Duke with Benefits

by Manda Collins

“Good heavens,” Daphne said, aghast. “It must have been enormous!”

  “Indeed.” Dalton rubbed a hand over the back of his neck. “I cannot seem to have ever spoken to Mr. Renfrew about the cattle raised on the farms at Beauchamp House, but clearly there were some prize winners amongst them. My aunt certainly never spoke of it.”

  “It must have meant something to Mr. Renfrew,” Daphne said handing the painting back to him, feeling a small jolt of electricity as their hands brushed. She couldn’t help but be aware of their enforced proximity in the attic. In the curricle, they could talk, but he was forced to keep his attention on the road so they could do little more than hold hands. But here, alone, she couldn’t help but imagine the possibilities. “For him to have kept the painting, I mean.”

  “Oh, as opposed to the rest of his things, which he threw away?” Dalton gave her a sardonic look, and she laughed. Was she mistaking the light in his eyes for something it was not, she wondered as they shared a look? “Well, when you put it that way.” She hoped her voice didn’t sound as flustered as she felt. She couldn’t remember ever feeling so nervous around a man. Leaning back on his haunches, Dalton sighed as he surveyed the piles of detritus around them. “I don’t know if we’re ever going to find this letter my aunt gave into his care. Not unless we spend the next month or so rooting around through agricultural artifacts and prize cow paintings.”

  Moving from her kneeling position to sit on the trunk next to where he crouched, Daphne said, “Perhaps we’re not being methodical enough about our search. So far, we’ve gone through most of Mr. Renfrew’s correspondence and found nothing. But what if we look for items that are particular to his work for your aunt?”

  “I thought that’s what this was?” Dalton gestured to the stack of journals and prizes.

  “If he discarded so few of his things,” Daphne said, “then he must have also held onto his correspondence with your aunt, including records of payment, and so forth. But I’ve seen nothing like that thus far. Have you?”

  “No,” he said with a nod of approval. “I have not. Well done, Daphne.”

  “Don’t congratulate me yet,” she said, though she felt a burst of pride at his praise. Which was silly given that she’d always been a step ahead of most people she knew. But there was something about being lauded by Dalton that felt different. It mattered. And fed her soul in a way she hadn’t even realized she needed. “It’s simple logic. But at least we can surmise that it must be preserved somewhere.”

  “You’re just being modest,” he said. Getting to his feet, he stretched a little, and Daphne couldn’t help but admire the way his muscles moved beneath his clothes.

  Tearing her gaze away, she stood, too, and looked round the room for likely hiding places for documents. Her gaze lit on a crate against the wall and she moved toward it. “I believe you’re the first person ever to call me modest,” she said over her shoulder as she attempted to remove the crate’s lid.

  “Oh, please,’ Dalton said with a wave of his hand. “You can be quite modest. It’s just that you’re so busy trying to prove yourself to most people that you don’t give anyone the chance to see your prowess for themselves.”

  That stopped her in the process of lifting out a stack of books.

  She’d never thought of it that way, but he was right. She did spend much of her life trying to prove herself to people.

  “I suppose I don’t feel the need to do that with you,” she said, feeling suddenly shy. This extended period of proximity to him was wreaking havoc on her usual sense of aplomb.

  When he touched her hand, she jumped a little, startled at the touch. She hadn’t heard him approach.

  “I’m glad,” he said softly. “I want you to be comfortable with me. To be yourself.”

  And then he moved back to the trunk beside her, which he’d apparently decided needed his attention, and left her to her thoughts.

  Taking a deep breath, she looked down and noticed that the books she had before her were finely bound in leather. Far more expensive than even a prosperous steward would be able to afford. Flipping open the first one, she saw an inscription on the fly leaf. “To Mr. Renfrew, Christmas 1818.” Beneath it, was the signature she’d come to know so well, that of Lady Celeste Beauchamp.

  Turning the book over, she saw that it was a title on cattle breeding.

  Not wanting to raise Dalton’s hopes, she searched each of the books from the crate, which all seemed to be Christmas gifts from Lady Celeste to her steward. And it wasn’t until she reached the one at the bottom of the stack that she found what she was looking for.

  Tucked neatly into the middle of a bound volume of The Sussex Herd Book, she found a wax-sealed note.

  She must have gasped, though she had no awareness of it.

  Dalton was by her side in an instant, kneeling beside her before the crate, staring down in the lamplight at the page in her hand.

  “I knew you’d find it,” he said with a grin. “Clever girl.”

  “I feel awkward opening it,” she admitted, not meeting his gaze. “What if it isn’t what we think it is?”

  “Mrs. Miller has given us permission to go through his things with the expectation that we would find the note,” Dalton said. “And in his present state, I doubt Mr. Renfrew will object.”

  With a nod, Daphne slid her finger beneath the upper fold of the page and broke the seal.

  Chapter 11

  Maitland had begun to worry that they’d traveled to Bexhill for nothing when Daphne hit on the idea to look for things associated with his aunt. His praise for her idea had not been empty flattery.

  She was clever, and if he’d been forced to perform this hunt on his own, he likely would have given up in frustration long ago.

  And there was no denying that it was quite pleasant to spend so much time in the company of a beautiful lady who looked at him when she thought he couldn’t see her as if he were some sort of Adonis. He’d been admired by women before, and was under no illusions about the fact that he was handsome, but there was something particularly gratifying to know that Daphne—who was the most intelligent woman he’d ever known, aside from his late aunt—thought him attractive.

  Kneeling there beside her, it was difficult to keep his mind on the matter at hand, especially when he could feel the warmth of her while the lemon verbena on her skin seduced his senses. Forcing himself to focus, he watched as she broke the seal and read aloud the message on the folded page.

  Huzzah for you

  You’ve found this clue

  And deserve your due reward.

  So leave these cattle,

  It’s off to Battle

  And Themis’ shining sword.

  Secreted there

  You’ll find a pair

  Who’ll my next note reveal.

  Forget thee not

  This puzzled knot

  Romance’s treasure doth conceal.

  “I never knew my aunt had such a knack for penning such awful verse,” Maitland said when Daphne finished. “I mean, sincerely, this is terrible.”

  “I should imagine it’s difficult to write lines that rhyme as well as convey the message she wished to hide there,” Daphne said, with what sounded like a bit of defensiveness for his aunt.

  “Aside from congratulating us for finding this clue,” he said taking the page from her to read it again, “what is this message she’s trying to convey to us?”

  Daphne examined the words, her head close to his as she read.

  “Well, discounting the congratulatory note,” she said, pointing to the words, “the first part is this bit about ‘Battle’ and ‘Themis’ shining sword.’”

  “‘Battle’ is capitalized,” Dalton said, “so perhaps she’s referring not to an actual battle, but the town of Battle, since it’s so near to Beauchamp House.”

  “I agree,” Daphne said. “She showed in her note to me that capitalization denotes something she wishes to call attention to, and in this case I cannot think of
an anagram of Battle that would make any sense. And then moving on to Themis’ shining sword, I’m afraid I’ll need to ask Ivy. It looks like a classical reference, but my knowledge in that area is sadly lacking.”

  “Huzzah, indeed,” Dalton said with a grin. “Finally, an area in which I know something that you do not!”

  Daphne rolled her eyes, but he chose not to notice. “Themis,” he explained to her with what he considered to be great dignity, “was a Hellenic goddess, who was said to represent the divine rightness of law.”

  He grinned at her. “I knew those years at Oxford would be useful to me one day.”

  “Congratulations,” Daphne said, shaking her head at his foolishness. “You must be so proud.”

  He made a show of preening for a moment before she turned the subject back to the matter at hand. “So your aunt must in these two lines be telling us that we should go to Battle to see someone related to justice. A solicitor? A barrister? Perhaps some other sort of legal person?”

  “If I recall correctly,” he said, serious once more. “Aunt employed the services of a solicitor in Battle. I can’t remember the man’s name, but I feel sure Greaves will know.”

  “But she says ‘a pair,’” Daphne reminded him. “Could she have used a pair of solicitors? Or perhaps she means we should see more than one person there?”

  “I’m afraid my powers of recall do not extend that far,” he said with a frown. “We’ll ask Greaves, and then perhaps if he has nothing to add, we can simply travel to Battle and see what we find there.”

  She nodded, looking down at the page again. As if the answer would materialize there.

  Unable to resist, Maitland moved closer, taking the opportunity to rest his chin on her shoulder to look down at the note with her. It had been damned difficult to keep his hands to himself the whole afternoon. Especially given the way Daphne had of looking at him when she thought he wasn’t looking.

  “And what of ‘Romance’s treasure’?” he asked, feeling a tremor run through her at his voice in her ear.

  “As in the letter she wrote to me on my inheritance,” she said, her voice betraying with a slight tremor that she was not as unaffected by his closeness as she seemed, “R-r-romance is an anagram of Cameron.”

  As she spoke, he turned and took the lobe of her ear between his teeth. Rather than tell him to keep away, as he half-feared she would, Daphne instead let out a little exhale of want, and turned her head so that he could have more access to her neck.

  He would have liked to shout with triumph but settled for smiling to himself as he did as she had indicated she would like, and kissed the spot behind her ear and then worked his way down toward the hollow of her collarbone.

  Still, trying to keep them somewhat on topic, she continued, “And … t-treasure, is self-explanatory, I sh-should think.”

  “You’re a treasure, Lady Daphne Forsyth,” he whispered as she gave up any attempt at ignoring him and slid up a hand to run her fingers through his hair.

  He’d just moved to fit himself against her arched back, and taken her breast—still covered by the layers of clothing she wore—in his hand, when the sound of loud footsteps coming up the stairs startled them both.

  When Mrs. Miller stepped into the room, there were three feet between them as they each made themself busy putting various items from Renfrew’s lifetime of hoarding back into the crates and trunks from whence they came.

  “I thought I should check in on the both of you,” the lady of the house said cheerfully, clearly unaware of the scene of incipient debauchery she’d just interrupted. “It’s been quiet, but I supposed if you found something you’d have come down by now.”

  “In fact, Mrs. Miller,” said Maitland, closing the trunk he’d just pretended to work in, “we just moments ago found the letter we were looking for.”

  Daphne remained silent as she placed the books given as Christmas gifts to the steward back into the crate.

  “I had my doubts, your grace,” Mrs. Miller said with a shake of her head. “But I might have known that between you, you’d find something. I don’t suppose you could let me see it?” Curiosity shone in her eyes, and he wondered if she knew more about their reasons for coming here than she revealed.

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mrs. Miller,” Daphne said, rising from the floor and shaking out her skirts as she stood. “The letter involves a matter of the highest important to the government.”

  At the mention of the government, the farmer’s wife’s eyes widened. “Oh, I had no idea! To think that my father had something like that for all these years.”

  Not wanting the woman to be fearful, Maitland assured her, “It isn’t as dangerous as it sounds, dear lady. Though more than that I cannot say. And I would please ask that you keep this information to yourself. It is not something that we wish to be known abroad at this time.” He flashed her his most winning smile, the one he used to inveigle biscuits from the cook at Beauchamp House.

  “Oh yes, of course, your grace.” Mrs. Miller blushed at his attention. “I will tell no one. Except my husband if that’s all right. We don’t keep secrets.”

  “Of course, of course,” Maitland said, taking Daphne’s arm as she moved to stand next to him. “An admirable habit, ma’am. Your husband is a lucky man.”

  He heard Daphne give a slight snort next to him, but when he looked over, she seemed serene enough.

  “We really cannot thank you enough, Mrs. Miller,” she said with what he saw was genuine effort on her part to make their gratitude known.

  “Lady Celeste was good to my father, Lady Daphne,” said the other woman. “I know he’d want me to show the same kindness to her nephew and her…” she seemed to search for a term to describe Daphne’s relationship to Lady Celeste, and settled on “friend.”

  The note tucked into the pocket of the duke’s coat, they followed their hostess back downstairs. And with a promise to come back at a later time in hopes that Mr. Renfrew would be well enough to receive them, they made their way back to the waiting curricle and were soon back on the road east.

  * * *

  They were nearly a third of the way back to Little Seaford by Daphne’s calculation when she noticed the dark clouds gathering.

  Most of that time had been spent attempting to decipher the meaning of that interlude in the Miller attic. And the rest of the time was taken up by self-recrimination at how quickly she’d become distracted from their reasons for traveling to Bexhill in the first place—namely to search for the cipher and Sommersby’s killer. Surely someone as intelligent as she could manage to keep on task without turning into a blushing ninny.

  If she felt every shift of his body on the curricle seat, and if the pleasant sandalwood and male scent of him distracted her from the task at hand, well, she would simply have to be stronger. And mindful of the purpose for this drive, she determined to keep her hands to herself throughout the rest of it.

  A jolt of the carriage as it crossed a depression in the road, however, brought her attention to more immediate concerns. A glance at the sky ahead of them made her inhale sharply and in turn to process.

  It was, in fact, growing quite dark with clouds.

  “Dalton,” she said, trying not to sound managing. He was after all, a very good driver and had seen them quite safely over the journey thus far. “Have you noticed that there appears to be a storm on the horizon?”

  Her companion gave a slight snort of laughter. “Yes, Daphne dear, I see it.”

  She felt her face warm at the endearment.

  “But what are we to do about it? I do not mind getting wet, of course. But we are in an open carriage. Even animals know to come in from the rain.”

  There, those were reasonable-enough questions. She had not lost all her wits because of a kiss. Or two.

  “If it looks as if it will overtake us,” he said mildly, “then we will stop in the next village. There is a perfectly respectable inn there where we can wait it out. There’s no rea
son we shouldn’t be able to get back on the road once it’s passed.”

  As if he could read her thoughts, he added, “I do have a plan. I won’t let you come to harm, you know.”

  Her stomach gave a little flip at that simple reassurance. Was it possible to trust that someone else would see to her comfort? It was both enticing and a bit terrifying to let him make the decisions.

  Of course, there were any number of things that were entirely out of her hands. She was a lady, after all, and thus subject to the rule of her father in one way or other from her infancy. But her maneuver in which she forced him to allow her a tutor had proven to Lord Forsyth that she was no longer going to blindly follow him. So had the incident with Sommersby. After that it had become important that she be the one to make the decisions about her day-to-day life.

  Could she trust Dalton to ensure her safety now? He had given her no reason to doubt him thus far. But her experience with men told her that they were sometimes inconsistent. Trust was such a leap, and she wasn’t sure she could make the leap yet.

  At least not with her heart.

  With the curricle, and her safety from the storm, however, she was willing to take the risk.

  The rain began just as they arrived in the stable yard of The Bo Peep.

  An odd name for a coaching house, but at this moment Daphne only cared that they had tea and a warm blanket on hand. The wind had picked up on the road, and combined with the rain and the chill of early summer, she was shivering in her wet clothes.

  Tossing the reins to a stable hand, with orders to give the horses extra oats and a good rubdown, Dalton leapt down and was at Daphne’s side before she could manage the step. His mouth a solid line of concern, Dalton reached up for her and when he felt her chill, he cursed, then shrugged out of his greatcoat and placed it around her. She would have argued, but there was something about his manner that kept her silent.

  Inside the inn, even their bedraggled state was not enough to disguise the fact that a very important personage had arrived. No sooner had they stepped inside, than the proprietor was before them.

  “Milord, milady,” the little man said with an unctuous manner, “welcome to The Bo Peep. How may we serve you?”