The Devil You Know

by Liz Carlyle

  He looked away again and was silent for many moments. “Well, there’s the rub, Freddie,” he finally said. “I just don’t feel much of anything. I…I can’t let myself.”

  “I don’t understand you,” she whispered.

  He laughed harshly. “No, you don’t understand,” he agreed. “My head is like a bloody floodgate, Freddie. And if I open it, if I let myself think about what she…oh, hell, what does it matter? What would it change? I did it. I did whatever she wanted. And Cam, well, maybe he wouldn’t have given a damn, anyway. If he had, maybe he’d have noticed. My God, it was right was under his nose, and for longer than I care to remember.”

  Frederica could hear his bitterness. “Oh, Bentley, you sound almost as if you wanted him to discover it!”

  His head whipped around to face her. “I did not say that,” he said roughly. “And you won’t tell him, Freddie. I forbid it, do you hear?”

  Slowly, she shook her head. “I don’t mean to,” she said. “I mean for you to do it, Bentley.”

  A muscle twitched in his jaw. “You must be mad.”

  Frederica reached out her hand, but Bentley did not take it. “Bentley, you have to, for the sake of the family,” she whispered. “This is a part of what’s wrong, why you can’t sleep. Why you have nightmares. And it’s why you two are forever at one another’s throats. It’s the guilt. But you can lance it by asking Cam’s forgiveness.”

  Bentley’s beautiful mouth thinned. “Over my dead body, Frederica.”

  Frederica wanted to cry. “Over the dead body of our marriage, more likely,” she answered. “I love you, Bentley, but I can’t stand all this bottled-up hate and rage.”

  He jerked to his feet. “You don’t love me, Frederica,” he rasped. “You just love what I can give you. The way I make you feel between the sheets. That’s all I’m good at—it’s all I’ve ever been good at—and someday, you’ll realize it, too.”

  “Stop it, Bentley!” she cried. “Just stop it! I know my own heart.”

  Bentley hung his head. “You are a child, Frederica,” he whispered. “And a damned fool, too, if you think confessing this to Cam will make things better.”

  Frederica held firm. “Do it, and make this right,” she warned. “Or, I swear, I won’t live with you as your wife. Bentley, I won’t!”

  He was staring blindly into space now. “Aye, that easy way out you spoke of holds some appeal now, doesn’t it?” he answered softly. “I knew it would eventually. And it might be for the best, Freddie, given what happened this morning.”

  “Bentley, no!” Her words were a horrified whisper.

  He shook his head and laughed again, soft and bitter. “I’m just not marriage material,” he replied. “You said it yourself weeks ago. Besides, this didn’t stop with Cassandra. Do you imagine that she’s the only married woman I’ve ever bedded?”

  “Stop it, Bentley! I don’t want to hear it!”

  “Oh, come on, Freddie, why not?” His smile was bitter, his eyes ice cold. “You know what’s said of me! I’ve slept with them all—randy widows, rich socialites, tavern sluts, dockyard whores—and I damned sure won’t be looking up their husbands to apologize. That’s the whole point, you see. I just don’t care. It makes no difference to me. It’s like scratching an itch. And Freddie, I itch a lot.”

  Frederica felt her indignation surge. “Do you?” she snapped. “Then why not sleep with Joan? You share more of your feelings with her than with me, it seems. And since you have no morals, there’s always Helene. Yes, even better. And when you tire of them, why, you can start on all the neighbors’ wives! That should keep you busy until New Year’s.”

  She saw his every muscle strain with sudden rage. “Shut up, Freddie,” he hissed over his shoulder. “I told you I’d be faithful to you, and goddamn it, I have been. Let’s just end this farce of a marriage now, before we learn to hate one another.”

  “Is that really what you want?” she whispered. “To end it?”

  “Didn’t I say so this morning?”

  In fact, he had not said that at all. But Frederica was too wounded to argue. “And so you will not speak with your brother?” she asked, though she could already feel him slipping away. “You will not swallow your pride and ask his forgiveness so that you can stop hating yourself?”

  Abruptly, he jerked into motion. “Not this side of hell, Freddie love,” he said, stalking off toward the workshop.

  She followed him in and watched him drag his shirt on over his head. Frederica could feel the tears beginning to stream down her face. “What are you doing?” she whispered as he thrust his arms through his waistcoat. “Where are you going?”

  He lifted his gaze and pinned her with it. “To get drunk, Freddie,” he answered succinctly. “To get piss-pot, snot-slinging, dog-howling drunk. And I mean to stay so for a very long time to come.” With that, he hooked his coat on one fingertip and tossed it over his shoulder.

  But his departure was forestalled when heavy footfalls sounded on the pathway. Frederica looked up to see Lord Treyhern striding toward the shop, stripping off his coat as he came. He stopped short in the doorway and glared at his brother, his eyes hot with rage. Good God, surely he hadn’t overheard? No, it wasn’t possible.

  “Frederica,” the earl snapped without really looking at her. “Go back to the house.”

  Frederica drew back an inch. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Go—back—to—the—house,” Treyhern growled. “Go now. I shall deal with this.”

  Bentley hurled his own coat back down. “Damn it, by whose authority do you order my wife around?”

  Treyhern was already rolling up his shirtsleeves. This looked grim. “Leave now, Frederica,” he warned again. “Don’t make me carry you, for I will if I must.”

  Bentley took a step closer to his brother. “Sod off, Saint Cam!” he snarled. “She’s my wife.”

  Frederica’s patience snapped. “No,” she corrected. “No, I don’t think so.”

  Bentley narrowed his eyes at her. “Freddie!”

  Frederica tried to look haughty instead of hurt. “Don’t ‘Freddie’ me!” she challenged. “You practically divorced me not two minutes ago! So why don’t you just—just sod off yourself!” And on that note, she spun around and swished off, trembling with hurt and fury.

  Bentley watched his wife stalk back up the path, wondering if she had any clue what she’d just said. He didn’t see his brother hurl his waistcoat to the floor. And he certainly didn’t see his fist come flying out of nowhere. But he felt it connect quite solidly with his jawbone. Bentley went hurtling backward, the edge of the church door catching him squarely in the lower spine. As he flailed for balance, Cam snared him by the shirt collar and dragged him up again.

  Bentley didn’t bother asking what he’d done—hell, there was no telling—so he pitched himself into the fray with mindless fury. On a quick bob, he missed the next fist and came up swinging. By God, he wanted to smash someone’s face, and right now, smashing Cam’s suited him just fine. Apparently, he was to see some luck at it, too. He caught Cam square in the nose, snapping his neck back, causing blood to spurt.

  “You worthless scoundrel!” Cam roared, spittling red. “I’ll teach you to go round punching innocent young ladies in the face.” He tossed a regular rounder, but Bentley dodged it.

  “I never punched anyone!” he shouted back, throwing a low blow to Cam’s gut. It connected, and Cam landed on his arse, splayed limply across the dirt floor. But Bentley had scrapped with his brother too often to count him out. Sure enough, Cam came up like a regular Tom Crib, one fist to the belly, then a knee almost square in Bentley’s ballocks.

  “Aaggh!” Bentley clutched himself. But a little ducking and jabbing, and somehow he forced Cam across the room. His brother was fast, but Bentley was experienced. A low blow to the diaphragm had Cam clutching his ribs and gagging. It was then that he caught Cam solidly in the jaw, pitching him back against the forge.

  Never one to miss a g
ood mill, Angus had come back into the shop. With a speed that defied his age, the old man grabbed his hammer just as Cam’s skull cracked sickly against the stone, right where the hammer had rested.

  Bentley had him then. He bent over Cam, chest to chest, forcing him back until the acrid stench of scorching hair drifted up. The coals still roared red-hot. Cam looked backward, wild-eyed, at the heat. Another six inches, and his shirt would be afire.

  Old Angus tossed his hammer down with disgust. “Oh, I wouldna be sae quick a-killing my own blood kin, laddie!”

  But Cam wasn’t out. With one last grunt, he rammed his knee straight up.

  God damn, not the knackers again! Gagging, Bentley let loose and collapsed into the dirt. Cam staggered up from the forge and stood looking scornfully down. “Don’t—you—ever—” he panted. “Hit—that—girl—again.”

  Bentley lurched up onto his knees. “Go to hell, Sir Lancelot!” he spat. “You self-righteous prick!”

  Old Angus had begun to wheeze with laughter. Cam, unfortunately, had caught his breath. “You!” he roared, jabbing a finger at Angus. “You I can fire, you moth-eaten, mean-tempered old Scot!”

  Old Angus just slapped his knee and wheezed louder. “Oh, good Lord, Cam, leave him be!” grunted Bentley, wobbling to his feet. “At least you’ve most of your hair left.”

  Cam turned his lordly glower on Bentley, but the effect was spoilt by the blood which had spewed from his nostrils. “And you!” he gritted, dragging his shirt-sleeve under his nose. “If you ever raise your hand to that child—hell, if you so much as raise your voice to her—I mean to finish this, do you hear me? And, by God, you won’t walk away next time.”

  But Bentley had had enough. He snatched his coat from the dirt floor. “It was an accident, Cam,” he snarled, stalking out of the workshop. “If you don’t believe me, ask Freddie! God knows she’s mad enough to tell you the truth.”

  Cam crossed his arms over his chest. “And just where do you think you’re going?”

  “Ask Freddie that, too,” snapped Bentley, heading up the path toward the stables.

  Chapter Twenty

  In which Mrs. Rutledge receives a Birthday gift.

  On the day her husband disappeared, Frederica locked herself in his bedchamber and cried for six hours straight. The burden she carried was awful, the loss of her marriage worse. And the most miserable part of it was, she had no one to confide in. She really had come to rely on Bentley—not just as a lover but as a friend, too. It was a startling realization, especially when she ought to hate him. Well, perhaps not hate. Whatever he was, she loved him. She was afraid she always would. And she had never felt so alone or so confused in all her eighteen years.

  As the sun began to sink in a violet haze, Frederica crawled off the bed with one of Bentley’s handkerchiefs clutched in her fist. It smelled like him, which made her misery all the worse. Snuffling, she went to the window and watched the path from the stables, just in case. But there was nothing. Darkness fell and, with it, an awful silence. Frederica began to fear she’d made a dreadful mistake. But there was no one—least of all Helene or Lord Treyhern—whom she could ask for advice. Oh, how she missed her family! Especially Zoë. And, strangely, Aunt Winnie. She understood men, and nothing shocked her. Frederica returned to the bed and fell into a fitful sleep, wondering whether to write to her.

  The following morning, she got up late, had another good cry, then washed her face in cold water. She did not know what to say or do. Certainly, she did not know what to tell Bentley’s family. The truth, perhaps, so far as she was able. It certainly would not do to just lie in bed and feel sorry for herself. One could wallow in misery only so long before self-respect was lost, and hers was wearing thin.

  After ringing for Jennie, she packed up Cassandra’s books, determined to return them to the blanket chest. But when Jennie came, she brought a message. “A stable boy come over from Bellevue afore breakfast, miss,” she explained, shaking the wrinkles from Frederica’s nightdress. “He said as how his mistress was wishing to see you today. She’s to be in the vestry ’til noon, he said. And at home after that.”

  Frederica dressed in silence, wondering what Joan could possibly want. Had she already heard of Bentley’s departure? Good Lord, did the whole village know Frederica’s husband had left her? With a heavy tread, she went down to breakfast. Only Helene remained at the table.

  “Do not despair of Bentley, my dear,” she said, dispensing advice as she poured Frederica’s coffee. “He’ll be back. He always comes back, once his temper settles.”

  Frederica pushed away her plate. “I mayn’t want him back,” she complained. “I think a marriage is rather too important to be shoved aside with so little explanation.”

  “You are right,” Helene acknowledged, sitting back down. “But he loves you, and he will figure all that out. And he’ll apologize profusely, too. Just give him time.”

  Frederica lifted her gaze to meet Helene. “Do you think he loves me?”

  She smiled vaguely. “Oh, he would never have married you, Frederica, if he did not.” Helene sounded quite confident. “Trust me, Bentley does nothing unless he chooses to. He has been that way all of his adult life. Though as a child, I remember him as very sweet and biddable.”

  Her words confused Frederica. “Did…did you know him as a child?”

  Helene blushed. “Oh, I lived here for a time as a girl,” she murmured. “When Bentley was just a toddling babe. Had you not heard that old gossip? My mother, Marie, was Randolph’s mistress.”

  Frederica almost gasped. Marie? But that was the name in Randolph’s naughty book! Was that Helene’s mother? Her blush had deepened. “But I went away to school in Switzerland when I turned seventeen,” Helene continued. “Then Cam married, and I did not see the family again for many years.”

  Federica put down her cup. “Excuse me,” she murmured, shoving back her chair. “I fear I have no appetite. I believe I will go for a walk.”

  Helene reached across the table and laid her hand over Frederica’s. “I will leave you, then, to your privacy, my dear,” she said softly. “But do not fret, for the babe’s sake, yes? And if you want someone to talk to, you need only let me know.”

  Frederica nodded, then made her way from the dining room. Helene was so kind, and every inch a lady. How odd that the mysterious Marie had been her mother. There was a shocking tale hidden there, Frederica didn’t doubt. Good Lord, was she the only one at Chalcote without a deep, dark secret?

  Outside, the morning was quite cool, but Frederica walked almost blindly to St. Michael’s without her cloak. She found Joan in the vestry, darning a choir robe. Bentley’s cousin laid down her needle and rose at once, seizing Frederica by the hands. “Oh, thank you for coming,” she said. “I was not at all sure you would after…after whatever has happened. Not that I know what has happened, mind. But Bentley did say—”

  Frederica cut her off. “You have seen him?” she asked eagerly.

  A little sadly, Joan shook her head. “My dear, I have not,” she said quietly. “But there was something I was, well, preparing for you. For your birthday, I think? Really, I’m not perfectly sure. But late last night, Bentley left word at Bellevue that I was to give it to you now. And I was to give you this note which he left for you.”

  “My birthday?” Frederica took the two papers Joan thrust at her. “But that’s months away. I can’t imagine Bentley even knows the date.”

  “He said it was in December,” Joan assured her. “Though I told him it was a vast deal of money to spend without so much as asking your opinion first.”

  “My opinion?” Frederica stared blankly at the papers. One was a note, fastened in red wax with Bentley’s seal. The second was a thickly rolled document, tied in blue ribbon.

  Joan looked suddenly nervous. “Oh, I really do not like this,” she murmured. “I wonder if I am making a mistake. I think Bentley has put me in a very bad position, and I should like to box his ears.”

&nb
sp; Frederica collapsed into a chair. “Am I…am I to open these?”

  Joan shrugged. “That’s what he told my butler,” she said. “The rolled paper first. He was quite clear about that.”

  Frederica untied the ribbon. It was a legal document, affixed with various seals and signatures. She peered at it more closely. It was a deed. A deed to…what?

  “Bellevue,” said Joan, as if reading her mind. “That is the deed to Bellevue. It includes half of Chalcote’s original acreage, just as it was willed to Mama.” Then she laughed a little nervously. “It must stay in the family, you know, else Grandpapa John will haunt me all the way to Australia.”

  Frederica felt deeply confused. “I’m sorry,” she blurted. “To Australia?”

  Joan looked perplexed. “Basil and I are moving to Australia,” she said. “Good heavens, didn’t Bentley tell you?”

  Frederica shook her head. “Not a word.”

  Joan laughed. “Oh, that would be just like him! I told him in confidence, yes. But I did not mean him to keep it from his wife!”

  The deed trembled in Frederica’s hands. Suddenly, at least a part of Bentley’s surreptitious conversation with Joan made sense. “I do not understand,” she whispered. “Are we to have…has Bentley bought…Bellevue? For me?”

  Joan’s face fell. “You do not care for it?” she cried. “I mean, I realize it is rather large and almost frightfully elegant. But Bentley seemed so sure. He said you had remarked how much you loved Gloucestershire and that you longed for a house of your own.”

  Frederica wanted to cry. “But Bellevue is so gorgeous,” she whispered. “Perhaps the most beautiful home I have ever seen.”

  Joan relaxed into her chair. “Oh, good!” she sighed. “It is to be yours, then. I never fancied selling it outside the family, so Bentley’s offer was a godsend. Now, my dear, I suspect you should read that note in private. I have no notion what it says, but if Bentley wrote it in a temper, it will just be a pack of nonsense.”