To Ben’s concern, her expression when she recognized him was one of relief. “Oh, Vicar, I’m so glad you’re here. I told Helen she needed to speak to someone in authority about this.”
Before he could ask just what “this” could be, he was ushered into the tidy front parlor of the Debenham house, where he saw Mrs. Debenham seated on a long sofa, a handkerchief crumpled in her hand. She’d obviously been weeping.
On seeing Ben, however, she sat up straighter. Wiping at her face, and sliding a hand over her hair, she said in a thick voice, “Lord Benedick, what a mess you must think me.”
She made to rise, but Ben urged her to remain seated. Rather than take a chair, he crouched on his haunches in front of her, and took her hand. “My dear Mrs. Debenham,” he said in a calm tone, “whatever can I do to help?”
“Oh, but I—,” she protested, shaking her head. “That is to say, I shouldn’t—”
“Helen,” Miss Temple said in a bracing tone, “Tell him. Someone needs to know what that man did.”
At the mention of a man, Ben’s heart sank. He knew all too well what indignities could be visited upon the persons of those ladies without male relatives in the house. Especially by those opportunistic men who saw such women as easy prey.
Mrs. Debenham’s brown eyes filled with tears at her sister’s words. “Oh dear me. I am sorry, Lord Benedick,” she said in a broken voice. “It’s really not such a calamity as my sister makes out.”
Though Miss Temple made a frustrated sound behind them, Ben said nothing, waiting for the widow to speak in her own time.
Once she’d gained her composure, she took in a deep breath and said, “I suppose if you’re here, I do need to speak of this with someone. And you’ve always been kind to me, Lord Benedick. Especially after my husband died.”
“Tell him,” Miss Temple said, though this time, Ben noticed a pleading tone in her voice. Whatever had happened, it had truly overset the widow’s sister.
“It’s a little thing, really,” Mrs. Debenham said, her pale complexion reddening a little. “It’s just that when I was leaving the stationer’s last week I ran into Mr. Morgan and his friend, the artist, Mr. Ryder.”
At the mention of Ryder, Ben’s focus sharpened.
Aloud he said, “What happened, Mrs. Debenham?” Knowing both Morgan and Ryder were involved, he had no expectation that the matter was a “little thing” as she’d characterized it.
“I had just stepped out into the street, when Mr. Morgan and Mr. Ryder approached. And since we’d been introduced, I greeted them, then made as if to continue on. But Mr. Morgan, well, he stopped me.”
Ben’s jaw clenched but he said nothing. At the very least, the fact that the encounter took place on a public thoroughfare told him the physical assault he’d feared was unlikely.
“He had spoken to me in the past,” she said in a tight voice. “You know how some gentlemen are with widows?”
She didn’t wish to say aloud what he’d told her, that much was obvious, but Ben knew well enough the attitude she spoke of.
“He urged Mr. Ryder to continue on without him,” she said. “And I guessed he’d attempt to persuade me again. And I was correct. Only this time, he was much more … forceful.”
“What did he say, Mrs. Debenham?” Ben asked, keeping his voice even with some difficulty.
“He asked me again, and I declined, of course. But then he said that if I continued to refuse him, he would spread it about that I’d consented, and I’d be ruined.” Her mouth was tight with anger. “He wanted to frighten me into doing as he wished, Lord Benedick. And he knows how important my reputation is. Especially when I’ve three young daughters to see well matched in the next few years.”
The anger that washed over him was familiar. It was the same kind he dealt with whenever he witnessed the kind of brute cruelty humankind could visit upon one another. More than ever, he wanted to find some connection between Morgan and the forgers so that the industrialist would pay not only for those crimes, but the ones like this against Mrs. Debenham. The poor woman had already been through enough difficulty to last a lifetime. That Morgan had seen fit to heap more upon her with his lewd suggestions and threats was really the outside of enough.
“Your sister was right to urge you to tell me, Mrs. Debenham,” he said in a comforting tone. “I hope you will never fear informing me of any difficulties you may have. All the sin in this instance is Morgan’s, not yours. And though I know it might be embarrassing to confess such an encounter, such bullying needs to be brought into the light if it is to be combatted.”
“Oh, but I hope you won’t speak to anyone about it, Vicar,” she said with an expression of alarm. “If word should get out…”
“Of course I shall tell no one,” he assured her, rising to his feet. “But I do beg your permission to have a word with Mr. Morgan on the matter.”
Mrs. Debenham swallowed, but nodded as her sister sat down beside her and took her hand. “I would appreciate that, Lord Benedick. Though I do wish it wasn’t necessary.”
“As do I, my dear,” he said with a reassuring nod. “But I find much of the time men like this need only a few choice words to put them in their place. And as frustrating as it may be, they often listen to objections from other men with far more attention than those from ladies.”
“He’s a brute,” Miss Temple said with a scowl. “Trying to pass himself off as a gentleman when he has no more manners than a pig in the pen.”
Ben agreed with her, but could hardly say so given his role in the conversation. Instead he only nodded. “He needs to know that such threats are unacceptable.”
If necessary, he’d use his father’s status as a duke to enforce his rebuke. Ben had few qualms about leveraging the privilege he’d been born with to effect good in the world. He had little enough use for it in his everyday life. Let his accident of birth persuade Morgan to behave himself.
Assured that Mrs. Debenham had been calmed, and confident that her sister would take good care of her, he left the little house and stepped out into the bright light of the main street of Little Seaford.
* * *
Sophia waited until the door had closed behind Gemma before crossing to the other side of the street to Framingham’s Gallery. Its window had several prints by well-known artists, and a few original paintings by lesser-known ones. But the sign on the door proclaimed the shop to be a purveyor of fine art.
When she stepped through the door, the first thing she noted was that there seemed to be no one in the main gallery. The counter where one would expect Mr. Framingham to position himself was empty.
She rang the bell on the counter, then began to wander the room.
For a gallery in a small coastal village, it boasted some pieces by several rather well-known artists. But she was not surprised to see some work from the residents of Primrose Green in the mix, some of it quite good—like a landscape by Mr. George Rollins, and a still life by Mrs. Primble herself—and some of it rather mediocre—like an oil on canvas of what appeared to be a depiction of the death of Achilles by Morgan’s protégé, Thomas Ryder.
As she often did, Sophia became immersed in the art around her, taking in each brush stroke, examining the scale, perspective, and composition of each work. So engrossed was she that as she stood before Ryder’s painting, she was unaware that someone was standing behind her until he spoke.
“What are you doing here?”
Unable to stop herself, Sophia let out a little squeak of surprise at the intrusion and spun around at once to face her accuser.
To her surprise it was not Mr. Framingham, but Thomas Ryder—his dark brow lowered with menace—who stood behind her. His entire mien was one of aggression and for a moment, Sophia feared for her physical safety. He was not a small man, despite his occupation, and though she was no slight thing, he could easily knock her unconscious and carry her away with no one the wiser. At the thought, her heart, already racing, beat faster.
“You a
re not welcome here,” he continued, pointing an accusing finger. “Not after all the trouble you’ve been causing me. Asking questions at Primrose Green. Sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong. Framingham is a friend of mine and I know he would agree.”
He wasn’t a particularly large man, but there was no mistaking the menace in his tone.
Gaining control of her growing sense of alarm, Sophia imposed a calm she did not feel over herself before she spoke. “Hello, Mr. Ryder,” she said, offering her hand. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced. Though it would appear that you already know who I am.”
“Indeed I do, Miss Hastings,” Ryder said with a scowl, ignoring her proffered hand. “You’re the busybody who doesn’t know how to mind her own business.”
As he spoke, he stepped closer, forcing Sophia to crowd back against the wall to get away from him. She was grateful she had her walking stick with her, but she was unsure of whether she’d be able to wield it with enough force to do more than stun him. Still, she couldn’t let him get away with his threats.
“Forgery is the business of every artist who cares about the integrity of their work. Surely you can see why I would wish to investigate the possibility of such a thing happening here in my own village. You should be interested too, Mr. Ryder,” Sophia said calmly. Though her stomach was clenched with anxiety, she maintained a façade of calm.
“I don’t know what that’s got to do with me,” he asked crossly. “And you’ve got some nerve to call yourself an artist. From what I’ve heard, you’re no more than a provocateur with a paintbrush and a desire to stir up trouble. What I paint is what people wish to buy, to display in their homes, to look at every day and appreciate. What you paint is obscene and no decent person would wish to look at it in an exhibition much less put it in a place of prominence in their home. People like you disgust me.”
“You mean artists with original ideas who attempt to provoke thought in their viewers?”
Sophia knew as soon as she said the words that it was unwise to needle the man, and the flare of genuine rage in his eyes made her cringe backward, though there was nowhere for her to go. She watched in horrified slow motion as his clenched fist rose as if he would strike her. She lifted her walking stick and was about to raise it to block the blow, when she saw someone tackle the artist from behind.
Surprised, she lowered her stick and watched as Ben, his face a mask of barely leashed anger, tussled with Ryder, finally managing to pin the other man’s hands behind his back.
* * *
“Even a boy in the schoolroom, Ryder, knows that a gentleman does not raise his hand against a lady,” Ben said through his teeth as he easily held the scowling artist. “I believe you owe Miss Hastings an apology.” Ryder gave them both a mulish glare. “Fine,” he said. “My apologies Miss Hastings.”
She waited for him to go on, but it appeared that those were the only words of amends he was prepared to make. Even so, Ben let the other man go.
“You should both learn to mind your own business,” Ryder said flatly. “This is something that could prove dangerous to both of you. And if you know what’s good for you, Miss Hastings, you’ll choose not to show your work in the exhibition. Morgan is a powerful man and what he says in the town goes. You’d do well to remember that.”
Ben had moved to her side and they watched as Ryder strode away and out the front door of the gallery.
Once he was gone, Sophia felt herself begin to tremble, and with a low curse, Ben pulled her against him and wrapped his arms around her. She buried her face in his shoulder and let him hold her. Taking strength from his nearness and sheer physical presence. They were blocked from view through the window and from the other part of the shop by a large floor-to-ceiling piece that was propped against a pillar.
“I could have killed him with my bare hands when I saw him looming over you,” he said into her hair, holding her tightly against him. “I don’t think I’ve ever been that fiercely angry in my entire life.”
“Thank goodness you happened by.” She had been prepared to use her walking stick against Ryder, but it would have required her to put her full weight on both ankles. And there was no guarantee the injured one would hold up to such stress without the assistance of her cane. “He was prepared to strike me. I could see it in his face. His stance.”
Rather than respond, Ben made a low noise that was almost a growl. And without a word he bent his head to hers and took her mouth with a kiss as much a claiming as a caress.
* * *
Ben had been telling the truth when he told Sophia he’d never felt such rage.
Coming on the heels of Mrs. Debenham’s revelation about the way Morgan had treated her—and knowing that Morgan was the artist’s patron—the sight of Sophia in range of Ryder’s raised fist had filled him with a primitive desire to hurt the other man. Not to simply stop him from harming Sophia. But to lift him bodily and beat him with his bare fists.
It was a new, and somewhat disturbing bit of self-discovery, and if Sophia hadn’t been there to witness the whole thing, he might not have been able to control himself. He wanted to believe his conscience would have been enough to pull him back from the edge, but the truth was that seeing Sophia in peril had flipped some sort of switch within him. And whether it was instinct or some other force, it had been as strong as any he’d ever felt.
And just as instinctive was the need to pull her into his arms. To give comfort, true, but also to prove to them both that this connection between them, new as it may be, was real, and though she might not know it yet, she was his.
At first his kiss was firm, a sort of claiming, and Sophia kissed him back with just as much emotion. But soon the softness of her lips against his and the feel of her curves pressed against him made him gentle the caress. He stroked his tongue over the seam of her lips, asking for entry and when she opened beneath him like a flower, he took the invitation. Her mouth was hot and wet and he bit back a groan when her tongue met his. This was what he’d needed, he realized. Holding her, feeling her life force pressed against him, proving to him in the most physical way that she was safe and alive and his.
They stood together for several long moments, lost in each other. So, it was a surprise when a shout sounded from somewhere beyond them.
“Oh God! No!”
Ben and Sophia pulled away from one another and turned as one toward the direction from which the outburst had come. Sophie started forward, heading further into the shop, and to the source of the noise.
But Ben put a staying hand on her. “You’d better let me go first. We don’t know what’s going on back there. And with the threats Ryder made and the talk of illegality, it might be dangerous.”
Sophia looked as if she wanted to argue, her blue eyes narrow with impatience. But she must have seen the practicality of his words, for she allowed him to step in front of her and lead the way toward the door then into the storage area in the rear of the gallery.
The door itself was ajar, and Ben indicated with a finger to his lips that Sophia should remain quiet while he stepped inside.
She gave a nod and he pressed the door open fully and saw that the storage area was actually being used for that purpose. Stacked against the walls were paintings of all sizes and types; some were framed, some were not, and some appeared to be unfinished. There were also easels, and various other stands for displaying works of art, mostly paintings, but there were some that seemed better suited for sculpture and pottery. It was not particularly tidy, but there seemed to be nothing out of the ordinary for such a storage room.
With one exception.
Just beyond the table inside the door, where it was obvious someone had been working on a framing project, the pieces of an ornate gilded frame lay beside a canvas face down on the surface. And just beyond that, stood Ryder, his head down, staring at the scene on the floor before him.
There was no question in Ben’s mind that Framingham—for it was he whose battered body lay bleeding o
n the floor of his own shop—was dead. No one could lose the amount of blood pooled on the floor beneath him and live.
“Ryder,” Ben said, stepping forward, “what happened?”
The other man, who so lately had looked at both Ben and Sophia with undisguised dislike, now seemed relieved to see them. “I don’t know. He was like this when I came back here.”
Then he seemed to realize that they might not have the most flattering interpretation of his presence there. He raised his hands in a gesture of innocence. “You saw me only minutes ago. He’s obviously been bleeding for an hour or more. I didn’t do this.”
As much as he’d have liked to see the man punished for what he’d done to Sophia, Ben was forced to admit that Ryder was correct. The timing made the possibility highly unlikely.
“We know,” he said with a nod. Then, he made his way over to the body of Framingham, and wordlessly knelt beside him. He said a silent prayer that the man’s death had been swift and that he’d not felt too much pain, and placing his hand on the dead man’s forehead, he said the words that would entrust his soul into the hands of his Creator. “Through the merits of Jesus Christ thine only son our Lord. Amen.”
Ryder and Sophia, who had stepped forward to stand beside him, stood watching as Ben closed the dead man’s eyes and rose to his feet. “We’ll need to alert the authorities,” he said to Ryder, who nodded, his face pale as he looked everywhere but at the corpse between them.
“I’ll go,” he said, obviously eager to get out of the close room.
He was gone before either Ben or Sophia could respond.
Stepping around the body, Ben put an arm around Sophia and gently led her back toward the door and back into the gallery proper. “You shouldn’t have come in here,” he said. “You didn’t need to see that.”
But Sophia, though she let him lead her away, wasn’t so ready to agree. “Why should you have to see it while I’m sheltered?” she asked, slipping her arm through his. “It must be just as upsetting for you as it is for me.”
He couldn’t help but smile at her oh-so-rational response. “It’s not that it doesn’t upset me,” he reasoned, “it’s that you don’t need that scene in your mind. I’ve seen death. It’s one of the most difficult parts of my calling, but a necessary one. And an inevitable part of life.”
Wallflower Most Wanted--A Studies in Scandal Novel Page 14