Miss Benwick Reforms a Rogue

by Maggie Fenton

That was hard to hear. But she found that, for the first time in her life, she wasn’t sorry for the comparison, even if it did hurt. “Perhaps I am. Better that than to have stayed.”

  Pilby’s expression softened as he glanced at her swollen eye, but he remained stoic in his resolve. “Tattle to your mother if you must, Miss Benwick, but you simply can’t stay here. You know this as well as I. Have you not considered the duchess? I don’t think she would turn you away.”

  Davina sighed in resignation. She’d wanted to postpone involving Astrid for as long as she possibly could, but she supposed she had no excuse left, now that she was five pounds richer. That should take her as far as Astrid’s London house. Damn it.

  And she had no doubt Astrid would take her in. If anything was stronger than the duchess’s contempt for Davina, it was her famously bitter rivalry with the Dowager Lady Benwick. Astrid would positively crow to have her nemesis’ own daughter seek her out. Davina may have detested her mother, but just the thought of how smug Astrid would be about the whole thing made her want to walk all the way back to Rylestone Green. Almost.

  “You’re right, I suppose,” she finally conceded, the fight leaving her. “I’ll leave on the mail coach to London tomorrow.”

  “Wonderful!” Pilby’s moment of relief was short-lived, however, as realization dawned. His eyes popped wide. “Er…dressed like that, Miss Benwick?”

  “I’ve gotten this far, haven’t I? And you can look at my legs, Pilby. You won’t be struck down from on high.”

  “It’s not the good Lord I’m afraid of, so much as your mother,” he muttered. “If she knew…”

  “She doesn’t, and she won’t. I can take care of myself.” She’d done well enough so far. For all of a few hours.

  Pilby looked very doubtful of this claim. “I hope you’re right, Miss…”

  “Mr. Fawkes,” she reminded him.

  “Er, right. Mr. Fawkes,” he said, as if it pained him greatly. “This isn’t going to end in disaster at all. I’ll show you your room for the night.”

  Davina followed behind him, feeling suddenly very weary. At least she had a night here to recover before the farce of her life could continue. Gathering enough courage to take the coach out of Rylestone Green, much less enter into this strange household under false pretenses, had been difficult enough. It had all seemed so simple that morning. She’d needed to escape her marriage to Dalrymple, and she’d not cared about anything else. Now…

  Now she wasn’t sure how much more she could endure without falling apart.

  Chapter Five

  The Harlot and the Rake

  Julian had stayed firm in his plan to drink more than he had the night before, and he was optimistic that it would be enough to render him unconscious for a few hours at least. He’d not kept up with Lord Highbottom—no one human could keep up with Lord Highbottom when it came to alcohol—but he’d managed to put away a bottle of claret over the course of the tedious evening meal.

  A few measures of Blue Ruin with Bones afterwards, and he’d finally felt his brainbox begin to unspool after one of the most vexing days in recent history. He was determined to have a night free of nightmares and bare-arsed rambles through the moors.

  It seemed the fates had cursed him yet again, however, for just as he’d finally begun to sink into oblivion, a creak in the floorboards next to his bed startled him to attention. In the days he’d spent living on the streets of St. Giles, he’d learned to sleep with one eye open, but it seemed he was getting soft. He’d even stopped locking his door when he realized it did no good in preventing his nighttime excursions, but it was an oversight he’d not make again.

  He didn’t think anyone in particular wanted to kill him at the moment—well, other than Kildale, who was still back in London and too far up the River Tick to afford hiring an assassin. That sort didn’t work on credit.

  The horrific thought that it was the mysterious Mr. Fawkes creeping up on him once more, with his cherubic curls, snide tongue, and pointy stick, made his whole body twitch in annoyance.

  But the scent of jasmine invading his nostrils was all too familiar. He sighed—then sneezed. He would have preferred the fribble. At least the lad’s cologne didn’t give him hay fever. Julian turned over on his side and eyed his very scantily clad houseguest, who was currently prowling her way toward the bed.

  He had to admit that, despite her laudanum habit, insipid conversation, and minuscule intellect, Lady Highbottom was a beautiful woman. She was at least two decades her husband’s junior, with luxurious jet hair and voluptuous curves, all of which were well on display at the moment, the bit of expensive silk tied at her shoulders barely covering two perfect breasts. She moved with the boneless grace of a cat, one hand on her rounded hip, the other toying with a silk strap.

  It was only natural that the sight of her made his heir-begetting organ stir a bit despite itself. But he was soused, had a pounding headache, and a burning desire for little else but a good night’s sleep. And though he was tempted to give the lady a tumble, just to get rid of her in a timely manner, he was still in possession of enough of his faculties to tread carefully. She was Highbottom's wife, after all. He did not fancy the idea of his rod rotting off.

  It dampened his vulgar ardor enough for him to heave onto his feet and dodge the lady’s grasping embrace. Undeterred, she fell against the bed with a purr and turned around, arranging her body in a seductive pose.

  He could tell by the constriction of her pupils that she had been dipping deep into her laudanum again, which might have had something to do with his present predicament. For most people, opium acted as a soporific; on Lady Highbottom, it seemed to be an aphrodisiac.

  “Highbottom’s passed out in his cups,” she purred. “It took forever, but the dose I gave him finally put him under.”

  Julian gaped at her, alarmed at her implication. “You…drugged your husband?”

  “Just a bit.” She gave him a feral grin. “Don’t worry. He likes it.”

  Dear God.

  Julian would have been more concerned about Lord Highbottom’s health, but the viscount had a hollow leg—several hollow legs—when it came to drink. If three bottles of claret with dinner didn’t make the man keel over, Julian doubted a little laudanum mixed into his midnight tipple was going to make much of a difference.

  Julian had more important things to worry about, such as not speculating on what other things the viscount liked. He already had a headache. He also had little desire to lose the contents of his stomach, and that seemed a distinct danger, should he continue down such a thorny path. Bracket-faced, pot-bellied Lord Highbottom was not an attractive man.

  It seemed he’d reached the stage of inebriation where he turned philosophical, for he was beginning to wonder why Lady Highbottom seemed so determined to seduce him. Tonight, she’d even taken her pursuit to new heights (or lows, however one wanted to look at it). She’d never stooped to ambushing him in his bedroom before or to drugging her husband…well, at least not that he knew of.

  As much as it went against his nature, however, he tried to be polite about it, for he didn’t want to drive her back to London before she’d served her purpose. The past few months of misery he’d endured at his houseguests’ hands would have all been for naught.

  “As much as I would love to accommodate you, my lady, I’m afraid that…oompf.”

  Well, that hadn’t worked, for before he could even finish his bloody sentence she’d launched herself off the bed straight at him. She latched onto his chest like a pernicious barnacle, kissing him and tearing at his clothes with claw-like nails that scraped unpleasantly against his skin.

  He crashed into the table behind him, trying to untangle her clinging limbs from around his body without harming her. She was surprisingly strong, however, and only clung tighter to him, less like a barnacle now, and more like one of those tropical snakes that squeezed the life out of its victims before swallowing them whole.

  This could not end well.


  “Oh, Julian, Julian,” she moaned impassionedly against his neck. As if she were the one being ravished, not him.

  “Pansy, now, let’s talk this out…”

  He broke off with a yelp as she bit at his neck. He wouldn’t be surprised if she’d torn open his skin.

  “Let’s talk later,” she suggested coyly, an unmistakably lascivious look gleaming in her eyes.

  It was hard to think with the lady wrapped around him, tearing at his lawn shirt so hard he heard it rip, her cloying perfume sticking in his nostrils and clouding his brain. Any protests he made were drowned out by a barrage of kisses and caresses. Unfortunately, his body was responding despite his inner turmoil, but he’d be damned if he gave into Lady Highbottom’s assault.

  “Ouch!” he cried as she sank her teeth into his neck again and sucked. Bloody vampire.

  He had to put a stop to this. If he really wanted to, he could toss her across the room in a second. But with his luck, she’d break something, and definitely have a bruise or two to show for the rough handling. Though she’d probably like that.

  No, he couldn’t toss her, unfortunately. Pilby, if no one else, would be cross with him for abusing a titled guest (Bones would just laugh, the evil bastard). And who knew what the viscount would do if he learned Julian had broken his wife’s arm? Highbottom may not have given two arses what his viscountess got up to after hours, but he might draw the line at broken limbs. If he were sober enough to notice.

  Which was doubtful.

  Even so, he knew that it was a bit not good to throw females across rooms, even if he were the one being assaulted.

  He could see only one way out of this infernal situation, and that was through it. He manfully started to return her kisses and caresses, holding back the sneeze that threatened its way past his sinuses as his nose inhaled her jasmine stink.

  The strategy worked. Lady Highbottom loosened her stranglehold, immediately mollified by his feigned ardor.

  “Oh, Julian, Julian! Take me!” she sighed, throwing back her head and pressing her breasts against him with seductive fervor.

  He rolled his eyes, just barely resisted biting her neck until it bled to see how she bloody liked it.

  “Oh, Pansy, Pansy,” he answered with distinctly less enthusiasm.

  She didn’t seem to pick up on his tone, however, too busy concentrating on rubbing herself against one of his legs.

  Bloody hell.

  He managed to pull away from her enough to give her what he hoped was a disarming smile. “Why don’t you…er…give us a show.”

  He grimaced. That sounded seductive. But she surprised him by actually responding to his half-hearted twaddle. She disentangled her limbs from him and slid to the floor, an expectant look on her face. He gave an inward sigh of relief at the reprieve and slowly, carefully, began to back away, making no sudden movements lest she pounce again.

  He supposed some men must enjoy her sort of bloody rapaciousness, but he was not one of them.

  She began to slowly stalk after him. “What do you have in mind, darling?”

  What did she have in mind, more to the point?

  “Er…take off your…whatsit,” he said, shielding himself behind an armchair and gesturing to her flimsy gown.

  She giggled and turned her back to him with an agile sway of her hips. She toyed teasingly with the ties at her shoulders, but when they didn’t immediately fall away, her brow furrowed in frustration, and she set her full attention on untangling the knots.

  Julian seized the opportunity to bolt—well, stagger—for the door. He was definitely more foxed than he’d thought. He made it out in the hall without incident, thank hell, and nearly to the end of the corridor before he heard her voice, still seductive but a trifle irritated, call out only a few feet behind him.

  He cursed and pushed his way inside the chamber to his left. He slammed the door behind him and collapsed against it, his heart racing. His relief was short lived, however, for a moment later, he felt a thud against the wood at his back and the sound of Lady Highbottom’s increasingly frantic voice shouting his name through the door. Now she sounded very irritated.

  Bloody, bloody hell.

  How the devil was he supposed to get out of this one? Should he just pretend he wasn’t in the room, when she’d obviously seen him enter it? Judging from the strength of her grip, he wouldn’t be surprised if she were able to pound her way through the solid oak door with her fists alone.

  He supposed he could find a window and jump out of it, since he was on the ground floor, but he didn’t fancy doing so in his bare feet. His misadventure the night before had already hacked his soles to pulp.

  “Julian! I know you’re in there!” the lady called. “I don’t mind the chase, darling, but you must keep the doors unlocked if this is to work!”

  He groaned. The window it would have to be.

  But just as he prepared to stumble his way to the exit, a candle sparked to life, and a pair of disapproving blue eyes met his from across the room.

  Julian had thought his night—his day—couldn’t get any more bizarre. Until now.

  Mr. Fawkes sat up in his bed, a red silk stocking cap pulled snug over his golden curls, his cheeks flushed pink with sleep, and his eyes even bigger and bluer now that those bottle-lensed spectacles were nowhere in sight. He held the bed sheets up to his neck like a prudish old schoolmarm and glared.

  Someone on high must really be having a laugh at his expense. Julian should be cursing, but really, that bloody red cap. The lad looked absolutely ridiculous, like one of those slightly sinister little garden gnomes he’d seen everywhere he went when he’d traveled through Bavaria with Sir Wesley—so ridiculous it was hard to remember why he’d even come into this room in the first place.

  Julian couldn’t help himself. He laughed for the first time in years.

  Chapter Six

  The Art of Negotiation

  By the witching hour, alone in the room grudgingly provided by Pilby for the night, Davina hadn’t come up with a way that would salvage Leon’s position before the mail coach’s morning departure. She’d have to be on it. It was clear Hirst had little use for a fop like Leon Fawkes, and she had little idea how to convince him otherwise.

  She’d wish him good luck if she hadn’t already wished him and his whole bloody castle to perdition.

  Pilby had been right, as much as the admission pained her. She had no business here at Arncliffe Castle. Even though the mere thought of doing so made her want to cast up her accounts, it was better that she move on. It had been a ridiculous idea to try and pass herself off as Leon in the first place. Just because she’d not been found out today didn’t mean that she wouldn’t be tomorrow.

  With Mr. Bonnet’s blood money, at least she had enough fare to make it to London. She’d have to throw herself upon the duchess’ dubious charity, but that was better, she told herself (over and over again so that she might begin to believe it), than going home. She couldn’t fathom ever facing her mother again, or living that stagnant, soulless existence at Benwick Grange with an indifferent brother, hostile sister-in-law, and a ruthlessly inflexible mother who would never change.

  Her future unfolded before her much like the heathered moors now surrounding Arncliffe Castle: vast, unknowable and just a tiny bit bleak, even in the summertime bloom. The knot that had taken up residence in her stomach at the mere thought of what she’d done—what she’d continue to do—was not going to go away any time soon.

  She’d eventually fallen into a restless sleep, with Leon’s favorite sleeping cap pulled low over her ears to combat the draftiness of the old castle, resigned to her fate. The last thing she’d expected, however, was a half-sprung, half dressed Mr. Hirst tumbling into her room at three in the morning to laugh at her.

  “Really, Fawkes. That…gingambob on your ‘ead. It’s the most ludicrous thing I ‘ave ever seen a grown man wear,” was the first thing out of his mouth, his accent nearly as thick as Mr. Bonnet’s
in his inebriated state.

  “Then you have not looked in the mirror,” Davina snapped, sitting up and snatching off the cap. She settled Cousin Edmund’s spectacles on her nose and straightened her hopelessly wrinkled cravat, thankful she’d only removed Leon’s jacket and boots before she’d climbed into bed.

  Considering his befuddled state at the moment, she doubted he would have even noticed her sex if she’d been stark naked, but she wasn’t about to find out if that were true.

  She jumped when someone pounded on the door at Hirst’s back and jangled the knob. Pilby’s Mongol Horde seemed to have finally arrived. Whoever…or whatever…it was succeeded in cracking open the door before Hirst managed to slam it shut with his weight once more. He finally had the presence of mind to slip the lock into place just as a woman’s voice on the other side began to call out petulantly for him to open it.

  Well. Davina was not surprised to find Hirst engaged in some sort of game with a female. She knew of his reputation among the ladies of the ton—she wasn’t deaf, after all, merely a wallflower. And after seeing him this morning in all his glory, she could very well understand why. Even at this late hour, she had to admit that his rather boorish allure was still quite evident, though he had managed a shirt this time. It looked as if a wild animal had shred it, but he was wearing one.

  He struggled to his feet, using the knob to leverage himself upward, and put his finger to his lips. “Shhh.”

  She sighed wearily. “What are we shhhing about, Mr. Hirst? She clearly knows you’re in here.”

  “If we’re lucky, she’ll go away,” he said in a stage whisper that could have been heard in Wales.

  “You want her to go away?”

  “Lower your bloody voice. ‘Course I want her to go away,” he hissed.

  Hirst’s pursuer tried the knob again—just in case it had unlocked itself since her last attempt a few seconds ago, apparently. The woman on the other side certainly got no marks for intelligence.

  “I don’t think she’s of a mind to, sir.”