Dying For A Duke Page 8

  “Well, I see you have sought me out only to give me further insult,” she said, getting to her feet. “In which case I shall bid you a good morning.” She turned away from him and began to walk toward the edge of a woodland path.

  “Phoebe!” he called. “Phoebe, don’t walk away from me.”

  But Phoebe was enjoying herself far too much to give into him now. There had been something in his voice that had caught her attention and she didn’t intend to let it go.

  Hurrying on further into the woodland she knew he was following her but looked back for a second to confirm the fact and promptly tripped. Righting herself by clutching the tree trunk she had stumbled into, she looked down to see what had caught her foot. A man’s arm was laid across the path, draped carelessly, the rest of his body lying in the shadow of a lovely beech tree. The dagger sticking from his chest was still altogether too visible, however.

  Phoebe stumbled again in shock and screamed.

  Benedict was beside her a bare moment later. “Oh my God,” he exclaimed and then pulled Phoebe against him, her face cradled against his shoulder. “Don’t look, love.”

  He held her tightly for a moment until she caught her breath and looked up at him.

  “I-it’s Harold isn’t it?” she stammered and watched as he nodded.

  “Yes,” he said, his voice dull. “It’s Harold.”

  Chapter 9

  The level sunshine glimmers with green light.

  Oh ! ‘tis a quiet spirit-healing nook !

  Which all, methinks, would love ; but chiefly he,

  The humble man, who, in his youthful years,

  Knew just so much of folly, as had made

  His early manhood more securely wise ! - Coleridge

  Benedict sat with Sylvester until the old man fell asleep. The doctor had brought him a draft to calm him earlier, but Sylvester had refused to take it until things had been arranged to his satisfaction. As a close friend of the Chief Magistrate and having already voiced suspicions about the verity of his eldest son’s death, it shouldn’t be too long before London’s Bow Street Runners came to investigate the scene at his request.

  Sylvester had dispatched the letter as soon as the appalling events had sunk in and it was clear that Harold had been murdered. With luck they might get someone here by late tomorrow afternoon

  Harold’s body had been taken to the family’s chapel until the Magistrate’s people had come to investigate. That the dagger lodged in his chest had been the very one he’d admired in the armoury did not escape his attention and made chills run down his spine. Was that just coincidence? If a weapon needed to be found quickly the armoury was the obvious place to go and the Landsknecht dagger an obvious choice, as most of the other exhibits were too large and unwieldy to be carried discreetly.

  He may have had no love for his cousin but the idea that someone had killed him in such a violent fashion made Benedict very ill at ease. That the murderer was likely still under this very roof, perhaps even a member of the family ... nausea roiled in his stomach.

  He left Sylvester’s room and walked down the corridor until he found himself outside Phoebe’s room. The poor young woman must be ruing the day she came to them. First she was attacked by Harold and the next she trips over his dead body. The idea that she’d lived most of her life under very uncertain and dangerous circumstances did not make him feel any happier. Giving a soft knock at the door he waited until it was opened by her maid.

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mrs Huckington, I wanted to enquire if Miss Skeffington-Fox was quite well after her ordeal?”

  The maid snorted and opened the door a little wider. “And how do you imagine she is, my Lord? What a lot of nasty goings on. I’m sure I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead but I don’t know if he might have deserved it, treating my innocent lamb in such a fashion.”

  Hearing Phoebe described as an innocent lamb was something that Benedict took with remarkable composure, mainly because his protective instincts seemed to be running in overdrive. Phoebe may act in a manner that led people to draw the wrong conclusions of her, and her tongue might be shockingly loose. However he felt that her maid had the right of it despite his own allegations to her face. She was an innocent in every way that counted and he would make sure she came through this unharmed.

  “If there is anything I can do ...” he began and then trailed off, aware that he really had no business here. He ought to be with Miss Pinchbeck, making sure she was not too distressed. The idea of Theodora showing any kind of emotion was hard to imagine however.

  “I’ll let you know, my Lord, don’t you worry and you can rely on old Sarah to guard her like a lion.” She gave a sniff and shook her head, muttering to herself. “No one hurts my girl and gets away with it” She looked up as if remembering he was there, adding, “I’ll tell her you’ve been asking after her too.”

  Benedict nodded and walked away. He was told by Miss Pinchbeck’s maid that she had retired to bed with a headache and suppressing uncharitable feelings of relief, made his way downstairs. At least Theodora wasn’t the kind to give into fits of the vapours and hysteria. Though to be fair, neither had Phoebe. She had been distraught at first of course, but she had rallied quickly and seen immediately what must be done as clearly as he had.

  Knowing full well he was far from ready for sleep, he settled himself in the library with a generous measure of brandy and tried to cudgel his brain into figuring out who could be responsible for such a reprehensible crime.

  ***

  Phoebe sighed and stared at the ceiling. Whenever she closed her eyes she was greeted with visions of Harold’s horrified, glassy-eyed stare. She’d never sleep at this rate.

  Deciding that the past hour’s tossing and turning was only making matters worse she got up and decided a large brandy might do the trick. She could of course have woken Sarah, but she hated to disturb her maid for such a trifling matter. It seemed a shabby thing to do when she was quite capable of fetching it herself. She slipped into a rather lovely dressing gown which was composed of many layers of diaphanous material dyed in varying shades of green and tucked her feet into matching satin slippers.

  Thus attired she took hold of a candle and stepped silently out into the corridor. She had almost gained the bottom step of the staircase when it suddenly dawned on her that there was every possibility that the murderer was still at large ... and possibly even still in the house. She paused as that appalling notion sunk in and then scolded herself for being so fanciful. Taking a breath she scurried across the darkened hall and opened the door of the library as quietly as she was able.

  To her relief a lamp was still lit and she was just walking across to the waiting decanter when she stopped in her tracks. Benedict sat asleep in one of the wing back chairs. His long limbs were cast with negligent grace before him, his head tipped back showing a strong jawline and neck where his cravat had been tugged undone. The white silk hung about his neck and seeing him look anything less than perfectly attired roused a strangely protective feeling in her heart. She stepped a little closer, taking care not to wake him and looked down at the sweep of thick, dark lashes against his skin. His mouth was open just a little and he looked somehow vulnerable despite his great size. For a moment Phoebe just stared, too transfixed to move as she wondered what that sensual mouth might feel like against her own.

  She felt her skin flush at the idea of it. Strangely despite her father’s shocking reputation she was as her maid had suggested, an innocent. The thing with having a rake for a step-father, she reflected, was that he knew all the tricks that could be employed on a naive young woman and had been quick to teach his new daughter how to evade and protect herself from them. So although she was by no means innocent of what could pass between a man and a woman, and was probably aware to a shocking degree of what those pleasures could involve, in actual experience she had none whatsoever. That fact had never troubled her over much before, but here, now, alone with Benedict, the desire to know wh
at she was missing became hard to ignore.

  The decanter was on the side table next to him. Kneeling down beside his chair she took a glass and poured herself a measure. The chink of glass against glass as she replaced the stopper roused the sleeping giant beside her as she had hoped it might.

  She sipped at her drink, watching as his eyes flickered open, the deep green glinting in the candle light as he focused on her. For just a moment he smiled and gave a sigh of content and then his eyes opened fully and he sat up.

  “Phoebe!” he exclaimed, looking down at her in horror. “What the devil are you doing?”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she said with a shrug. “Every time I closed my eyes I saw ...” She gave an involuntary shudder. “Well you know what. But in any case I decided a glass of brandy might be just the thing. I didn’t know you were sleeping in here did I?” she added with a sniff before looking at him with a frown. “What are you doing here?”

  “The same as you I imagine,” he replied with a tart look as he got to his feet.

  “Well it worked then,” she said, laughing at him. “You were fast asleep.”

  He sighed, looking rather annoyed with her. “As you should be, so take your drink and get to bed. You really didn’t ought to be wandering about alone at night in the circumstances, especially not ...”

  Phoebe had stood whilst he was giving this little lecture and the outfit she was wearing seemed to come to his attention with some force.

  “Especially not dressed like that,” he finished, his voice sounding a little rough.

  “Oh,” she said, holding out the fine material with one hand and looking up at him. “Don’t you like it?”

  She watched as he opened and closed his mouth. “It’s ... very lovely,” he said, apparently with some difficulty. He stepped away from her with some speed and moved over to stand by the empty fireplace. “You shouldn’t be here,” he added, sounding cross again, though he didn’t look at her. “Imagine how it would look if anyone was to walk in on us.”

  Phoebe frowned at him and stepped closer. “How would it look?” she asked, giving him her most innocent expression and then smiling in a rather devilish fashion. “Oh,” she breathed, taking another step closer. “You mean that people will believe this is a romantic tryst and that you’ve set out to seduce me?”

  She watched with growing amusement as the colour flared in his cheeks. “Anyone who knows us will more likely believe it was the other way around,” he snapped, his eyes flashing with irritation.

  Phoebe teetered on the edge of losing her temper for a moment before deciding on a different course of punishment for that particular remark. Instead of taking him to task for such an ungentlemanly comment, she slid her hand over his chest. She heard his sharp intake of breath with a strange feeling of power as his eyes darkened.

  “Oh,” she said quietly, looking up at him, standing so close their bodies almost touched. “Do you think I could seduce you then? I had thought you disliked me too much for that.”

  His breathing was heavy now, the massive chest beneath her hand rising and falling with some speed. “I ... I never said I didn’t like you.”

  Phoebe laughed at that, smoothing her hand up and down in a rhythmic motion, feeling the sensuous silk of his waistcoat, warmed by his body, gliding beneath her fingertips. “You didn’t need to say it in so many words,” she whispered, watching the intriguing battle that seemed to be going on behind his eyes with fascination. “So do you mean to say that you do like me after all?”

  There was a heavy pause. “No,” he gritted out. “You’re ... you’re ...”

  Licking her lips in a provocative manner Phoebe stepped closer still, so that she was pressed against him. “I’m what?” she demanded, sounding just as breathless as he did.

  “Oh God,” he murmured, and reached out a hand to touch her face and then froze as they heard footsteps crossing the hall outside.

  Before Phoebe had time to react he hauled her across the room and pushed her into a narrow space between two of the floor to ceiling bookcases. Pulling at one of the ornate wooden carvings on the panelling, Phoebe watched in astonishment as a narrow door swung open at his command. It revealed a very small gap, just big enough for one man perhaps. But as voices could be heard alongside the turning of a handle, the two of them slid into it and closed the door behind them.

  The only way for them to possibly fit meant that their bodies were crammed into the tiny space and pressed tightly together. Phoebe could hear her own heart beating in her ears and she didn’t think it was just the nearness of their discovery that had done it. She was certain Benedict had been going to kiss her. Her contemplation of the subject was halted, however, as the library door closed and the men’s voices became audible.

  “You have access to it, man, don’t tell me you don’t,” said a familiar and obviously angry voice. “You have ten days and then my patience is at an end and you’ll face the consequences.”

  “That’s John!” she whispered to Benedict who pressed his finger to her lips. Unable to do anything else she stood quietly, resting her head against his chest.

  Another man replied, his voice fainter, less distinct as he was obviously further from them. “I won’t do it,” the voice said. “It isn’t right.”

  There was an outraged bark of laughter. “You dare to tell me what’s right? You’ve betrayed this family’s trust badly enough already. There’s no point in pretending there’s any honour in you now.” There was a pause and Phoebe thought that John must have walked closer to the man he was threatening. “Do as I say or I’ll tell Sylvester everything, and then where will you be?”

  The rest of the conversation was too muffled to hear and a moment later the door closed and the footsteps receded again.

  “John’s blackmailing someone,” Phoebe said in alarm. “And he’s next in line for the title now Harold is gone.”

  “I know that!” Benedict replied, sounding impatient. “I just can’t believe that John ...” She felt him shake his head in the darkness. “Well let us hope the runners can get to the bottom of it. I just pray to God none of the family is responsible.”

  “Did you recognise the other voice?” she asked, suddenly very aware that the men had gone and neither one of them had made any attempt to leave their cramped hiding place.

  “No. It was too indistinct.”

  She fell silent for a moment and simply enjoyed the feeling of Benedict’s warmth and strength. His arms were wrapped around her and she could hear his heart thundering in his chest as her head rested against him. She felt she could stay here like this for the rest of the night and be perfectly content.

  “What are you going to say to the runners when they come, Ben?” she asked, feeling anxious for him all of a sudden.

  “What do you mean?”

  She hesitated, wondering how to put it. “Well ... it’s just that the knife that was used ... You were telling us all about it and you had a row with Harold because of it, and ... and then you ... after he attacked me ... You rather looked like you wanted to kill him, you see. And I don’t doubt that dreadful Mr Spalding will be quick to point it out. And you are also one step closer to the title now ... It might not look good.”

  He was silent for a while and she realised this angle had perhaps not occurred to him before. “Do you think I killed Harold?” he demanded.

  She looked up at him though she could see nothing in the darkness. Instead she reached up her hand and laid it against his cheek. “No. Oh, no,” she said. “I know you couldn’t do such a thing.”

  He turned his head a little and she felt the warmth of his breath as it gusted over her hand.

  “I could,” he said, his voice rough. “I damn well wanted to when I saw him ...”

  She caught her breath at the anger in his voice. “But you didn’t.”

  “No,” he replied. “I didn’t.” He reached up and his hand covered hers against his face. Hardly daring to breathe she waited as he turned his face towar
ds her palm. She was so terribly aware of his mouth, that his lips waited just a breath away from her skin ... But he dropped her hand, his voice terse. “We’d better get out of here before anyone else turns up.”

  The moment was gone and she could not help but mourn its passing. Unwilling to leave her alone, Benedict escorted her back to her room where Phoebe realised she still hadn’t managed to get her glass of brandy. With a sigh of frustration she lay on her bed and spent the rest of the night wide awake and remembering the moments pressed close to him in the dark.

  Chapter 10

  I met a lady in the meads

  Full beautiful, a faery’s child;

  Her hair was long, her foot was light,

  And her eyes were wild. - Keats

  The next morning Phoebe looked out of her bedroom window to see Benedict’s large frame striding down towards the picturesque lake that dominated much of the outlook in front of the Court. Deciding that last night had been a missed opportunity and having spent much of her sleepless night considering who the murderer was, she realised this was a good time to find him alone.

  She didn’t doubt that he would try and avoid her from now on after the unspoken passion of last night, and that she couldn’t allow. So deciding to forgo breakfast she dressed for a morning walk. She arranged for her wolf hounds to be brought to her from the stables where they were staying for the moment and was hurrying outside when Sylvester emerged from the library. The old man looked grey and worn and her heart went out to him.

  “Oh, Sylvester,” she said, crossing the hall and taking his hand. “I’m so terribly sorry.”

  Sylvester shrugged but his green eyes were filled with sorrow. “Thank you, my dear,” he said, his voice low. “Truth is I never liked the boy. Far too spoilt he was but ... but I never thought to see ...”