by Anna Bradley
Benedict’s head was spinning. Could Clara Beauchamp really still be alive, and hiding in London? “What else did Jane say about Lady Tilbury the night she came to the Clifford School?”
Georgiana’s brow furrowed. “Not much. Just that Lady Tilbury never leaves her country estate in Herefordshire, but that she’d come to London this spring with her grandson.”
Her grandson? This was the first Benedict had ever heard of Lady Tilbury having a grandson. Lord Tilbury, who’d been a friend of his father’s, had been killed in a hunting accident more than thirty years earlier, and Lady Tilbury had never remarried.
But perhaps Georgiana had it wrong, and the child Lady Tilbury had brought to London was her ward, or—
Benedict stilled, his eyes meeting Georgiana’s. “How old is the child?”
Georgiana frowned. “I don’t know. Jane didn’t say, but young, I think. Jane said the boy was sickly, and Lady Tilbury had come to London to consult with Doctor Cadogan.”
Benedict digested this, his heart racing. “Lady Tilbury’s country estate is in Herefordshire, you said? Didn’t Lord Draven’s new housemaid also say she’s from Herefordshire?”
“I think so, yes.”
It wasn’t that remarkable a coincidence, given how many people from Herefordshire came to London, but taken all together…
“Lady Tilbury never had any children, Georgiana. That boy isn’t her grandson. When Jane told me Freddy isn’t the duke’s heir, I assumed she meant Lord Draven was Freddy’s father, but—”
“But there was never anything between Jane and Lord Draven. She must have meant something else entirely.” Georgiana’s wide eyes met his. “Perhaps she meant—”
“That Freddy isn’t the duke’s firstborn son.” If Clara and Kenilworth truly had married, and Clara had given birth to a son, then that child, and not Freddy, was the heir to the Kenilworth dukedom.
Georgiana grabbed Benedict’s hand. “Lady Tilbury, who never leaves her estate in Herefordshire, suddenly appears in London with a boy who isn’t her grandson, then Clara Beauchamp, who hasn’t been seen in six years, is spotted in a carriage outside Lady Tilbury’s townhouse? If Clara is alive, concern for her sickly child might have lured her to London.”
“Lord Draven was attacked that same week, Georgiana. Mrs. Bury said she’d hired a housemaid from Herefordshire, and that she’d—”
“That she’d happened along at just the right time to accompany Lord Draven to Oxfordshire. If Clara really was in London, heard of Lord Draven’s attack, and feared for his life, she might have risked posing as a housemaid so she could come to High Wycombe to be with him. Jane said Clara had very fair hair—so fair it was almost white. Rachel has dark hair, but—”
“It might be a disguise.”
“My God, Benedict.” Georgiana covered her mouth with her hand. “I think…I think there’s a chance Lord Draven’s new housemaid might be Clara Beauchamp.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Draven House looked even more silent and deserted than it had the day before. It couldn’t have changed much in a single day, but somehow the sight of it made a shiver creep up Georgiana’s spine in a way it hadn’t yesterday.
“It looks a bit sinister, doesn’t it?” She shifted uneasily in the saddle. “It’s no wonder Lord Draven never comes here.”
“It must have been handsome once.” Benedict blinked up at the house, eyes narrowed against the glare of the early morning sun. “It could be again, with a family to breathe life into it.”
Georgiana glanced up at the glassy windows peering down on them from above like a dozen sightless eyes. Lord Draven was behind one of them, lying still and lifeless in his bed. Would he or Clara Beauchamp ever get a chance to live a life here, after what Kenilworth had done to them?
She tapped her heels into the horse’s flanks, breaking free of the tree line. They wouldn’t get the answer standing here. “Shall we leave the horses with Peter?”
Benedict followed her toward the stables, but Peter was nowhere to be found. It was as clean and organized as ever, with every shred of hay in its proper place, but the few horses there were whinnying and tossing their heads.
“I don’t like this. The horses are agitated. We need to get up to the house.” Benedict leapt from the saddle and strode over to an empty stall, leading his horse behind him, but when he tried to swing open the stall door it refused to budge. “It’s stuck.”
“Is something blocking the door?” Georgiana dismounted and hurried over to Benedict.
He scaled the stall door and was about to drop down the other side when he froze, sucked in a breath, then let it out with a curse that made Georgiana stop in her tracks. “Jesus.” His face paled as he stared down into the stall below. “Quickly, Georgiana. It’s Peter.”
Georgiana rushed forward as Benedict dropped down to the floor, dread pooling in her stomach. The stall door was too high for her to see over it, but she could hear Benedict dragging something across the floor. A moment later the door flew open, and what she saw on the other side made her gasp.
Peter was crumpled on the floor, blood running down his face. His white shirt was splattered with it, and it was pooling in the hay beneath him.
“Oh, no. No. Peter?” Georgiana darted forward and landed on her knees on the floor beside him. “Peter, can you hear me?”
Benedict caught Peter under his arms and heaved him to a sitting position, bracing his back against the wall. He tapped Peter’s cheek until the boy’s eyes fluttered open. “That’s it. Wake up now, Peter.”
Peter stared at them for a moment, his gaze unfocused, then he let out a low moan and raised his hand to the back of his head. “My…my head hurts.”
“Don’t touch it, lad. Let me have a look first.” Benedict caught Peter’s hand and lowered it to his lap, then brushed aside the blood-soaked hair at the back of his head and prodded gently at the injury. “It’s not as bad as it looks.” His face was grim as his eyes met Georgiana’s. “Bad enough, though.”
Peter winced. “Something hit me. Back of my head.”
“Not something. Someone.” Benedict shoved the scattered hay aside with his boot, reached down and plucked up a shovel. “There’s blood on the blade.”
“It has to be Kenilworth.” Georgiana scrambled to her feet. “Clara, and Mrs. Ellery and Martha. We need to go to the house at once, Benedict.”
“I’m coming with ye, my lord.” Peter braced his hand on the wall and tried to rise, but he only made it as far as his knees before dizziness overtook him, and he crashed back down to the floor.
“No, Peter. You’re in no shape for it. Here.” Benedict snatched off his cravat and handed it to Georgiana. “Stay here, and bind his wound as best you can.”
“No!” Georgiana shot to her feet, her throat closing. “You’re not going inside alone!”
Benedict grabbed her by the shoulders. “Yes, Georgiana, I am. There’s nothing you can say to change my mind. You only waste time quarreling with me. Stay here and tend to Peter. I’ll be back out to fetch you soon.”
Georgiana stared up into those flashing dark eyes and could see at once arguing with him was pointless. So, she took the cravat without a word.
Benedict, who knew her well enough by now to be suspicious of such silent obedience, peered at her from the door of the stall, eyes narrowed. “I mean it, Georgiana. Stay here. Promise me.”
Georgiana gave him a brief nod, but she said nothing. If Benedict had returned by the time she was finished binding Peter’s wound, then she’d do precisely as he asked, and they wouldn’t have a problem. If he wasn’t back by then, well…
The less she said about what she’d do then, the better it was for them both.
Benedict hurried from the stables and Georgiana turned to Peter with what she hoped was a reassuring smile. She lowered herself to the floor beside him, folded the cra
vat into thirds, then pressed the thick pad of linen over the injury at the back of Peter’s head. “Here. Hold that to your wound while I fetch some water.”
She left Peter propped against the wall and searched the stables until she found a bucket half-filled with fresh water. She dragged it back to the stall with her and busied herself with cleaning and then wrapping Peter’s wound. Benedict was right—the wound was nasty, but not life-threatening, and by the time she’d finished, Peter was breathing evenly and he’d regained some of his color.
But Benedict still hadn’t returned.
“You’ll have a nasty cut and a knot the size of your fist, Peter, but you’ll be fine.” Georgiana rose to her feet and dusted the stray bits of hay from her skirt. “Keep the linen pressed to it. I’ll be back in a moment.”
“Nay, miss.” Peter shook his head. “His lordship said as you’re to wait here.”
“His lordship isn’t here, Peter.” Georgiana gave the boy a sweet smile. “Just stay here and rest. I won’t go far.”
No farther than the main house, at any rate.
She hurried from the stables and crossed to the drive that led toward the kitchen door at the back, her gaze once again on the windows, still staring blindly down at her just as they had before. Except this time Benedict was behind one of them, and he wasn’t going to be pleased if he saw her coming toward the house—
She stopped, a frown on her lips as her gaze landed on a window on the second floor.
Was that…?
She thought she’d caught a glimpse of something moving behind it—a flutter of the drapes, or a shadow, perhaps? Before she could make out what it was, it disappeared. She waited, but she’d either imagined it, or whatever had been there was now gone.
Georgiana hurried toward the house, but she hadn’t taken more than a few steps before pausing again, her gaze drawn once more to a flicker of movement at the window. She shaded her eyes with her hand and squinted up at it, just in time to see it shiver in its frame, as if it were—
“Dear God.”
The horrified whisper had hardly left her lips before a deafening crash rent the air. Jagged glass exploded outward and plunged two stories down, shattering on the ground below.
Georgiana gaped in disbelief at the place where the window had been seconds before, her brain sluggish with shock. For a moment she could only stare dumbly between the heap of glittering shards on the ground and the gaping hole above, struggling to make sense of what she was seeing.
Two men were grappling in front of the broken window, their furious shouts echoing in the clear morning air. Georgiana stared up at them, her heart leaping into her throat. She’d seen men fight, but never before had she seen anything like this. One man had the other by the throat, trying to squeeze the life out of him, and the second man was struggling to shove the first one out the window.
Benedict and Kenilworth, each of them intent on killing the other.
A sound left Georgiana’s mouth, either a scream or a whimper. She didn’t know which, nor was she aware that she was running, flying across the drive, a spray of pebbles at her heels and words on her lips, a plea, a prayer…
The kitchen door was unlocked—thank God, thank God—and she burst through it, only dimly aware that it was empty, with Mrs. Ellery nowhere to be seen, and no fire in the huge stone fireplace. She darted around the corner and up a flight of narrow stairs to a dusty entryway dominated by a sweeping staircase surrounded by dark paneling, with a massive bannister of carved wood.
She must have run up the stairs, but she was aware only of the pounding of her heart, her desperate heaving breaths echoing in her ears, and the other sounds—another crash of glass, the dull thump of fists pounding flesh, a man’s grunt of pain, all of it growing louder as she neared the second-floor landing. A few steps from the door she heard Benedict’s voice, low and furious, and the duke’s, louder and mocking, and a woman, her voice high-pitched and panicked, and the sounds of a scuffle, the heavy crunch of boots over broken glass.
Georgiana tried to prepare herself for what she’d find when she crossed the threshold, to brace herself for the nightmare she was certain was waiting for her on the other side of that door, but when she got there she stumbled to a halt, a scream trapped in her throat.
There was no way to brace yourself, no way to prepare for this.
There was shattered glass everywhere—fragments scattered across the floor or ground to a glittering powder, wicked-looking shards standing like a row of jagged teeth in the window frame, and—
Blood.
Benedict’s hands were covered with blood, his shirt sleeve soaked with it from a slash on his upper arm, and streaming down his face from a jagged cut on his forehead.
Georgiana stared at him in horror, her heart trapped in her throat.
If Benedict noticed her in the doorway, he gave no sign of it. All his attention was focused on Kenilworth, who was clutching a bloody shard of glass in his hand. The two men circled each other warily, mere steps away from the open window, each waiting for their chance to strike.
“You’re never going to see Jane or Freddy again, Kenilworth.” Benedict circled closer, forcing Kenilworth to back up, closer to the gaping hole.
One stumble, a single misstep, a push at the right time and the right angle, and one of them was going to fall through it. Georgiana knew it, felt it in the deepest part of herself where her most unspeakable nightmares lived.
Please, please don’t let it be Benedict—
“How do you intend to stop me, Haslemere?” Kenilworth laughed, but it was a mockery of one, twisted and ugly. “Jane is my wife, and Freddy my son. They belong to me, and there’s not a damn thing you can do to change that.”
“No?” Benedict bared his teeth in a savage grin. “The English courts don’t take kindly to bigamists, Kenilworth, even if they do happen to be dukes. Your marriage to Jane is illegal, and will be dissolved as soon as your crime is discovered. I wonder what all your London admirers will think, to see the great Duke of Kenilworth brought so low?”
Kenilworth tutted, as if disappointed. “Do you truly think a worthless rake like you is going to be the one to bring my secrets to light? I’ve kept them for six long years, Haslemere. It’ll take a cleverer man than you to expose me.”
Kenilworth lunged forward suddenly, slashing with the shard of glass in his hand. Georgiana’s heart dropped as the jagged edge came within inches of Benedict’s wrist, but he jumped back just in time, out of Kenilworth’s reach. He dragged a hand over his forehead, and his sleeve came away drenched with blood. “Half a dozen people know what you’ve done, Kenilworth. Do you intend to kill us all?”
“No, just you, Haslemere, and Draven, of course. He doesn’t look like he’s in much of a condition to defend himself, does he?”
Kenilworth jerked his head toward the bed. Georgiana followed the gesture, and for the first time noticed the dark-haired housemaid—Rachel, or Clara—was there, her body between Kenilworth and the bed in which Lord Draven lay, pale and haggard, but very much awake.
“Oh, I think Clara and Jane will fall into line quickly enough when I threaten to take their sons away if they don’t.” Kenilworth was creeping forward as he spoke, edging closer to Benedict, trying to maneuver him toward the window. “You see, Haslemere, bigamist or not, those two boys are still my sons, and therefore mine to do with as I wish.”
“You’re not leaving this room, Kenilworth, unless it’s through the window.” Benedict darted forward and slammed his fist into Kenilworth’s stomach. Kenilworth grunted, staggering under the blow, but he managed to keep his feet.
“Not good enough, Haslemere. You look a little unsteady, my friend. Is the blood loss making you dizzy? Pity. It looks like you’re the one who’s going out the window.” Kenilworth’s lips split in a bloodthirsty grin as he leapt forward and landed a blow to Benedict’s knee. There
was a sickening crunching sound, and Benedict’s knee collapsed beneath him, sending him heavily to the floor.
Clara screamed, but her terrified shriek was drowned out by Georgiana’s panicked shout. “Benedict!”
“No! Get back, Georgiana.” Benedict held out a hand to stop her. “Don’t come any closer.”
“Your whore is very loyal to you, Haslemere.” Kenilworth advanced on Benedict with slow, lazy steps. Then with a casual air, as if he were brushing dust from his boots, he landed a vicious kick to Benedict’s chest. “She’s not a conventional beauty, is she? But I quite like her, all the same. Perhaps I’ll make her my mistress after you’re dead.”
“You’d better make sure I’m good and dead first, Kenilworth,” Benedict snarled, his face a mask of fury. “Because if you lay a single finger on her, I’ll kill you.”
“You’re hardly in a position to make threats.” Kenilworth prepared to deliver another punishing kick, but Benedict rolled to the side and managed to stagger to his feet before Kenilworth could get close enough to land the blow. “You only delay the inevitable, Haslemere. Anyone can see you’re nearly dead already.”
Georgiana looked from Benedict to Kenilworth, despair gripping her and nearly sending her to her knees. Kenilworth was right. Benedict, dizzy with blood loss, could hardly keep his feet. Kenilworth would bide his time until Benedict lost consciousness, and then he’d shove him out the window, and that would be the end.
No one could survive a fall like that.
She had to do something.
Think, think…
A weapon. If she could find a weapon, something to strike Kenilworth with, something heavy enough, the blow would fell him, and from there she might be able to push him out the window. He was much bigger and stronger than she was, but she was quick, and he wouldn’t be expecting her to attack him.
Georgiana frantically searched the room until her gaze landed on the fireplace poker. It was leaning against the wall beside Lord Draven’s bed. It was much closer to her than it was to Kenilworth, but as soon as she lunged for it, Kenilworth would guess what she was doing, and he’d attack Benedict again.