Some Like to Shock (Mills & Boon Historical) (Daring Duchesses - Book 2)

by Carole Mortimer

  ‘You will be the fifth.’ Dartmouth nodded. ‘And your little duchess will be the sixth.’

  Benedict’s eyes widened. ‘You have absolutely no reason to harm Genevieve!’

  ‘Her intelligence, whilst commendable, is also her undoing, I am afraid. As such, I am sure it will not take her long, once she has recovered a little from the shock of your own sudden demise, to add two and two together and find the appropriate answer of four.’

  Benedict’s hands clenched into fists above the bedcovers. ‘You murdering, treasonous bastard!’ He still found it difficult to believe that this man, his godfather, and his father’s longest and closest friend, had not only killed him but also his wife, along with two of their servants. And that he now intended to kill Benedict, and later Genevieve … ‘Why?’ he demanded again. ‘You are as English as I, so why would you do such a thing?’

  The earl looked bored by the conversation. ‘My mother, however, was French. As for the other reasons for my actions? Our king is insane, and our Prince Regent—why, the man is nothing but a profligate and a womaniser!’

  ‘And those are your reasons?’ Benedict stared at the other man incredulously. ‘You killed your closest friend, his wife, and two of their servants, because Prinny is extravagant and adulterous?’

  ‘As I have said, my mother is also French and my allegiance lies with that country and its true ruler.’

  ‘Bonaparte?’ Benedict spat out the name disdainfully.

  ‘Exactly.’

  Benedict gave a pained frown. ‘And does—is my Aunt Cynthia aware of your loyalties?’

  ‘Of course. She shares them.’

  ‘And condones your actions?’

  The earl sighed his impatience. ‘Of course.’

  All this time, all these years, the two people that Benedict had thought of as part of his family had been lying and cheating and conspiring with the enemy.

  ‘There has been enough talk, Benedict,’ Dartmouth bit out dismissively. ‘It grows late and I am sure your duchess is eager to return to your arms. A pity they will be cold by the time she finds you,’ he added unconcernedly.

  Benedict’s chin rose. ‘And how do you intend to go about achieving that?’

  ‘By persuading you to drink the contents of this vial in the tumbler of water at your side.’ He held up a glass bottle he had retrieved from the pocket of his pantaloons. ‘I assure you, your death will be swift and relatively painless, and give all the appearance of a seizure of the heart following your fever.’

  ‘And just how do you intend persuading me into calmly drinking that concoction?’ Benedict scorned.

  The earl shrugged. ‘Perhaps by promising you that I will spare your little duchess if you will drink it without further argument?’

  ‘A promise I have no trouble disbelieving!’

  Dartmoth’s mouth tightened. ‘Then I will take care of her demise first. A slit of the wrists, perhaps, or mayhap an overdose of a sleeping draught? I am sure that none will disbelieve it if I were to let slip in the right ears how … close the two of you have become in recent weeks, and that her suicide, after discovering her lover dead, was inevitable.’

  ‘Why tell me these things now?’ Benedict’s eyes glittered with fury. ‘Why not just put the liquid into my drink when I was not looking and be done with it?’

  ‘And ruin what little fun is allowed to me?’ the earl drawled. ‘I have spent years, all of my life, hiding behind this façade, and you can have no idea of the relief, the sense of satisfaction, I find in being able to tell you the truth at last.’

  ‘You are insane!’ In that moment Benedict truly believed it to be the truth. This man, a man he had trusted all his life, a man his father had called friend, was nothing but a traitor to his country and a murderer of all the people Benedict held dear.

  ‘Do you think so?’ The other man appeared to give the suggestion some thought. ‘I prefer to think of myself as a true patriot of France.’

  ‘Even the French do not wish to see Bonaparte return as their ruler!’

  ‘Sheep,’ Dartmouth dismissed contemptuously. ‘And ones who will return to the fold once Napoleon has been put back upon his throne.’

  ‘Something you no doubt intend to see happen sooner rather than later?’

  ‘Naturally.’ The earl gave a calm inclination of his head. ‘He is a man of order. A true leader of men.’

  ‘And just as profligate and as much of a womaniser as Prinny!’

  Dartmouth’s nostrils flared with displeasure at this criticism of his hero. ‘You are too young to appreciate the pressures of leadership and—’

  ‘And you, I am afraid, are as insane as Benedict has already declared you to be,’ Genevieve spoke softly from across the room.

  Both men turned sharply to look at her, Benedict with a sense of dread, Dartmouth with weary resignation. A resignation that turned to a look of appreciation as he saw that Genevieve held a pistol levelled directly at his chest. ‘I am sure there is no need for bloodshed, my dear,’ he soothed gently.

  A gentleness which Genevieve, having overheard Benedict’s raised voice a few minutes ago, before then listening unashamedly to much of the Earl of Dartmouth’s conversation with Benedict, did not allow him to fool her for a moment. This man, Benedict’s own godfather and friend, was responsible for killing four people.

  And he had come here this evening with the intention of killing Benedict, before later killing her.

  The earl was perfectly correct in assuming Genevieve would not want to live if Benedict were dead, but she had no intention of allowing him to harm so much as a single hair on the head of the man she had discovered she loved with all her heart.

  ‘I do not intend to shed your blood unless I am forced to do so,’ she bit out contemptuously, more grateful than she could say for the loaded pistol she had kept near her ever since the night Benedict had been shot, in fear that whoever was responsible might come back and try again. As he obviously had … ‘I would much rather see you tried and convicted for your crimes, before facing the hangman’s noose.’

  ‘Vengeful little wench,’ the earl murmured scathingly. ‘Unfortunately—’ a sneer curled his top lip ‘—I do not believe for one moment that you will actually pull the trigger.’

  ‘Why is it that bullies such as you severely underestimate what I am or am not capable of?’ Genevieve returned with all the pleasantness of a conversation taking place in her drawing room.

  ‘Genevieve—’

  ‘You have rid me of the bully from my own life, Benedict,’ she answered without so much as taking her eyes off the rotund and insane Earl of Dartmouth, ‘please allow me to do the same for you.’

  In truth, Genevieve had never looked more magnificent to Benedict than she did at that moment: hair still in disarray about her shoulders, her eyes calm and steady, cheeks flushed, mouth set, body tense beneath the peach-coloured gown she now wore, with not so much as a tremble in her hands as she held the pistol pointed directly at Dartmouth’s chest. In the other man’s place, Benedict knew he would not be questioning her ability to pull the trigger!

  ‘My dear Duchess—’

  ‘Do not move so much as a muscle, Dartmouth!’ she rasped now as that gentleman would have done exactly that. ‘I should warn you that my brother, lacking in male siblings, took great delight in teaching me how to use and shoot a pistol with accuracy some years ago.’

  ‘The brother who took his own life—’

  ‘No, Genevieve!’ Benedict cried out in warning as her finger tightened on the trigger of the pistol. ‘He is merely trying to goad you into firing irrationally and then hoping to overpower you before you are able to fire off another shot. Come here to me, love,’ he encouraged as he held his hand out to her. ‘Give me the pistol and ring for Jenkins. Genevieve, please,’ he urged gently when she made no move to do as he asked.

  The fierceness of Genevieve’s gaze remained fixed upon the Earl of Dartmouth for several long seconds, before the tension began to
ease from her shoulders and she lowered the pistol slightly as she turned to him, which was when Dartmouth decided to make his move!

  What happened next took but a few seconds, and yet it seemed to Benedict as if it all took place in excruciating slow motion.

  Genevieve became aware of the earl’s step towards her almost at the moment he made it. She turned back quickly, aiming instinctively, before squeezing the trigger of the pistol. There was a brief look of surprise on Dartmouth’s face before a bloom of red spread across the front of his jacket and he began to crumble slowly to the floor.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘All this time you have been working for the Crown?’ Genevieve looked blankly at Benedict as he crouched down beside the chair upon which she now perched so tensely whilst he tried to explain the sequence of events which had led up to this evening.

  ‘Believed I was working for the Crown,’ Benedict corrected. ‘Who knows now how much of the information I and others gathered was for England or to be passed on to Bonaparte!’

  Her fingers tightened about the untouched glass of brandy she held in her hand as she gave a shudder. ‘I cannot believe I actually shot a man.’

  ‘He is lucky that it was you who fired the shot, love.’ Benedict’s jaw had tightened grimly. ‘I would have aimed to kill rather than wing him in the shoulder.’

  She gave a shake of her head. ‘He deserves to stand trial for his crimes and have the full extent of his duplicity revealed.’

  All had been pandemonium since Genevieve had fired the pistol, the sound of the shot bringing not only Jenkins, but several other of the household servants running up the stairs, eyes wide as they burst into the bedchamber to find their mistress on the bed being cradled protectively in Benedict’s arms, a pistol at her side, and the Earl of Dartmouth lying in a pool of his own blood on the floor.

  Jenkins had taken in the scene at a glance and quickly shooed the other servants out of the room, those few minutes’ respite allowing Benedict the opportunity to release a shocked and silent Genevieve before easing gingerly out of the bed and quickly pulling on his shirt and pantaloons, Jenkins finding him crouched over the felled earl by the time he returned to the bedchamber, the bullet having pierced Dartmouth’s shoulder rather than his heart.

  Benedict had straightened to issue instructions for the authorities to be brought to the house and for someone to remain in the bedchamber with the reloaded pistol trained on the Earl of Dartmouth, whilst he took the still-stunned and white-faced Genevieve through to her private parlour and quietly explained his own years of working for the Crown under the guidance of his godfather.

  The godfather who had slain Benedict’s own parents, and their household servants, as a means of hiding his treason. The same godfather who would have seen to the disposal of both Benedict and Genevieve this evening for that same cause …

  Until Genevieve had appeared in the room with the loaded pistol in her hand. Benedict would never forget how magnificent she had looked at that moment. Every inch the warrior that she undoubtedly was.

  She looked up at him now with tear-wet eyes in her parchment-white face. ‘I could not allow him to harm you, Benedict.’

  ‘And I shall be forever grateful for it, love.’ He moved up to sit on the arm of the chair where she sat and placed his arm about her shoulders. ‘How did you know to bring a loaded gun back into the bedchamber with you?’

  ‘My suspicions were first aroused when you revealed that you had told your godfather of your interest in locating your parents’ two missing servants. Enough, I am afraid, for me to listen unashamedly at the door once the two of you were alone in the bedchamber.’ She grimaced.

  ‘And I will be eternally grateful that you did,’ Benedict assured her fervently. ‘This is probably not the time to tell you—no, this is exactly the time to tell you!’ he corrected firmly. ‘I know you are upset, that you will need time to—to accept the events of this evening, but before the authorities arrive and we are taken up with other matters, I want you to know that I love you, Genevieve. That I wish very much to ask you to be my wife—’

  ‘You—must—not—say—such—things—Benedict!’ she warned emotionally as she turned sharply to face him. ‘I cannot—You must not.’ More tears cascaded down the paleness of her cheeks as she shook her head.

  ‘You cannot what, love?’ Benedict stood up slowly. ‘Cannot ever love anyone after your marriage to Forster? Cannot love me?’ He gave a brief smile. ‘We have time, love. All the time in the world for me to try to persuade—to cajole and love you into loving me in return.’

  ‘Do not talk nonsense, Benedict.’ She eyed him impatiently. ‘Of course I can love you. I love you already. I would not have made love with you earlier if I did not already love you. It is only that—’

  ‘You already love me?’ Benedict crossed the room in three long strides to take her hands into both of his, his expression one of elation before a frown marred his brow. ‘I do not understand … If you love me, why do you not want me to tell you how much I love you in return, how much I long to make you my wife?’

  ‘Because you are talking out of gratitude and—and honour. Because you believe I saved your life by nursing you after you were shot and stopping Lord Cargill from his attempt to poison you just now—Why are you laughing, Benedict?’ She frowned her consternation as he did exactly that, long and loudly.

  ‘“Gratitude and honour”?’ he finally sobered enough to repeat. ‘Dante Carfax saved my life once during battle—should I tell him I love and want to marry him, too? Rupert Stirling once stopped a malicious French countess from running me through with my own sword as I slept—should I love and want to marry him, too?’

  ‘Now you are being even sillier than before.’ She frowned at him reprovingly. ‘And what did you do to this French countess that she wished to run you through with your own sword? More to the point, why was she able to do so as you slept?’ she added suspiciously.

  Benedict gave another shout of laughter. ‘Jealous, love?’

  Pea-green with it, if Genevieve was honest, and she usually was, no matter what trouble it caused her. ‘You cannot tell a woman you love and wish to marry her in one breath and then talk of sleeping with French countesses in the next!’

  ‘I was not sleeping with her, but in a bedchamber in a cottage close to her estate,’ he assured her warmly. ‘And the countess wished to run me through with a sword because I had only hours earlier informed her that her husband was a spy and now an English prisoner.’

  ‘Oh.’ Genevieve blinked, her indignation not completely mollified by this explanation. ‘Anyway, you cannot compare the actions of your two friends with my own.’

  ‘No, I cannot,’ Benedict agreed fervently as he gathered her clasped hands to his chest. ‘Genevieve, I may not have realised—may not have wished to acknowledge, until six nights ago, that what I feel for you is love—’

  ‘Gratitude.’ She attempted to pull away from him, her heart heavy.

  A pull Benedict easily resisted by holding all the tighter to her fingers. ‘But I knew it when I heard the sound of the gun firing, and the bullet whistling, and knew that if I did not step in front of you it would pierce your heart and kill you and take you away from me for ever,’ he finished firmly.

  ‘I—you—’ Genevieve looked up at him uncertainly. ‘You realised then that you loved me?’

  ‘With just as much force as that bullet entering my side.’ He nodded determinedly. ‘I already knew that I admired you for your fortitude and strength during those terrible years of your marriage, that with you I laughed as I have not laughed with anyone for years, that your body excites me in ways I had never imagined,’ he added huskily. ‘But they were feelings and emotions that, until I thought I might lose you, I did not recognise as being love. I cannot lose you, Genevieve. Ever. I love you. I will always love you. You are my Warrior Duchess.’ He became silent as Genevieve slipped one of her hands free and placed gentle fingertips against his lips.

/>   ‘Once I am your wife I shall be your Warrior Lady,’ she corrected. ‘If you will have me?’

  ‘If I will have you?’ Benedict groaned. ‘Genevieve—my love, I want nothing more than to spend the rest of my days showing you, telling you, how much I love and want you!’

  ‘As I will spend the rest of my days showing you, telling you, how much I want and love you, too,’ she vowed huskily.

  It was, Genevieve realised, more than she had ever hoped for. A man she not only trusted but would love for ever, as she now had absolutely no doubts that Benedict would love her.

  ‘Why do you have that cat-who-lapped-the-cream smile upon your lips, love? And why is Sandhurst scowling across at you so disgruntledly whilst doing his damndest to look as if he is interested in the Earl of Ramsey’s conversation?’ Benedict eyed his wife of but a few hours suspiciously three weeks later as the two of them strolled amongst the guests at their wedding supper being held at their London home, their four closest friends, Rupert and Pandora Stirling, and Dante and Sophia Carfax, having stood up for them at St George’s Church, in Hanover Square.

  Genevieve met that suspicion with wide and guileless eyes. ‘I really cannot say.’

  ‘Cannot or will not?’ Benedict prompted indulgently, only too well aware, after three weeks of sharing days of laughter and nights of passion with this beautiful woman, that she did nothing without purpose.

  She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm. ‘I merely mentioned to the Earl of Ramsey that I had seen his daughter Charlotte and Sandhurst alone together in the conservatory earlier, and that perhaps he might wish to talk to Sandhurst on the matter of his intentions towards his daughter.’

  ‘Was that altogether fair to Charlotte Darby, when she has only recently had such a lucky escape from her previous fiancé?’ Benedict glanced across to where the two men were still in conversation, Ramsey looking coldly determined, Sandhurst having a hunted look in his blue eyes.