The sound of footfalls echoed from inside the chapel, and Clara retreated to a quieter corner of the churchyard, not wishing to be trampled as the congregation exited. Alice had finally drifted off to sleep. The girl, to Clara’s discomfort, had grown larger of late and heavier.
Clara watched the worshipers as they filed out the chapel doors, and she kept a wary eye out for Mr. Bentford. She saw him the instant he stepped into the sunlight. Her stomach turned inside her, her head pounding anew. She would keep an eye on him and keep out of his reach.
“Clara,” Corbin said, startling her. “I believe you . . . you may want a good vantage point for this.”
Clara looked back at him, intrigued. Corbin nodded toward the crowd. “I have invited someone.”
Clara let her gaze shift toward the gathering. The traveling carriage she had been admiring now stood with its door open. Crispin stood outside as if he’d only just alighted.
“Lord Cavratt?” she asked as Corbin took Alice. Her arms ached from the weight of the sleeping child. How had Corbin known that?
“Yes, but not only him. That is not Crispin’s carriage,” Corbin said significantly.
Who had Corbin invited? And why was this visitor so significant?
“Clara.” A hand grasped her upper arm, even as the identity of the speaker sank in. Her brother-in-law never lost an opportunity to make his presence in her life known.
“Try not to be annoying for a moment or two, will you, Bentford?” Crispin had arrived at her side, looking at Mr. Bentford like one might look at a flattened spider. “His Grace wishes to be introduced to Mrs. Bentford.”
Mr. Bentford dropped her arm and sputtered for a moment. Clara kept her mouth firmly shut, or she might have sputtered as well. His Grace? There was a duke present? One who wished to make her acquaintance? She’d barely managed to maintain her countenance when being introduced to the Dowager Countess of Lampton and Lord and Lady Cavratt. But a duke? She knew herself to be drastically far beneath the notice of a duke.
Clara glanced at Corbin. He offered a small smile and nodded minutely.
“Trust me,” he said quietly.
She allowed herself to be led toward the spot where every eye in the crowd was focused. A man, the duke, she could only assume, stood quite uncaring about the attention he attracted. He was not as tall as the Jonquil brothers—they were exceptionally tall—but he was built on such a solid scale that he was immediately and entirely physically overpowering. The look on his face could only possibly be achieved by a man who was equally endowed with superior rank, intellect, and strength. As if this was not enough, he also bore a scar equally as menacing as his other attributes, running the length of his jaw and across his cheek and spider-webbing in between. All he required was a sword and a rolling sea to be the very picture of a pirate.
Crispin stepped forward. “Mrs. Bentford, may I introduce to you His Grace, the Duke of Kielder.”
A mutter rumbled through the crowd. Clara felt what little confidence she possessed dissipate. This was the Duke of Kielder: fearless fighter of duels, undisputed last word in all quarrels and on all issues, the man who intimidated everyone from fishmonger to the prime minister to the Regent himself. He was rumored to have bested Gentleman Jackson with a single blow, shot the pistols out of two gentlemen’s hands during duels, taken down a gang of notorious highwaymen unaided. If only a handful of the tales surrounding this imposing gentleman were true, he was not a man to be taken lightly.
Corbin had invited the most powerful man in the kingdom? Invited him to apparently meet her?
“Your Grace, this is Mrs. Clara Bentford, late of Sussex, who now resides in this neighborhood at Ivy Cottage.”
The Duke of Kielder offered a gracious and very proper bow. Clara returned the acknowledgment with her deepest curtsy.
“I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Bentford,” the Duke said. “Next time you are in Town, I hope you will call on Her Grace and me. We would be very pleased to receive you.”
Clara wasn’t sure if she actually managed a response—she was too shocked to be certain.
“Now, Cavratt.” His Grace turned to Corbin. “Where’s the weasel?”
That sent another murmur through the crowd.
“This is he,” Corbin said, indicating Mr. Bentford with a quick jerk of his thumb.
“You, sir.” The Duke pointed over Clara’s shoulder. “I would speak with you.” It was worded very nearly as a request, but no one hearing His Grace speak would have mistaken it for one.
From behind Clara, Mr. Bentford stepped into the clearing the crowd had left all around their exalted visitor. “Your Grace,” Mr. Bentford said, his tone nervous, his bow awkward.
The Duke looked down his nose. “Did I give you leave to address me?” he asked in a menacingly quiet voice.
Mr. Bentford shook his head. Clara had never seen either of the Mr. Bentfords so thoroughly intimidated.
“I am come with a message from the Duke of Hartley.” His Grace’s eyes narrowed in obvious dislike of the man he addressed. The crowd’s attention eagerly shifted between the two men. “He wishes you to be told of a rather damaging piece of financial information recently revealed to your creditors. They, who I understand are quite numerous, ought to be arriving at your Sussex home in a matter of days. Sooner, perhaps. Hartley felt certain you would not require an explanation of what they were told.”
Mr. Bentford paled immediately. Whatever the Duke of Hartley referred to in regard to Mr. Bentford’s finances was indeed ruinous, and Mr. Bentford had easily ascertained the details though they had not been disclosed.
“There are several well-substantiated rumors spreading through Town,” the duke further informed him. “Rumors which have already quite ruined any good standing you may have enjoyed there. I would not suggest returning.”
Mr. Bentford’s pallor increased, as did the avid stares he received. Clara fumbled for Corbin’s hand. An almost painful thudding in her heart had begun. It was equal parts uncertainty and hope. His fingers threaded through hers as he silently watched the exchange in front of them.
“And I have my own message for you.” The duke stepped closer to Mr. Bentford.
His Grace’s gaze was so icy Clara felt the effect of it though it was directed at someone else. She stepped involuntarily backward. A small hand clutched hers. Clara looked down to find Edmund watching the duke in apprehensive awe. She glanced quickly at Alice, sleeping still. Corbin’s eyes darted in her direction, holding hers for a moment before looking back at the Duke of Kielder, whose glare had now brought complete silence to the entranced crowd.
“I do not, nor will I ever, tolerate a man—notice I do not refer to you as a gentleman—who would mistreat a good and honest lady in the way I know you have.” His jaw visibly tightened.
The entire crowd must have heard Mr. Bentford’s swallow.
“Know this: while the Jonquils may have qualms about throwing a lying blackguard from an upper-story window or locking him in a swinging gibbet, I am the Duke of Kielder—I have no such pangs of conscience.”
Mr. Bentford nodded frantically.
“I suggest you remove your dishonorable carcass from these hallowed grounds and hie yourself home to salvage what remains of your existence.” The duke stepped back once more, looking for all the world as if he were having a discussion about the weather over tea. “And if you so much as send a letter to the lady you have been harassing, I assure you I will make good on my threats, both those I have voiced and those I will formulate when I am most angry with you.”
There was no response, verbal or otherwise, only the sight of Mr. Bentford scurrying from the churchyard. Clara was certain she heard the duke mutter “coward” under his breath.
Corbin slipped his hand from hers. “I will return directly,” he said and moved in the direction of the duke.
Clara closed her eyes, hardly daring to breathe a sigh of relief. Mr. Bentford might actually leave. Based on his reaction to t
he Duke of Kielder, he wasn’t likely to harass her again. It was too much to believe.
“He is a little scary,” Clara heard Edmund say. She looked down at him and saw his eyes glued to the Duke of Kielder.
“Yes, a little,” Clara agreed. “But I do not think we need to fear him.”
Edmund shook his head. “Corbin would have told us.”
Clara smiled. “He most certainly would have.” She turned her gaze to Corbin, who stood with the duke and those members of the Jonquil family who remained in the neighborhood. Alice slept soundly against his chest, no doubt drooling again.
“And he would keep us safe,” Edmund added.
“Yes, he would.” The Duke of Kielder may have delivered the ultimately effective threat, but Corbin was the one who made Clara feel safe and secure.
Corbin turned at that moment and looked directly at her, smiling. Clara’s heart leaped into her throat. As he approached, she felt a shiver spread through her entire body, and all of her thoughts seemed to dissipate into oblivion. All but one. She loved this man. She loved him entirely.
“His Grace will be . . . will be taking his midday meal at Havenworth before returning to Town.” Corbin smiled at Edmund as well and reached out to ruffle his hair. “Though he did find Alice’s lack of enthusiasm for his visit rather lowering.”
Clara laughed, and Corbin chuckled. Alice was sound asleep.
“Shall we?” Corbin held his free arm out to her.
Clara placed her arm through his and felt her heart swelling inside her. They stepped inside Corbin’s carriage as they’d been doing each Sunday of late. Alice slept against his chest, a sight Clara hadn’t yet grown tired of. How alone they’d all been for so long. But not any longer.
“Is Mr. Bentford really gone?” Edmund asked.
Corbin nodded firmly and confidently. “He is gone, and I am absolutely certain he will never come back.”
Edmund’s shoulders rose and fell with a deep breath. Clara could actually see the weight lifted from him.
She caught Corbin’s gaze. “You did this for us,” she said, awe filling her at the realization.
“Yes,” he answered. “For us.”
She sat silently at his side as they drove to Havenworth. Her mind couldn’t seem to grasp the reality of her newfound freedom. She didn’t have to run or hide any longer. Corbin, her Corbin, had done the impossible. He had given her peace.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Crispin approached Corbin after luncheon, something he didn’t often do. Philip and Layton were Crispin’s particular friends, and he generally turned to them when he had a task or a question or a favor to ask.
“I have brought more with me from London than a mere duke. I have a message to deliver,” Crispin said, a look of mischief and determination in his eyes. “While I personally am looking forward to delivering it, I thought you might appreciate being there too. You have an iron in this fire.”
“What—?”
Crispin understood as well as any of Corbin’s brothers the necessity of mentally finishing sentences at times. “I have a letter of particular importance for Finley, whom we both know is lingering about the area.”
“Promise the letter brings bad news, and I’ll deliver it myself.”
“That it does, indeed.” Crispin slapped Corbin on the shoulder before continuing. “Our good friend Finley will be on a mad dash for Town within the hour, I daresay.”
Corbin needed no more encouragement than that. “I’ve an entire afternoon. Let’s . . . let’s find him.”
They headed out to the stables. They had very nearly reached the paddock when an odd sound stopped Corbin. He thought he heard a horse, but behind the stables, not within them. The stable hands were thorough and reliable. He couldn’t imagine any of them neglecting their duties.
He walked around the side of the long building, just to be certain none of the animals had wandered off. For just a moment, he couldn’t entirely make sense of what he saw.
It was indeed a horse—Buttercup, in fact—with a saddle on her back. But the saddle was on backward. Backward? And next to Buttercup was Charlie, looking as though he meant to climb into the backward saddle and ride Buttercup facing the wrong direction.
Good heavens. “Charlie.” The single word snapped out with exasperation and weariness.
Charlie looked over immediately. “Just going for a ride, Corbin.”
His nearly perfected look of innocence didn’t fool Corbin for a minute. Corbin whistled to Buttercup. She obeyed without hesitation, walking to where he stood. He took her rein, gave Charlie a lingering look of reprimand, then led the mare back to the stables.
Jim looked up from his work as Corbin passed with the missaddled mare. “What the blazes?”
“Have her unsaddled,” Corbin instructed. “And see to it she has a quiet rest of the day.”
Jim nodded, taking the rein from Corbin. “I would never have let yer brother take the poor creature if I’d’ve known he was up to this kind of tomfoolery.”
Tomfoolery and Charlie were rather constant companions, it seemed.
Corbin sent one of the stable hands for his and Crispin’s horses, then returned to the paddock.
“Seventeen isn’t the most intelligent age,” Crispin observed. “One can only hope Charlie outgrows it.”
“Outgrows it before . . . before Mater really does strangle him.”
They mounted their own horses and set out on their original errand. Crispin looked to Corbin, silently allowing him to choose the direction they took their search. He gave it a moment’s thought. Finley had been present for Mr. Bentford’s dismissal. He would know Clara’s immediate concerns were settled. She, along with Catherine, had been Finley’s focus the past weeks. Catherine, however, was in London.
“Ivy Cottage,” Corbin said. “I’ve a feeling he’ll be waiting for . . . looking for Clara.”
Crispin nodded solemnly. “He never did know when to leave well enough alone.”
Sure enough, Finley’s mount was standing outside the cottage, its reins wrapped around the low-hanging branch of an obliging tree.
“The man is like a fox circling a henhouse,” Crispin muttered.
Corbin looked across at him. “Sounds to me like it is fox hunting season.”
Crispin’s lips slowly turned up in a devilish smile. They walked to the front door. Corbin was relieved to find it locked. But where, then, was Finley?
“We should check around back,” Crispin said. “He’s probably looking for a loose window or a mouse hole to crawl in through.”
They walked around the cottage and, sure enough, found Finley sniffing around the place.
“What have we here?” Crispin asked, his tone slow and menacing. “I do believe we’ve stumbled upon an intruder.”
Finley met their gazes without the slightest hint of guilt. He always had been too sure of himself. His confidence had long ago jumped to arrogance. “Well, now. If it isn’t the Jonquils come to champion the widows and orphans of the world,” Finley drawled.
“Nothing of the sort, I assure you.” Crispin reached into his jacket pocket. “I have a letter for you, one I’m told you will wish to receive with all possible haste.”
The first hints of wariness entered Finley’s expression.
Crispin held the letter in his hand but made no movement to give it to Finley. He simply slapped it back and forth against his other hand, watching Finley with unflagging calm.
Impatience slid across Finley’s face. “Are you planning to simply stand there, or are you going to give me my letter?”
“We have two other things for you first,” Crispin said.
Finley’s gaze narrowed. He took a single, purposeful step toward them. “What is it?”
Crispin looked as cool and collected as ever. “You imposed upon my wife. You laid your grubby, filthy hands on her.”
Finley raised a single eyebrow.
“If I hear at any point from this moment on that you have so muc
h as spoken to her, I will expect you to name your seconds and your preferred gravedigger. Am I understood?”
Finley didn’t nod, didn’t flinch. But some of his arrogance dissipated. “You said you had two things.”
“Indeed,” Crispin said. “I have delivered mine. The second is for Corbin to deliver.”
That was clear enough. Crispin had defended his wife with words. Corbin was no orator, but he meant to see to it Clara was clear of her last remaining tormentor.
He moved with determined footsteps to Finley, watching with satisfaction the nervousness the man couldn’t quite hide.
“She’s not your wife or family member,” Finley objected. “Her honor is not yours to defend.”
Corbin took hold of Finley’s cravat and twisted it in his fist enough to make Finley’s eyes bulge the slightest bit. He stepped in close, eye to eye with the scoundrel.
“I’ve broken one man’s nose recently,” he said. “I’ll happily make it two.”
Though Finley said nothing, Corbin saw the threat sink in. He released the cravat but lingered a moment, letting his glare have maximum impact. Finley took the smallest step backward.
Crispin was there in the next moment. He handed Finley the letter. “I was instructed to make certain you open it.”
Finley broke the seal, though he clearly would have preferred not to. His eyes quickly darted back and forth across the page. Corbin actually saw him pale. Without a word, Finley pushed his way between them and rushed toward the front of the house.
“That did the trick,” Crispin said with palpable satisfaction.
“What was in the letter?”
Crispin shrugged as his smile grew more amused. “A warning. Word has reached the various gentlemen’s clubs that Finley has been harassing the wives and daughters of quite a few gentlemen, rumors that, no doubt, are being confirmed by his many victims. His only real options are to rush to Town and attempt to squelch the whispers or go into hiding somewhere out of reach of the many, many gentlemen who are even now calling for his head.”
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