The Virgin Who Humbled Lord Haslemere by Anna Bradley

Chapter Nine

Benedict gazed into wide eyes gone a moody golden-brown, like sunlight on autumn leaves, and wondered if that was the color they turned when she lied.

“I insist you take me back to Maddox Street at once, Lord Haslemere.” Georgiana tried to jerk free of his grasp, but Benedict held her fast.

“But I’m so enjoying your company, Georgiana.” His lips curved in a smirk, but his words were far closer to the truth than he wished they were, even now, when he knew she’d been lying to him.

“Then there’s that other small matter of your dishonesty.” He raised her chin higher, fascinated by the rich, chocolate brown melting at the outer edges of those gold eyes. “I don’t care for liars, Georgiana.”

He was angry with her, yes, and not his usual, tepid discontent. This anger was a searing, belly-deep fire that made his fists clench, his skin heat. Yet at the same time he was achingly aware of the soft glide of her skin under his fingertips, her teeth worrying at her trembling lower lip.

“Perhaps Kenilworth isn’t as sure of Lord Draven’s friendship as Mrs. Bury imagines he is,” he murmured, leaning closer so he could read her secrets in her eyes. “Perhaps he did wonder if his dear old friend Draven had betrayed him, and hired you to discover the truth.”

She swallowed. “You can’t truly believe the Duke of Kenilworth would be so wicked as to send a half-dozen blackguards to assault Lord Draven.”

Benedict’s gaze darted to her long, pale throat, then back to her eyes. They were darker than he’d ever seen them now, opaque. So beautiful still, but they were the color of shadows, of secrets and lies. “Why not? He’s a man, just like any other.”

“An honorable man, my lord. I’ve never heard a single whisper against him. All of London sings his praises.”

Benedict laughed softly. “Ah, but you see, Georgiana, that’s just what I’d expect someone who’s working for the duke to say. All of Lady Clifford’s girls are clever, but you—you’re the cleverest of them all. Which is either a very good or a very bad thing, depending on whose side you’re on. So, tell me, princess. Whose side are you on?”

“My own side, and Lady Clifford’s side.”

Benedict said nothing as he let his gaze drift over her. How innocent she looked, with those wide, wary eyes. But she was up to her neck in this business of Jane’s. He’d suspected it since the first moment he saw her at Lady Wylde’s, in her bronze gown and black masque.

Now he had her, and he didn’t intend to let her go until she told him everything she knew. “I’ll give you one more chance to tell me the truth, Georgiana. If you truly are on Lady Clifford’s side, you’ll take it. If not, you’ll lose the Mill Street building.”

He released her then, and she turned her face away from him at once, no doubt to hide her expression. Benedict waited, a chill settling at the base of his spine as the silence dragged on, unbroken but for the cacophony of doubts crashing against the inside of his skull.

Had he pushed her too far? Despite the tension between them, Benedict couldn’t make himself believe she’d refuse to tell him the truth—

“The Duke of Kenilworth didn’t hire me, Lord Haslemere.” Georgiana turned away from the window to face him. “Your sister did.”

“Jane?” For a moment, Benedict was too stunned to reply. “But…why?”

“To find Clara Beauchamp, or so she said.” Georgiana sighed. “Things have become quite a bit more complicated since then.”

“Draven and Jane are both searching for Clara Beauchamp? But…why?” Benedict was aware he sounded like some sort of deranged echo, but no other question made sense. “Clara Beauchamp has been missing for six years! Why should they have resumed the search for her now?”

“Because your sister thinks she saw Miss Beauchamp waiting in a carriage outside Lady Tilbury’s townhouse. The duchess sent me to Lady Wylde’s masque ball to see what information I could get from Lady Tilbury, which turned out to be very little.”

Benedict blew out a breath. “Well, there is one bit of good news, at least. The rumor about Draven and Jane has never been anything more than that. Jane’s been seen sneaking in and out of Draven’s London townhouse because they’re both searching for Miss Beauchamp, not because they’re engaged in a love affair.”

“Or there is an affair, and Miss Beauchamp knows something about it. Lord Draven and Jane could just as easily be looking for her to see to it she keeps their secrets to herself.”

Benedict scowled at her. “I prefer my explanation. Do you believe Jane really did see Clara Beauchamp?”

“It’s difficult to say.” Georgiana hesitated, her teeth once more attacking that vulnerable lower lip. “Whether she did or not, we can’t rule out the possibility Lord Draven was attacked because he’s been searching for Clara. If that’s the case, then—”

“Then Jane may be in danger.” Not just Jane, but also Georgiana, who’d made no attempt to hide her interest in Clara Beauchamp’s whereabouts at Lady Wylde’s masque ball last night. “What else, Georgiana? What haven’t you told me?”

She drew in a long breath, then admitted with obvious reluctance, “The duchess came to us at the Clifford School three nights ago, on the same night Lord Draven was attacked.”

“Is there anything else?” Benedict’s voice was clipped.

“No,” she whispered.

He closed his eyes. Between Lady Wylde’s tiresome antics, the scene with Georgiana, and his worry for Jane, he felt as if days had passed since he left his home this morning. By the time Grigg brought the carriage to a stop in front of Kenilworth’s elegant white brick mansion and Benedict handed Georgiana down, he was in no mood to suffer fools.

That was when he remembered Bagshaw.

As usual, the duke’s butler was standing guard in the entryway, and as usual, he frowned when he saw Benedict. “Lord Haslemere.”

“Bagshaw.” Benedict’s lip curled.

Bagshaw looked perfectly harmless—rather like a chess piece, in his black hose and severe black coat with the polished silver buttons—but he was a wily old devil, not to mention a shameless gossip. Nothing escaped Bagshaw’s notice, and everything he noticed found its way from his lips to the duke’s ears.

“My sister is in the drawing room, I trust?” Benedict didn’t wait for an answer, but took Georgiana’s arm and hurried her toward the stairs.

“I beg your pardon, my lord, but the duke prefers I announce every guest before permitting them—”

“I’m not here to see the duke, Bagshaw, and I’m not a guest. I’m the duchess’s brother, for God’s sake. Must we do this every time?”

Bagshaw drew himself up with a dignified sniff. “Yes, my lord. But the young lady—”

“The young lady is my guest, and no concern of yours.”

“As you wish, my lord.” Bagshaw’s tone was cold, his bow stiff.

Benedict didn’t spare the man another glance, but gestured to Georgiana to precede him up the massive, carved mahogany staircase. The sooner they got to the bottom of this mess about Jane, Draven, and Clara Beauchamp, the better.

“Benedict?” Jane rose to her feet when they entered the drawing room, her brows drawn together in a frown. “What are you doing here? I didn’t expect you to appear in London at all this season.”

“Careful, Jane, or I’ll think you’re not pleased to see me.” Benedict crossed the room and dropped a kiss on his sister’s cheek.

“Nonsense. I’m always pleased to see you.” Jane offered him a bright, false smile. “I hope you haven’t come all this way just to quarrel with Bagshaw. Really, Benedict, it’s not at all gentlemanly of you to harass His Grace’s servants.”

“I don’t quarrel with him, Jane. He quarrels with me. But never mind Bagshaw. I’ve brought someone to meet you today. This is Miss Georg—”

“Miss Harley.” Jane reached out to grip the back of the settee beside her. She fought to keep her face blank, but she went so pale she looked as if she were one pump of her heart away from falling into a swoon.

Benedict froze, his stomach giving an uneasy lurch. Jane was staring at Miss Harley with an expression on her face he’d never seen before. Jane wasn’t one to fall into tempers, but her eyes flashed, a quick lightning bolt of anger before her expression shifted into something much, much worse.

Panic, and then…fear.

Benedict took an instinctive step toward her, then froze again, suddenly unsure. Surely, she wasn’t afraid of him? He glanced between Jane and Georgiana, who looked as if she wished herself anywhere but here. “I didn’t realize you were acquainted with Miss Harley, Jane.”

Whatever spell Jane had fallen under snapped at his words. “I…yes, of course, I am. The Marchioness of Darlington introduced me to Miss Harley at Lord and Lady Darlington’s wedding breakfast. It’s a pleasure to see you again, Miss Harley.”

Georgiana curtsied. “How do you do, Your Grace?”

“Lady Darlington. Ah, yes. How could I have forgotten?” It was a perfectly truthful explanation. They had met at Darlington’s wedding breakfast, but it was, at once, both the truth and a lie. It rolled off Jane’s tongue with such ease, if Benedict hadn’t already known there was some secret bubbling just beneath the surface, he might have been fooled.

“Since you’re already acquainted, then you must also know Miss Harley is one of Lady Clifford’s pupils, Jane.” Benedict led Georgiana to an enormous settee across from his sister, then dropped into a chair beside it.

“I, ah…yes, I suppose I did. We only met for a moment, but the Marchioness speaks of Miss Harley with great affection.” Jane turned to Benedict with a wan smile. “But you never answered my question. What brings you to London? The last time we spoke, you told me you were bored with the city and intended to remain at Haslemere House to do some repairs.”

Benedict hesitated, recalling once again how Jane had made a point of encouraging him to remain in Surrey. He hadn’t been surprised at it at the time—he did tend to get into more trouble when he was in London, after all—but now he couldn’t help but wonder if she’d known there’d be rumors about her and Draven, and was determined to keep him out of it.

“I might have done, if Surrey hadn’t proved to be as dull as a tomb.” Benedict offered his sister a careless smile, but it was as false as her bright one. “I imagine I’ll grow bored with London soon enough. You’ll have to tolerate me until then, I suppose.”

“Tolerate you? Nonsense. Freddy will be thrilled to see you. Shall we call him?” Jane didn’t wait for an answer, but crossed the room to pull the bell. She tried to hide it, but Benedict noticed her hands were shaking as she reached for it.

“Wait, Jane. Don’t call him just yet.” Benedict got to his feet, took her hand, and led her back to the settee. He was quiet for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “We’ve never kept secrets from each other, Jane. Not even when we were children.”

Jane shrugged, but she couldn’t look at him. “No, but children’s secrets are harmless, Benedict.”

“The more harmful a secret, the more reason to share it.” Benedict pressed her hand gently between his. “I know something is amiss, Jane. I’ve known it for months, since this winter, when you and Freddy spent so much time in Surrey. I’d hoped you would have confided in me by now. You haven’t, and now I must have the truth.”

“What truth, Benedict?” Jane laughed, but the sound was as sharp and brittle as shattering glass. “I haven’t the vaguest idea what you mean.”

“I attended Lady Wylde’s masque ball last night.” Benedict long fingers swallowed her delicate ones. “I heard the rumors about you and Lord Draven.”

Jane stared at him, her throat working. “I—it’s gossip, Benedict. Nothing more. Surely you must know there isn’t any truth to it?”

Benedict drew in a breath. What he was going to say next would hurt both him and Jane, but it must be said. “I called on Lady Wylde this morning, Jane. She told me quite a tale about you and Lord Draven having a secret past.”

“You spoke to Lady Wylde about this? Lady Wylde, of all people?” Jane pressed a shaking hand to her forehead. “Dear God, Benedict, what have you done?”

“She reminded me you met Draven six years ago, at his father’s house party. What happened at that party, Jane? Did you fall in love with Lord Draven?”

“No!” Jane cried. “I can’t…I won’t talk about this with you.”

“You must, Jane. You will, before this gets any worse. You know Lord Draven was attacked?” One glance at her face, and Benedict had his answer. “Yes, I see you do.”

Jane flinched away from him, as if every word out of his mouth was a blow. Benedict despised hurting her, and wished with all his heart he could let this go and never speak of it again, but the only way he could help her was to have the truth from her. “Listen to me, Jane. Whatever it is, however bad it is, I’ll help you. You must know that. I’d do anything for you.”

“Benedict, please. You don’t know what you’re…you’ll only make it worse. We’re not children anymore. You can’t solve my problems by bloodying noses, or pushing my tormentors in the fishpond.”

“The devil I can’t.” It might take a pistol or sword this time, but he’d do what he must.

“No, Benedict.” Jane snatched her hand from his, leapt to her feet, and crossed to the window. “You can’t help me with this.”

“Draven was beaten to within an inch of his life, Jane, just days after a rumor began to circulate that you and he are having an affair.” Benedict’s voice was quiet. “An affair that began six years ago, at the same house party where a young lady named Clara Beauchamp disappeared. Something happened at that party, and six years later, people are still being hurt over it. What if you’re next?”

At mention of Clara Beauchamp, Jane’s entire body stiffened. She turned from the window to face him, her voice pleading. “Please, Benedict. I’m begging you to let this go.”

He let out a harsh laugh. “I can’t do that. You know better than to even ask it.”

Georgiana hadn’t said a single word during this exchange, but now she scrambled up from the settee and reached a hesitant hand out to Jane. “Please, Your Grace. Your brother doesn’t wish to force confidences from you, but—”

Benedict turned on Georgiana, incredulous. “Yes, I do.”

* * * *

Georgiana bit her lip as she glanced from Benedict’s angry face to Jane’s agonized one.

This wasn’t going well at all, and it was all Lord Haslemere’s fault.

He was making an utter mess of things. He’d barreled forward without any caution or sense, like a child who upends a chess board, obliterating any chance they might have had at making rational, precise moves. Then with every word out of his mouth, he’d made things progressively worse.

Georgiana had feared this visit would end in disaster, but this—it was worse than she’d imagined. The duchess had buried her face in her hands, her slender shoulders shaking, and Lord Haslemere was pacing from one end of the enormous drawing room to the other, eying his sister much as he had Lady Wylde, right before he set about squeezing her until drops of information trickled from her lips like rain from a gray winter sky.

That dark, intense gaze wasn’t even directed at her, but it sent a shiver up Georgiana’s spine nonetheless. No one who looked at Lord Haslemere right now could possibly think he was nothing more than a charming rake.

His lean body was rigid, his lips pressed into a tight line, and his eyes were glittering with anger and worry, and…something else, something forged in fire, and edged in ice.

Determination.

None of them spoke, and the silence stretched until it swelled into every corner of the cavernous room. Georgiana’s gaze moved over the fine furnishings, the enormous blue silk settee the duchess had been seated on when they first came in, so large and overstuffed it looked as if it might swallow her whole. For all her wealth and her exalted title and the magnificence that surrounded her, the duchess seemed oddly lost here in this grand house.

Or perhaps it was because of the magnificence, rather than in spite of it. It emphasized how small the duchess was, how slight. The massive marble fireplace, the extravagant gold pier glasses, the glittering chandeliers and oceans of blue silk—it overwhelmed her. She put Georgiana in mind of a tiny, fragile bird, its wings fluttering nervously, as if it were on the verge of flying away.

“Come here, Jane.” Lord Haslemere’s face softened as his sister struggled to regain her composure, and he reached for her and gathered her into his arms.

Georgiana stared at him, a strange flutter in her chest. She never would have imagined Lord Haslemere could wear such an expression as that. His handsome face was tight with pain, his dark eyes bleak.

This wasn’t the same man who’d strolled into Lady Wylde’s drawing room and ruthlessly manipulated her as if he were a virtuoso strumming an instrument, nor was he the arrogant earl who’d caught Georgiana’s chin in his hard fingers and demanded answers.

This man held his sister tenderly, a fond brother who, like so many fond brothers before him, was rendered helpless by the sight of her tears. Anyone could see he was desperate to protect her, and Jane clung to his coat until her hitching breaths calmed, as if he’d soothed her in just this way dozens of times before.

When Lord Haslemere released her at last, Jane’s face was pale but composed. “I’ll summon Freddy now, shall I?”

He nodded, and made an attempt at a smile. “Yes. I’ve missed him. The remainder of the winter dragged without the two of you at Haslemere House.”

The duchess crossed the room to pull the bell, and a few moments later a maidservant entered the drawing room. “Fetch Freddy, won’t you, Betsy? His uncle is here, and wishes to see him. He’s in the library with Mr. Chilcote, I believe.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” Betsy went off to do the duchess’s bidding, and a little while later quick, light footsteps echoed in the hallway. They got closer and closer until at last a small boy of about five with a shock of wild, dark red curls ran into the room.

“Uncle Benedict!” The boy’s face lit up with a sweet, guileless smile as he hurried across the room. He was carrying a flat wooden puzzle, which he pushed into Lord Haslemere’s hands. “See, Uncle?”

“A new dissected puzzle, Freddy?” Lord Haslemere turned the puzzle right side up and balanced it on his lap. “‘Europe Divided into Its Kingdoms.’ That’s a very good one. But before you show it to me you must make your bow to Miss Harley.” He turned Freddy toward Georgiana with his hands on the boy’s shoulders.

The boy’s cheeks flushed as he gave Georgiana an awkward bow. “How do you do?”

Georgiana smiled. The boy had very pretty dark eyes, and an expressive, endearing face. She liked him right away. “Is that one of Madame Beaumont’s dissected maps, or one of John Spilsbury’s?”

The boy flushed again, this time with pleasure. “Mr. Spilsbury’s, ma’am.”

“I always wanted a dissected map when I was a girl, particularly Madame Beaumont’s dissected map of Europe.” She’d never gotten one, of course, or even seen one before. They were very dear, some of them as much as two guineas.

“Here, Freddy. Take the map to Miss Harley, so she may see it.” Lord Haslemere handed the wooden frame back to Freddy. “Mind you don’t jostle the pieces, or we’ll see how familiar Miss Harley is with the borders of the European Kingdoms.”

Freddy approached Georgiana somewhat bashfully, but like most children he could tell the difference between an adult who was simply humoring him and one who was sincerely interested, and Georgiana truly was fascinated with the map. “I like the British Isles best. See?” Freddy plucked the piece up and offered it to Georgiana.

Georgiana turned it in her hand, admiring it. “It’s wonderful, isn’t it? The British Isles is the best, of course, but I’ve always been fond of Italy, because of its curious shape.” Well, that and because so many of her favorite Gothic romances were set there. “See this bit here?” She traced a finger around the southern edge of Italy. “It looks like a pointing finger, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.” Freddy darted a look at her from under his eyelashes, his plump cheeks once again blooming with color. “I thought girls didn’t like things like geography and maps.”

Lord Haslemere chuckled. Georgiana darted a glance at him, half-expecting him to claim most ladies didn’t like such things, and that it was just as well because they didn’t have the analytical brains to appreciate them, but all he said was, “Who gave you that idea, Freddy? Not Mr. Chilcote, I hope.”

Freddy shook his curly red head. “No, Uncle Benedict. It was Father who said so.”

A brief, awkward silence fell before Georgiana broke it. “I daresay some ladies don’t like maps and such things, but many do, and many other things not considered strictly ladylike besides.”

Freddy’s dark eyes, which were very much like his uncle’s, sharpened with interest. “What things?”

“Maths, for one. It appeals to analytical minds because numbers are rational, dependable things, unlike, for example, poetry.”

Or people.

“Are you good at maths?” Freddy asked doubtfully.

“Very good. So good I teach it.”

“You mean you’re like Mr. Chilcote?” Freddy looked quite impressed.

“Yes, though I teach young ladies.”

“Freddy,” the duchess interrupted gently. “It’s impertinent to ask so many questions.”

“Thank you for sharing this with me.” Georgiana handed the British Isles back to the boy.

Freddy took the piece, then hesitated. “You will come back again, won’t you, ma’am?”

Before Georgiana could reply, the duchess said, “Freddy. You’re keeping Mr. Chilcote waiting.”

“Yes, Mama.” Freddy offered Georgiana one last grin, showing off the gaps in his gums, then shoved the British Isles in his pocket, trotted to the door, and darted through it. A moment later, however, he peeked back around the corner again. “I’ll see you again very soon, won’t I, Uncle Benedict?”

“Yes, Freddy, you will. I have some business in London, and I don’t intend to leave until it’s completed.” But Benedict wasn’t looking at Freddy. He was looking at his sister. “I’ll start by paying a visit to Lady Archer this evening.”

The duchess, who could hardly fail to understand him, shook her head. “You’d be much better off returning to Surrey, Benedict.” She didn’t give him a chance to reply, but shifted her attention to Georgiana. “It was kind of you to visit, Miss Harley. I daresay it will be some time before I can return the courtesy.”

It was plain to see the duchess wasn’t pleased with her, and no wonder, what with Lord Haslemere storming into her drawing room and demanding answers after Georgiana had sworn to keep this business a secret from him.

She bit her lip. How had she managed to bungle this so badly? Now she’d have to confess to Lady Clifford that she’d angered the Duchess of Kenilworth. Lady Clifford would know how to repair the rift, but until then, there was only one thing Georgiana could do.

She dropped into a curtsy. “As you wish, Your Grace.”