by Gaelen Foley
“There’s no need to be unkind, my dear. Now that I see you,” he said with a leer, “you should be grateful that money’s all I’m asking for.”
Repugnant.
What did I ever see in him? She could not believe she was allowing herself to be blackmailed, but at that point, she would have paid any sum to make him go away.
She supposed at least she should be grateful that he had not showed up at her house. Her hands trembled with fear as she took her bankbook out of her reticule; she lowered her head and used the pen set on the nearby table to write him a cheque that emptied her account.
She handed it over to him.
He smiled and blew on it to dry the ink. “There. Was that so hard? Pleasure doing business with you once again, my lady. You can bring the remainder to me at The Clarendon Hotel, day after tomorrow. Agreed?”
“Go to Hell.”
He forced a taut chuckle. “So fiery! I’d nearly forgotten how hotly you burned, ma chère. I’ll take that for a yes.” He folded her cheque and slipped it discreetly into his breast pocket. “Until then.” He rose and sketched a bow to her. “Lady Beauchamp.”
As he turned to go, the bell on the shop door jangled again.
Carissa thanked God that Margaret had not been here to see this, but when she looked over at the door, she froze in horror. It was not her maid.
Her husband stepped into the shop, those keen blue eyes of his taking in the scene with a sweeping glance.
Roger did not seem to realize who the new arrival was as he strode toward the door, as though eager to get his money from the bank and spend it in the nearest opium den.
But as Roger approached, Beau shut the door behind him and locked it.
He paused in surprise, realizing the danger, when Beau pulled down the shade.
Beau leaned against the door and folded his arms across his chest.
She sat frozen in her chair, staring in disbelief at the nightmare tableau of her girlhood seducer face-to-face with the man she loved. The husband she had lied to.
Roger had suddenly started looking queasy, but he tried to play it off, no doubt hoping his suspicions about the large, blond man’s identity were mistaken. “Ah, you’re blocking the door, mate,” he said in a friendly tone.
Beau fixed him with a dark stare full of impending doom. “Carissa,” he murmured in a voice of terrifying calm. “Who is this?”
Chapter 20
Beau had already been to the first two art galleries on Carissa’s list. Not finding her at either, he was on his way to the third. He still wanted, with every yard of ground he covered, to throttle the chit for snooping into matters he had specifically told her to leave alone.
In any case, he was driving into the street where his next destination awaited when he saw his wife’s maid leave the art shop ahead, heading for the bakery across from it.
He saw the carriage he had given Carissa for their wedding, and told his driver to pull up behind it. Leaving his carriage with the coachman, he had glanced in the bay window of the art gallery as he approached and had seen his wife talking to this man.
For the first split second, his knee-jerk reaction was a chilling thought of his mother’s unfaithfulness to his father. But edging closer for a better look at the man in question, he dismissed this passing fear. It would bloody well take more than the likes of that sad, sorry soul to provide any competition for him. No, he realized, something else was going on.
He had glanced at Carissa again, and in the next heartbeat, his well-honed instincts as a spy homed in on the subtle cues that told him she felt threatened.
Her tense posture.
The pallor in her face.
His anger at her for ignoring his orders immediately dissolved as his protective instincts went on full alert.
He had already been in motion to go in and rescue her when he saw her write something down and give it to the man.
He had paused, briefly bewildered. Was she passing information to someone? Had one of his enemies already got to her?
That’s when he stepped in.
Presently, he waited for her answer to his question. But it seemed Carissa could not speak.
He directed his next query to the stranger, a thin, slightly dilapidated dandy. “You have some business with my wife?” he demanded.
“N-no.”
“What did she give you?”
“Nothing!”
In no mood to argue, Beau shot out his right hand and grasped the dandy by his cravated throat. He lifted his arm just a bit to send the startled fellow up onto his toes to avoid being strangled.
From the corner of his eye, he saw Carissa watching with her hand pressed over her mouth while the stranger struggled to free himself from the grip cutting off his windpipe.
Beau, meanwhile, reached into the fellow’s breast pocket and calmly retrieved the piece of paper he had seen him tuck away there. When he dropped the young man, he stumbled forward, gagging for air and clutching at his neck. “You’re mad!”
“Sorry,” he said blandly. He unfolded the piece of paper. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting, but it certainly wasn’t what he saw.
A cheque from his wife’s account for the hefty sum of five hundred pounds.
He stared at it, holding his fury at bay and striving to make sense of this. What the hell—?
In the financial discussions he’d had with her uncle, drawing up the particulars of their marriage settlement prior to the wedding, Beau had learned that, as an orphan, Carissa had inherited a generous trust fund from her father. The trust fund bestowed on her an annual allotment of five hundred pounds to do with as she pleased, apart from his own dowry settlement upon her for a certain amount of pin money each month.
But why the hell had she just signed over her entire year’s portion to this stranger?
He looked from one to the other. “Somebody care to explain this?”
Neither answered, but the excruciating glance they exchanged, indeed, something about the way the two reacted to each other tipped him off that they had once been more than friends.
And the truth dawned. Her lack of virginity on their wedding night . . . The vigilant way she kept watch over the ton gossip . . . He saw now that it was not for prurient interest’s sake but because she was keeping watch over her own secrets. He put two and two together with an inward flinch. So, this was the chap she didn’t want to tell me about.
The stranger then attempted to lie to him.
First, he cleared his throat. “I take it you are Lord Beauchamp. I’m an artist, sir. Her Ladyship just commissioned a painting from me. It was supposed to be a surprise for you.”
“Really? And now I’ve gone and ruined the surprise . . . No, I don’t think so,” he murmured, but when the shop owner stepped out of the back, he barked abruptly at him, “Leave us!”
Startled, the little man halted in mid-stride—glanced around at them—then shrank back into his office without a word.
Though Beau had a feeling he already knew the answer, he asked the question anyway. “What’s the money for?” When he took a step forward, the stranger leaped back, staying out of arm’s length.
“Let’s be rational about this, Beauchamp! Violence isn’t going to solve anything! Besides”—he glanced at Carissa—“you can afford it. What I’m selling is worth at least that price.”
“And what exactly are you selling, Mr.—?”
“Benton,” he conceded warily. “Roger Benton.”
“And you are selling . . . ?”
“Protection,” he replied, visibly steeling himself, “for your lady’s reputation.”
Hardened as he was to the darker side of life, Beau was slightly shocked that the blackguard had just admitted to extortion. How bad was it, whatever Benton had on her?
He looked over at Carissa, longing for her to say something. Anything. But she just stared at him with soulful anguish brimming in her eyes.
The pain in her gaze checked the fury rising in him.
He did not know what might have happened between them, but it was obvious this man had hurt her, and that was all that mattered.
Everything in him wanted to throw Benton through the window. But he had a better idea in mind . . .
“I see.” He drew himself up with a cool stare. “How much, then?”
“Three thousand.”
“You said two!” she cried.
He glanced over his shoulder at her with a mocking sneer. “His pockets are deeper than yours.”
“Oh, God,” she wrenched out, hiding her face in her hands and turning away.
“No, it’s fair,” Beau said stiffly, like a very copy of her uncle, Lord Denbury. Playing his role with a tense nod, he was, of course, already plotting treachery.
“This is a very serious matter, as we all know how easily rumors get started. Once begun, they are impossible to root out. It isn’t worth it. My lady, you will explain your part in this to me later. Mr. Benton, of course I would pay any price to protect my family’s honor.”
“Very reasonable of you, Beauchamp.”
“I am a reasonable man,” he said through gritted teeth, “and not unacquainted with the ways of the world. But my bankbook is at my home. If you’ll accompany me in my carriage, we shall go there now, and I’ll write you a cheque for the full amount. Then you can be on your way—”
“Hold on, now, I am hardly getting into your carriage, Beauchamp. I’m not a fool. And I have no interest in seeing the inside of your home though I’m sure it’s splendid,” he said with a sneer, looking very satisfied with his own cleverness. “We meet in a public place.”
“Very well.” Beau gave him a cold stare. “Not everyone is as dishonorable as you, Benton. I was merely trying to keep the matter out of the public eye. But if that is your preference, then I will meet you at, say, The Gray Gull Inn on the docks near Billingsgate. Do you know the place?”
He nodded warily. “I can find it.”
“Good. Then, when we have concluded our business, you will never come near my wife again, and you will stay silent on this matter—if you value your life.”
“Fair enough.”
Beau stepped out of the way from where he’d been blocking the door and unlocked it for him.
Benton sauntered toward the exit, looking slightly relieved to be making a clean escape. He glanced back at Carissa, then paused next to Beau, one hand on the doorknob. “The Gray Gull, in an hour.”
Beau nodded, and Roger Benton slipped out.
He stared after him, lifting the shade on the door’s window and watching through narrowed eyes as the blackguard hailed a hackney. One stopped for him shortly. Benton climbed in, and as the hired carriage trundled off down the street, Carissa’s maid returned.
He opened the door for her as she came cheerfully gusting in. “Oh, Your Lordship, ye found us! Are ye hungry, sir?” She lifted the assortment of muffins wrapped in cheesecloth that she had brought over from the bakery shop.
“No, Margaret. Er, your mistress shall be heading home now. When you get there, would you tell Mr. Vickers to have the traveling chariot made ready? Her Ladyship will be going on a journey—and you will join her. You’ll be leaving immediately, this afternoon.”
“Beau!” Carissa wrenched out.
He ignored her with a flinch. “This will be a long trip to the country, so pack whatever clothes she might need for a month. You may go out to her carriage now. Her Ladyship will join you in a moment.”
“Yes, sir,” the maid murmured, hesitating with a somber glance over at her mistress.
But when he nodded gently at the door, Margaret bobbed a curtsy and scurried out to tell Jamison they’d be leaving in a trice.
Beau could hear Carissa crying softly. He turned slowly and met her teary-eyed gaze.
“I’m so sorry,” she whispered with shame and grief in her eyes.
He stiffened, threatened by her tears. This was not the time or place for this, and he was not ready to let go of his anger. Nevertheless, raised from his cradle to be a gentleman, he offered her his hand. “Come, I’ll walk you to your carriage.”
She remained where she stood, struggling for composure. She took a handkerchief out of her reticule. “You’re sending me away?”
“You leave me no choice,” he replied.
“A-are you going to kill him?”
“Should I?”
She shook her head with a shrug. “I was just surprised that you didn’t challenge him to a duel.”
“There’s no point dueling with a man who has no honor. It defeats the whole purpose.” He paused, lowering his head. “I don’t want to make any wrong assumptions, since you’ve provided no information for me to go on, but it seems to me this man would not have the power to blackmail you unless your involvement with him at some point was voluntary?”
“Yes,” she admitted in a strangled whisper, lowering her head. “It was the biggest mistake of my life, but he did not—force me.”
Beau nodded, feeling strangely numb, as though he were watching the scene unfold from outside his own body. Perhaps his heart was still in shock now that he faced the reality of her deception, but none of it felt real. “You do know that if he had, he’d be dead on the floor at this moment?”
Drying her tears with her handkerchief, she managed a nod.
“That can still be arranged if you feel he deserves it,” he added. “The choice is yours. Only say the word, and I’ll take care of it. In fact, it would give me great pleasure.”
“No. Not for his sake but for yours. It’s not worth the risk you’d take, with the panel breathing down your neck.”
He could not help his cynical reaction, muttering, “I am touched by your concern.”
“Please! I didn’t mean to hurt you—”
“Stop.” He glared at her in warning, fighting back a wave of anguish. “Not now.” He looked away again. “Come. Let’s get you home.”
She closed her eyes, steadying herself. Clutching her reticule, she glided past him toward the door, head down. But she paused beside him, looking up into his eyes. “You’re really going to pay him off, just like Uncle Denbury did?”
“Hell, no,” he breathed. “I’m going to pay him back.”
What Roger Benton did not know was that The Gray Gull Inn was the haunt of an infamous press gang that worked the docks, hunting for recruits—willing or otherwise.
So, instead of going to hand over three thousand pounds to buy the blackmailer’s silence, it was the blackmailer himself he went to hand over to the press gang.
When Beau sat down in the sailor’s tavern across from Roger Benton an hour later, he glanced over at the group of swarthy sea dogs drinking in the corner. He beckoned them over with a crook of his finger, then he laughed as they surrounded his dandyish companion.
It was too bad Carissa wasn’t there to see it as the press gang dragged Roger Benton away, kicking and shrieking, to introduce him into His Majesty’s service and fit him with a uniform—the newest recruit for the Royal Navy.
Now he might have the chance to make something of himself, Beau thought in amusement as he bought himself a drink. He was going to need it before heading home, for next came the hard part.
Dealing with Carissa.
There was no use putting it off. Tamping down his anger and frustration, he tossed back a well-earned shot of whiskey, also ignoring the hurt. Then he set his glass down, gathered his thoughts, and returned to the house.
When he arrived, the staff had already packed her bags. Margaret was telling the footmen which pieces of luggage still had to be loaded into the traveling chariot.
“Where is Lady Beauchamp?” he inquired of his butler.
“In the drawing room, my lord.”
Beau walked slowly up the stairs and found her sitting by herself in front of the musical automaton clock, waiting for it to chime. Her shoulders were slumped. Her slender arms were wrapped around herself as though she were trying to ward off a chill.
&nb
sp; He pushed the door shut behind him with a soft click; she didn’t look over.
As he sauntered up beside her, she glanced at him. He noted her red, puffy eyes and pale face. The sight of her like that wrenched his heart. It made him want to gather her into his arms and tell her nothing mattered, kiss away the hurt of whatever that bastard had done to her.
But she had misused him, and a man had to draw the line somewhere, or he ceased being a man.
Mistrusting his own emotions, not quite knowing what else to do, he joined her in staring at the clock. “Benton won’t be a problem anymore,” he spoke up at length. “In case you were wondering.”
“Thank you,” she breathed in a shaky whisper. Then she paused, her head down. “You’ve known all along, haven’t you?”
“That you weren’t a virgin? Yes,” he murmured cautiously. “Since our wedding night.”
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
He turned to her. “Why didn’t you?”
She faltered. “I was frightened.”
“Of me? Honestly?” he demanded in a low tone of indignation. “Why? What did I ever do to make you see me as a threat?”
“No, that’s not what I meant—I didn’t want to lose you!”
“I see.” Such an answer was a test for a cynical man. “So you deceived me out of love? Is that your claim?”
“Beau, please. I didn’t know how you’d react if I tried to tell you beforehand. If you’d back out of the marriage after we had placed ourselves in a scandalous situation. And then, afterward, after our wedding night when you didn’t seem to notice, I didn’t know how I could possibly bring it up! I just wanted to leave well enough alone. Then he showed up. And once again, he wanted money. That horrible—parasite.”
“Well.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I would say your taste in men has greatly improved.” He looked askance at her. “At least now I understand why you’re obsessed with the gossip.”
“If it ever comes out, I shall have embarrassed you along with myself. I can’t believe I’ve been so selfish. I never even thought of the impact on your reputation until after we had married.”