”

Julianna straightened and massaged her aching back. “Perhaps it’s my suspicious nature, but I believe someone has removed the stones.” Or Mr Branner lied, and they were never there in the first place.

“I’ll keep looking, ma’am.” Mr Bower wiped his sweaty brow with his coat sleeve. “Grimley said he saw the tombstone carved with his lordship’s name and alerted the steward.”

“He did? Did he say what he was doing here at night?”

“Looking for ghosts. But then I noticed someone had dug up the grass inside the chapter house, and I wonder if he’s not secretly looking for treasure.”

“Treasure!” Yes, there must be a wealth of items buried underground.

“Treasure?” a masculine voice echoed. Julianna turned to find an elegant gentleman with thick black hair watching her with bright-eyed interest. “Pray, have no fear. I’m happy to split the loot three ways. Just don’t tell Devereaux.”

Julianna forced a smile but silently cursed.

Dissipated rakes played billiards, drank copious amounts of brandy, and tried to tup the maids in the broom cupboard. They did not roam around historical buildings examining the architecture.

The gentleman bowed and presented himself as Lord Roxburgh. On her part, no introduction was necessary because the dratted footman had mentioned she was staying at Witherdeen.

“The staff should know better than to gossip, my lord.” She’d been foolish to think they would keep her identity a secret.

He delved into a silver snuff box and inhaled a pinch. “The poor fellow was eager to please. The fact Giselle de Lacy’s daughter was here writing about the abbey made his country-loving master seem less of a bore.”

The lord was teasing, but the urge to defend Bennet burned in her veins. “There is no man more interesting than Lord Devereaux. No doubt the footman prayed the information would earn him a sovereign, my lord.”

Lord Roxburgh laughed. “I must admit, the news came as a pleasant surprise. A much greater surprise to Miss Winters, of course, who arrived with Mr Granger mere minutes ago.”

Isabella Winters had come to Witherdeen!

What the devil was she doing here?

Julianna almost choked in panic. Had Bennet lied about ending their relationship? And if so, why did it feel like the worst betrayal? She had no reason to feel anything but indifference. Having Miss Winters at Witherdeen gave her ample opportunity to befriend Bennet’s mistress. Indeed, it was a welcome development.

“Forgive me, but I don’t know Miss Winters.”

“She’s a friend of Lord Devereaux’s, though I fear she’s fallen out of favour.”

“Is Miss Winters interested in monastic life, my lord?”

“Ha! She would find much enjoyment in an abbey full of men.”

“Abbey life was about spiritual devotion.”

“Ah, then we may have a problem. Miss Winters suffers from delusions of deity. I imagine the monks would have made a bonfire and burned her for heresy.”

While his peers probably found his nonchalant wit entertaining, Julianna disliked anyone who belittled courtesans.

“One day, we may live in a world where Miss Winters can express her opinion without fear of castigation. But for now, I would be happy to give her a tour of the ruins.”

Lord Roxburgh glanced at the abbey’s dilapidated walls. “This place is a perfect example of how opinion has changed over the years.”

“It’s a perfect example of how a king’s desire divided a nation. Every action has a consequence, my lord. Love and hate are sides of the same coin.”

The lord stared at her as if she were a box of delicious confectionary. “I’d be interested to hear more about your work here, Mrs Eden.”

No. Lord Roxburgh’s only interest was of the salacious sort.

“Sadly, I must return to London tomorrow. Lord Devereaux’s steward is extremely knowledgeable. Shall I arrange for him to give you a detailed tour?”

He found her comment amusing. “Is the steward as engaging as you are?”

“He gives a captivating account of the hauntings.”

She studied the lord closely to see if he blinked excessively or avoided eye contact. Might he have donned a monk’s robe to frighten his friend? No. Most definitely not. She suspected this arbiter of fashion wouldn’t be seen dead wearing anything so crass.

“Hauntings?” he mocked. “I believe in science and the laws of nature, Mrs Eden. Uncanny events are merely the musings of a weak mind.”

Did he know Bennet had seen the ghost of a monk?

Quick to change the subject, Lord Roxburgh turned his attention to the burly figure of Mr Bower. “Is there a reason your man is rooting through the stones?”

“We’re looking for specific markings. A stonemason often leaves a symbol to identify his work.”

“How interesting.” His tone suggested he found the notion dull. “If your man grows tired and you need a helping hand, come and find me at the house.”

Julianna smiled. “I would not wish to draw you away from your companion, my lord. And I think you would soon tire of my forthright opinion.” He needed to know she was not mistress material.

“I doubt that, my dear.”

Before she had a chance to reply, Bennet appeared, breathless and agitated. “There you are, Roxburgh. You disappeared from the drawing room without a word.”

Being as sharp as a new tack, Lord Roxburgh glanced at Julianna and grinned. “You see, Mrs Eden, you have Devereaux flustered because I am stealing your attention.”

“Lord Devereaux knows any distraction will cost him another day’s pay.”

“Mrs Eden must complete her work before returning to town tomorrow,” Bennet confirmed.

“Then there is a simple solution.” The lord gripped Bennet’s shoulder in a firm gesture of friendship. “Mrs Eden will dine with us tonight so that I might quiz her about her fascinating hobby.”

Julianna inwardly groaned. Why did the gentleman not speak bluntly so she might refuse his advances and continue with her work?

“Society ladies have time for hobbies, my lord. I’m afraid I must work to earn my keep. Indeed, I have much to do before I leave tomorrow and will barely have time to take supper.”

“Nonsense. Surely you can spare an hour out of your schedule. No doubt you’re dying to meet Miss Winters.”

Bennet frowned. “Miss Winters?”

Lord Roxburgh’s teasing eyes widened. “Did she not arrive with Granger?”

“Granger came alone.”

“Did he?” Lord Roxburgh seemed to enjoy feigning stupidity. Did he suspect Julianna was at Witherdeen to study more than the ruins and thought to prove his theory? “Forgive me, my dear. Travel arrangements were made earlier this week, and I presumed Miss Winters accompanied Granger.”

Bennet’s gaze drifted past Julianna’s shoulder, and he rolled his eyes.

“So, this is where everyone is hiding,” came a woman’s teasing purr.

“Ah, my dear,” Lord Roxburgh began, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “If you wish to see a strong man flex his muscles, you’ve come to the right place.”

Julianna turned to meet the newcomer, both disappointed and relieved to find it wasn’t Miss Winters. The auburn-haired lady observing Julianna with a hawk-like stare sidled up to Lord Roxburgh.

Bennet made the introductions. “Mrs Thorne, allow me to present Mrs Eden. She’s researching the history of the abbey and intends to publish her findings.”

“Devereaux is rather forward thinking, is he not?” Mrs Thorne’s mouth was so small it formed a permanent pout. “To employ a woman to do what is invariably a man’s work.”

So, the lady was prickly by name and nature.

“Is it a man’s work?” Julianna replied politely. “Did a woman not write the theoretical paper on combustion and invent the concept of catalysis? Was Catharine Macaulay not a highly respected historian who published her work almost sixty years ago?”

“Mrs Eden is equally respected in her field,” Bennet added.

Mrs Thorne’s counter-attack came in the form of a sneer as she considered Julianna’s dusty old day dress. “I suppose hard work means you must neglect the usual feminine pursuits.”

“I have never found discussions of frills and flounces at all entertaining.”

Lord Roxburgh laughed. “I imagine you could wear a grain sack, Mrs Eden, and still attract a man’s eye.”

Julianna might have challenged the lord, too. Attracting a man’s eye was not on her list of ambitions. She might have continued her verbal spar with Mrs Thorne, but she had to befriend these people if she hoped to solve the case.

“Mrs Thorne is right. Working hard means I rarely have time to consider my appearance. But when earning a living, one must make sacrifices.”

Mrs Thorne narrowed her gaze and stared at Julianna. “Have we met before, Mrs Eden? In town perhaps? You look most familiar.”

“Not that I recall.” Not unless Mrs Thorne had taken to weeping on the steps of the Servants’ Registry.

The woman continued pondering the possibility, then arched a neat brow in surprise. “That’s it! There’s a painting of you in the attic, though some devil has slashed the canvas, straight across your pretty face.”

Bennet cleared his throat. “The painting is of Mrs Eden’s mother.”

“Her mother?”

“Mrs Eden is Giselle de Lacy’s daughter,” Lord Roxburgh chimed.

Mrs Thorne stared in stunned silence. “You’re Julianna de Lacy? Devereaux speaks of you with such fondness. You’re the sister he never had.”

Sister?

The word cut like a sharp blade to the heart.

Julianna fought against the onset of tears. “We’ve been separated for so long, yet still feel a familial connection.” She didn’t dare glance at Bennet.

“All the more reason you should dine with us tonight,” Lord Roxburgh added.

Perhaps the urge to flee was in the blood. Julianna imagined stuffing her clothes into her valise, abandoning Witherdeen and its confounding master.

But she could not abuse Mr Daventry’s trust. The only way to achieve her goal was to don a mask and mingle with people she would rather avoid. To enter the world she loathed to the marrow of her bones.