by Barton, Anne
“Good afternoon,” Ben said, flashing a smile. “You must be Mrs. Parfitt’s sister. She sent us up for a brief, neighborly visit.”
“The baron hasn’t opened his eyes in days. When he wakes, I’ll be happy to tell him that his neighbors stopped in.”
Though Daphne hadn’t yet stepped foot in the room, she could feel heat radiating from it. A fire burned on the grate and the windows were shut tight. Mrs. Parfitt’s sister’s dress was stained with perspiration. “We understand that Lord Charlton is resting and have no intention of disturbing him. Perhaps we could just sit with him for a few moments while you take a well-deserved break?”
Her frown faltered. “Who did you say you were?”
“Forgive us. We didn’t properly introduce ourselves. I’m Miss Honeycote, and this is Lord Foxburn.”
“I see. Well, if Mary sent you up, I suppose it would be all right.”
Daphne exhaled silently. “Thank you.”
As the woman lumbered out of the bedchamber, Daphne did a quick assessment. The room was even warmer than she’d imagined, and although Lord Charlton’s face was slick with sweat, at least two wool blankets lay over him.
“Stand guard by the door,” she told Ben.
“What?”
“Let me know if she returns.”
Obligingly, he leaned one broad shoulder against the doorjamb. An amused smile lit his face. “Let me guess. You’re making a poultice.”
“No.”
“Surgery?”
“Quite amusing. I’m just going to try to make the baron a bit more comfortable.” She pulled back the top two blankets, leaving a thin cotton one that covered the patient to his chin. While it might have been Daphne’s imagination, she could have sworn that Lord Charlton breathed easier and deeper, like a weight had been lifted off his chest. She eyed the fire with disdain—nothing to be done there. But she could let in some fresh air.
She pushed back the heavy velvet drapes on the window closest to the bed and pulled on the stubborn sash, to no avail.
“I’ll do that,” Ben offered, and he was at her side in an instant. “This room is on fire. The poor man must be roasting.” With one tug, he eased the window open. A damp breeze blew in and Daphne paused at the sill, savoring the slight relief.
“What the devil is going on?”
Dread washed over her. She spun around to find Mr. Hallows stumbling into the room, red-faced and reeking of liquor.
Looking like he was ready to kill.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Ben stepped in front of Daphne, shielding her. “Easy, Hallows. We’re just visiting your father.”
Hallows seethed, fists clenched at his sides. “He’s not exactly fit for visitors. I know the real reason you’re here.”
Ben felt the gentle touch of Daphne’s hand on his back as she spoke over his shoulder. “We were concerned about him.”
“What a load of bull. The two of you were opening the window. Drop something outside, did you? A little trinket that might be worth something?”
Ben tucked Daphne farther behind him. Hallows wasn’t the type of man you could reason with, even when he was stone sober.
And no one could accuse him of that. From the looks of his clothes, he’d been out all night. His soiled shirt peeked through a hole in his jacket where the shoulder seam had split, probably in a brawl. Whoever the other chap had been, Ben felt sorry for him.
“The room was stifling. We wanted to let in some air.” A groan sounded from the bed, and before Ben knew it, Daphne had shouldered past him to the baron’s side.
“He’s stirring,” she said hopefully. She took a towel from the washstand, and, with practiced expertise, dipped it in the basin and pressed the damp cloth to Charlton’s forehead. She whispered soothing snippets that Ben couldn’t make out.
Hallows seemed oblivious to the scene that played out on his father’s sickbed. He was probably preoccupied with enumerating the ways he planned to maim Ben. As if he weren’t in bad enough shape already.
“We’ve had a chance to pay our respects,” Ben said. “As soon as your father’s nurse returns, we’ll leave.”
Hallows cracked his knuckles, which were cut and bruised. “Like hell, you will.”
Ben arched a brow. “The ladies must swoon over your gentlemanly manners.”
“Don’t act so superior,” Hallows slurred. “If you’re with her, you’re no gentleman.”
Damn it. “Call me what you like, but do not besmirch Miss Honeycote’s name. Apologize.”
“Never mind that,” Daphne exclaimed. “Look, Lord Charlton is waking.”
Ben turned toward the bed. Bad decision. Hallows’s fist plowed into Ben’s jaw and he staggered back, grasping the windowsill to keep himself upright. Christ. It felt like his lower jaw had been relocated a full inch to the right of where it was supposed to be. For a drunken slob, Hallows had wickedly good aim.
“Ben!” Daphne screamed, and started toward him.
He held up a hand but this time did not make the mistake of looking at her.
Keeping his eyes trained on Hallows, he said, “Nice punch. Why don’t we continue this somewhere else? Someplace where we don’t run the risk of breaking a family heirloom or upsetting your very ill father.” Someplace where Daphne couldn’t get hurt.
“We’ll take care of this now.” Hallows took a couple of steps forward, and Ben circled right, putting the door at his back.
“I thought perhaps we could discuss things, man to man, over a drink.”
“My father hid the portrait,” Hallows blurted. “Last night I tore this house apart looking for it.” His bloodshot eyes narrowed. “I know you’re looking for it, too, you greedy son of a bitch. You’ve got plenty in your coffers, but you’re still after my painting.”
Ben arched a brow. “I was under the impression it was your father’s. To do with as he wishes. It seems he does not wish for you to have it.”
“Why do you want it?” He began to breathe harder; his nostrils flared.
“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”
“The portrait,” he began, then shook his blocklike head. “You’re playing dumb.” He screwed up his face as though he were attempting deep thought—unlikely as that was. “You don’t need the blunt. And a toff like you could afford to buy any titillating painting you wanted, so… it must be the girl. You fancy her, eh?”
Ben’s ire shot up several notches, but he kept his face impassive and shrugged. “She’s a friend.”
A lecherous grin unfurled across Hallows’s wide face. “A friend,” he repeated, sliding his gaze to Daphne—or, more specifically, her backside—as she leaned over the bed ministering to Charlton.
“Have you seen the painting? She’s wearing this nightgown and you can almost see her ti—”
Before the word was all the way out of Hallows’s mouth, Ben grabbed two fistfuls of his jacket and slammed him into the wall. His head hit the plaster with a satisfying thud, but he was hardly fazed. He struggled, trying to squirm to one side. Ben smashed his fist squarely into Hallows’s nose. Blood flowed.
Daphne cried out.
Ben tightened his grip on Hallows’s lapels and shoved him into the wall once more for good measure.
Another moan came from the bed. “I think he’s thirsty,” Daphne said, looking to the men for help. Realizing none was forthcoming, she carefully placed an extra pillow beneath her patient’s head before bringing a glass to his lips.
“Looks like she can raise the dead,” Hallows chuckled. “And that’s not all she can raise.”
Ben squeezed his throat. “Keep your mouth shut, you bloody idiot.”
Hallows didn’t. Instead, he had the gall to grin, flashing yellow, crooked teeth. The hairs on the back of Ben’s neck stood on end and he realized a split second too late what was coming next.
Hallows braced his boot against Ben’s injured thigh, and using the wall as leverage, drove his heel directly into Ben’s twist
ed flesh. If the ape had kicked him in the bollocks it couldn’t have hurt more.
Damn his leg and damn Hallows—straight to hell. But Ben had to block out the pain and focus on one thing. Not. Letting. Go. Who knew what Hallows would do in his drunken rage? Daphne was counting on him and he couldn’t let her down. He wouldn’t.
Spots danced at the corners of his vision. He broke into a sweat. His arms shook from the strain of holding Hallows in place. He breathed and devoted every ounce of will he possessed into the hand squeezing Hallows’s throat. His eyes began to roll back a little and Ben knew he had him, and then—
His leg buckled. Like a tree struck by lightning, it splintered and crashed. Hallows threw him a few yards and Ben hit the floor with a thump; he slid until his skull struck a bedpost.
“Ben!” Daphne was at his side, her cool hands on his cheeks.
“Get back.” It was all he could manage. He swatted her hands away and gripped the bedpost, intent on hoisting himself upright.
She tried to help him.
“No.”
Hallows stomped closer and Daphne cried out. “I’m getting help.”
Before Ben could stop her, she tried to dart past Hallows. One shove of his forearm against her chest sent her stumbling back toward the bed.
Ben had heaved himself halfway up the bedpost by the time Hallows reached him. His back was flush with the post, his good leg bent beneath him. The bad leg was like a ship’s anchor, weighing him down.
For a brief moment, Hallows loomed over him, savoring the moment like a knight with a lance aimed at his opponent’s throat.
Ben felt himself being lifted—so high, both feet left the ground.
Then he was on the ground, laid out flat and fighting to catch the breath that had been knocked out of him. Above him, Hallows looked like some sort of Titan—huge and more rock than human. The blood that trickled from his nose dripped to the floor beside Ben, creating odd, inklike splatters.
Hallows’s mind was sickeningly predictable, and yet Ben couldn’t stop his next assault.
While he lay there like a turtle flipped on its shell, Hallows ground the heel of his boot into Ben’s leg.
He stayed conscious long enough to hear Daphne’s screams mingle with his own howls. Long enough to wonder if he’d ever see her again.
Dear God, what had she done?
Hallows twisted the heel of his boot into Ben’s thigh with nauseating glee.
“Stop it,” she shrieked. He didn’t.
Ben’s face contorted into a mask of pain. Muscles corded in his neck and a deep blue vein throbbed at his temple. She yanked open the desk drawer, desperate to find a letter opener or anything that could improvise as a weapon. She shuffled through the contents—nothing but paper and ink. Blast.
She glanced around. On the washstand was a pitcher half full of water. She grabbed it and hurled it at Hallows. He deflected it like it was a teacup, and it landed on the floor with a crack. Water puddled. She fisted her hands and prepared to launch herself at Hallows.
“Rowland.” Daphne spun toward the bed. Lord Charlton’s lips moved as though he were struggling to form more words.
“Your father is stirring,” she shouted at Hallows. “He wants to speak with you.”
“How convenient. I want to speak to him, too.” Finally, Hallows removed his foot from Ben’s leg, kicking him aside like a piece of debris on the road. Ben gasped as if starved for air. He struggled to sit up and barely managed to raise his head before he slumped to the floor, limp.
Hot anger flowed through her. Hallows sauntered toward his father as though he were irritated by the interruption.
“My son,” Lord Charlton rasped. He stretched out a pale bony hand—a plea.
Hallows looked at the hand with disgust. “Yes. Your son. And yet you refuse to trust me.”
The baron’s bushy white brows drew together. “Huh?”
Hallows plopped onto the side of the bed, and the mattress sagged under his weight. “I am glad to know you are recovered, Father.” Daphne prayed that Lord Charlton’s mind was too muddled to detect the obvious lack of sincerity. “I was worried. And spent many a night right here, at your side.”
Daphne wanted to scream, but the blatant lie brought a smile to Lord Charlton’s wizened face. While Hallows was occupied with his father, she knelt beside Ben and pressed her ear to his chest. His heart beat steadily, and he took shallow breaths. At least he didn’t seem to be in pain at the moment. She stroked his hair, wishing she could carry him out of there.
Where was Mrs. Parfitt’s sister? Or Mrs. Parfitt for that matter? Could they not hear the ruckus? It seemed as though she and Ben had been here for an hour, although in truth it may have been only minutes.
“There is one small thing I would ask of you, Father—in return for my loyalty.”
Daphne’s stomach clenched. She stood, feeling an overwhelming sense of powerlessness. And fear.
“What… is it?” Lord Charlton patted his son’s thigh.
“The painting.”
“Huh?” He squinted, eyes rheumy.
“The painting,” Hallows spat.
Lord Charlton’s eyes opened wider. “Wh-wh-why?”
Hallows grabbed the old man’s shoulders and shook him. “You owe me. I want it.”
“What is going on in here?” Mrs. Parfitt’s sister stood in the doorway, clearly appalled to see Ben sprawled on the floor and Hallows’s rough handling of her patient—not to mention the blood and shards of pottery all over the floor.
“Get help, please,” Daphne called out. “I’m afraid he’ll hurt his father.”
“I’ll call for the footmen.” She hurried down the hall.
Hallows swiveled his head to look at Daphne. The blood had started to cake beneath his nose and around his mouth. Just the sight of him made her nauseated. “You’re not afraid for my father. You’re afraid for yourself, whore.”
“Rowland, stop,” Lord Charlton begged.
“I’ll stop. Just tell me where the painting is. The English Beauty.”
For the briefest of moments, Lord Charlton’s eyes focused. “No.”
Hallows leaned over him, snarling. “I want it.”
The baron closed his eyes, as though doing so could make the whole nightmare end.
But Hallows only shook him again. The old man’s jowls flapped and drool trickled out of his mouth. “Look at me,” Hallows ordered.
When his father refused to open his eyes, he circled his hand around Lord Charlton’s frail neck. “Now you’ll tell me.”
“Stop! You’ll kill him,” Daphne cried.
Hallows ignored her. “Where is the portrait of the English Beauty, Father?”
The baron gurgled.
“He’s been very ill, and you’re hurting him. He needs to rest.”
“He’ll talk.”
Lord Charlton’s arms flailed and his face turned a frightening shade of blue.
Hallows sat back slightly and released his father’s neck. The old man’s chest heaved as he coughed and struggled to fill his sickly lungs.
“Ready to talk?”
A tear slid down the baron’s cheek. He nodded and held up a finger.
Hallows looked over his shoulder. “Quickly.”
“In the… stable.”
“Christ. Where in the stable?”
“Loft. Under hay.”
“You crazy bastard. You wouldn’t know the English Beauty if she walked into your bedchamber.” Hallows heaved himself off the bed, spat on Ben’s still body, and left his father, shaking and crying from shock.
“It’s all right.” Daphne took his cold hand and warmed it between her palms. “Your son has been drinking. He didn’t mean the awful things he said… or did.”
The baron gave her a skeptical but appreciative look. “Who… are you?”
“Daphne Honeycote, a friend of Lord Foxburn. Pleased to meet you, although I do wish it had been under better circumstances.”
“Pleasur
e is mine.” His wrinkled face sagged. “Why? Why… my painting?”
She inhaled deeply, untied her bonnet, and pulled it off her head. A few strands drifted to her shoulders, and she smiled weakly.
If it were possible, Lord Charlton grew even paler. “Dear Lord,” he whispered. “What have I done?”
Footsteps pounded in the hallway. Thank God, help had arrived. “Don’t worry. You need to take care of yourself.” She swiftly returned the bonnet to her head, tucking the loose tendrils into it.
On the floor, Ben groaned. “Am I… dreaming?”
Daphne glanced at him and the chaos throughout the room. “No. I’m afraid this is very, very real.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Blocking: (1) The first step in painting, in which general areas of color are applied to the canvas. (2) The act of preventing a young lady from achieving her goal—especially through nefarious methods, such as brutality and threat of ruin.
Mrs. Parfitt and her sister charged into the room, followed by two men with rolled up shirtsleeves who might have come directly from the fields or stable.
After one look at the room, the housekeeper pressed a hand to her stomach as though sickened. “Mr. Hallows stormed past us. He did all this?”
Daphne nodded. “Lord Charlton is awake. Will you see to him? I’ll tend to Lord Foxburn.”
“What should we do about Mr. Hallows?” one of the men asked.
Mrs. Parfitt looked to Daphne, who shrugged. “His tirade is over. I’m afraid he got what he wanted.”
“Did he, now?” The housekeeper adjusted her spectacles and planted her hands on her hips. “Shall we send for the magistrate?”
“That is Lord Charlton’s decision.” Daphne spoke slowly and loudly enough for the old man to hear. “But I do not think there’s anything to be gained by involving the authorities. In the end, all of us face the consequences of our actions.” And she was about to face hers.
Mrs. Parfitt instructed one of the men to stand guard outside the door and sent the other back to work. She began to return the room to some semblance of order while her sister tried to settle Lord Charlton.