As You Are

by Eden, Sarah M.

  Around her, muffled conversations continued. She heard the door open and close more than once, footsteps crossing the room.

  “She is spent, Jason.” Clara recognized the dowager countess’s voice. “Couldn’t you allow her to sleep and discuss this in the morning?”

  “Time is our most difficult obstacle right now, Mater. Mrs. Bentford can sleep all she wishes tomorrow, but we need to begin addressing this tonight.”

  “You make this sound very serious.”

  Clara didn’t like the worry she heard in the dowager’s voice.

  “If Mr. Bentford pushes these charges, if he has any proof, this could be quite serious.”

  “I recognize that tone, Jason,” the dowager countess said. “You are all barrister right now. I will leave you to it.”

  Clara heard the dowager leave the room.

  “Mrs. Bentford?” That was Jason’s voice.

  Clara opened her eyes. They had all assembled. Layton and his wife, Lady Marion. Crispin. Jason. Corbin had returned as well. Clara felt herself redden. Had she actually thrown herself at him in the cottage? She had been overwhelmed with relief when he’d come through the door. She was certain no other person would have been as welcome at that moment as he had been.

  He’d held her every bit as gently as she’d seen him hold Alice. It was a novel and wonderful experience. Such comfort his embrace had given her in that moment! She had felt safe despite being surrounded by threats and danger.

  Now he was keeping his distance once more. She bit down her disappointment.

  “I need to ask you a few questions,” Jason said.

  Clara nodded, recognizing, as the dowager had, the lawyer tone in his voice. She forced her mind to the present and listened.

  “Mr. Bentford claims you beat him with a fire poker. Is that accurate?”

  Clara clasped her hands in her lap. “Yes.”

  “Were you defending yourself?”

  “Not precisely.” She clutched her fingers more tightly. “He hadn’t done anything yet. That time.”

  “What do you mean by ‘that time’?”

  Clara glanced at Corbin, then around the room. There were so many gentlemen she hardly knew. They were helping her, she reminded herself. She needed them to.

  Everyone seemed to await her response. Clara really didn’t want to talk about those horrible months after the younger Mr. Bentford had descended on Bentford Manor. She’d been attempting to forget everything about that place, about the brothers who’d lived there.

  Clara took a deep breath. She would have to explain far more than the night she committed her “crime.” “Mr. Bentford inherited Bentford Manor after the death of his brother, to whom I was married.” Another breath was necessary. “He, however, did not come to reside there for nearly a year after inheriting. There is no dower house at Bentford Manor, only a wing set aside for the use of the family widows. Mr. Bentford, the one who was at Ivy Cottage today, made that arrangement . . . difficult for me.”

  “Difficult in what way?” Jason pressed.

  Clara fidgeted, glancing around at the room full of people who only days earlier had been strangers to her. She still hardly knew them. And Corbin’s opinion of her had only recently seemed to grow approving. There’d been a softening there lately. Would he turn on her now?

  “Is this entirely necessary, Jason?” Corbin broke his silence for the first time since entering the library.

  “It is excessively necessary.”

  She would have to tell them everything. Clara could no longer remain seated, a rush of agitated energy surging through her.

  “My husband was a violent man,” she said. “Alice, thank the heavens, wasn’t old enough when he died to remember him. I know Edmund works very hard not to. The late Mr. Bentford once broke Edmund’s arm in a fit of rage.” Her heart still thudded at that horrible memory. “Most of his outbursts, though, were directed at me. I don’t think a single day went by when he didn’t strike me, often repeatedly. I thought when he passed we would finally have peace. But I discovered his brother is cut from the same cloth.”

  She took as deep a breath as her tense lungs would allow. “Once he established himself at Bentford Manor, we were in the same horrible state we were before. I did all I could to protect the children from his wrath, but what could I do? There was nowhere to hide, no true means of defending myself. I consulted a solicitor in a nearby town, but he regretfully informed me that the law does very little to protect a woman from the anger of her male relatives.”

  Clara glanced at Jason and saw confirmation in his face.

  “Is there more?” Jason seemed to sense there was.

  She nodded slowly. This was the more difficult part.

  “Mr. Bentford became increasingly familiar.” Clara wrung her hands as she paced. “He took it as his right to use my Christian name, to take my hand whenever he chose, to be far more affectionate and pointed in his regard. I attempted to discourage him, which only made him angrier. I never knew if my encounters with him would involve a beating or an inappropriate display of affection or both.”

  Clara felt ill at the retelling, reliving in her mind details she was leaving out of her explanation. Those encounters had made Mr. Finley all the more unbearable. She knew all too well what scurrilous men were capable of.

  “What direction did his attentions take?” Jason asked.

  “Jason—” Corbin objected.

  “We must prove that she had reason to strike at him,” Jason cut him off. “I am sorry, Mrs. Bentford, but it is necessary.”

  “I understand.” Clara lowered herself onto the settee once more. “He eventually abandoned all semblance of propriety, speaking in ways that were not only uncomfortable but threatening. My continued rejections only increased his violence toward myself and the children. I threatened to speak to the squire, but Mr. Bentford was adamant that my word would never carry the weight his would. The law would, he warned, tell me to go back to the keeping of my male relatives and be grateful they were willing to let me stay on.”

  Clara swallowed back a sudden surge of bile. She could not look up, couldn’t bear to see what might be written on the faces of those who had offered to be her champions.

  “I tried to leave with the children once, but we were found out. He beat Edmund and Alice, beat them badly. I was too afraid to try again. He said that should I so much as make the attempt, he would have guardianship of Alice taken from me and would send her to some cousin to be raised.”

  She took a shaky breath. Those months with her brother-in-law had been, by far, the worst of her life.

  “I discovered through the help of a sympathetic and discreet man of business that so long as I was living at Bentford Manor, the estate received a stipend for my care, though we were living very much like paupers. Mr. Bentford was pocketing that money and, if the society column in the papers was to be believed, was using it to fund a gambling addiction. He needed us to remain because he needed the money. The beatings and the unwelcome attentions were all his way of terrifying me so much that I would be too afraid to leave.”

  She felt a warm tear slide down her cheek. She’d tried so hard to keep her tears at bay all evening. She swiped at the moisture on her face.

  “He underestimated, however, my unwillingness to see the children continually beaten and tormented. I secured Ivy Cottage through this same man of business, of whom Mr. Bentford was not aware, and secretly packed the necessities for one more attempt at leaving.”

  Clara closed her eyes tightly to force back the tears that threatened. She was determined to finish her telling. She heard a rustle of skirts, then felt the settee shift beside her. Clara glanced over. Lady Marion sat next to her. Clara felt the young lady’s arm wrap around her shoulders. A tear slipped out at that simple gesture. She never permitted herself to cry but couldn’t seem to prevent herself now. She was entirely unraveling.

  “We very nearly slipped out before Mr. Bentford came looking for us.” Clara pressed
on. “Suzie was taking the children to the carriage I had hired from a nearby inn, and I was gathering the last of our things. I heard Mr. Bentford in the moments before he entered my bedchamber. I grabbed the fire poker and hid beside the clothespress. He found me rather easily, but before he had a chance to say much more than good evening, I hit him. I hit him as hard as I could.”

  Lady Marion’s arm squeezed her more tightly.

  “That was when I saw his valet in the doorway. His valet is unfailingly loyal to Mr. Bentford and holds me in extreme dislike. He would, I am certain, testify that Mr. Bentford had done nothing upon entering to justify my attack.”

  “The law would place almost no confidence in your testimony if it contradicts his,” Jason said.

  “I fled the house.” Clara rushed through the rest of the telling. “Mr. Bentford’s valet shouted at me that I would hang for what I’d done. That was when we came to Ivy Cottage. We have been hiding from him ever since. And until this evening, I thought we’d managed to find a corner of the world quiet enough that he wouldn’t look for us here. But he has, and now we’ll never be safe from him again.”

  The room was silent. Clara wiped at a tear streaming down the side of her nose. Would they abandon her now? Did they even believe her?

  “With a witness and, no doubt, the word of the local physician regarding his injuries, Mr. Bentford has a case,” Jason said. “The penalty for assaulting a gentleman is steep. Transportation, if she is lucky.”

  Clara’s shoulders sagged.

  “You’ll forgive me if this sounds impertinent.” Lady Marion seemed to address the entire room at once. “If Mr. Bentford needs Mrs. Bentford to return home with him so he can secure a portion of her jointure, what benefit can he possibly expect at having her transported or imprisoned?”

  “Not impertinent at all, dearest,” Layton answered. “An insightful question, actually.”

  Clara’s spinning mind hadn’t allowed her to consider that possibility yet.

  Jason’s brow furrowed in deep contemplation. “I would have to look at the marriage settlement to know for certain, but I would guess that either a criminal conviction will strip Mrs. Bentford of her income, keeping all of it for the estate, or Mr. Bentford plans to offer to take her back into the family home rather than subject her and, I am certain he will insist, the family name to the degradation of transportation or imprisonment or worse.”

  Clara pushed out a tight breath. “So either his goal is to let the law do away with me or imprison me again himself in the home I only barely managed to escape?”

  “I believe so.”

  She dropped her head into her hands. This was her nightmare, the very thing she’d feared the past six months. How hard she’d worked to stay hidden, to choose a place she thought Mr. Bentford wouldn’t look for them. She’d done something almost unspeakably frightening in fleeing Bentford Manor. She’d gone out into the world alone to create a new life for herself. All that effort. All her hopes. Crumbling.

  “Our best course of action is to prevent the case from being heard,” Jason said.

  “How do we do that?” Corbin asked.

  There had to be a way. There simply had to be.

  “How quickly can you dispatch an express to Philip?” Jason asked.

  “As quickly as you can write it,” Corbin said. “But . . . but I do not think he can leave Scotland yet.”

  “He doesn’t have to leave,” Jason said. “A letter from the Earl of Lampton should give the circuit judge second thoughts about the case presented to him.”

  “I’ll write one as well,” Crispin said. “And I am certain Lord Henley, my brother-in-law,” he explained, apparently for Clara’s benefit, “would add his voice.”

  “I see now my role in this,” Lady Marion said from beside Clara. “I am assuming you wish me to send an express to my cousin, the Marquess of Grenton.”

  Jason nodded. “Precisely. And to the Duke of Hartley.”

  Clara snapped her head up. “The Duke of Hartley?”

  “Do you know him?” Jason asked, studying her closely.

  “Only as a passing acquaintance. He has a small estate in Sussex, not ten miles from Bentford Manor.”

  “Would he be acquainted with Mr. Bentford?”

  “I think so, though I don’t believe he approved of either Mr. Bentford.”

  “Perfect.” Jason’s look of confidence was remarkably reassuring.

  Clara found herself breathing a little easier.

  “I will write to Roderick this instant.” Lady Marion rose from her seat and crossed to the desk.

  “Will it be enough?” Corbin voiced the question Clara herself was silently asking.

  “If His Grace will testify, even in writing, against Mr. Bentford’s character, and Philip, Crispin, Henley, and Grenton will throw their weight behind a formal objection to the charges,” Jason said, “there are few judges who would continue with the proceedings.”

  They were using rank and titles and influence, Clara realized. She had heard of such a thing but never imagined anyone doing so on her behalf, especially not a roomful of men. Why would they do that? She was nothing to them.

  “Wouldn’t our . . . knowing Mrs. Bentford has allies . . .” Corbin said to Jason. “Wouldn’t that alone be enough for Mr. Bentford to not pursue the charges?”

  “It might,” Jason said.

  “It won’t.” Clara heard a tremor in her voice. Every face in the room turned to her again. “He doesn’t like to be thwarted. He is arrogant and proud and—” She took a breath, trying to calm herself. “He would continue to try simply because he has been humiliated. Because he has lost, he will feel he has to prove he can win. And even if that weren’t enough, he needs the money. From all I could gather, he needs it desperately.”

  “Horrid man,” Lady Marion muttered.

  “I will write to Lord Devereaux as well,” Crispin said with a look of determination. “He has some influence at King’s Bench and might be able to put a little fear into whomever is conducting the assizes in Sussex next month.”

  A flurry of activity erupted: quills flying across parchment, servants being instructed to prepare the fastest mounts in the Havenworth stables. Most of the express missives would be sent to London, which simplified the campaign. Catherine entered in the midst of the flurry.

  “Mater has set out tea in the sitting room,” she said quietly to Clara. “She is convinced the boys are starving you up here.”

  The boys. Clara looked around the room at Crispin and the Jonquils. There was far too much drive and power in the room for her to possibly think of them as the boys.

  Her gaze settled on Corbin. Dear Corbin. He’d come to her rescue. He’d held her tenderly. Now he and his brothers were attempting to save her once more.

  “They are a force to be reckoned with, aren’t they?” Catherine looked around with obvious familial affection. The Jonquils, it seemed, had adopted Catherine as one of their own.

  “They are writing to the people they know who have the most influence,” Clara explained, feeling herself blush beneath her pallor. She didn’t feel worthy of their efforts but didn’t dare object. They were, possibly quite literally, saving her life. “They hope it will be enough to have the charges against me dropped.”

  Catherine crossed to where her husband was writing a letter. “Crispin, dear.”

  “Yes, love?” he replied without looking up.

  “To whom are you writing?”

  “Devereaux,” he answered, continuing to write.

  “You really ought to write to the Duke of Kielder.”

  The entire room grew instantly silent, all eyes turning to Crispin. Even Clara had heard of the Duke of Kielder. He was legendary. His influence was limitless; even the uppermost levels of society stood in awe of the duke. No one contradicted him. No one dared earn his wrath. It was said he could command the kingdom with a single snap of his fingers.

  “You know the Duke of Kielder?” Jason asked, awe in his v
oice.

  Clara had never heard Jason sound impressed.

  “We have worked together on several bills in Lords.”

  “Would he add his weight to this?” Jason asked.

  A smile spread across Crispin’s face. “I think he would.”

  “No one gainsays the Duke of Kielder,” Catherine said.

  “I have told you before, Crispin,” Jason said. “Your wife is a genius.”

  Catherine colored prettily. Crispin kissed her quite unabashedly and then quickly finished his letter and began another.

  “Mrs. Bentford.” Jason turned to Clara. “I believe you may rest easy now. It seems you are to have the entire House of Lords on your side.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Corbin felt entirely useless. He had little interaction with the aristocracy or the influential in society. His brothers were going to save Clara. He was grateful for that, more than he could possibly say, but he wished he could do more.

  Only willpower and his brothers’ continuing insistence that beating the life out of Robert Bentford would not help Clara’s precarious situation kept Corbin from hunting down the dog. No wonder Clara never spoke of her past. Everything she had told them occurred after her husband had died. Edmund described the late Mr. Bentford as a monster. The rogue had broken the boy’s arm. Broken his arm!

  The letters had been dispatched. Jason himself had left for London. Crispin and Catherine would follow in the morning. Crispin had written to the Duke of Kielder—the charges would never stand if Kielder spoke against them. Layton and Marion had sent word to Grenton and Hartley.

  Everyone had helped except for him, and it was his family that was in trouble—they felt like his family, Clara and the children.

  The children. Corbin would forever be haunted by the sheer terror he’d heard in Alice’s cry when she’d caught sight of Mr. Bentford. He needed to check on them, be sure they were resting and unafraid.

  Catherine had whisked Clara from the library nearly two hours earlier, no doubt at Mater’s insistence. Clara had looked terribly pale and worn. Corbin hoped Mater had seen to it that Clara had something to eat and went to bed. He would have suggested it himself, but he’d needed to dispatch the letters necessary to ensure her freedom.