One winters night, p.10
One Winter's Night, page 10
“My mother.”
“Yes. A love denied them by your grandfather.” As soon as Montague lifted the lid on his box of secrets, the contents had tumbled out. “I’d never heard the story before that night. When Montague explained how he had avoided Lady Denham these last forty years, told me that she lived but twenty miles from Chippenham, well, I encouraged him in the belief that it’s never too late for a reconciliation.”
“I see.” He folded his arms across his chest, his disappointment pinning her to the chair. “And so you devised a plan where you might knock on my door one winter’s night in the hope I might offer you shelter.” His blue eyes clouded with hurt. “Since then, you’ve toyed with me while awaiting your grandfather’s arrival. A man determined to seduce my mother with memories of the past.”
He made it all sound so wickedly contrived. Just like the devious plans of those mamas who’d sent their daughters to win the earl’s hand.
“What could I do? Should I ignore the sad story of a stubborn old fool? I’d give anything to see Montague happy.”
Lord Denham pushed out of the chair and straightened to his full intimidating height. “So much so, you plotted and schemed, tricked an equally fragile woman who hasn’t had a moment’s peace her entire life.” He shook his head, dragged his hand down his face and sighed. “You let me kiss you, let me tell you that I’ve never wanted another woman the way I want you.” His mocking snort hit like the lash of a whip. “How ridiculous you must think me.”
Oh, she’d known this would be his reaction, but she was to blame, not him.
Lara reached out to touch him, but he stepped away. “I don’t think you ridiculous at all. Quite the opposite.” She gulped a breath. “You’re the most intriguing man I have ever met. You’re honest and kind.” And so devilishly handsome. “You’re strong when you need to be. Compassionate to those whose lives are not as privileged as your own.”
“Privileged? You think it a blessing to have people fawn over you? Filling your head with lies because they desire your money and your position, yet don’t give a damn for your affection? You met Ted Hughes this afternoon. You saw how his wife clutched his arm and looked at him as if he were the most treasured man in all of England.”
Tears started rolling down her cheeks.
It had nothing to do with guilt or needing his pity.
She had developed a deep affection for this man. She felt as if she’d known him her whole life, not merely a matter of days. Her mother had once told her that she’d loved Phineas Bennett the moment they met. A young girl of seventeen—the muse of a painter seven years her senior—might fall easily to flights of fancy. But the couple had loved each other until they’d drawn their last breaths.
“Dry your eyes, Miss Bennett.” He strode over to the door and opened it wide. Outside, the snowstorm swirled as erratically as her emotions. “You got what you came for. One only had to observe Montague and Penelope during dinner to know they were once very much in love.” He gestured for her to leave the quaint house. “No doubt my mother will view your scheme as romantic. No doubt she will make regular trips to Chippenham come the spring.”
Lara stood and raised her hood, ready to tackle a storm as volatile as the one indoors. The lump in her throat made it hard to swallow. She moved to walk past the earl but stopped in the doorway. “Forgive me. I simply wished to make an old man happy.”
The earl inhaled deeply, but when he spoke his tone remained as harsh as the winter weather. “Then your task is done. Perhaps it’s best you leave on the morrow.”
Lara nodded, though a sharp pain tore through her heart. “I shall leave later today, my lord. The hour has passed midnight. It’s already Christmas Day.”
The earl’s mocking snort rent the air. “Then you might want to wish me a happy birthday, Miss Bennett. I’m sure it will be one I shall not soon forget. Indeed, perhaps I might offer for Miss Harper. At least her cunning is plain for all to see.”
A sudden flash of anger made Lara lift her chin and look at the earl directly. “That might be for the best, my lord,” she said just as coldly. “A man who cannot see that compassion and a desire for justice formed the basis of my actions is a man wholly deserving of a wife like Miss Harper.”
With that, she gathered her cloak across her chest and stormed out into the night.
Hugo closed the door to the Summer Tower behind him and raised the collar of his greatcoat. His heart was as heavy as his footsteps as he trudged through the snow back to the orchard. Thank heavens Miss Bennett wore a red cloak else it might have been impossible to trail her as she fought through the blizzard.
The gentleman in him would see her safely back to her room lest she encounter a murderous devil. Pride made him want to catch up with her and whip her with his vicious tongue. A fitting retribution for making him believe that fate had conspired to bring them together. That a heavenly force had worked behind the scenes to grant him his heart’s desire.
“Fool!” he cursed himself and kicked at a mound of snow.
Another emotion he refused to claim made him want to take her in his arms and pretend she’d not made the damning confession. He’d made a vow to marry, and a woman perfect for him in every conceivable way had knocked on his door one cold winter’s night.
Damnation!
This was not how he envisaged their retreat to the tower would end.
To distract his mind from his misfortune, he considered the note he’d found in Bertie Bellham’s boot. None of the guests at Wollaston Hall would have found the information useful. Miss Bennett was right. Bellham must have wished to reach the house before Lord Northcott to seek a private audience.
But the flaw in Hugo’s logic was as glaringly obvious as that first glimpse of Bertie’s blood in the snow. Bellham should have reached Wollaston at least an hour before Northcott. Two if they rode at the same pace. Either the viscount lied about the time, or Bertie met with someone else prior to his murder. If the latter were true, then one guest found details of the Strawbridge’s schedule important enough to murder a man. And Bertie had insisted his killer came from the house.
Miss Bennett had not mentioned seeing Bellham on the road. All the ladies were present in the drawing room before Hugo rode out to West Chisenbury to collect Miss Bennett’s valise. Which meant Bellham must have arrived late.
Hell, the whole damn business was confounding.
Almost as confounding as his feelings for the lady who dazzled in red.
Hugo blinked away the snowflakes clinging to his lashes and realised that during his moment of introspection he had lost Miss Bennett. Crippled with a sense of trepidation, he narrowed his gaze and frantically scanned the cluster of apple trees ahead in an effort to locate the lady.
He spotted her hiding behind the trunk of a tree near the bothy. What in heaven’s name was she doing? Then he noticed the unexpected glow of candlelight inside the old brick building.
Hell’s teeth!
If he found Miss Pardue examining Bellham’s body again, she’d get the full force of his temper.
The door to the bothy creaked open. A woman appeared carrying a lantern, her height and build different from that of Miss Pardue. Hugo shot behind the trunk of an oak tree bordering the orchard. His heart raced, not from the sudden exertion, but from a fear that this might be the murdering fiend, a fiend who might seek to silence Miss Bennett.
Hugo peered around the tree, praying Miss Bennett wouldn’t do something irrational, wouldn’t jump out of her hiding place to surprise this late-night suspect. He should have known better than to doubt the lady with a mind as logical as his own. Indeed, as the cloaked figure hurried along the path leading towards the house, Miss Bennett remained rooted to the spot.
With a desperate need to reach her, he moved stealthily through the orchard. “Tell me you saw the woman’s face,” he said as he came up behind her for the second time tonight.
“It’s Miss Venables.” Her breathless pants came in puffs of white mist. “I could tell from the shot of red hair escaping her hood. Unless Lord Flanders has taken to wearing women’s clothing and prowling the gardens at night.”
“After recent events, nothing would surprise me.” The tension vibrating in the air between them smothered all attempts at humour. “I witnessed Miss Venables sneaking into the viscount’s bedchamber earlier this evening.” He’d pressed his ear to the door, heard the lady’s irate voice quelled by the soothing drawl of a rake out to use seduction as a means of distraction. “Perhaps the couple colluded to bring about Bellham’s demise.”
“You should question the maids and Miss Harper and try to find flaws in Miss Venables’ alibi.”
The fact she had not said we or turned to gaze deeply into his eyes in the way that hardened the muscles in his abdomen roused a longing so intense he could barely catch his breath.
She stepped out from behind the tree, her countenance as stiff as the bare branches. “I must return to the house. My toes are numb. The cold weather has seeped into my bones, and I shall need to huddle next to a warming pan if I’ve any hope of sleeping tonight.”
He could think of nothing to say, nothing salacious or witty. For the first time since meeting her, conversation was stilted. They walked back along the path in frosty silence. The tall hedges banking the walkway on both sides emphasised the heavy weight of his burden. After entering the family’s sitting room through the Renaissance-style loggia, they hung back in the shadows while waiting for the unsuspecting Miss Venables to mount the stairs.
Amid the darkness, he was acutely aware of Miss Bennett’s breathing, of the intoxicating scent of her skin that made him want to devour every inch of her soft flesh. Lust might easily be sated, but he feared this all-consuming passion would haunt him for the rest of his days.
Once assured their quarry had returned to her bedchamber—or the viscount’s bedchamber should she have a compulsive obsession to slake her lust—Hugo escorted Miss Bennett through the hall. She unfastened her damp cloak and hung it on the hook in the cloakroom beneath the stairs.
The light in the drawing room drew Hugo’s attention, and he stopped in the doorway to glance inside. Lord Forsyth sat on the sofa flanking the fire, a book gripped between his fingers though his eyes were closed, his breathing light. Hugo’s mother lay sprawled out, her head resting on a cushion in the lord’s lap. With the serene look of a child, she, too, slept peacefully.
Hugo wondered why they had not retired to their prospective chambers. His mother rarely remained downstairs past ten. Would he have lost all concept of time had he been curled on the sofa reading to Miss Bennett? Undoubtedly.
“If only either would have had the strength to make contact when your father died three years ago,” Miss Bennett whispered as she came to stand beside him in the doorway. “Montague struggled to forgive her. And Penelope must have thought he despised every bone in her body. But they’re at a time in their lives when the past should no longer matter.”
“You think I should encourage my mother to follow her heart?”
“I think you must do whatever makes her happy.” Miss Bennett moved to the staircase, and he felt the loss of her company. “Isn’t that what life is about?” She paused with her hand on the newel post, and he noticed that she wore her nightdress and wrapper. Desire should have burst through his veins at a rapid rate. But it was her damp cheeks and the red blotches marring her face that stole his attention. “How can a lie be so wrong when that is the outcome?” And without further comment, she turned away.
He watched her climb the stairs, his eyes drinking in the gentle sway of her hips, the cascade of warm brown tresses spilling over her shoulders and back. “Miss Bennett.” He didn’t know what he would say, but she did not pause on her journey back to her bedchamber or glance back over her shoulder.
Life had suddenly become more complex. His head had hurt with the pressure of choosing a bride. Now it was positively pounding.
He remained at the drawing room door for a time, his mind torn between waking their kin and allowing them the peace denied them these last forty years. But it was not for him to interfere in affairs of the heart.
The trudge upstairs felt like a mountainous climb. Was he not justified in his anger towards Miss Bennett? How might any friendship born on a lie survive? That said, she could have kept up the pretence. She didn’t need to tell him the truth tonight. Did that not speak for the depth of her affection?
Bloody hell!
Were it not a ridiculous hour of the morning, he would snatch the port decanter and down the contents, for he doubted his mind would allow him the luxury of sleep.
And what was Miss Venables doing in the bothy with Bellham’s body? No doubt doing the work of her lover, Lord Northcott. He wouldn’t be the first peer to embroil his mistress in his criminal activities, nor the first to lay the blame at her door.
Numerous other questions and theories raced through Hugo’s mind as he approached his bedchamber door. All of them vanished the instant he turned the doorknob to find the room ransacked.
Chapter Eleven
Christmas Day continued in the same vein as it began—chaotic. Whoever had the gall to enter an earl’s bedchamber, strip the sheets off the bed, empty drawers onto the floor and yank every item from the armoire hid their treachery well.
While the coroner’s arrival, and the few men he could muster to the jury, sent Lady Denham into a panic and the servants fretting over the disturbance to their festive routines, the other guests took breakfast in the dining room with calm equanimity.
Those few who could manage the short ride to Upavon attended the church service, while Hugo escorted Mr Marshall and the other gentlemen to the old bothy. Once there, he explained the course of events that led to him discovering Mr Bellham’s body.
“And you saw no one in the vicinity, my lord?” Mr Marshall, a thin man of sixty with trembling hands, pushed his spectacles further up his hooked nose and examined the body. “Met no one on the road from West Chisenbury?”
“No one.”
A juror continued to scribble in his pocketbook. The podgy man to his right, whose mustard waistcoat barely covered his paunch, mumbled something in the fellow’s ear before asking, “And there was no sign of the gentleman’s horse you say?”
“No. When the snow clears, and we widen the investigation, I’m sure we’ll find someone has taken the animal into their barn.”
“You said you were with the deceased when he died,” Mr Marshall interjected.
“Mr Bellham died within minutes of our arrival at the front gate.” Hugo would never forget his friend’s bloodstained lips or him gasping his last breath. “Lord Flanders and Miss Bennett can bear witness.”
Mr Marshall frowned. “And who saw fit to extract the weapon?”
“I did,” Hugo said with the authority of a man who could trace his lineage back to the Norman Conquest. “A man cannot rest in peace with a knife protruding from his chest.”
“Do you still have the knife, Lord Denham?” The podgy man’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.
“Indeed.” Hugo’s next task would rouse numerous questions from the gentlemen gathered around Bertie’s body. He strode over to the fireplace, pushed aside the charred embers and sooty remains and removed the weapon wrapped in a bloodstained handkerchief. “I felt it imperative to the investigation to keep the knife safe.”
As expected, the action caused raised brows amongst the jury.
Mr Marshall, being a man with a sharp mind and a skill for deduction, drew the obvious conclusion when he peeled back the silk folds and studied the silver knife with the mother-of-pearl handle. “Is there such an item missing from any cutlery caddies in the dining room, my lord?”
“I have checked every set, and that knife has not come from this house.”
The podgy man peered over Bellham’s body to gain a closer look at the knife cradled in Mr Marshall’s palm. “Forgive me, my lord, but footpads usually carry hunting knives, not ones snatched from the dinner table. A footpad is more likely to knock a man unconscious than thrust a blade into his chest. And if he committed such an atrocity, he would not leave his weapon behind.”
“It is not for me to determine a criminal’s motive for choosing his weapon. But you’re free to take statements from every member of the household including the guests.” Hugo listed the aristocrats in attendance while a man from the jury recorded the details.
“Well, it’s clear from the place of death that a highway robber or some such felon attacked Mr Bellham.” Mr Marshall nodded profusely as he glanced around the few members of his jury who’d ventured out on this bitter morning. “As a matter of course, we shall take statements, but members of the nobility do not parade outdoors in this weather brandishing cutlery.”
Mr Marshall’s reaction confirmed why Hugo omitted to mention the whispered words of a dying man and the scribbled note hidden in a boot. Even a coroner was reluctant to question a peer on suspicion of murder. One word of protest from Lord Northcott and Mr Marshall might find himself out of a job.
“With all due respect,” one juror said. “Mr Bellham’s gold medallion is still attached to the ribbon in his fob pocket.”
Mr Marshall shook his head, tutted and with some frustration said, “The felon had already used his knife to stab the gentleman. He wasn’t about to linger at the gates of a grand house. From the choice of weapon, it is clear the felon is inexperienced in such crimes. No doubt we will find the blighter drowning his misfortune in the local tavern.”
The magistrate would ensure someone paid for the death of a man of Bellham’s pedigree. Hugo needed more time to investigate. He’d narrowed down the suspects and had to apply more pressure. But one whisper to the guests’ high-born families that the coroner had named their kin as suspects, and heaven knows what dishonest deals would be done behind closed doors.
