Abby said nothing in return, but looked back at him with the smile of a Madonna in an oil painting. She was unspeakably lovely and totally serene, but unmoved by the one gazing on her. Or perhaps she was Eve. The blushes from the day before had disappeared, as if all it had taken to give her womanly composure was one last scrap of forbidden knowledge.
‘Did you sleep well?’ Her mother remained unaware of the tension between them and was eager to converse.
‘Sleep? No. Not a wink.’ He had not intended to display such weakness in front of the woman who had caused it, but neither did he mean to let her escape what she had done to him. She deserved to suffer, if only vicariously.
‘Tonight, you must have the maids prepare you some hot milk before bed.’ Mrs Prescott was rambling in the background as he stared at her daughter. ‘Or perhaps the Countess has some herbal concoction that might do just as well.’
‘I will ask her,’ he replied, ready to say anything that would end the small talk and allow him to go to a corner to lick his wounds. Before she could think of another comment to hold him, he turned away from her, not bothering to excuse himself. But he was barely out of earshot before he was stopped by Lenore.
‘You look like death warmed over,’ she said, with a smile of approval over the reason she’d assumed for his sleeplessness.
‘Thank you for your opinion,’ he said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. ‘In the future, please keep it to yourself.’
She stared at him, eyebrows raised in shock. ‘I do not think I have ever heard you take that tone with me in the whole of our acquaintance.’
‘Then I suggest you grow used to it,’ he said. ‘You will be hearing much more of it in the future.’
Now her brows knit in confusion and her eyes registered something very like hurt. ‘If you are having trouble with...’ She stopped before she could say the name that they were both thinking in a room where anyone might overhear. ‘If it is someone else that is bothering you, I do not see why you feel the need to take your anger out on me.’
Who else could he punish, other than himself? If he could not manage to be civil, he did not dare to speak to Abby again on that or any other subject. Everything that had happened between them must be consigned to the deepest dungeon of his soul where it could never again see the light of day. It was not enough that it would brand him a rake for ever. Even a hint of it would ruin her, leaving her fair game to any man who valued his own pleasure more than a woman’s honour. Worse yet, now that he knew how it hurt her, he could not bring himself to cause any more gossip.
He stared back at Lenore, suddenly sick of the sight of her. ‘I am abusing you because you should share the blame for my unhappiness,’ he said. ‘If I had cut you from my life a year ago, I would be happily married by now.’
‘I have done nothing objectionable to you or with you,’ she insisted. ‘I told her so. She believed me, I swear.’
‘And now are you willing to tell everyone else?’ he said. ‘Because the woman I love cannot live in the shadow of our supposed affair. And after ten years, it would be far easier to prove a positive than a negative.’
‘I...can’t.’
Of course she couldn’t. Society would not stand for the truth. It was unreasonable of him to suggest it, especially when it had been his idea to use their friendship to protect her. It was quite possible that he was ending his oldest friendship with that rudeness. But he could not manage to care.
If he could not have Abby, then there was no future for him. Why would he care about the past? ‘Then I have no use for you,’ he said, turning away from her just as he had from the Prescotts, strangely satisfied by the murmurs from people around him who had witnessed their argument.
He turned towards the sound and it stopped immediately. Then he swept the room with a gaze that assured there would be no more gossip. There was an unfamiliar thrill at feeling their fear of him. It was much more satisfying than the usual cautious courtesy he felt when people wondered about him.
In the silence he’d created, he walked to a chair in the corner and picked up the newspaper that someone had left lying on it, then unfolded it and began to read. It was a week old, at least, and he had read the articles in it that interested him several days ago. But until he could find a way to excuse himself from this stultifying group, it would be an adequate bar to further conversation.
Then, just as he’d begun to get comfortable, there was another disturbance. A man was shouting in the upstairs hall.
Elmstead, arguing with his wife. Again. Annoying though he was, the man had truly impressive abilities. The sound of his voice carried from the first floor all the way to the salon. A day or two ago, Benedict had been able to ignore their arguments, since he did not involve himself in things that did not concern him. But today, it grated on his nerves. He gave his newspaper a rattle and then set it aside, giving the Countess of Comstock a warning glare to remind her that she was responsible for keeping the peace.
But she was too preoccupied with eavesdropping to pay attention to him. In fact, everyone in the room appeared to be absorbed in the drama occurring upstairs. Lady Hanover was even shameless enough to set her needlework aside and go to open the door wider, letting in as much of the entertainment as possible. Then she leaned out into the hall, so she might not miss anything.
From his corner of the room, Danforth let out a loud sigh of disgust, to remind them all how common they were being. But when he scanned the faces around him, it was clear that what was happening between the Elmsteads outweighed censure from a peer.
Only Abby appeared to be bothered by any of it. The soft smile she’d been wearing as he’d entered had disappeared, replaced by a blush of embarrassment. Considering her history, it was hard to tell whether her colouring was caused by remembered family shame or actual sympathy for Lady Elmstead. Either way, it was a reminder to him of how superior she was to the rest of his acquaintances. The memory evoked a fresh stab of emotion, both anger and regret.
‘Whore!’ The word exploded out of the general rumble of male shouting and feminine weeping from above, drawing a gasp of shock from the audience in the salon.
This was followed by a feminine wail and an unintelligible response that was clearly a denial, and then a sudden shriek.
Though some hesitated to involve themselves in a matter that was between husband and wife, this argument was worse than the shouting matches they’d heard thus far. Benedict shot to his feet with the involuntary need to come to the aid of a lady who was obviously in distress. Before he could take a step, the Earl of Comstock was halfway to the door, unwilling to let violence be done under his roof.
Before either of them could do anything, the door flew open the rest of the way, crashing against the wall as Elmstead appeared, one fist balled in rage and the other locked around his wife’s bicep. As they crossed the threshold, she struggled free of him and rushed into the arms of the Countess of Comstock, who looked momentarily baffled before offering her a comforting pat on the back. Lenore stepped forward as well, gathering the dishevelled and tearful lady into a sisterly embrace, brushing the hair from her face and exposing her cheek which appeared to be reddening from a slap.
From the protective shelter of her arms, Lady Elmstead turned back to confront her husband. ‘Stop it this instant, Gerald. Things are not at all as they appear.’
‘I can see what has been going on, you stupid trollop. I am not blind.’
From the angry murmurs of the other guests, he was not only wrong, but devoid of manners. Mrs Prescott whispered something about a ‘toady little man’. Though the full comment was obscured by Abby’s hiss of warning to be silent, there were several nods of agreement. Though most felt it was impolite to speak the thought aloud, there was nothing she might have done that justified striking one’s wife, especially when she was as young and slight as Lady Elmstead.
But from the steely g
lint in Lenore’s eye as she stared at him, Benedict had a good guess as to the true depth of his mistake.
‘Mind your temper, Elmstead. You are in the presence of ladies and gentlemen and not visiting some dockside brothel.’ Any other day he might have been able to hold his tongue and allow Comstock to settle the matter. At the very least, he’d have chosen his words with care to avoid making things any worse. But today, Benedict was in no more mood for distance and diplomacy than Elmstead was.
That man was still framed in the doorway, like a comic-opera cuckold who had not been told he was the villain of the piece instead of the hero. He seemed surprised at the derision from his audience and scanned the room for the man audacious enough to challenge him. Then he stared directly at Benedict and said, ‘Danforth! Of course. The one with the most to hide will always speak the loudest.’
As everyone waited for his response, the silence in the room grew ominous, punctuated by Lord Elmstead’s rapid breathing and another quiet sob from his wife.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Though he was used to being gossiped about, Benedict could not remember a time when someone had come so close to offering a direct insult. As with so many minor social slights, it was best to pretend not to hear and give the fellow a chance to reconsider and retract. Bemusement was called for, not anger. But today Benedict made no effort to hide his irritation at being dragged into the Elmsteads’ domestic problems.
‘You heard me the first time,’ Elmstead said. ‘Do not pretend that you don’t know what we are speaking of.’ The words came in another roar. Between the bellowing and the florid colour of his face, the man looked like a pig in a striped-silk waistcoat. And though they had barely spoken ten words together for the whole of the week, he had decided to pick a fight.
He had been shouted at by far better men then Elmstead. He had weathered sixteen years of storms, far stronger than this. He had ignored them, clutching his fists until the nails cut the palms and grinding his teeth until his jaws ached. He’d stayed quiet for decades, until it had eaten away at his common sense and spoiled his life.
But that silence was no longer needed. Benedict responded to the pathetic little man in front of him in the way he deserved, with derisive laughter. ‘Know what you are speaking of? Not a clue,’ he replied. Then he thought back to the word that had shocked the room earlier. ‘If you think that I have some part in your argument with your wife, then you had best think again.’ It was another chance to retract and more than the fellow deserved.
‘Involved with my wife? That is exactly what I think,’ Elmstead shouted back.
‘Then you should go back to your room and sober up,’ Benedict snapped, wondering what had got into the man. ‘But before you do, apologise to your wife and the rest of the guests for your beastly behaviour.’ And to me as well. He did not bother to add a thing that should be obvious to any sensible person.
‘You deny that you are her lover?’
This brought another gasp from the room. There was no way to pretend a misunderstanding or deny that he had heard it, nor could he contain the rage building inside at such abuse from such a common little man. ‘Of course, I deny it and I expect you to withdraw the insult immediately. I have no idea what gave you such a ridiculous idea.’
‘This! Yours. Found in my wife’s bedroom.’ Elmstead took the final step across the room and threw a handkerchief into the Duke’s face. Rather, he tried, for the linen square had no weight to do any kind of damage as a projectile. As it fluttered to the ground, Benedict could see his own family crest embroidered in the corner.
‘Elmstead, have a care.’ This came from Lord Comstock, attempting to calm the storm. On the other side of the room, Lady Comstock had taken Lady Elmstead’s hand and was leading her out into the hall, away from the public discussion of her behaviour.
‘You found that in your wife’s room?’ For a moment, his mind went utterly blank. He was unable to explain the presence of the handkerchief, even if he’d wanted to. The only thing he was sure of was that it had not been the result of some clandestine romance with Lady Elmstead.
‘Where you left it,’ Lord Elmstead bellowed back, probably still assuming that Benedict would blurt out a confession if he shouted loud enough.
But he still had nothing to admit.
Then he remembered the maid and her pearls. She had been searching for silk, asking the other maids for help. Had she said Elmstead? If so, there was a perfectly logical reason that his lost linen had ended up on the wrong bedside dresser. Though Lady Elmstead might be guilty of something, she would have had no way to explain its presence.
He could announce the truth, should he wish to. But as Comstock had pointed out when he had explained it to him, it sounded far less believable than the things people had assumed about his behaviour. He did not want to jeopardise the maid’s position any more than he had on the day it had happened. Nor was he going to tell anyone that he had an alibi for last night, as he had not been alone for any part of it, until Abby Prescott had spurned him for the second time.
The wisest course of action was to tell Elmstead that he had never been anywhere near the lady, or her room. But he had left wisdom behind some time after he’d opened his bedroom door and was not in the mood to take it back. Instead, he sneered and said, ‘Have we decided to perform Othello to pass the time? You are making a public scene over a scrap of cloth that I misplaced days ago.’
‘Liar!’ Elmstead cried.
‘Apologise now, or you will regret those words.’ Now he was beyond anger, into something that felt far more dangerous and his voice sounded like the tone his own father used, right before things became unbearable.
‘The time for words is past,’ Elmstead shouted back, ignoring the warning. Then his hand came up, almost from the ground, and landed a blow on Benedict’s chin that sent him staggering to his knees.
Like most gentlemen of his set, Benedict had sparred at Gentleman Jackson’s salon. But it took a blow from an angry husband to show him just how gently the professional pugilist had treated him. One punch from Elmstead and his head was ringing, he tasted blood and one of his molars felt loose.
Something else was loose, as well. The inside of his brain felt as if a cage door had been unlocked and the monster he’d kept there had been released. He had thought that rage would be an emotion of heat. But what he was feeling now was the ice-cold certainty that no man who struck the Duke of Danforth would live to do it again.
He shook off Comstock’s offer of aid as he rose, only vaguely aware of the deathly silence of the room around him. The guests were watching like so many jackals at a kill, waiting for their share of gore.
And though he knew better than to do so, he could not seem to keep himself from looking at Abby. Unlike the others, she stared at him, white-faced and trembling, as though she feared for his safety. Or perhaps it was Elmstead she worried about, for as he stared at her, she mouthed the single word, No.
If she cared at all about him, she was a day too late to show it.
He could feel blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, so he bent down and snatched up the handkerchief that Elmstead had thrown at his feet, wiped his split lip and then tossed the red-stained rag back at his adversary’s feet. Then he did not so much speak, as roar, ‘Find a second, Elmstead. We meet at dawn.’
Chapter Eighteen
‘Head back. Eyes open.’
Benedict felt like an idiot. But he lifted his chin, obediently, and waited as Comstock took a candle from the library table and passed it before his eyes, then ran a finger down his nose, feeling for breaks.
‘Got me square on the jaw,’ Benedict muttered, wishing he could blame a brain injury for what had happened next. Though the blow had been more than enough to daze him, he had been in full command of his faculties when he had issued the challenge.
‘Your eyes are clear. But he drew claret, as you English like to say.�
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‘You are English,’ Benedict reminded him, running his hand along the bruised flesh and wincing.
‘As of late, I am,’ the Earl agreed with a shrug, then handed him a fresh handkerchief to mop the blood from his chin and a glass of harsh American whiskey to numb the pain of the bruise blossoming on his jaw. ‘I didn’t think Elmstead had the pluck to punch you.’
‘I didn’t deserve it,’ Benedict muttered, annoyed at the slurring of the words through his swollen lip.
‘All the same, it would have been wiser to wait until he calmed down to explain that.’
The Earl was right. He had never responded with anger to the things people assumed about him. He knew better than to settle problems with violence, especially when in another man’s home. He was the one who gave such advice instead of receiving it. He had done so just last night with Abby. But in the few hours since he had lost her, the emotions that he’d kept properly bottled for decades had come spilling out without warning. Today, it had been as if his father had been alive again, speaking though him. ‘I couldn’t let the insult pass,’ he said at last, confused by the truth of it.
Comstock’s eyebrow arched. ‘And yet you have allowed the ton to think anything it wanted to about you and your lady friend for years on end.’
‘What the ton thinks about my relationship with Lenore does not concern me,’ he mumbled. But his words did not sound nearly as convincing as they had a day or two ago.
‘Because you are not lovers,’ Comstock finished.
In ten years, Comstock was the first one to guess the truth. It was almost a relief to drop the façade. ‘How did you know?’
‘My Countess spotted the truth from the moment the pair of you arrived.’
‘Really?’ This was truly surprising, for most of the women who had learned the truth about Lenore were the ones least likely to announce it to their husbands. ‘And it does not concern you?’
The Brooding Duke 0f Danforth (HQR Historical) Page 18