Miss Benwick Reforms a Rogue

by Maggie Fenton

  Kildale looked both relieved to have his attention diverted from his daughter’s flirtation and supremely annoyed by the subject matter.

  “Yes, well,” he said gruffly, clearing his throat. “It was supposedly haunted before my ancestors came into possession of it in the 16th century. We were mere earls back then,” he finished, throwing a condescending glance at Hirst. “Didn’t come into the marquisate until a century later.”

  Hirst didn’t seem bothered in the least by Kildale’s rather pointed reminder of his exalted lineage. He just lifted a brow and sat back in his seat, as if content to absorb the conversation around him.

  “I know the legend,” Lady Ambrosia said in her usual lackadaisical tone, threading her arm lightly through Hirst’s, an intimacy that had the marquess—and Davina—nearly gagging. “During Edward II’s reign, one of the king’s enemies hid here, disguised as a monk, for a decade before he was discovered. He was drawn and quartered by the king’s men in the main yard—where we are sitting now, I suspect. It is said his ghost has haunted the abbey ever since, looking for all of his missing parts.”

  “Oh, I say!” Sir Wesley exclaimed, abandoning the chicken leg he’d been devouring, looking a bit green about the gills.

  Even Lord Highbottom looked put off by the tale, setting aside his goblet and glancing around the environs, as if looking for evidence of the poor ghost’s entrails on the moss-covered stones.

  “How horribly blood-curdling!” the viscountess said gleefully.

  “Ambrosia!” Kildale barked. “Do remember your station. We do not engage in such common sensationalism.”

  Ambrosia didn’t look at all bothered by her father’s remonstration, popping a grape in her mouth and pulling Hirst’s arm tighter against her side, glancing at the marquess in challenge. Davina suppressed a sigh of frustration. It was all she needed, for Ambrosia to start rebelling against her father—and using Hirst to do so. They’d be married before summer’s end, and Davina would be…

  Well, she didn’t know where she’d be. Anywhere but here.

  “I know another tale,” Hirst began, eyeing the marquess steadily, “this one connected to one of the Lords of Kildale, not just these ruins.”

  Kildale didn’t look the least bit intrigued. He glared at Hirst and stole the bottle of claret from Lord Highbottom. He topped off his glass and tossed back half of it at once.

  The viscountess, on the other hand, was hanging off Hirst’s every word as fervently as she was Davina’s arm. Not to be outshone by Ambrosia, she pulled Davina so tightly against her side that Davina feared for her circulation. “Oh do tell, Mr. Hirst!” she cooed.

  Hirst smiled indulgently at the lady’s enthusiasm, never taking his attention off of Kildale. Davina wondered if she was the only one who felt the sudden chill in the air.

  “This particular marquess had fallen on hard times,” he continued, “his estate in ruins due to his appetite for the gaming tables. He couldn’t bear to have his incompetence be discovered by his peers, however, so he came up with a scheme to save his good name.”

  The marquess downed the rest of his glass in one gulp, his faced flushing a furious red. Davina half expected the man to keel over any second at Hirst’s besmirching of his ancestor, whose vices seemed rather too close to his own for comfort.

  Hirst had no such concerns, however. “The marquess took his family’s most prized heirloom, a diamond necklace said to have been a gift of James the Second himself. He sold off the jewels and replaced the settings with paste. Since his wife had died long ago, there was no marchioness to discover the deception. Or so he thought. One of his servants noticed and raised the alarm.”

  “This is rather an elaborate tale!” Lady Highbottom avowed, her grip on Davina’s arm slackening as she tried to keep up with Hirst’s words.

  Sir Wesley looked as confused as the viscountess, while Lady Ambrosia turned to her father, watching him squirm with a shrewd look on her pretty face. It was as if Ambrosia knew precisely what was going on between Hirst and the marquess, had been playing the game all along, and it made the stone in Davina’s chest grow even heavier with jealousy and dread.

  Something was about to happen. Davina could feel it in the air as surely as she could the threat of a storm.

  “Did the marquess die of embarrassment, then?” Lady Ambrosia said dryly.

  “Not quite,” Hirst said. “There was a new maid in the earl’s household. During the inquiry, it was discovered that this maid had…stretched the truth to gain employment.”

  “She was a common whore!” Kildale spluttered out of nowhere, his face an alarming scarlet as he pounded a fist on the tabletop, causing everyone but Hirst to jump. The viscount, who’d fallen asleep, nearly fell out of his chair in shock, but was soon snoring away in blissful ignorance once more. Kildale seemed to realize the disproportion of his reaction and sat back down. “Or at least…that is what I heard.”

  Something dangerous flashed in Hirst’s eyes, though he only smiled mildly at the marquess’ strange outburst.

  “Indeed. She’d been a prostitute in a past life, with two bastards to her name. One supposes she was trying to better herself, though she had to lie to do so, the hypocrisy of polite society being what it is. But when her past was exposed, all were quick to blame the theft on her. Of course, the marquess knew the truth, but he did nothing.” His lips quirked in a humorless smile, his eyes dead. “Well, I say nothing. He did everything to ensure the maid took the blame to save his reputation. She was hanged for the crime.”

  “Good God!” Lady Ambrosia cried, appalled, pulling away from Hirst. Perhaps she didn’t know as much as Davina had thought after all. But it did nothing to lighten the weight in Davina’s chest, for she had a horrible suspicion where this story was heading.

  “Mebbe that’s why you’re always skirting dun territory, old boy,” Lord Highbottom drawled at the marquess as his head lolled forward briefly, proving himself more conscious than Davina had assumed. “Cursed by a housemaid.”

  “Shut up, shut up!” Kildale hissed through his teeth, his face suddenly drained of its former color, as if he’d seen an actual ghost. He rose unsteadily to his feet, knocking over his chair in the process. “You!” he bit out, glaring at Hirst, who remained completely unmoved by the marquess’ display. “How dare…how could you…” The marquess seemed incapable of finishing a sentence. He finally stalked from the table, quivering with rage, and disappeared into the ruins.

  “Lud, it was just a tale!” Lady Highbottom said, bewildered. “Is he so prideful that he cannot stand to hear one bad word against his ancestor?”

  “Of course he is,” Lady Ambrosia said bluntly. “Have you not met my father?”

  Davina kept her eyes on Hirst, who was watching Kildale’s angry retreat, the tension around his mouth betraying the studied ease of his posture. The shadows in his pale eyes were so dark that she was chilled to the bone even in the heat of the day. She realized something in that moment: Hirst didn’t merely hold the marquess in contempt—he hated the man.

  “Heard that story somewhere before,” Lord Highbottom muttered, now more sentient than not. He picked up his claret and swayed in his seat so badly he sloshed it all over his cravat. “Demmed familiar.”

  “What the devil is going on, Jules?” Sir Wesley asked, turning to his friend anxiously.

  Hirst ignored him and rose to his feet. “Something must have disagreed with him,” he said dryly, then excused himself and walked off into the ruins—not directly after the marquess, but close enough to worry Davina.

  Hirst had tried to assure her that the idea of Kildale being behind the mischief of the past few days was preposterous, but Davina wasn’t convinced. Someone had tried to kill them both with the charlière, someone who had looked very much like the marquess. That was not in her head.

  Davina didn’t trust Hirst not to seek the marquess out to finish what he’d started. And whatever grudge Hirst and Kildale had against each other, any confrontation was
unlikely to end peacefully.

  Well. She’d saved him once, and she could certainly do so again, though Hirst’s propensity for imperiling himself was growing tiresome.

  She moved to follow him, but Lady Highbottom pulled her back firmly to her side. “Do you have any ghost stories, Mr. Fawkes?”

  “Yes, Mr. Fawkes,” Lady Ambrosia said drolly, though the occasional glance toward Hirst’s retreating form betrayed her own concern. “I do believe it’s your turn to entertain us.”

  She pried herself out of the viscountess’ greedy hands and started in Hirst’s direction. “Sir Wesley’s the storyteller in our family. He can entertain you much better than I.”

  Sir Wesley’s eyes popped wide. “Wha…Me? Dav…er, Leon, where do you think you’re going?”

  “I just remembered something I must tell Mr. Hirst,” she said.

  “What? Now?” Wesley stood as if to intercept her, but she maneuvered him into her recently vacated chair—practically into the arms of the viscountess. She felt mildly guilty when she saw the speculative look Lady Highbottom sent her brother’s way. But only mildly.

  “Why don’t you tell everyone about when the Duke of Montford visited Rylestone Green and burnt down our cousin’s castle,” she suggested, patting Wesley’s shoulder.

  That certainly grabbed everyone’s attention. Even Highbottom looked intrigued by this juicy on-dit.

  “What? He didn’t…that is, I was in Gretna Green when all of that palaver was happening! I’d hardly know where to start…”

  “Gretna Green!” Lady Highbottom exclaimed, eyes taking on a delighted gleam. Her long-nailed hands latched on to Sir Wesley’s arm, making it impossible for him to stand, much less follow after Davina. “Do tell, Sir Wesley!”

  “Yes,” Lady Ambrosia said, sipping from her claret and giving Davina a significant look. “Do tell. Every detail. I’m sure your cousin here knows what he is doing.”

  Davina was certain in that moment that Lady Ambrosia knew who she truly was. She would have panicked had she not already been so preoccupied. But she supposed if Ambrosia had not revealed her so far, she had no intention of doing so. Davina doubted the lady’s motives were altruistic, but she hardly cared, so long as she kept her mouth shut.

  Promising herself she’d deal with Ambrosia later, she took off before Sir Wesley could raise another protest, hoping Hirst wouldn’t get himself into too much trouble before she managed to find him.

  Chapter Twenty

  Ruined

  Davina had expected to find Hirst engaged in some sort of violence with Kildale, not sitting at the base of an old crumbled keep, his shoulders slumped in defeat. When Hirst looked up, his eyes were red-rimmed and luminous with an emotion she was afraid to name. The thought of Julian Hirst in tears was ridiculous. Impossible. Yet it seemed at any moment the impossible might actually come to pass.

  “What do you want?” he snapped, climbing to his feet while carefully avoiding her eyes.

  What did she want? That was a question with an answer that grew more complex with every day she passed at Arncliffe Castle. At the moment, however, she wanted to know what exactly was going on between Hirst and the marquess. Though she doubted he’d ever explain anything to her. He’d tell her it was none of her business yet again, and he would not be wrong.

  She wished it were, though. Which was entirely the problem.

  “Where is Kildale?” she asked.

  “How should I know?”

  She glared at him. “The two of you seemed ready to pummel each other over Pilby’s cold collation. It seemed logical to assume you’d gone off to do just that.”

  “Well, he’s not with me. He’s off sulking somewhere on his own.”

  “Just like you’re doing?”

  His smile was humorless. “What was your intention if you did find us pummeling each other, then?”

  “Well, someone’s got to make sure you don’t get yourself killed. Or hanged for killing a peer.”

  Her words were nothing more than sarcastic rejoinders, but they seemed to hit a nerve. His expression shuttered the way it had in the workshop, and he turned his head away from her, his body vibrating with tension.

  “I suggest you go back to the others,” he said in a hard voice. “Leave me to my sulk, as you call it. I’m on a knife’s edge, Mr. Fawkes, and you do not want to see what happens on the other side.”

  “But…”

  He met her eyes before she could get another word out, and the coldness in them was enough to stop her in her tracks. She’d stuck her foot in it somehow. He didn’t want her near him, and he didn’t want her help, that much was clear. He’d already made her cry twice in two days. She refused to do so again.

  She turned to leave, but a flicker of movement above her head captured her attention. She glanced up and saw the flash of dark fabric pass behind the rubble at the top of the old keep. Someone had managed to climb up there, though it was impossible to make out who it was.

  Before she could react, one of the largest pieces of rubble, a heavy limestone slab, shifted forward with a groan, right above where Hirst was standing. It didn’t take a genius like Hirst to realize what was going on. Davina rushed forward, her heart so far into her throat she wasn’t even able to call out a warning.

  Hirst’s eyes widened in surprise as she came at him, oblivious to the danger looming above him. She was able to knock him away from the ruins and into a patch of overgrown grass, just as the boom of stone crashing against stone rent the air at her back.

  She landed on top of Hirst in a breathless heap. It was a long time before she regained her equilibrium, and when she did, her proximity to Hirst finally began to register. She was sprawled out on top of him, and their chests were pressed together so intimately she could feel his racing heartbeat pounding against her own. The scent of him—horses and sandalwood and clean male sweat—dizzied her already addled senses, the heat of him scorching her, even through all the layers of their clothes.

  When she dared to open her eyes, she found him staring up at her, their noses almost touching. She could see tiny flecks of blue and green kaleidoscoped in his gray eyes, as unique and unexpected as everything else about him. She’d not noticed that before.

  The barest twitch of movement would have their lips colliding, and damn it, once she had the thought in her head, she couldn’t let it go. She glanced at his mouth, the plush maroon shape of it, and swallowed heavily.

  Something unfathomable passed through Hirst’s eyes, causing her to shiver despite halfway melting from their combined body heat. He seized her by the shoulders, and for a moment, she thought he was going to do it. He was going to pull her down to his lips and kiss her. Just as she’d imagined and hoped for so many times in the last few days.

  She gasped, squeezed her eyes shut, and braced herself, her heart in her throat.

  Instead, he pushed her off into the weeds beside him none-too-gently and sat up.

  “What the devil was that?” Hirst demanded, looming over her, his dark hair at sixes and sevens, his eyes wild.

  She gestured back to the keep and the giant stone that now sat on the exact spot Hirst had stood only moments before. The scene needed no explanation for him to understand immediately what had happened. If she’d not pushed him away when she did…

  Well, there was no way he would have survived—no way either of them would have survived if she’d moved even a fraction of a second slower.

  He cursed and climbed to his feet, brushing himself off, then reached down to help her up.

  “Someone tried to kill you,” she said, as the full reality of what had just happened finally registered over her shock.

  He looked as if he were about to scoff at the idea, so she barreled on. “It was deliberate. I saw someone up there,” she insisted. “I’m sure of it.”

  His body tensed with alertness as he gazed toward the top of the keep. He took her by the hand and dragged her across the ruins and into a small, overgrown garden, sheltered on all
sides by crumbling walls. “Wait here.”

  “But…”

  “Wait here,” he growled. Something hard and almost desperate in his expression cut off her protests, and she nodded reluctantly.

  With one last warning look, he disappeared the way they’d come. Davina barely breathed as she waited. She heard his boots scuffing the stones in the distance as he climbed toward the top of the keep, the only other sound she could distinguish besides her own shallow breaths. Not even the chirping of birdcalls broke the ominous stillness around her, and that only compounded her sense of dread.

  She didn’t know how much time had passed when a noise behind her sent her heart into her throat. She jumped to her feet with a gasp and spun around. But it was only Hirst, fitting himself through a different side of the wall, his expression still deeply troubled.

  “Whoever it was, he’s gone now,” he said grimly. “Are you sure you saw someone?”

  “Without a doubt,” she said. “I would stake my life on it.”

  All of a sudden, he looked as if she’d struck him. His face contorted with anger. “You almost did. Damn it, Fawkes…” he trailed off, as if he couldn’t continue. “You little fool.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “That doesn’t sound like gratitude to me.”

  “You saved my life, nearly at the expense of your own. Tell me, would it have been worth it?”

  “You cannot tell me how much I am allowed to value your life. You can’t force me not to care.”

  “I can urge you to reconsider.” He stalked forward until he had her pinned against the garden’s crumbling wall. He loomed over her, his expression torn between fury and anguish. “Never do that again, do you hear me?”

  She rolled her eyes, though her heart was pounding furiously in her chest at his rough manner. He was once again far too close for her to think straight at all.

  “Trust when I tell you I’m hardly worthy of devotion,” he continued in a low tone.

  “Devotion!” she scoffed. “I’ll act as I please.” He’d no idea how hard won her autonomy was, and he’d not take it from her, no matter how well intentioned it was. “And you’re welcome, by the way.”