‘Familiar? You think I suffer from bashfulness?’
‘Are Lady Ashby and Mr Damerel present tonight?’
‘No, but—’
‘It is only natural you must feel your lack of acquaintance,’ Harriet said, meeting Benedict’s darkening expression with a kind smile, ‘but you will soon find your feet, I promise. In the meantime, might I introduce you to anyone?’ She couldn’t resist adding, ‘A suitable young lady, perhaps?’
His eyes narrowed. Then he smiled back at her, but his smile did not reach his eyes. He stood up. ‘Thank you for your kind consideration, my lady, but I flatter myself I am capable of arranging my own affairs.’ He proffered his arm. ‘Might I escort you back to the salon?’
Harriet stood and shook out her blue silk skirts before smiling and accepting his arm. ‘Thank you, sir. I am so glad we had this little chat. I think we understand one another more clearly now, do you not agree?’
Chapter Thirteen
Benedict kept his answering growl hidden deep in his chest.
Infuriating...patronising...contradictory...witch.
They reached the salon and Harriet immediately left his side, heading towards a knot of people standing by one of the open windows. The salon was stiflingly hot, crammed with people, all of whom appeared to be talking at once. The room echoed with voices. How did these people tolerate it? Where was the pleasure in standing around in groups, shouting at each other and struggling to make sense of the conversation? A glance around showed not one familiar face and Benedict found himself wondering if Harriet had a point: had part of his reason for seeking her out been simply that he knew her?
He had become reacquainted with several old school and university friends since his return from India, but he could see none of them in this crowd. He wended his way past various knots of people until he caught sight of a face he did recognise. He hesitated. Did he really want to encourage Miss Marstone’s attentions? He deliberated a second too long; Miss Marstone caught sight of him and her eyes lit up as she glided in his direction.
‘Sir Benedict! We meet again.’
She halted in front of him, standing too close for his liking. Her flowery perfume, heady and strong, wafted over him.
He bowed. ‘Good evening, Miss Marstone. We do indeed. Are you here with your mother?’
‘Oh, yes. She is around somewhere.’ She raised her fan and fluttered it before her face. ‘I declare, it is exceedingly hot in here with all these people, is it not? It is enough to make one feel quite faint.’ Above her fan, she watched him through her lashes.
For his part, Benedict eyed Miss Marstone and decided she looked far too robust to swoon on him, but he nevertheless proffered his arm, saying, ‘May I escort you across to the window, Miss Marstone? I am sure you will find it cooler over there.’ He gestured to the window next to the one where Harriet appeared to be holding court in the centre of a group. He recognised Lady Stanton and, by her side, his large hand at the small of her back, the tall man Matthew had pointed out as Lord Stanton.
Benedict tore his attention away from that group and focused on the girl by his side.
‘Such a gentlemanly gesture.’ Miss Marstone dimpled up at him as she took his arm. ‘Tell me, sir, is it hard to adjust to London society after spending so many years abroad?’
‘There are many English people who live in India, Miss Marstone. I did socialise with them in addition to the natives.’
‘Oh, yes, but they are merchants, surely? Oh...not that there is anything wrong with such people, oh, good heavens, no. But in London you can mix with the elite in society. You must, I feel certain, acknowledge the superiority of the company found here to that found anywhere. This is the pinnacle of civilisation.’
Benedict bit back his retort. She was young and innocent. She only knew what she had been taught and, with a mother like Lady Marstone, she surely could be forgiven her prejudices.
‘I was, and still am, a merchant,’ he reminded her.
‘Oh, yes, I know. But you are a gentleman as well...a baronet. That makes all the difference.’
The difference to what? Are all young ladies as openly covetous of a title, as Harriet had once been?
He must hope not, or his search for a bride would consist of much biting of his tongue. Such superiority was not an admirable trait in Benedict’s book. His head began to ache.
‘And,’ Miss Marstone added, ‘you need no longer work, now you are a property owner.’
The inference being that it was socially acceptable for a gentleman to make his money from land, but not from trade.
Why her words, and the sentiment behind them, rankled he did not know. He knew full well that being in trade was deemed an unsuitable occupation for a gentleman of the ton, but he had not been prepared for it to be pointed out to him in quite such a brazen manner.
‘Yes, I have property,’ he said, ‘but I happen to enjoy working, so I intend to continue to run my trading business. In fact,’ he added, hoping to puncture her innate conviction that her view of the world was the only correct one, ‘my partner and I have just purchased a ship so that we can increase our business interests.’
‘Oh! Oh...yes...well...but...your partner?’ Her white brow wrinkled, then she drew in a deep breath, and her lips were smiling again. ‘Mr Damerel is your partner, is he not? Mama told me all about him, and I make no doubt if that kind of work is suitable for Lady Ashby then I can have no objection to it.’
Benedict gave up, but made a mental note not to get trapped in Miss Marstone’s company again, or he was likely to say something he regretted.
They had reached the window where there was, indeed, a fresher feel to the air. Miss Marstone released his arm and propped her hands on the low sill as she leaned forward to draw in a deep breath.
Perhaps not so innocent after all, Benedict mused, eyeing the bottom thrust provocatively in his direction.
‘Do you need rescuing?’
At the exact time those quiet words reached his ears, Miss Marstone straightened and turned to him, her smile dying on her lips as she saw Harriet.
Laughter bubbled beneath Harriet’s cheery, ‘Good evening, Miss Marstone. How do you do?’
‘I am very well, thank you, Lady Brierley.’ Miss Marstone moved to stand beside Benedict and linked her arm through his in a proprietorial manner that made him stiffen. ‘Sir Benedict and I were just enjoying a breath of fresh air. There is an uncomfortable closeness in the room tonight, do you not agree?’
‘Oh, indeed,’ Harriet replied. ‘Almost suffocating, one might say. I wonder, sir, that you do not propose a walk on the terrace to allow Miss Marstone to cool off. She is looking somewhat flushed.’
Benedict felt Miss Marstone’s fingers tighten on his sleeve. He frowned at Harriet, who returned his glare with one of limpid innocence. What the hell was she playing at? One minute she could not wait to get away from him, then she was all false sympathy, concerned that he was shy, for God’s sake, and now she was affability itself. Her changes were mercurial and he did not understand her.
He resisted the urge to massage his temples and smiled at her instead. ‘What a very thoughtful suggestion, Lady Brierley.’ He peered through the open window. There were several people outside, taking the opportunity to cool off. ‘Would you care to take a turn around the terrace, Miss Marstone?’
He did not miss the triumphant smile she directed at Harriet. Harriet, irritatingly, merely smiled graciously, seemingly unconcerned.
‘Thank you, sir. I should like that very much,’ Miss Marstone said.
* * *
Later that evening, Benedict strolled up the dark path towards the terrace. The crowds at the rout party had begun to dwindle and the evening air had cooled significantly, driving everyone else indoors. Benedict had taken advantage of the peace of the garden—la
rge by the standards of most London town houses—and had escaped the throng to soothe his aching head and to mull over the young ladies to whom he had been introduced. Not one of them stood out as someone he would particularly care to share his life with. But it was early days, and he had only just begun looking for a bride, so there was no need to despair.
As he placed one foot on the bottom step up to the terrace, quiet voices reached his ears. Harriet... That was Harriet’s voice—with a man. His temple began to throb again. Who was he? Taking care to tread silently, he moved up a couple more steps, keeping to the shadow at the side of the flight. There... A couple in the shadows, standing close, face-to-face. There was an intimacy about their stance that set Benedict’s heart racing with the urge to charge up those steps and haul the man away from Harriet.
‘We must hope Brierley doesn’t get wind of these other rumours, as well.’ A stranger’s voice, deep and rich.
‘Heavens, yes.’ Harriet’s reply was heartfelt. ‘I cannot believe...after all this time...’ There was a pause. ‘Stanton...about Felicity... Are you sure? I mean, we have never spoken about—’
‘Hush, Harry. It is all sorted. There is no need for you to fret. Your friendship means the world to Felicity. She will not jeopardise—’
Something pushed against Benedict’s leg and he jerked it back. His foot slipped over the edge of his step to the one below with a loud scraping noise. He glanced down to see a pale-coloured cat slinking away down the steps, no doubt startled away by his reaction.
‘Shh! I heard something.’
Hell and damnation. There was nothing for it; he must brazen it out. Benedict strolled up the remaining steps, making no attempt to conceal himself as he silently cursed the cat. He reached the terrace, rounded a pillar topped with a stone urn and saw that the man with Harriet was the Earl of Stanton, her best friend’s husband.
Bloody hellfire.
Harriet’s alarmed expression eased. ‘Sir Benedict! It is you. You startled me.’
Benedict’s mind whirled with the implications of the snatches of conversation he had heard. That their talk was clandestine could not be denied. Why else had they been standing out here, alone, in the dark? Were the rumours they had been discussing the same ones that Matthew had told him about?
Although he had nigh on accused Harriet of having a lover, he had not really believed it, but now— Were Harriet and Stanton involved? A hard ball of anger barrelled through his chest.
Virtuous widow indeed.
Harriet and Stanton were staring at him, awaiting his reply.
‘My apologies for startling you, Lady Brierley. I felt the need to clear my head.’ He eyed Stanton, who returned his glare with a hard stare and bunched brows.
‘I understand you are an old...acquaintance of Lady Brierley’s,’ Stanton said. He thrust out his hand. ‘Stanton.’
Benedict shook the proffered hand. ‘I prefer to think of myself as a friend,’ he said. ‘A very good friend.’
Stanton turned from Benedict and took Harriet’s arm. ‘Come. Felicity will be wondering where we are.’
Benedict stepped sideways, blocking their path. ‘Not so fast.’
Stanton appeared to grow taller and broader as he sized Benedict up. He manoeuvred Harriet so that he stood between her and Benedict, his hand clamped around her wrist.
‘Is there a problem, Poole?’ Stanton’s voice was deathly quiet.
Benedict felt his rage grow. If this buffoon thought he could intimidate him, he was way off course. ‘There is. Go inside, Harriet. I want a private word with his lordship.’
‘Do not,’ she said. ‘Please.’ She twisted free of Stanton’s grip and tugged at him, her obvious familiarity with the earl doing nothing to calm Benedict’s anger. ‘There is no need for this. I do not want a scandal.’
‘If you do not want scandal, what the blazes are you doing out here in the dark with a married man?’
‘And why is that any of your business?’ Stanton snarled. ‘Harry. Go indoors. Now.’
‘No! I will not leave you two here like this. This is madness. There is nothing—’
‘Richard. There you are.’ Lady Stanton was suddenly in their midst, chattering away, linking arms with her husband. ‘I trust you managed to sort out that little misunderstanding between Harriet and me? Oh, you are here, too, Sir Benedict. Now then...what will you make of all this? Such a foolish thing... I did tell you, Harriet, not to pay attention to such silly talk. It is a good job, is it not—’ she turned guileless eyes to Benedict ‘—that we ladies have you gentlemen to talk some sense into us when we are all ready to fly at each other, fluffing our feathers?’
She smiled and her rather ordinary features were transformed. Benedict felt his anger abate. Had he misinterpreted that conversation? Lady Stanton seemed relaxed about her husband and Harriet being out here together. He had at first wondered at the pairing of the handsome earl and his lady, but he now began to see the qualities that had attracted Stanton to his wife as she deftly defused the situation. Stanton, too, had relaxed his combative stance and was watching his wife with adoring eyes.
‘It is all settled now, Felicity, dear,’ Harriet said. ‘There is nothing more to resolve, apart from asking these two to shake hands. Sir Benedict has done his own fair share of jumping to conclusions, when he discovered Stanton and me talking in the dark.’
‘Really, sir? You have no need for suspicions in that direction, I assure you.’
Lady Stanton’s voice rang with confidence and Benedict was left feeling rather foolish.
‘And the rumours you were discussing?’ He could not shake the impression he was being misled, but he could not for the life of him work out why. If there was something between Harriet and Stanton, his wife would not be out here trying to smooth things over.
‘Oh, that was just silly talk by somebody who passed on some scurrilous gossip to Harriet,’ Lady Stanton said. ‘I am exceedingly fortunate to have Richard to rely on, for he sorted it all out in a trice. He would make an excellent diplomat.’
‘He would indeed,’ Harriet said warmly. ‘Now, will you two please shake hands? It is chilly out here and I am feeling the cold.’ She slipped her arm through Benedict’s and nudged him round to face Stanton.
‘I apologise for jumping to conclusions,’ Benedict said, holding out a reluctant hand.
Stanton’s jaw remained set, but he took Benedict’s hand and shook, for the second time that evening. ‘Accepted,’ he said. ‘It was—perhaps—an easy mistake to make.’
‘There,’ Harriet said. ‘Now we are all friends again.’ She squeezed Benedict’s arm. ‘Relax,’ she whispered. ‘And thank you—I do realise you were trying to protect me but, trust me, it was not needed.’
Trust her? He looked into her violet eyes, reading nothing there but calm friendliness, knowing that underneath lurked secrets and unanswered questions. No, he did not trust her but the Stantons clearly did, so he would keep his own counsel.
They went back inside the house, but as Benedict began to take his leave of Harriet, she stayed him.
‘Do not go. Please, Benedict. Not yet. I have something I wish to say.’
Benedict? Against his better judgement, he waited, suspicion niggling away deep inside. What was she up to?
Harriet’s smooth forehead bunched in a frown. ‘You were right, what you said earlier. We were friends and, despite Edward, I would like to be friends again. I do not like this feeling of being on edge whenever we meet. Might we start again, do you think?’
He would not refuse. How could he, when he wanted the same thing? But this change in her attitude to him had been prompted by something other than feeling uncomfortable in his presence.
‘I would like that,’ he said, but he silently reserved judgement.
She was up to something and, when she playe
d her hand, he would be ready for her.
Chapter Fourteen
Harriet studied her reflection in the long mirror on her bedchamber wall. A stranger stared back at her.
‘Tie on the mask, please, Janet.’
The black mask, decorated with silver stars and crescent moons, covered her face from above her eyebrows to the tip of her nose, from which point it swept out to follow the curve of her cheeks and then round to her ears, leaving just her mouth and jawline exposed. She felt the weight and worry of the past few days melt away. Tonight, she was not Harriet, Lady Brierley, widow, but Diana, Roman goddess of the hunt and of the moon, and she could relax and enjoy herself without wondering, every time anyone looked at her, whether they had guessed that it was she who had been Stanton’s lover last year. The rumours had continued to build day by day and she knew it was only a matter of time before the truth was out in the open. What Edward would choose to do then was anyone’s guess.
‘Ooh, milady, even I can’t tell it’s you,’ Janet said, grinning from ear to ear.
Harriet smiled at her maid. ‘Thanks to you and your hard work, Janet,’ she said. ‘You have worked a miracle. I shall have to cultivate a foreign accent, so no one can discover me by my voice.’
She touched the delicate silvery gauze headdress—like the mask, also enhanced with beautifully embroidered crescent moons and stars—that disguised her distinctive silver-blonde hair. Pinned securely in place, she was confident it would not be dislodged by dancing.
What costume will Benedict wear? Shall I recognise him? She must pray she would, for her plan depended upon it.
She had not seen him since the evening of the Barringtons’ rout, where the sight of him in private conversation with Bridget Marstone had provoked such a white-hot spike of jealousy within her that she had been unable to stick to her resolution—made only minutes before—to avoid him for the rest of that evening. Now her resolve was for the opposite, and she shivered in excitement at the thought of seeing him again, and at what she was planning.
Saved by Scandal's Heir Page 12