The Devereaux Affair by Adele Clee

Chapter 8

“Mrs Eden, my lord.”Milford stepped aside.

Julianna entered the drawing room and Bennet’s heart lurched. She’d styled her hair in a simple chignon, wore her mother’s bronze silk gown that Mrs Hendrie had taken from the attic, aired and pressed. Most women would have thrown a tantrum and remained abed than wear the outdated style, but Julianna carried herself with elegance and grace.

Captivated, Bennet drank in her heavenly form. Candlelight sparkled in her blue eyes like sunlight on a calm sea. Her vivacious smile held him spellbound, despite it being a mask to hide her disdain for a society that was anything but polite.

If only life were a fairytale and one snap of his fingers could make them all disappear. All except her—Julianna de Lacy. The woman he’d presumed lost to him forever. The only person in the room he trusted with absolute certainty.

Indeed, he was wary of his friends’ motives now.

Had one of them sent the obituaries? Had one of them come to Witherdeen armed with a tinderbox to raze his home to the ground?

Roxburgh reached the door first, Mrs Thorne scuttling behind to ensure she was not about to receive her congé in favour of this red-haired beauty.

Bennet stood. His gaze cut through those people surrounding her and locked with Julianna’s. The flash of panic in her eyes had him crossing the room to come to her aid.

“Let Mrs Eden catch her breath. You can hound her about the hauntings during dinner.” Bennet barged through the group and offered Julianna his arm. “Come, Mrs Eden, let me pour you a sherry.”

“Thank you, my lord.” She took hold of his arm, gripped his sleeve as if she were teetering on a precipice, about to fall a thousand feet to her doom. “A sherry might settle my nerves.”

“You looked like you needed rescuing,” he whispered when they reached the drinks table. He removed the stopper from a crystal decanter and poured her a sherry.

“I’m not sure I can do this.” She kept her voice low, and accepted the proffered glass. “With Lord Roxburgh’s razor-sharp intellect, he’s bound to recognise a fraud. Miss Ponsonby has already asked for my address in London, and I had to lie.”

“You’re more than a match for Roxburgh. But give the word, and I shall send them away. They can be gone from here within the hour.” Yet he feared she wouldn’t be far behind them.

“No. The gentlemen of the Order never miss an opportunity to question suspects. It’s too early in the battle to wave a white flag and surrender.”

Bennet stared at her, a little in awe. After everything she had been through, she had the courage and strength to soldier on.

“I shall support you in any way I can.”

“You might regret saying that when I beg you to converse with Miss Ponsonby.” She grinned, giving him a glimpse of the mischievous girl he remembered so fondly.

Bennet clasped his chest as if mortally wounded. “Please, no. I’d rather stick pins in my eyes than suffer her constant chattering.”

Were she of noble birth, Miss Ponsonby would be a diamond of the first water. With hair like spun gold and a figure that left men drooling, Lowbridge found the benefits of having her for his mistress outweighed her obvious impediment.

As if party to Bennet’s silent musing, Miss Ponsonby invaded the private moment. “My lord, you cannot monopolise Mrs Eden’s attention the entire evening. We’re all desperate to hear about this book of ghost stories she’s writing. A monk wandering the ruins of Witherdeen! Who can believe it? Surely there’s a logical explanation.”

Bennet made a mental note to throttle his loose-tongued footman. “Mrs Eden is writing about monastic life, not the hauntings.”

Hauntingswas not a word one should use when dealing with an excitable woman whose constant chatter sounded like aviary squawk.

Miss Ponsonby pressed her fingers to her brow as if she might faint. “Oh, did you hear that, Lowbridge? There’s more than one ghost. What next? Are we to meet a headless horseman in the stables, a drowned governess by the lake? Oh, oh, I shall die of apoplexy.”

“Hmm.” Lowbridge barely glanced in the lady’s direction.

However, his cousin Terrance Granger stared with fascination. “Perhaps we should extinguish the lamps and call on the spirits of the dead.”

Roxburgh groaned. “Good God, Granger, don’t encourage her.”

“I’d rather hear about life with a famous courtesan than ghostly nonsense,” Mrs Thorne said, nestling next to Roxburgh on the sofa. “Was it as exciting as one imagines?”

Julianna’s feigned smile wavered. “Yes, if one likes spontaneity.”

Giselle de Lacy was undoubtedly a woman of impulse.

“Perhaps the ghost brings a message, Mrs Eden.” Miss Ponsonby caught Julianna’s hand and drew her to the sofa where they sat opposite Granger. “More often than not, they come to exact revenge for a past misdeed or to warn of a tragedy.”

“Oh, do be quiet, Pony,” Lowbridge uttered.

Roxburgh snorted. “I’m no mystic, my dear, but I’d wager my racing curricle you’ve got a gothic novel on your nightstand.”

Lowbridge laughed and slapped his thigh. “By Jove, she has! Someone give the man a guinea.”

Bennet observed the scene, silently acknowledging that he’d been living a lie since his father’s passing. Filling one’s house with fake friends did nothing to ease the loneliness. If left penniless and destitute, who out of this group would come to his aid?

No one but Julianna.

Even so, it was hard to believe any of his friends bore a grudge.

“Can we talk about something else?” Mrs Thorne complained.

Granger tutted sympathetically. “Are you afraid of ghosts, madam? Are you scared of things that go bump in the night?”

“One cannot fear what one cannot see. Mrs Eden must consider whether she is to publish a book based on historical facts or one filled with gibberish.”

Julianna sipped her sherry. “While it’s unwise to label the unknown as gibberish, Mrs Thorne, one must question why ghosts are only seen at night. In the dark, a tired mind might confuse a spectre with a peignoir draped over the armoire door.”

“Precisely, Mrs Eden.” Roxburgh looked at Julianna with such admiration, Mrs Thorne shuffled closer to her lover until they were practically conjoined.

“Ghosts have been known to kill people.” Lowbridge spoke in a sinister voice to scare his mistress. “There’s the tale of the man haunted by a woman in a blood-stained shroud. He tumbled down the stairs in a fright.”

Miss Ponsonby’s eyes widened in horror. “Did he break his neck?”

“No, Pony. He dropped his candlestick and set the house ablaze.”

Roxburgh and Granger chuckled.

Bennet didn’t.

Set the house ablaze?

Was Lowbridge the villain? Guilty people did not openly discuss their crimes. Still, Bennet glanced at the devil, unable to decide if he was remarkably clever or downright stupid.

“Then we must be vigilant tonight.” Bennet observed Lowbridge’s reaction with interest. “I suggest you all stay abed and lock your chamber doors lest one of you trip over the ghost and burn the house to the ground.”

Julianna snatched a glance at him but quickly changed the subject. “Lord Devereaux told me of the masquerade last summer. I wondered if someone had found a habit in the attic and thought to scare the host.”

Mrs Thorne sneered. “The only garments we found were your mother’s tired old gowns.”

“What a pity.” Julianna appeared unperturbed by Mrs Thorne’s spiteful tone. “My mother was so petite, I doubt they’d have been useful.”

Quick to bite the bait, Mrs Thorne exclaimed, “Nonsense! I was able to squeeze into one of them. Miss Winters took the other. She’s such a vivacious young woman. With her lovely red hair, she looked remarkable in gold silk.”

“Yes, you stole the gold ensemble,” Miss Ponsonby said snidely, “but turned up your nose at the beautiful gown Mrs Eden is wearing this evening.”

Julianna simply smiled. “Gold would have been my preferred choice, but it seems both gold gowns are missing.”

“Missing?” Miss Ponsonby looked horrified. “Missing? How can they be missing? I assure you, Mrs Eden, we returned all your mother’s items the day after the masquerade.”

Everyone shot a curious glance at Mrs Thorne.

“Don’t look at me!” Affronted, she clutched her hand to her chest. “I left my gown hanging in the attic. The housekeeper insisted on packing everything away. Apparently, we’re all dreadfully untidy.”

It was a lie. Mrs Hendrie hadn’t taken note of the items borrowed or returned, though it was unlike her not to be pedantic about such things.

“Mrs Hendrie gets a little confused,” Julianna said, though the fib had to be a ploy to gain more information. “She confessed to seeing the ghost twice.”

“You see!” Miss Ponsonby clapped her hands four times in rapid succession. “A monk is haunting the abbey. Hurrah! We may actually get to see a ghost. Did you hear that, Lowbridge?”

“Hmm.”

“Mrs Hendrie saw the ghost of a woman, not a monk.” Julianna spoke matter-of-factly, but Bennet knew she was assessing everyone in the room.

Roxburgh tossed back his brandy. “Must we continue with this tedious topic?” He turned to Julianna. “Devereaux said you lived here when your mother was his father’s paramour.”

“Yes, my lord. I spent a year at Witherdeen.”

“You were close as children,” the devil pressed, “like siblings.”

“Indeed.” Julianna swallowed. “We were inseparable.”

Bennet fought the urge to jump from his chair and shout, “No!”

Yes, they were inseparable. As close as children could be. But he’d never thought of her as a sister, just a dear, dear friend.

“I never said we were like siblings.” Bennet hoped to God Julianna didn’t see him as a brother. The flash of desire in her eyes, the hitch in her breath whenever they were close said otherwise.

Roxburgh smirked. “Did you not?”

“No.”

“Mrs Eden said she thought of you as a relative.”

“No,” Julianna protested. “I said we were close as children.”

“Enough about that,” Miss Ponsonby interjected, moving to warm her hands by the fire. “Do you believe the housekeeper saw a ghost, Mrs Eden? She seems like quite a reliable woman. Oh, it’s all so fascinating.”

“Who can say?” Julianna’s shoulders relaxed. She seemed more comfortable discussing ghosts than her complicated relationship with him. “I shan’t be convinced until I see an apparition.”

Annoyed that all talk had returned to the supernatural, Roxburgh decided it was time to meddle. “Tell me about your husband, Mrs Eden. Have you been widowed long?”

Bennet silently groaned.

Roxburgh spoke with polite interest, but his objective was to pry into Julianna’s affairs and discover why she had really come to Witherdeen.

“A year, my lord.”

Roxburgh’s keen stare slid over Julianna’s silk gown. “So you’re not long out of widow’s weeds. A woman so spirited shouldn’t wear black. May I ask how Mr Eden died?”

“Of consumption. Tragically, he wasted away to nothing.”

“Was he old?”

“Thirty-eight.”

Did she know her tone lacked emotion? Bennet tried to catch her attention, but she seemed lost in the memory.

“It must have been terribly painful watching him suffer.”

“Edward wished to die in the arms of the one person he loved.” She spoke of Justin, of course, and avoided saying anything more.

“Ah, l’amour—a rare and precious commodity. A man may be as rich as Croesus, but still love eludes him.”

“Love cannot be bought or traded,” Julianna said.

“Nor can trust or loyalty.” Bennet prayed he had no reason to distrust this man. “Are they not equally precious?”

Roxburgh’s brow furrowed in curious enquiry. “Come, Devereaux, what would you choose? A woman who trusts you or one who loves you implicitly?”

Blast.

Bennet glanced at Julianna, and their eyes met. “I’d choose a woman who loves me because she knows there is no one she trusts more.”

Julianna’s gaze softened. “What of you, Lord Roxburgh?”

The lord laughed. “I’m a cynic, and people are fickle. As you rightly said, Mrs Eden, love and hate are sides of the same coin, and I never bet on anything with such frightful odds.”

Thankfully, the clang of the dinner gong proved the saving grace.

With dinner being a relaxed affair, Julianna had asked to sit next to Roxburgh and Mrs Thorne. But Miss Ponsonby tossed manners aside, barged through the group and stole the woman’s seat. Bennet remained at the head of the table with the insipid Mrs Thorne to his right—the wealthy widow’s support of Roxburgh’s gambling habit proved the only attraction—and Lowbridge to his left.

Having consumed the contents of Bennet’s brandy decanter, Lowbridge took to dozing off between courses. Like Bennet, Mrs Thorne was so absorbed with the lively conversation further down the table she only picked at her food.

Granger clearly admired his cousin’s mistress, for he’d taken to calling her by her pet name, too. “Pony, admit it. You’d die if you saw a ghost.”

“Really, Granger, there are no such things,” Roxburgh countered.

“I challenge anyone to meet me in the ruins at midnight.” Julianna’s eyes were bright with amusement. “The sight of the ghostly monk would soon have you whistling a new tune, my lord.”

Roxburgh laughed. “If the monk burst into the dining room and perched on my lap, I’d likely believe myself sotted.”

“What are we to do with him, Mrs Eden?” Miss Ponsonby batted Roxburgh on the arm. “I warrant we should tie him to a chair amid the ruins and leave him there all night.”

“And I’ll happily permit such mistreatment if Mrs Eden agrees to accompany me.”

Was Roxburgh being intentionally provoking?

They continued laughing while Mrs Thorne scowled at her pheasant, and Bennet silently seethed.

“And what of your parents, Miss Ponsonby?” Julianna asked, reminding Bennet she was simply playing a role, digging for information. “Your family cannot be as scandalous as mine.”

“Oh, they were simple country folk who lacked ambition. My brother and I made a plan to escape. He used to hit me on the head if I broke into a Somerset accent.” She laughed and then continued her bird-like chirping about the ghost.

They all removed to the drawing room, though Roxburgh complained that he’d like to take his port without listening to Miss Ponsonby’s inane chatter. And so the ladies remained while the men retreated to the library.

The next hour passed too slowly for comfort.

Terrance Granger left to smoke his cheroot outdoors, though he was gone so long he must have smoked five. Miss Ponsonby dragged Lowbridge away after begging him to walk to the ruins in the dark.

“Are you going to tell me what Mrs Eden is really doing here?” Roxburgh asked while they were alone. He relaxed back in the leather wing chair, cradling a brandy goblet between his long fingers. “I’m quite certain it’s not to write about ghosts.”

Hellfire!

“Is that why you’ve been fawning over her all evening?” Bennet said by way of a distraction. “Mrs Thorne has grown tired of your wandering eye.”

Roxburgh swallowed a mouthful of brandy, savouring the taste as he studied Bennet. “Did you invent the tale of the ghost as an enticement? Did you hear about her work with her husband and use it as an excuse to invite her to Witherdeen?”

“She’s qualified to write about the ruins. I didn’t know Julianna de Lacy and Mrs Eden were one and the same until I met her in London to discuss the project.” Both facts were true.

“But you’re considering taking her for your mistress.”

“No. I am hoping to keep her as a friend.” Together they might decide where to go from there.

“And yet there is a definite attraction. The desire to please men is in her blood. After a year spent in mourning, she’s looking for a virile fellow to fill the void. One senses a wealth of passion just waiting to be unleashed. Hmm. She’s most definitely ripe and ready for plucking.”

Weeks of pent up anger erupted. “Say one more word about Mrs Eden, and I’ll knock that damn smirk off your face! It’s a bloody good job we’ve been friends for years because it’s the only thing stopping me dragging your arrogant arse off that chair and slamming your teeth down your throat!”

God, it felt good to release his frustration. Sod the case. He was tired of dancing to everyone’s tune.

Roxburgh smiled. “Finally, I get to see the Bennet Devereaux I know and love. I don’t know what’s really going on here or what you’re plotting behind the scenes, but you’re as miserable as a murderous Macbeth.”

“I am not the one obsessed with stratagems.” Damn, he’d not meant to say that aloud.

“You speak of Isabella Winters. The woman is a conniving devil. So, Granger told you she persuaded him to bring her to the coaching inn in Bramley. She said she has a friend in the area whom she’d promised to meet.”

God’s teeth!

Isabella had come to stay in the village?

“Whatever her reason for being here, I suspect it has nothing to do with her imaginary friend,” Roxburgh continued. “I’ll visit the inn in the morning and ferry her back to London. See if I can discover what’s behind her ruse.”

The morning might not be soon enough.

It took one spark to destroy a house full of guests.

Perhaps he would have Bower stay at the inn tonight and keep a watchful eye on the devious Miss Winters.

“It might be worth you all returning to town,” Bennet began, fearing his friends could be caught in the blaze, but then Lowbridge returned, followed by a rather harried Mrs Hendrie.

“Forgive the intrusion, my lord. Might I have a moment of your time?” She hopped from foot to foot as if standing on hot coals.

Bennet excused himself. He ushered his housekeeper out into the hall and closed the library door behind them. That’s when the woman had a sudden fit of hysterics.

“My lord, you must come quickly.” Mrs Hendrie flapped her hands. “There’s a fire. A fire in the stables. Hurry.”

Good God!

Bennet darted along the hall and out of the front door, leaving his poor housekeeper trailing behind. He reached the stable block to find every man and boy filling buckets from the water trough, while Bower used his brawn to work the pump.

Like an army of ants, the men raced in single file to the north stalls, depositing the contents of their buckets and sprinting back for a refill. Mr Keenan stood amidst the men, barking orders.

He spotted Bennet and came hurrying over, wiping sweat and soot from his brow. “We’ve got the fire under control, milord. Praise be, no one was hurt.”

“What happened?”

Had one of his friends crept out of the house to cause mayhem? Had Granger used his lit cheroot as a weapon of destruction?

“Young Povey had trouble securing the pulley. The rope snapped and sent the lamps crashing to the floor. Flames caught the dry straw in no time.”

A new pulley system was on Branner’s list of improvements. “We’ll have it replaced as a matter of urgency. What about the horses?”

“The horses bolted at the first sign of the flames, almost trampled poor Povey to death. Saracen’s got a nasty burn to his fetlock, but I’ve Mason tending the wound.”

Saracen! The horse that beat Mullholland’s at Cheltenham? Was Mullholland the culprit? Were his friends innocent of any wrongdoing? Hell, Bennet was as delusional as his father. Indeed, mistrust for everyone flowed in his veins. And where the hell was Branner?

“Question the boy again. Check his story. I want to know the whereabouts of all visiting coachmen and grooms. Have any of the guests been seen in the stables tonight?”

Keenan frowned. “Not that I know of, milord. But I’ll check with Mr Bower. He’s been mighty friendly with the coachmen.”

“Don’t trouble yourself now. Wait until things have settled here. And send the men to the house when they’re done. Cook will feed them, and I’ll have Milford bring up a few bottles of brandy from the cellar.”

Keenan relayed his heartfelt thanks and returned to help the men. Bennet went to check the stalls, seeking reassurance that the fire posed no real risk.

Thoughts of Mullholland circled as Bennet made his way back to the house. Were the notes empty threats, merely a means to torment a man? Had Mullholland orchestrated events to exact his revenge?

What would Julianna make of this new development? Indeed, seeing her was Bennet’s only focus as he charged into the hall and burst into the drawing room.

The room was empty.

He summoned Milford, who explained the ladies had joined the gentlemen in the library, except for Julianna, who had left for the cottage. “Mrs Eden wishes to discuss the notes she made this afternoon, my lord, and asks that you visit the cottage before you retire.”

Excitement sparked. She wanted to discuss what she had learnt in his absence this evening, but the thought of being alone with her in the quaint cottage heated his blood.

Bennet reminded Milford to post two footmen on the landing tonight.

Roxburgh, Lowbridge and Mrs Thorne were the only guests in the library when Bennet entered.

“Ah, the wanderer returns,” Roxburgh teased.

“You look in need of a drink, Devereaux.” Lowbridge shook his empty brandy goblet. “I’ll have another.”

Bennet didn’t need a drink. He needed the company of one woman.

“There was a fire in the stables, an accident it seems.” It wasn’t a secret. The men’s servants would inform them soon enough. “It’s under control, but I must speak to my steward and have him assess the damage.” Feeling a prickle of trepidation, he glanced around the room. “I trust the others have retired for the evening.”

Lowbridge gave a sly chuckle. “Granger is on the hunt. He’s left the house, has his sights set on a particular red-haired beauty.”

So Granger had arranged to meet Isabella at the coaching inn.

“Presumably, he’s off to the village. Why else would Isabella persuade him to bring her here? Perhaps she has her sights set on a trip to Brighton.”

Lowbridge snorted. “Granger isn’t interested in Miss Winters. The rake has set his cap for Mrs Eden.”