Miss Benwick Reforms a Rogue

by Maggie Fenton

  As she walked around the side of the castle in search of Hirst, her body light with relief, she remembered the last time she’d seen her mother, marveling at how much things had changed. She didn’t feel the gnawing desperation that had driven her so far from home any more, for she finally, finally, had someone other than herself to rely upon. Her mother may not have changed, but Sir Wesley certainly had. His transformation from an absent-minded, spineless guardian into a staunch ally was something she’d never thought possible.

  Even still, it seemed that in many ways this interlude at Arncliffe Castle had been a vivid dream and nothing more. But it hadn’t been a dream, and she was nowhere near the same person she’d been. She was stronger. Strong enough to fight for what she wanted.

  She’d never thought that her brother would ever stand up to their mother, yet he’d just proven her wrong. If he, one of the most weak-willed men she’d ever met, was capable of such courage, then she could surely muster up a little more of her own to do what needed to be done.

  When she’d left Benwick Grange, she’d taken her courage in hand to run away from her unhappiness, but now she’d have to do just the opposite. She was going to run toward her happiness, seize it by its hopelessly rumpled lapels, and make it let her in. And if she failed, if she truly lost Hirst to Lady Ambrosia, at least she could tell herself she’d fought her hardest.

  This time, however, there would be no lies between them. She was going into battle as herself. It was a daunting prospect, for Julian might have wanted her as Fawkes, but would he want her as Davina Benwick?

  Chapter Twenty Four

  A Rogue to the Rescue

  Lost in her thoughts as she made her way through the back garden in search of her quarry, Davina nearly leapt out of her skin when she heard a violent rustling next to her in the shrubbery. She was met with a sight she could have never imagined: Pilby, the primmest butler in the country, crouched facing away from her, staring at the castle as if it were about to eat him.

  “Pilby?” she cried, all astonishment, clutching at her aching side.

  He jumped at the sound of her voice and spun around, the sleeve of his black superfine jacket ripping on a branch.

  “Mister Fawkes…that is, Miss Benwick!” he cried.

  “Whatever are you doing?”

  His cheeks flushed. “I was just…er, doing a bit of pruning.”

  “Pruning,” she said flatly. “You’re hiding from my mother, aren’t you?”

  The blush on the butler’s cheeks deepened to an alarming shade of red. “Please don’t tell her I’m here, Miss Benwick. We did not…we did not end on the best of terms…”

  Poor Pilby looked terrified. It was an understandable enough reaction to Lady Benwick, all things considered, but this seemed quite extreme for the mild mannered man she knew Pilby to be.

  “Of course I won’t tell her. But I think you’ll be owing your staff a reward for leaving them at her mercy.”

  “They’ll have the week off, Miss Benwick, if they keep that woman away from me,” he avowed.

  “I wish they’d managed as much for me,” she muttered.

  “Miss Benwick!” an all too familiar voice boomed at her back. She froze, her heart sinking to her toes.

  Bloody hell. Dalrymple. He must have followed her. She exchanged a glance with Pilby, still hidden in the shrubbery. The butler understood her wordless plea and straightened from his crouch with renewed resolve. He nodded grimly and scurried off to find help.

  She spun around to face the earl, determined not to let him cow her. “I thought our conversation was concluded,” she said sharply.

  Dalrymple’s face contorted in rage at her defiance. “Far from it. And how dare you speak to me in such a way!”

  “I shall save my manners for someone worthy of them,” she returned.

  “Impudent little baggage,” he seethed. “How dare you break with me and humiliate me in such a public manner. Me! The Earl of Dalrymple! Who are you but the daughter of a lowly baronet with no beauty or fortune to speak of. Your mother was right. You should be kneeling for the honor of marrying me.”

  Davina laughed in his face. “I wonder that you needed to stoop so low, then, to find a bride,” she retorted. “Or perhaps no one else would have you, since they were wise enough to see what a pig you are.”

  The thump to her chin came out of nowhere, just as quickly and unpredictably as Dalrymple’s last blow had been. She staggered back, clutching at her jaw, her vision sparking. The pain of her stitches pulling in her side was so acute it nearly brought her to her knees, but she managed to steady herself.

  Davina had forgotten just how unpredictable Dalrymple could be, but she’d be damned if she let him get away with his abuse any longer. She didn’t plan on surrendering this time: far from it. She’d have her pound of flesh, no matter how many blows he landed in the meantime.

  She shook off her dizziness and charged at him, catching him off guard for a change. His eyes widened, and he backed off as she raised her fists as if to attack him. But his surprise quickly turned to amusement.

  “What are you trying to do?” he laughed, neatly dodging her fists. “Hit me?”

  “No,” she said. “I’m attempting to distract you, so I can do this,” she said, kicking up her leg and kneeing him in the crotch.

  Dalrymple doubled over with a groan, clutching his unmentionables.

  “And it worked,” she declared with satisfaction.

  “You…you…utter slut!” he managed breathlessly.

  Davina smirked, but then in another unexpected move, Dalrymple charged her, still half slumped over, his agony apparently no match for his temper. He seized her shoulders in a bruising grip and shook her violently, spitting out incoherent curses at her.

  Good God, he was even more of a bedlamite than she’d thought, and she was once again fiercely grateful that she’d found the courage to leave this man before it was too late. She squeezed her eyes shut and brought up her hands to push him away, though it made little difference. He shook her even harder.

  But just as quickly as he’d grappled her, Dalrymple was gone, jerked away as if caught in a violent gust of wind. She opened her eyes to find him splayed across the rose bushes. Or what remained of them. Then she caught sight of Hirst standing over the earl, with a grim-faced Pilby hovering behind him. He'd never struck a more dashing figure, even with his rumpled jacket and faded black eye.

  Davina's fears faded completely. Dalrymple may have been her physical superior, but he was no match for a man of Hirst’s strength.

  Hirst took one look at her, hauled the earl to his feet as if he weighed nothing, and punched him in the jaw—the exact same place she’d just been hit. Even from where she stood, she could hear the sickening crunch of bone. Whimpering, with blood gushing from a split lip, the earl fell back into the shrubbery again.

  “I leave you to your own devices for an hour, and you manage once more to get accosted by arsehole earls,” Hirst declared, shaking out his hand with a hiss. He’d not pulled that particular punch.

  It took her a moment to realize he was addressing her, not Dalrymple, still disoriented by the earl’s attack and Hirst’s abrupt appearance. She laughed, half relieved, half pained, at Julian’s attempt at their usual banter.

  “You are the one who nearly gets himself murdered on a daily basis,” she retorted.

  “I fear I may be the one doing the murdering today,” he murmured, a dangerous gleam in his silvery eyes as he glared at Dalrymple.

  The earl chose that unfortunate moment to regain his voice, though it looked like he was in agony whenever he moved his jaw. “How…how dare you!” he blustered. “I’ll have you hanged for this!”

  Well, that was the worst thing anyone could have ever said to Julian. He smiled a mirthless smile.

  “Not if you’re dead, you won’t,” he said. He jerked Dalrymple to his feet and socked him in his left eye, precisely where Dalrymple had hit her the first time. Davina was beginning to
think the placement of his blows wasn’t coincidental at all. The earl howled again as he collapsed back into the bushes.

  “That was for the state she was in when I met her,” Julian said grimly. Then he reared back and kicked the earl in the ribs with the tip of his boot. Davina winced at another ominous popping sound, this time issuing from the vicinity of the earl’s ribcage. “And that was for me. Because I wanted to,” he finished.

  Dalrymple groaned, curling in on himself like the coward he was, and Julian moved to kick him again. Davina placed a hand on his arm to stop him. She had no particular interest in sparing the earl, but she was half afraid Julian really would murder the man, and they had too much to sort out between them without having the magistrate thrown into the mix. She didn’t want to encourage such ferocious behavior every time someone tried to kill her…

  Though she really hoped this was the last time she ever had that particular problem.

  “I think he’s broken enough,” she said.

  “Are you sure? For I’d dearly like to break him a little bit more,” he gritted out.

  “Quite sure.”

  Dalrymple began to cry.

  Hirst ignored the man and turned to her, his expression softening. He took her hand in his own with gentle care, and she finally let herself truly begin to hope.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but of course, that was when everyone else decided to blunder into the garden and ruin their moment.

  “What the devil is going on?” Lady Benwick huffed in outrage, appearing around the edge of the footpath. Sir Wesley trailed behind her, rolling his eyes at her back.

  Pilby gasped and ducked behind Hirst, his dignity completely abandoned.

  Fortunately for the butler, Lady Benwick only had eyes for the blubbering earl at the moment. “Davina! What have you done?”

  “What have I done?” she cried, gesturing toward her injured jaw.

  Lady Benwick ignored her, as usual, her eyes landing on Hirst next. “And who is this…this…person?”

  Hirst quirked a brow at her. “Who are you, madam?” he countered mildly.

  Lady Benwick visibly puffed up with affront. “How dare you address me in such a manner…”

  “Shut up, mother,” Sir Wesley snapped.

  Lady Benwick’s pursed her mouth in reluctant compliance, her shoulders drooping.

  “Remind me never to step into the ring at Gentleman Jack’s with you,” Sir Wesley told Hirst as he eyed the sniveling earl.

  Hirst snorted. “As if a place like that would have me,” he said contemptuously.

  Sir Wesley nudged Dalrymple with his boot. “Pull yourself together, man, for pity’s sake!”

  All Sir Wesley got for an answer was another wordless whimper.

  “I think his jaw is broken,” Davina said brightly, though she was not enjoying Dalrymple’s pain at all. Not at all. That would have been wrong.

  “And perhaps a rib or two,” Hirst added with grim satisfaction.

  Sir Wesley looked pleased. “Good. It saves me the trouble of doing it. I’m sorry, Dav. He must have snuck off while I was busy berating our mother.”

  She waved his apology away. “As long as you were berating her, I can forgive you anything.”

  Lady Benwick gasped with affront. “Well, never in my life did I expect to have my own children betray…Pilby?!” she broke off breathlessly, spotting the butler as he attempted to sneak off into the shrubbery.

  Pilby froze and slowly turned to face his doom. He drew himself up neatly and stuck his chin out at his most haughty angle. “Lady Benwick.”

  “What…what are you doing here, Pilby?” Lady Benwick’s voice had suddenly gone querulous as she addressed her former butler, an alien expression on her face. It was almost as if she were…hurt.

  But that would be ridiculous. Her mother didn’t have feelings.

  Pilby cleared his throat and focused his vision somewhere over Lady Benwick’s head.

  “I work here, my Lady, as butler to Mr. Hirst.”

  “But…to a…a cit?” she cried, sounding even more perplexed and hurt.

  Hirst gave Davina a wry look, and she shrugged. She’d long ago given up apologizing for her mother.

  “I’ve been quite happy here, my lady,” Pilby said stiffly.

  “Oh…I…I see…it’s just…you left without warning…” Lady Benwick said weakly, and Davina could have sworn her eyes looked watery.

  It had to be a trick of the light, however. Her mother didn’t cry. Davina wasn’t even sure she had tear ducts, since not even sliced onions had ever had an effect on the woman.

  Pilby’s stance relaxed, and his stoic face softened, much to Davina’s growing incredulity. “Emily…” Pilby began in a much gentler tone.

  Lady Benwick held out a hand to stop his words, averting her gaze. “You have no right to use my name now…” she began weakly.

  Well. That “now” certainly seemed to imply that Pilby had once had such a right. Which meant…

  Had Davina been told that the sun did indeed circle the earth after all, she would have been less shocked than she was at this…this very strange turn of events. She looked at her brother, who was glancing slack-jawed between Lady Benwick and Pilby. He met her eyes and shook his head in disbelief, having reached the same conclusion she had.

  “You know I couldn’t stay,” Pilby continued, “when you’d never agree to…”

  “I…I can’t do this,” Lady Benwick cried. “I won’t hear it, Terrence. Not now.”

  Terrence?

  Pilby closed his mouth, his expression growing inscrutable once more, and turned away from her.

  Lady Benwick took a long moment to smooth out imaginary wrinkles on her skirt and square her shoulders. “I will be in the coach, waiting,” she finally said, to no one in particular. She cast one last glance at Davina. “Will you be coming with me or not?”

  Before Davina could answer her, Hirst stepped closer to her side. “Oh, she’ll be remaining here, with me.”

  Lady Benwick drew back in dismay. “Indeed. In what capacity?”

  Hirst snuck a cautious glance Davina’s way. “I believe that is between Davina and myself,” he said softly.

  Davina’s heart somersaulted in her chest, and she fought back a smile.

  “Very well,” Lady Benwick said tersely. “I’ll not wait for you to come to your senses, Davina. I quite wash my hands of you.”

  “Thank you,” Davina said, refusing to feel hurt by her mother’s callousness. “I’ll happily do the same.”

  Lady Benwick huffed, cast one last troubled glance at Pilby, and stalked off.

  Pilby frowned at Lady Benwick’s retreating back until Sir Wesley clapped him on the shoulder and cleared his throat awkwardly. “So you and mother…”

  Pilby arched a brow at him, silently daring him to proceed.

  Sir Wesley took the hint. “Er, quite, quite,” he said, clearing his throat. “If you would help me deliver the earl to his coach, I believe we can put paid to this particular chapter in all our lives.”

  The butler gave Sir Wesley a terse nod, and the two men none-too-gently hauled Dalrymple to his feet. As they did so, Wesley might have (accidentally on purpose) elbowed the earl in his ribs. Thrice.

  “Oh, so sorry,” Wesley said at the earl’s renewed whimpers, not sounding sorry at all, a satisfied smile on his lips and a twinkle in his eye as he glanced Hirst’s way.

  “You’d best take care of her, old boy,” he warned.

  “Oh, I rather think it will be the other way around,” Hirst said wryly.

  Well, at least Hirst had sense enough know that.

  When Sir Wesley and Pilby had at last dragged the earl out of sight, Davina finally found herself truly alone with Hirst. Even though this was what she’d wanted, now that the moment had come, she was suddenly so jittery she could barely look at him.

  He didn’t share the same affliction, however, for she could feel his eyes boring into her, taking in her appearance from head to
toe with the same studied scrutiny he usually reserved for his work.

  She knew logically that he’d been aware of her identity ever since their night at the inn, but standing before him now, knowing that he knew, made her feel exposed in a way she’d not even felt at the ruins. Their passions had ruled them there. But now, she was just hopelessly plain, hopelessly skinny Davina Benwick, in Leon’s borrowed feathers.

  He reached toward her jaw, coming within an inch of touching the tender skin before he hesitated and pulled away.

  “Are you all right?” he asked quietly, almost tenderly.

  She probed her injury, still not quite daring to meet his eyes, but it only stung a little. “He didn’t hit me hard.”

  “That he hit you at all…”

  She cut him off with a wave of her hand before he could work himself up into a lather. The last thing she wanted to do was dwell on Dalrymple.

  “Where have you been?” she asked.

  Something dark and a bit pained flashed over his countenance. “I had a few things to sort out. Bones…Mr. Bonnet was taken into custody by the magistrate. I had to see him off.”

  “Oh. I thought…I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not. He could have killed you.” He paused. “Where did you think I was?”

  “Lady Ambrosia…?” she ventured.

  He let out a long sigh and gave her a small, rueful smile. “Lady Ambrosia and the marquess departed yesterday. With the Highbottoms. They decided to brave the cesspits at Kildale House.”

  “But your plans…”

  “Someone pointed out how stupid they were,” he said, his smile growing as he closed the distance between them. “I am perfectly content with Kildale’s financial ruination.”

  “I see,” she said cautiously, for just because this admission made her heart sing with hope, she didn’t want to get ahead of herself. Though neither one of them were blameless for this mess, he’d treated her rather shabbily.

  “Do you?” He sounded unconvinced. He sighed. “I’ve made a right hash of this, haven’t I? I never should have pushed you away. I was angry at Kildale, and scared of what you made me feel. We’ve only known each other a few days, and yet you’ve managed to turn my whole world on its head, Fawkes.”