The Virgin Who Humbled Lord Haslemere

by Anna Bradley

  Benedict didn’t realize his fingers had gone tight until the delicate handle of his teacup actually snapped. “Damn—that is, I beg your pardon, Mrs. Payne. I believe I’ve ruined your teacup.”

  “Oh, you mustn’t think of it, my lord.”

  Mrs. Payne made an attempt to rise and collect the pieces, but Georgiana got there first. “Here, it’s all right. Give it to me, my lord.” She took the pieces from Benedict’s slack hand, and pressed her napkin into his fist. “Here, hold this to the cut.” Benedict looked down, and to his surprise saw one of his fingers was bleeding.

  “You mean to say, Mrs. Payne, that on one of his visits to Draven House, the Duke of Kenilworth seduced Clara Beauchamp?” Georgiana rested her hand on Benedict’s shoulder, as if steadying herself. “He seduced and ruined the woman Lord Draven—his close friend, Lord Draven—was in love with?”

  Mrs. Payne’s mouth twisted in a sad smile. “Aye, Lady Haslemere, and such a pity it was. He seduced Clara, ruined her, then abandoned her after he became duke. I suppose he thought he could do better than an obscure lady with no title, and he’d squandered most of her fortune by then.”

  Do better…

  Benedict went still, his body frozen to the chair in Mrs. Payne’s tiny parlor. Kenilworth had done better, hadn’t he? He’d met Jane at Lord Draven’s house party, then courted her the following season. Jane was just the sort of beautiful, accomplished young lady a duke would want for his duchess, and she came with a dowry that matched her father’s fortune.

  “You look shocked, Lady Haslemere, as well you might be.” Mrs. Payne reached out to pat Georgiana’s hand. “It’s dreadful what Kenilworth did, both to Clara and to Lord Draven. He betrayed a friend, and broke a lovely, innocent young lady’s heart.”

  Benedict clenched his hands into fists. Kenilworth had done much worse than that. Betrayal, heartbreak…those were the least of his sins. He’d lied and coldly manipulated everyone unlucky enough to cross his path. He’d trapped Jane in his web of deceit, involved her and Freddy in his treachery—

  Mrs. Payne sighed, shaking her head. “Lord Draven knew nothing about Clara’s downfall at first, but you never can hide such things, can you, my lady? He found out what Kenilworth had done the night of the Christmas ball, and challenged him to a duel. Lord Draven’s father put a stop to it, but there’s not a doubt in my mind Lord Draven would have shot Kenilworth if given the chance.”

  But Lord Draven’s father hadn’t put a stop to it. The duel had gone forward after Kenilworth and Draven returned to London.

  “Clara fancied herself in love with Kenilworth, of course. I knew it would end in disaster, but Mrs. Beauchamp allowed the duke’s attentions. Oh, she never meant any harm, but she was a simple lady, my lord, and in awe of the aristocracy. I think she hoped Clara would one day become the Duchess of Kenilworth.”

  But she hadn’t. Jane had, and Clara…what had become of Clara? Benedict rose abruptly, suddenly desperate to leave this tiny parlor and this tiny cottage and speak to Georgiana alone.

  Mrs. Payne startled. “Are you all right, Lord Haslemere?”

  “Forgive me, Mrs. Payne.” Benedict’s hand shook as he placed his bloodied napkin on the tea tray. “I didn’t realize how late it had become. You’ve been a tremendous help to us. Lady Haslemere and I are grateful. Shall we, my lady?”

  Georgiana took Mrs. Payne’s hand and pressed it between hers. “Thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. Payne.”

  “You’re welcome, my lady. I don’t know that there’s anything you or Lord Haslemere can do, and poor Clara is, I fear, beyond our help, but it would bring me a measure of peace if the Duke of Kenilworth were made to pay for the misery he’s caused.”

  “I promise you, Mrs. Payne, that Lord Haslemere and I will do whatever lies in our power to do.” Georgiana released Mrs. Payne’s hand, bid her a last goodbye and followed Benedict out.

  He waited until they’d left the cottage before the fury and anguish that had been building in his chest burst forth in a flood of angry words. “That blackguard. I’ll see Kenilworth swing for what he’s done, not just to Jane and Freddy, but to Clara and Draven.”

  “Benedict, listen—”

  “The Duke of Kenilworth,” Benedict spat, bitterness swelling in every word. “Such a proper, distinguished gentleman, so admired and revered in London, a man of such impeccable honor. He’s a murderer, Georgiana.”

  “We know only that he attempted a murder. Lord Draven is still alive, and Clara might not be as far beyond our help as Mrs. Payne supposes she is. Remember, Benedict, that Jane swears she saw Clara in a carriage outside Lady Tilbury’s townhouse.”

  “But how could Clara have hidden herself for all this time? Mrs. Payne said Draven searched all over England for her. How could she have disappeared so thoroughly even the man who loved her couldn’t find her?”

  “I don’t know, but I’ve seen stranger things. Lady Tilbury may know more than she pretends to. Jane and Lord Draven must believe she’s still alive, or they wouldn’t be searching for her.”

  Benedict dragged his hands down his face, guilt pressing in on him. “I should have seen what Kenilworth was from the start. Instead I allowed my only sister to marry a villain. I failed her and Freddy—”

  “No.” Georgiana tugged his hands away from his face, her grip fierce. “You couldn’t have known, Benedict. The duke is an accomplished liar. You can’t be blamed for believing what everyone else in London did.”

  “But why didn’t Jane just tell me the truth about Kenilworth?” He was the elder of the two of them, and Jane had always trusted him. “How could she not have trusted me to help her and Freddy?”

  “It’s not a matter of her not trusting you. Don’t you see? Jane is terrified of the duke. He had Lord Draven attacked. He blacked Freddy’s eye—a child, Benedict. Any man who’d hurt a child must be a monster. Do you believe for one second Kenilworth didn’t threaten you? Jane didn’t want you to know because she wanted to protect you, not because she didn’t trust you.”

  Benedict stood with his head down and let her words wash over him. He couldn’t excuse his own actions as easily as Georgiana did, but it meant a great deal to him that she believed him to be blameless, even if he didn’t.

  “There’s one other thing, Benedict. Mrs. Payne said Kenilworth was more tempted by Clara’s fortune than he was by her face, but there’s only one way he could have gotten his hands on Clara’s fortune.”

  Benedict’s head came up.

  Marriage.

  Was there a possibility Kenilworth had actually married Clara Beauchamp?

  Benedict’s mind was racing. Clara was an heiress, and Kenilworth a greedy, grasping man who at the time had no money, and three cousins standing between him and his uncle’s dukedom.

  Cold dread dropped from Benedict’s chest to the pit of his stomach. “A vulnerable, naïve young lady with a tidy fortune might not have tempted a duke, but Clara might have proved irresistible to a penniless viscount.”

  “A viscount, Benedict. A viscount.”

  Georgiana’s voice was heavy with meaning, and Benedict recalled he had heard someone say something about Clara Beauchamp and a viscount, but he couldn’t quite remember…

  Lady Wylde. Of course. At her masque ball she’d told Georgiana there’d been a rumor floating about that Clara Beauchamp had married a viscount. Married a viscount. Not that she’d been betrothed to a viscount, or ruined by one, but married one.

  Something Lady Archer had said drifted back to him then, something he hadn’t remarked on at the time. “Kenilworth didn’t inherit the dukedom until the summer before the Christmas ball, but he purchased his Grosvenor Street mansion much earlier that year, in January. Before he inherited.”

  Georgiana grasped his coat, understanding dawning on her face. “That was Clara’s money. He’d married her by then, and he was spending her mone
y!”

  Benedict could hardly believe it, but it made perfect sense. “Kenilworth’s an utter villain, Georgiana. A cold-hearted debaucher who ruthlessly betrayed a friend and ruined a young lady’s hopes. How far do you think he’d go to keep his secrets?”

  Benedict hardly had a chance to think the question before the answer was there.

  As far as he must.

  He stared at Georgiana, bile crawling up his throat. “He’s already tried to drag Jane and Freddy out of London, to bury them in some remote part of England, away from all their friends and family, and he sent a half-dozen blackguards to beat Lord Draven to death.”

  Georgiana’s face had gone pale. “My God, Benedict. You don’t think…could Kenilworth be so depraved he’d actually do his young wife an injury once she became an inconvenience to him?”

  “He did something to her, that much is certain.” Benedict’s voice was grim. “Whatever it was, he must have been very sure she’d never turn up again, or he never would have dared to marry Jane.”

  “Benedict, do you know what this means? If Kenilworth and Clara did marry, and Clara is still alive, that would make the Duke of Kenilworth—”

  “A bigamist.”

  If they could prove Kenilworth was a bigamist, his marriage to Jane would be declared invalid, and Jane would be free of him forever. There was still Freddy to consider—no matter what, he was still Kenilworth’s son—but they might find Kenilworth willing to negotiate once Benedict held the power to destroy him in his hand.

  Hope surged, but Benedict pushed it away. Until they could prove their suspicions, there was nothing to celebrate. “What are the chances Clara Beauchamp is still alive, Georgiana?”

  She gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t know, but Jane seemed very sure of it. Lord Draven must have believed it as well, but bigamy is merely speculation unless we can prove a marriage between Clara and Kenilworth actually occurred.”

  “We need the vicar who performed it, or another witness, or Kenilworth’s and Clara’s names recorded in a marriage register.”

  Even if they were fortunate enough to find proof of the marriage, they still had to determine if Clara Beauchamp yet lived. Finding a lady who’d been glimpsed only once in the past six years seemed an impossible task, but if there was the least chance Clara was alive, Benedict would tear England apart piece by piece to find her.

  He glanced at the sky. It was still early afternoon, but dusk would be upon them soon enough, and they weren’t likely to find the proof they needed in the first place they looked.

  “We’ll begin with the parishes closest to High Wycombe.” He clasped Georgiana’s hand in his and led her toward their horses. “They couldn’t have gone farther than a day’s journey from here without Clara spending a night away from home.”

  They’d have to move quickly, and pray Kenilworth hadn’t buried his secrets so deeply they could never be uncovered.

  Chapter Twenty

  Georgiana had never given much thought to the number of parishes there might be in Oxfordshire. One didn’t tend to think of such things until they were obliged to scour their marriage registers.

  They hadn’t turned up anything of interest at St. Michael’s and All Saints in High Wycombe. Neither of them had expected to, the duke being far too wily to marry Clara in her home parish, but the parishes in Chinnor and Princes Risborough proved equally fruitless.

  It was well into midafternoon by the time they left All Saints Church in Little Kimble and started on their way to Great Missenden. It was nine miles to the southeast, and from there it was an additional three-hour ride back to High Wycombe, and on to the gamekeeper’s cottage in Burham.

  This time, no matter how she looked at it—miles or hours—the numbers were not in Georgiana’s favor. She tried to banish the hateful things from her mind, but it insisted on busily calculating, just as it always did, until her head was as sore as her backside.

  She wasn’t a skilled horsewoman. She was doing her best to hide that fact, but it didn’t take long for Benedict to notice it. “You look fatigued, Georgiana.”

  Fatigued? Yes, that was one way to describe it. Another was that her bottom was screaming in protest with every step as if they’d ridden across the entire county of Oxfordshire and back. But there was no help for it, and thus no sense in complaining. Neither of them wanted to risk waiting until the following day. There simply wasn’t time. Georgiana was stunned they hadn’t yet come across any of Kenilworth’s men. Their luck wouldn’t hold out forever.

  Georgiana glanced at Benedict, then quickly looked away. She was fatigued. Her arms ached from holding the reins and her thighs were completely numb, but there was no way she’d admit to it him when he looked as if he’d been born on his horse, with his broad shoulders relaxed, his back straight, and his hands easy on the reins.

  “I’m perfectly fine,” she said through gritted teeth.

  He gave her a skeptical look, but he said no more until they rode into the courtyard of an establishment called the Silver Stagg an hour or so later. He brought his horse to a halt, leapt nimbly from the saddle—no numbness in those legs—and strode over to Georgiana, who was still mounted. “Enough of this.”

  “Enough? Are we in Great Missenden, then?” Georgiana made an effort to keep the desperation from her voice.

  “No, we’re in Dunsmore. Great Missenden is another five miles south of here.”

  “Five miles!” Dear God, she’d never make it. Already her body felt as if it had sustained irreparable damage. Any more time spent in the saddle and she might never walk again.

  Benedict’s gaze roved over her, his lips tightening. “It’s not even an hour’s ride for an experienced horsewoman, Georgiana. Two hours, for you. Perhaps three.”

  He was right, of course, but that didn’t stop Georgiana’s cheeks from heating with humiliation. “I beg your pardon if my riding doesn’t meet with your approval, Lord Haslemere.” She was aware of how petty she sounded, how like a whining child, but her pride was stung, and worse, well…she felt almost as if she might burst into tears, which was so ridiculous as to be intolerable.

  She didn’t burst into floods of tears, ever, and she wouldn’t start now.

  Tears were absolutely out of the question.

  “If I’d grown up on a grand estate with a stable full of horses at my disposal, perhaps I’d ride like the cavalry as you do,” she said resentfully. “But as it is—”

  “Hang the cavalry. Come down from there.”

  He reached up to wrap his hands around her waist, but Georgiana squirmed away from him. “I can’t get down on my—” She broke off at the sound of a low, angry rumble coming from his chest. “Did you just…growl at me?”

  Benedict, however, had evidently run out of patience, because instead of dignifying her question with a reply, he reached up, grasped her waist in his strong hands and jerked her from the saddle.

  “Lord Haslemere! How dare—”

  “I said, enough.” He set her on her feet, but kept his hands on her waist, keeping her body close to his.

  Georgiana would have died before she’d admit it, but as the blood rushed back into her limbs, her knees threatened to buckle, and she clung to his muscled forearms, grateful for those commanding hands and the solid, steady strength of him. She glanced up into his face, and was puzzled to find him staring down at her with wrathful dark eyes. “You, ah…you look angry.”

  His fingers tightened around her waist. “That’s because I am angry, Georgiana.”

  Oh, that was unmistakably a growl.

  “Because I can’t ride?” But of course, that was the reason. He was an earl, for pity’s sake, and accustomed to ladies who rode as well as they walked. It must be tedious in the extreme for him to be stuck with her. The thought was unexpectedly painful, and when she spoke, her voice wasn’t quite steady. “Well, I beg your pardon if I can’t—
”

  “I don’t give a bloody damn if you can ride or not. I’m angry because you didn’t simply tell me you couldn’t make it this far on horseback. I thought we were past this sort of nonsense, Georgiana.”

  Georgiana had trained her gaze on her feet in order to avoid looking at him, but his words made her eyes snap back to his, and she was stunned to see a shadow of hurt cross his face. He wasn’t angry because he was disappointed in her. He was angry because he’d wanted to take care of her, and she’d deprived him of that chance.

  That was not the sting of tears in her eyes, no matter how much it felt like it was.

  His arm muscles tightened as if he were going to pull away, but before she could reason herself out of it, Georgiana clutched at the fabric of his coat to keep him with her. “I…you’re right. It was foolish of me. I’m sorry, Benedict.”

  She offered him a tentative smile, and though he didn’t quite return it, his face softened. “We’ll continue the journey in a hired carriage, as I have an aversion to dragging an exhausted lady across a half-dozen counties in England. Madame Célestine’s horses need a rest, in any case. We can fetch them on the way back.”

  “Won’t that take too much time?” If they didn’t reach Great Missenden soon, they wouldn’t be able to visit the parish church until tomorrow.

  “No.” He pressed a finger to her lips. “No arguments. Go inside and order us luncheon while I arrange for a carriage. I’ve no wish to starve you, either.”

  He didn’t wait for an answer, but turned and strode off in the direction of the stables. Georgiana watched him go, his broad shoulders straight, his long legs eating up the ground at his feet, and an odd breathlessness overtook her, born of both tenderness and panic. If he’d been the frivolous, selfish lord she’d expected him to be, all this would have been so much easier, but Benedict Harcourt was nothing like she’d imagined.