Dying For A Duke Page 15

  “Phoebe, stop, for the love of God,” Ben groaned, covering his face with his hands. “You don’t know what you’re doing to me.”

  Phoebe gave a devilish chuckle, sitting up and gazing upon his prone figure with approval. “Oh, I have a fair idea,” she murmured, hoping he wouldn’t notice as she undid the buttons that kept his skin from her touch.

  But Ben was too lost to notice and it wasn’t until her hand breached the coverings of trousers and small clothes that he realised what she’d done.

  “Dear God in heaven,” he cried, as she wrapped her fingers around him. “You mustn’t ... you ...” Words seemed to desert him at this point, for which Phoebe was relieved because she wanted to concentrate on the job at hand.

  If she’d thought the skin over his stomach smooth then this was a revelation. Her hand slid over warm silk as she explored the mysteries of the male form. Benedict made a despairing sound as she ran a fingertip over the blunt head, feeling moisture beneath her touch. She trailed her hand back down again, eager to discover more and finding the soft vulnerability of the skin beneath his shaft. She cupped the rounded forms within her palm before returning to stroke the rigid length that seemed to leap under her touch.

  To her chagrin her investigations were halted as Ben moved and forced her onto her back, holding her hands captive above her head.

  “Stop,” he said, desperation in his tone and such desire in his eyes that her breath caught in her throat. The green was almost entirely swamped by black pupil and he was breathing hard. “You don’t understand what you’re doing,” he rasped and she blinked up at him in annoyance.

  “Don’t be foolish, Ben, of course I do. My father is a rake and I was practically raised by the army. You must understand that even if papa had tried to shield me from such things he could never have managed it. So he took the more sensible approach and made sure I knew what was what, so I would never find myself in a situation I couldn’t handle. I had a very nice lady explain everything to me very clearly.”

  Benedict looked shocked to his bones as he gaped at her. “Good God,” he exclaimed. “What lady?”

  Phoebe pouted and looked up at him, wondering how exactly to explain Madame Dede. “Well,” she said, rather hesitant. “I think perhaps you’d call her a bit of muslin?” she queried. “Or perhaps a Cytherean?”

  “Oh, dear Lord, save me,” he muttered.

  “What?” she demanded. “I’m sorry if I’m not the sweet little innocent you had hoped,” she said to him, feeling rather hurt now and a little more unsure of herself. “But I can’t change who I have become.”

  “Phoebe!” he cried, sounding horrified. “Heaven help me, as if I’d want you to change, you infuriating wretch!”

  She glanced up at him and found him looking terribly frustrated for more than one reason. His face softened as he took in the anxious look that must have been visible in her eyes. He let go of one of her hands and smoothed his palm against her cheek.

  “No matter what you think you may know, love, you are still very much an innocent and I’m supposed to protect you from the perils of this world. But you’re not making it very easy.”

  She made a disparaging noise. “No, I should think not,” she said with some heat. He shook his head in despair and she sighed. “Oh, Ben, I know you’re trying to be noble but we can’t pretend that things aren’t desperate can we?”

  “No, love,” he said, his voice heavy. “We can’t.”

  “Well then, I have no intention of seeing you go to the scaffold, and if it comes to it I’ll hit you over the head and have Sylvester help me smuggle you to France! But either way I’m not giving you up and I refuse to let you hold yourself at a distance because of your damned honour!”

  “And what if all your plans come to naught and I am hanged and you left with my bastard to care for?” he snapped, and she knew it was the fear in his eyes making his anger sharper and brighter.

  She reached up her free hand and touched his mouth, praying he could see the sincerity in her eyes. “Then I should find the only joy that could possibly be left to me in seeing your child grow into someone as special as their father had been.”

  Benedict closed his eyes, but she had seen the pain there clearly enough. He rolled onto his back and lay with his arm across his eyes. Phoebe lay beside him, her head on his shoulder, knowing he would speak when he was ready.

  “I’ll not make love to you out here where anyone could trip over us, Phoebe.”

  “Alright, Ben,” she whispered, only hearing that he wouldn’t love her here. “But you will?”

  He turned back to her and gathered her in his arms, his eyes full of love for her, though his smile was rueful. “I can’t resist you, Phoebe. I want you so much and you’re determined to rob me of what is left of my sanity. But not here, love, not now.”

  She sighed and smiled up at him. “I can wait,” she said, though in truth she didn’t want to wait at all, but she had won her victory, so he must be allowed to dictate the terms at least.

  They spent the afternoon together, wrapped in each other’s arms, talking and dreaming of what life might be like in the future, if they had a future at all. For even if they managed to acquit Ben of murder, there was still his fiancée to deal with. With a deal of wickedness Phoebe had to suppress the hope that the murderer might take exception to the woman and had to pray for forgiveness for such unchristian thoughts. She prayed harder that Ben would clear his name, however, as the sun began to sink lower.

  “Goodness, it’s getting late,” Phoebe cried, aware that they’d been so wrapped up in each other they had not thought to check the time. “We’ll be late for dinner if we don’t hurry.”

  “You’d best go first love, I’ll follow on in a bit,” Benedict replied, looking just as regretful as she that the day was over. He pulled her close and kissed her again. A slow, soft kiss that spoke of everything that was in his heart. “I’ll see you at dinner,” he whispered, smiling at her.

  Phoebe sighed and nodded, and picking up the now empty basket, ran back along the path.

  Chapter 18

  Strange is it that the godless, who have sprung

  From evil-doers, should fare prosperously,

  While good men, born of noble stock, should be

  By adverse fortune vexed. - Sophocles.

  Benedict sat down at the table and wondered how he was going to endure the coming ordeal. Try as he might he could not stop his eyes from returning to Phoebe. Dressed all in a vibrant blue silk gown trimmed with heavy white lace she looked so beautiful he could have cried with frustration. His mind wandered inevitably to the golden afternoon they had just shared and to how it had felt to have her hands upon him.

  Snatching up his wine glass he downed the lot and gestured to one of the footmen to refill it.

  “Benedict!” Miss Pinchbeck said in shock as he raised the second glass to his lips.

  “I’m sorry, Theodora,” Benedict replied, quite unable to keep the scorn from his voice despite his best effort. “Having a noose waved in one’s face gives one a thirst you see.”

  “My Lord!” she exclaimed, looking at him aghast. “It is all just a terrible mistake and will be sorted out I promise you. You’ll see.” She unfolded her napkin with prim fingers and laid it carefully in her lap. “There is no need for us to lower our standards in the meantime.”

  Benedict snorted but was startled by a sob from the other end of the table. Horrified he discovered that his mother was weeping.

  “Lulu!” he exclaimed, the childish nickname falling from his lips quite unconsciously. He got to his feet and ran to his mother, pulling her into a rough embrace. “Forgive me,” he pleaded, feeling horribly guilty for causing her pain. “I’m not done yet, love. I’ll come about, you’ll see.”

  Lady Rothay gave a last, desperate sob and then took a deep breath, the effort to compose herself quite obvious. “Yes,” she said, nodding and giving him a tremulous smile. “Yes, you will. I know you will. You must!�
�� she added, clinging to his hand, her lovely eyes full of fear from him.

  He leaned down and kissed her forehead and made his way back to his seat.

  “Where’s John?” he asked Lady Rutland, suddenly aware that there was another empty space at the table beside Oliver’s.

  Lady Rutland looked up from the intense concentration she was applying to the entrée and cast Phoebe a dark look. “I don’t know,” she said, still scowling. “He went out with his gun and a picnic this morning and I’ve not seen him since.”

  “Oh well,” Lizzie said with a bright smile. “You know what John is like when he’s out hunting. He’s no doubt walked miles tracking some poor, unfortunate creature and realised it’s too late to come home. He’ll likely be tucked up snug in some inn or other by now.”

  “No doubt,” Lady Rutland said in disgust as she reapplied her attention to the meal.

  Benedict noted Lizzie look across at Phoebe and wink and Benedict felt a sigh of relief that his darling girl had an ally here.

  “I was thinking, Phoebe,” Lizzie added, putting her knife and fork down. “Why don’t we go into Hastings tomorrow and do some shopping. Lady Rothay you will come too won’t you? I think it would do us all good to get away from here and stop moping about for a few hours?”

  “A splendid idea, Lizzie,” Benedict replied, smiling at her with warmth. It pleased him enormously to know Phoebe had such a friend in his cousin. He had always liked Lizzie and thought the family greatly underrated her. She kept Grizedale Court running like clockwork, though she got little thanks for it. Not that Sylvester was uncaring, it was just that he didn’t notice such things. Though Benedict knew the old man cared for her deeply.

  He looked at the head of the table now to where his uncle was sat. He hadn’t spoken all evening and his face was ashen. Ben knew the last days had taken it out of the old man and prayed it wouldn’t be too much for him. Guilt prickled at his conscience as he should have been with Sylvester this afternoon as they’d arranged the day before, but had cried off to go fishing, knowing that Phoebe would seek him out. The old man had seemed happy enough that he go, chuckling about young people in a way that made Benedict wonder if he knew how he felt for Phoebe.

  He knew he was not being arrogant in thinking that Mr Formby had been right about one thing. Sylvester had always wished that Benedict would inherit the title as he was one of the few men in the family that the old man had any affection and respect for. But now, far from inheriting, Benedict might not even outlive him.

  He swallowed down that uncomfortable thought and took a deep drink of his wine, holding Theodora’s gaze and daring her to comment. There was disapproval in her eyes but her expression was placid as she looked away from him.

  Benedict drew his attention back to find the women discussing tomorrow morning’s proposed outing.

  “Please don’t trouble yourselves to invite me,” Miss Pinchbeck said, giving everyone a tight smile. “I have things to do tomorrow.”

  Lizzie’s smile faltered as she realised her faux pas.

  “Oh, well if you’re sure, Miss Pinchbeck, you are of course very welcome to accompany us.”

  “How very gracious of you,” Miss Pinchbeck replied with such a cold tone that Lizzie blushed and turned her attention back to her meal.

  Benedict stared at Theodora in wonder. How could she be surprised at people not wanting her company when she was so damned supercilious and unpleasant to everyone? She seemed totally detached from the people around her, without the slightest comprehension of their feelings or thoughts. Sighing heavily Ben gestured to the footman to fill his glass again. Although he regretted that he could spend no more time in Phoebe’s company, Benedict had to admit to deep relief when the interminable evening finally came to an end.

  ***

  The next morning Benedict waved Phoebe, Lizzie, his mother and the children off as they set out early for Hastings. Selfishly he wished he could have snatched some more time with Phoebe but they would be home by mid afternoon so perhaps there would still be time. He had considered going with them but such brazen behaviour was not in his nature. He could not subject Miss Pinchbeck to such a slight no matter how much she had begun to pain him. After all it was not her who had changed, it was him.

  He was reluctant to go back into the house at all as the arrival of Mr Formby some moments earlier had cast a pall of gloom over the place. Benedict had been relieved to discover he had missed the man’s visit yesterday afternoon but knew he couldn’t avoid him forever.

  Wandering back into the bright entrance hall of the great house he was just bracing himself for his next confrontation with the keen-eyed runner when he was startled by a slamming door. The sight of the normally dignified butler running hell for leather across the hall was enough to shock him into silence.

  “My Lord!” Keane cried, his face white with horror. “Thank God you’re here!”

  “Keane!” Benedict exclaimed. “Calm yourself, man, whatever is the matter?”

  Both men looked around as Mr Formby emerged from the library as Keane fought to catch his breath. “What’s to do?” Formby demanded, his beady eyes bright with curiosity.

  “You must come, my Lord,” Keane said, looking too shaken to speak. “You too, if you please, sir,” he added to Mr Formby.

  Keane was silent as he led them back through the house and through the gardens. There was a large wall that separated the lovely landscaping of Mr Brown’s design from the kitchen gardens that supplied the great house. Keane opened a wrought iron door that led them inside the kitchen garden area and Benedict was flooded with memories.

  He hadn’t been in here for years but as a lad he had been a regular, and not always welcome, visitor. He remembered many happy hours spent stealing strawberries and soft fruit and popping peas from their tight little cases, sweet and still warm from the sun. His nostalgia was abruptly halted, however, as Keane stopped and pointed to the far end of the garden.

  “Over there, my Lord,” he said, his tone even. “I beg you will forgive me if I do not go with you. I have no wish to set eyes upon it again.”

  Benedict and Mr Formby shared a grim look before they both set out toward the corner of the garden where the herb beds lay.

  Benedict paused, his heart beating in his throat as he recognised the heavy build of the figure stretched out across the path. “Oh, dear God, no!” he exclaimed and ran forward, only to wretch and cover his mouth as he took in the sight.

  Lord John Rutland’s face was twisted in agony, his eyes wide and unseeing.

  “Step aside please, my Lord,” Mr Formby said, his tone gentle as he manoeuvred Benedict out of the way to investigate the scene.

  “Poisoned, by the looks of things,” he said, grimacing as the body was laid in full sun and John had been violently ill before he died. “What’s all that green leaf around his mouth,” he wondered aloud, squinting at the body from as safe a distance as he could manage.

  “Basil,” Benedict said, his voice tight as nausea swirled in his gut. “He ate some poisonous berries once as a child, nightshade I think. They grow quite freely on the estate you see. As I remember his nanny saved him by making him drink vast amounts of basil tea.”

  “So he recognised his symptoms then,” Mr Formby mused, straightening himself up and turning back to Benedict with a grim expression. “I’m no expert but I’ve seen a deal of poisoning cases in my line of work and I’d say he’s likely been here since yesterday, late afternoon if I had to guess it,” he added and Benedict felt his stomach drop in despair as he realised where this was going.

  “If I might favour to ask you, my Lord. Where was you yesterday afternoon ?”

  Benedict swallowed and looked the man in the eye. “I suspect you know the answer to that as you asked for me when you came to the house yesterday, but I was fishing, down by the river.”

  Mr Formby nodded, his bright eyes intent. “Anyone corroborate that can they?”

  Ben shook his head knowing there was
no power on earth that would make him reveal Phoebe had been with him. “No. No one. I was alone.”

  Mr Formby rocked back on his heels, his head titled a little to one side and showing a quizzical expression. “You didn’t see anyone who might be able to vouch for you?”

  “No,” he replied, his tone firm, even knowing he was likely sealing his fate.

  Mr Formby nodded, his lips pursed. “You didn’t happen to come across Lord John, here neither, I take it?”

  “I did not,” Benedict replied his jaw tight with stress.

  Giving a great sigh of dejection Mr Formby shook his head. “Well it grieves me to do it, sir, I promise you, but I can’t put off my duty no longer. I’m afraid I’m going to have to arrest you.”

  Benedict nodded, too numb to form any words of protest. He had known this was inevitable after all.

  “Now, you’ll not cause me any bother, will you, my Lord?” Formby asked him, his face open and questioning. “Cause I really don’t want to have to put shackles on you.”

  Benedict snorted and shook his head. “No need, Formby. I’ll come along, don’t worry.”

  Mr Formby sighed and nodded, taking off his hat and scratching his bald head. “I know it, sir. You’re a gentleman to your bones, that much is obvious.” He walked companionably back down the path with Benedict as it they were just out for a stroll. “T’aint right,” he grumbled to himself as they walked. “But I have to do it, my Lord.”

  “Don’t trouble yourself, Formby,” Benedict replied, his voice dull. “I understand it’s not personal. Though if you could redouble your efforts to find the real culprit I’d be much obliged.”

  Mr Formby looked a little affronted by this. “Well now, sir. I’ve worked a deal of hours on this wretched case, so I have. I’ve done my best and so I always shall, so there’s not the least bit of good reproaching me.”