One winters night, p.11
One Winter's Night, page 11
No, the best way to seek justice for Bellham was for Hugo to catch the criminal himself.
“Assuming the statements reveal nothing untoward,” Mr Marshall said, “we shall rule death by violence on the King’s Highway. Sir Ellis will be informed.”
“Then I shall escort you all back to the warmth of the house and arrange for private rooms where you might attend to the matter promptly.”
The coroner pulled his watch from his pocket and inspected the time. “Yes, two hours should suffice. Indeed, gentlemen, we should be home in time for roasted goose.”
Once back at the house, the guests assembled in the drawing room while waiting to give their statements. Miss Pardue and Miss Mason-Jones had just returned, and the viscount and Miss Harper had left to give their accounts.
Hugo had spoken to Miss Bennett only to inform her why he’d not mentioned Bertie’s mutterings or the notes on the Strawbridge. With cool politeness, she agreed to keep the information to herself for the next few days. They’d had no time to discuss the matter further. Now, watching her animated conversation with her grandfather whilst they sat on the sofa, he realised just how much he missed her company.
Lady Denham approached wearing a dress of deep sapphire blue that drew the gaze away from her tired eyes. She slipped her arm through his and squeezed. “I must tell you that you were right in your insistence not to marry any of the girls here.”
He’d said he wouldn’t marry any of those invited. Miss Bennett had taken it upon herself to leave her carriage in the snow and ride to his front door.
“Are you feeling unwell, Mother?” he teased. “Has the cold seeped into your bones and played havoc with your mind?”
“Be serious, Hugo. I may have made a mistake in my choice of potential brides, but your oath still stands.”
“You expect me to find someone to marry before the day is out?”
“Of course not. But I expect you to take the matter seriously.”
“So the fact Miss Harper’s brother will be one of the richest men in the country is no longer of great importance?”
She clutched his arm a little tighter and drew him away from the guests assembled on the sofas. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Lord Northcott is on the verge of bankruptcy. Montague heard tell that the viscount had people spread a good word about his venture to encourage more investors. Why do you think Miss Harper is so desperate to secure your hand? She needs a wealthy husband before it’s too late.”
Hugo arched a brow. “And I presumed my handsome looks and charming wit might have been an enticement.”
His mother huffed. “Marriage is a business. You’re the only person who thinks otherwise.”
“Not the only person.” He glanced at Miss Bennett’s warm brown eyes and wide smile. “Some people still believe in the value of love. After reuniting with Lord Forsyth, I expected you to feel the same.”
A sad sigh left her lips. “I have lived a lie for so long, Hugo, I cannot just change overnight.” Water welled in her eyes. “Somewhere beneath this costume lives a young woman full of hope and ambition, I just need to find her.”
Hugo cupped her cheek. “Do what you must to find happiness, Mother. For thirty years, I’ve witnessed your immeasurable sorrow. What loving son wouldn’t hope that the next thirty are filled with immense joy?”
Penelope’s chin wobbled, and her bottom lip trembled. The rigid spine that had kept her upright and proud and far too stubborn suddenly sagged. “Montague has my heart, Hugo. He stole it forty-one years ago and has kept it with him ever since.” She placed her hand on his chest. “I’m sorry I couldn’t love your father.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t love him, either.” His father’s indifference no longer hurt. He glanced at the elegant gentleman on the sofa who gazed upon his granddaughter with deep affection. Knots formed in Hugo’s stomach. He would make it right with Miss Bennett as soon as the coroner took his leave. “Fate has sought to give you a second chance, Mother. Waste not a single minute.”
Penelope patted his chest. “I’m not sure fate played a part. Montague orchestrated the whole carriage-stuck-in-the-snow scenario just so we might meet again. Fear would have prevented me from seeing him should he have written and asked.”
Hugo coughed to clear his throat. Guilt rose like bile for the cruel way he’d reacted to news of Miss Bennett’s lie. “Any fool can see he cares for you deeply.”
“Unlike most men, Montague finds it easy to show love.”
“And has he forgiven you for marrying my father?”
“Forgiven me for being weak, for not having the strength to flee? Yes. Good men look beyond their pain and try to understand another’s motives.”
Hugo stared into Penelope’s bright eyes. The change in her was remarkable. The message, abundantly clear. Yet he struggled to understand why a woman who’d suffered as she had would insist her son marry purely out of duty.
“And should I forgive you for being weak, Mother?”
She cast him a quizzical look.
“Should I forgive you for parading me in front of the marriage mart when love played no part in your determination to see me wed? When you yourself told me marriage was a business? Why would you torment your son as your father tormented you?”
A tense silence ensued.
Hurt swam in her eyes.
“Well?” he pressed, for he would hear the truth. “Is there not an element of hypocrisy here?”
“Hugo, love is rarely found in society marriages, but you have a duty to wed. None of the ladies here are right for you, but I hoped it might prompt you to look for someone suitable. And I’ve worn my matron’s mask for so long I often confuse what is real.”
“I prefer you without your haughty costume.”
A weak smile touched her lips. “So do I. The stories we tell ourselves in our heads can be damning. Bitterness thrives. Guilt festers. We should all learn to speak from the heart even when we fear the answer.”
Hugo inclined his head in acknowledgement, and his thoughts turned to Miss Bennett. He stole a glimpse when she laughed at something Montague said. Love shone in her expressive brown eyes. He’d seen pain and hurt there, too. His doing. Other than concealing that one lie, she wore the truth of her feelings, plain for all to see.
“Might I ask when you knew you loved Montague Forsyth?”
After a few seconds spent in silent contemplation, Penelope said, “It was at a ball.” Her eyes brightened as if she stood beneath the light of a hundred candles. “When he entered the room, the atmosphere thrummed with excitement. He stood on the steps leading down to the dance floor, adjusting his cuffs while scanning the crowd. And then those dark eyes found me.” She inhaled deeply. “My heart raced so quickly I could barely catch my breath. He cut through the throng with purposeful strides and asked me to dance. If I close my eyes, I can remember everything.”
“Had you known him long?”
“It was only the second time we’d met. Love is strange like that. Sometimes it takes years of nurturing to grow. Sometimes you know the moment your eyes lock.” She patted his arm affectionately. “If love touches your heart, grasp it with both hands.”
“Even if my affection is for Miss Venables?” he teased.
“You cannot marry Miss Venables. The woman has spent more time in the viscount’s bedchamber than her own. If Miss Harper’s mother were alive, I’d advise her to boot the paid companion out on her ear. You’d think they’d be more discreet.”
“Perhaps they’re in love.”
Penelope glanced over her shoulder at the red-haired woman standing alone near the far window. She stared out across the snow-covered landscape, her expression solemn. “He doesn’t give a hoot for her. Lust is his only motivation. The girl is so desperate to please him, Gabrielle saw her sneaking out to wait for him at the gate.”
It took a moment for his mother’s words to penetrate. The viscount arrived shortly before they found Bertie murdered. Miss Venables insisted she was with Miss Harper, who had sworn they were together. Both were each other’s alibis. Both had lied. Did Miss Harper know her companion colluded with the viscount?
“And you did not think it an important piece of information in the murder of Bertram Bellham?” he whispered through gritted teeth.
Penelope snorted. “Miss Venables is a slip of a girl. Hardly the sort capable of bringing down a cad like Mr Bellham.”
By rights, they should inform the coroner, but the authorities would be quick to blame the hired help for the murder of an aristocratic gentleman. And he’d not throw Miss Venables to the wolves. Not without substantial proof of guilt. Indeed, he was more intrigued to know why Miss Harper had lied.
“Miss Venables risks her position every time she slips into the viscount’s bed,” he said, steering the conversation away from suspects and murder. “It’s a tale of old. One that usually ends in disaster for the woman involved.”
The drawing room door swung open. Lord Northcott strode into the room with his usual arrogant flare. Miss Harper looked equally confident and self-assured. Had she batted her eyes with the same look of sincerity and lied to the coroner, too? Had the viscount manipulated both women to do his bidding?
One of them had slipped into Hugo’s room last night and torn the place apart. Had Miss Venables watched him leave the house? Had she taken the opportunity to search his room for the note Bertie had hidden in his boot? Had she moved to examine the body when her efforts proved unsuccessful?
A desperate need to discuss his theories with Miss Bennett rose in Hugo’s chest. But the coroner called the lady and her grandfather next. As she left the room, she cast him a nervous glance. He wanted to take her in his arms, caress her back in soothing strokes and tell her she had nothing to fear. He wanted to tell her he understood her reason for lying. He wanted her to kiss him in the way that excited the soul, to see the hazy look of desire swimming in her eyes once again.
“Montague mentioned leaving this evening,” Penelope said sadly. “Talk to him, Hugo. He doesn’t want to go, but I’m convinced he thinks you disapprove. Tell him it’s ludicrous to venture out in this weather.”
Hugo patted his mother’s arm. “I shall address the matter once we’ve concluded this business with the coroner.” And once he’d found time to speak to Miss Bennett alone and made a heartfelt apology.
Chapter Twelve
The coroner was not interested in theories or opinions. He tried to suggest that Lara might have seen a vagrant fleeing the murder scene. At this time of year, when work was scarce, poor men often acted impulsively. Lara confirmed that she had seen no one on the lane. She might have said that the only footprints led to the house. That the murderer was, without doubt, residing within these stately walls. But the coroner’s eagerness to steer her opinion roused feelings of distrust.
On her return to the drawing room, the mood was subdued.
Lord Denham approached. “Would you care for a glass of sherry, Miss Bennett? I would say to settle your nerves, but you’re one of the few people I know who can remain calm during trying situations.”
“By trying situations, do you mean when I’m not being free with the truth?”
There was little point skating around their argument when he offered an olive branch. In helping her grandfather, she had hurt Lord Denham. And she was truly sorry for that. Equally, his cutting response to her confession had cleaved her heart in two.
“I mean when comforting a dying man. When hiding in the orchard preparing to pounce on a suspected murderer.”
His reply brought a smile to her lips. “Perhaps we should draw a truce, my lord. When I leave this evening, I would rather do so as friends, not enemies.” Her heart lurched at the prospect of never again experiencing the taste of his lips. For some bizarre reason, Wollaston felt like home—he felt like home.
“Must you go?” He swallowed deeply. “Having spent the last forty years apart, would you deny our kin precious time together? Besides, it’s not safe to travel anywhere. Being a man of sense and responsibility, I must forbid it.”
“Forbid it?” She arched a brow as a playful reprimand. The reasons he offered were logical and yet she wished he had said he enjoyed her company, said that letting her leave would cause a painful ache in his heart. “The last thing I want is for my presence to offend you.”
“Nothing about you offends me, Miss Bennett.” And there it was. That heated look in his eyes that said so much more than words. “Can we not discuss this somewhere else, somewhere private?”
The last word roused memories of their passionate kiss in the orchard. The feel of his mouth moving sensually over hers was indelibly marked into her brain. Who wouldn’t want to experience such a heavenly moment again?
“We’re to dine soon, and Lady Denham wishes us to gather together afterwards to celebrate your birthday. Miss Harper insists on organising games to amuse us.” Miss Harpy—a fitting monicker—had a mischievous look in her eyes that spelled trouble. Lara wouldn’t miss having to be polite to that vulture. “Indeed, the lady is keen to win your approval.”
So keen to win his approval that she broke up their tête-à-tête, clutched the earl’s arm and said, “Come, we need to do something to lift the mood. It is your birthday, and there is nothing we can do for poor Mr Bellham. Turn the sheets for me while I play something lively.”
Other than batting the lady off with a stick—and even that might prove hopeless as Miss Harper gripped the earl with her mighty talons—Lord Denham had no choice but to oblige the lady’s whims.
Miss Harper tinkled the keys with a maestro’s precision, tackling pieces far too dark and complex to be entertaining. Clearly, she had something to prove. Evidently, she was out to snare an earl. Every time Lord Denham leaned forward to flip the sheets, Miss Harper caught his gaze and moistened her lips.
No one seemed more relieved than Lord Denham when, at the slightly earlier time of four o’clock, the gong rang for a Christmas feast worthy of a king’s banquet. Roast beef and venison, goose and pheasant, a delicious assortment of squash and vegetables filled the dining table. Guests gorged on gingerbread, shortbread, trifle, plum-pudding and rich brandy syllabub, and yet all found room for candied fruit and dessert wine after the splendid repast.
Three hours later, the guests and Lord Denham’s servants gathered in the drawing room to raise a glass for the festive season. While most households rewarded their staff with gifts on St Stephen’s Day, Lord Denham preferred to mark his birthday by distributing boxes after the toast. The earl had just asked Lara to assist his mother in handing out the gifts to the maids, but Miss Harper barged in between them in one of her mercurial moods and practically snatched a box out of Lord Denham’s grasp.
Lord Northcott cast a disdainful smirk and drew from his pipe as he observed the event while lounging in a chair. Surely one responsible for a man’s murder would act with more dignity. Did he not bear an ounce of remorse? Indeed, his arrogant manner led one to believe that he might not be guilty at all.
As the night progressed, Miss Harper grew more officious in her efforts to show she had the necessary requirements to become the next Countess of Denham. She took it upon herself to arrange a game of snapdragon, whereby a bowl of brandy filled with raisins would be set alight. The guests had to try their luck at stealing one and popping the scorching fruit into their mouths.
“Come.” Miss Harper clapped her hands repeatedly to get everyone’s attention. “It is a good old tradition played in many grand houses. If we can’t use raisins, we’ll use candied fruit.”
“Be warned, you may all wake on the morrow with fat blisters on your lips,” the viscount retorted. “I’ve even known some lose an eyebrow or two.”
Miss Harper cast her brother an irate glare. “And a snapdragon is far easier to stomach than a miserable curmudgeon.”
Encouraged by Lady Denham, who’d had a little too much sherry, and Lara’s equally tipsy grandfather, Miss Harper sent a footman to find a suitable bowl.
Lara ventured over to the earl who’d checked the mantel clock almost as many times as he’d pulled his watch from his pocket.
“Does your mother always approach parlour games with such intense excitement?”
“I believe she finds your grandfather’s energetic spirit somewhat infectious.”
“Montague approaches most things with a certain panache. None more so than a party.”
Lord Denham cast her a sidelong glance and his warm gaze slid smoothly from her face to the neckline of her midnight-blue dress. “Penelope has laughed more this evening than in the last thirty years. It’s a joy to see.” He looked back as the other guests listened with fascination to one of Montague’s funny stories. “And I have to admire a man who’s willing to cast aside his bitterness and embrace a new beginning.”
Mistakes were the lessons of life. “Any one of us might examine our decisions and question our judgement. Had my mother not been permitted to marry so young, she might still be alive. But who would deny her the happiness of living with her one true love?”
He remained quiet for a moment, lost in thought.
“And in your unwillingness to deny your grandfather a chance of happiness,” he finally said, “you lied to me, Miss Bennett.”
The need to touch him proved impossible to ignore, and so she placed a comforting hand on his sleeve. “I did not lie to you—to the man I have come to respect and admire. I lied to the stranger who allowed me into his home one winter’s night with the promise of a room and a hot meal.” Indeed, it was purely a matter of perspective. “When the opportunity presented itself, I had to tell the truth.”
“The scheme might have ended in disaster,” he said as excitement in the room reached fever pitch when the footman returned with the necessary items to play the game. “Montague might not have received the reception he hoped.”
“No, it took some persuading for him to follow his heart.”
“And what of your heart, Miss Bennett? What of your dreams and aspirations?”
