“I see,” she replied, her tone frigid. “But I know of course who to blame for such ideas.”
“There is no one to blame, Theodora,” he snapped, his temper growing brittle. “Except perhaps myself for entering into a betrothal with a woman I did not really understand.” He could not regret the words once they were out, but he knew at once that it meant nothing to her.
Her eyes narrowed and she looked back at him with all the icy contempt he knew she felt for the rest of the world. “Say what you will, my Lord. Nothing has changed and our children will be brought up in a manner that reflects their station in life. Now if you will excuse me I have much to do.”
Benedict watched her go with an empty feeling in his chest. He would never be free of her. He was condemned to a joyless marriage and he was damned if he’d ever bring children into that equation. So there wouldn’t be any. The idea made him feel hollow inside, as though all the joy had been sucked out of the world. And he had no one to blame but himself.
***
Phoebe watched as Mr Formby checked his notebook. He was a short, sparse man with a narrow, slightly foxy face and a scattering of grey hair around an otherwise bald head. He was perhaps in his late forties and his appearance was on the shabby side with a worn coat and boots she was certain must have holes in they were so abused. A carelessly tied cravat completed the ensemble and she could well see why a man as judgemental as Lord Rutland had held him in such contempt.
His eyes, however, were bright and beady and she doubted much got past him. She had tried buttering him up with her most coquettish smile but had soon realised this was not the correct approach to take. They had already spent some time detailing her movements during the period the murder had taken place and now the man was silent, apparently lost in thought.
He tapped his pencil against his notepad with a slight frown between his eyes.
“And the death of the Marquess of Saltash?” He glanced back at his notepad to check the name. “Anthony Rutland,” he said, though Phoebe wasn’t sure what the question was supposed to be.
“What about it?” she replied, shrugging. “I didn’t know him and it happened before I arrived in England. I’m afraid I have nothing to say on the matter.”
“And the rest of the family, what do they say?” he demanded, sitting back in his chair and watching her like a blackbird with a beetle.
Phoebe sighed but thought she should say what she knew to be true. “I know that Sylvester, the Duke of Denholm that is, and Lord Rothay believed it was no accident,” she said, holding his gaze. “Both of them said the man was something of a nonesuch. He was a member of the Four Horse Club and there was no visible reason why he should have over turned his curricle on the stretch of road he was discovered on.”
“So they believe it was foul play.”
She nodded, sure that this would be what they would say if they were here. “Yes, I would say so. Lord Rutland, however, is strongly of the opinion that it was an accident.”
His head tilted a little to one side and the birdlike impression he’d given Phoebe only intensified. He scratched at his chin, his expression thoughtful.
“There is a deal of talk, about you, Miss Skeffington-Fox,” he said, though there appeared to be no judgement in his eyes. “There are those in the family who think ill of you I believe.”
Phoebe gave a snort of laughter. “You don’t say,” she replied with a dry tone. “I don’t doubt I have been accused of nothing short of murder. Let me see ...” she said tapping a finger to her mouth. “Miss Pinchbeck, Lord and Lady Rutland and ... Mr Spalding ...”
She held her wrists out to him. “Am I to be tried on their evidence,” she demanded in a deep voice, pleased by the amused twinkle she saw in his eyes.
“No, miss,” he replied, his lips twitching just slightly. “However there are those who believe you may be the catalyst to murder.” He looked back at his notebook, taking some time to peruse the pages which Phoebe was certain he was doing to unsettle her. She couldn’t say it wasn’t working. “Are you having ... a romantic relationship with Lord Rothay?” he asked, with quite remarkable nonchalance.
“Well,” she said, with a little shock and more approval. “At least you’re candid. I can’t abide veiled comments and allusions where I’m never quite certain what I’m talking about.” She took a breath, wondering what to say. “You have been candid with me and so I shall repay you in kind,” she said, praying she was doing right to put her trust in this man. “I am in love with Lord Rothay.” She looked at him, expecting surprise at least but his face was unreadable. “He is betrothed, however ill-advised the subsequent marriage may be,” she added with considerable heat. “And I assure you he is far too honourable to do anything to embarrass his future bride.” This last was said with obvious frustration but thankfully he didn’t comment upon it.
“I see,” he mused. “That is indeed ... candid.”
Phoebe gave a curt nod and smoothed down the drapes of her sprigged muslin dress.
Mr Formby consulted his wretched notebook again and scribbled down a few notes before looking back at her. “People are saying that Lord Rothay killed Harold out of jealousy, because he was flirting with you.”
“Fustian!” she threw back at him. “Those people are nothing but spiteful busybodies with nothing better to do than gossip. Far more likely that whoever told you that is guilty of murder and saying it to deflect attention to poor Lord Rothay.”
Mr Formby’s lips quirked into a smile. “I’ll bear that in mind, Miss,” he replied with wry tone. “So it is your considered opinion that Lord Rothay is innocent of the charges against him.”
“Completely,” she said, with as much conviction as she could put into one word.
“But then you are in love with him,” he added, lifting one grizzled eyebrow.
“True,” she admitted. “But it’s still the truth nonetheless, even if you don’t believe it.”
“Oh I believe you believe it, miss,” he replied, glancing back at his book again before smiling at her. She wasn’t entirely sure that was an encouraging statement but there was little else she could say. “If I may venture to say so,” he continued, his beady eyes watchful as he spoke. “You seem like a young lady of strong opinions. So in your view, who did murder Harold?”
Phoebe started, having been ill-prepared for such a question, but as the question had been put to her ... “I had thought Lord Rutland a prime candidate,” she admitted. “He’s obnoxious and has a foul temper, he clearly had no affection for Harold either. But then he has that annoying alibi.”
“Most annoying,” Mr Formby said, nodding, his eyes glittering with something that may have been amusement but she wasn’t sure.
“Though he may have paid someone for it of course. But then there is Mr Spalding,” she said. “Another vile creature and I understand Lord Rothay believed he was blackmailing Harold. But if he was I don’t see what was to be gained by killing him. But perhaps you have information about him that I don’t?” she queried, narrowing her eyes at him.
“Perhaps,” he replied, though he offered no further comment to her vexation.
“Well then,” she said, taking a deep breath. “The obvious conclusion if not Lord Rutland and knowing that Lord Rothay is innocent as I do …” She offered him her brightest smile at that comment. “Then the next in line for the title is the obvious perpetrator.”
“Ah,” he said, nodding with a sage expression, returning his gaze to flip through the pages of his notepad. “Well assuming we are not speaking of young Master Jessamy who is actually next, then Lord Oliver Bradshaw,” he replied at length.
Phoebe frowned and nodded. “Yes. He seems the most likely candidate, only ...”
“Only?” he echoed, leaning forward in his chair.
“Only I hope it isn’t,” she replied with a sigh. “You see he’s very charming and such fun ...”
“You’d be surprised how often murderers are, miss,” he said with a smile of unde
rstanding. “The successful ones at any rate. Well I think that will be all for now.”
He got to his feet and Phoebe stood as he held out his hand to her.
“Thank you kindly for your patience, Miss Skeffington-Fox.”
“You’re most welcome, Mr Formby,” she replied, returning his smile.
“If I may say so I’ve enjoyed speaking to you.” His face darkened a little as he withdrew his hand. “I only hope I don’t have to disappoint you in the near future.”
“Oh,” she said, her stomach clenching with anxiety. “You ... You still believe Lord Rothay is guilty then?”
He shrugged, his eyes full of sympathy. “It’s not always my belief in the matter that gets a conviction, miss. It’s the evidence that speaks in the end, not me.”
Chapter 14
Is very life by consciousness unbounded ?
And all the thoughts, pains, joys of mortal breath,
A war-embrace of wrestling Life and Death ? - Coleridge
Phoebe practically ran outside, hauling in lungfuls of clean, fresh air. She may have been furious and hurt with Benedict, but whatever the outcome of their forlorn love affair, if you could even call it that, she would not let them hang an innocent man.
She set forth for the rose garden, having found, as Sylvester did, that it was a good place to soothe ruffled nerves. She wasn’t the only one.
“Hello, Phoebe,” Lizzie said, looking up with real pleasure. “How did it go with Mr Formby?”
Phoebe sighed and flopped down beside her. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But it’s not looking good for Benedict.”
“Oh, Phoebe,” she said, her voice full of concern. “Whatever are we to do?”
“I don’t know that either,” Phoebe wailed. “And I had the most dreadful row with Ben and made such a fool of myself.”
Lizzie gave her an indulgent smile. “Oh come now, don’t be such a goose. I can see the man is besotted with you, so I can’t believe that to be true.”
Phoebe looked at her and frowned. “You really think so?” she demanded. “I mean I had believed it, but last night he ... was very angry with me.” She flushed and looked away as she remembered his words to her.
“You tried to seduce him?” Lizzie guessed and Phoebe started with surprise. She would never have believed that Lizzie of all people would talk about such things with her. Especially not with such clear sympathy in her eyes. “Never judge a book by its cover, my dear,” she said with such understanding that Phoebe let out a breath.
“Yes,” she admitted. “Yes I did and ... and he was furious with me.”
Lizzie chuckled and shook her head, taking Phoebe’s hand and squeezing it. “Well of course he was, you gudgeon. You were stealing his control and putting him in a position where he would be responsible for ruining you. Imagine if someone had discovered you, or in a few months’ time once he was married to that awful woman you discovered you were with child ... what then?”
Phoebe let go of a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. “He ... he was very cruel to me.”
“I don’t doubt it,” Lizzie replied, nodding. “He no doubt believed it was best that you hate him. That way you’ll stay out of his way and he’ll not be tempted again.”
“Oh,” Phoebe said as her words found their mark and she sighed with relief. “What a fool I was. I should have seen that ... I should have realised.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.” Lizzie laughed. “You never see things clearly when you’re in love believe me.”
Phoebe glanced back at her. “How come you saw it all so clearly, Lizzie,” she asked, her voice soft.
“Because I have stood where you stand now, and it took me many miserable months to figure it all out and reach a ... satisfactory conclusion,” she replied with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.
“Lizzie!” Phoebe exclaimed, both shocked and delighted.
“There now,” Lizzie said with great satisfaction. “I’m not the little scatterbrained, old maid you believed when you first arrived, am I?”
“Oh, I never!” Phoebe objected.
“Oh ho, what a plumper.” Lizzie grinned at her with a good-natured amount of teasing in her eyes.
“Well ...” Phoebe acknowledged. “I did think perhaps you were rather put upon.”
“And so I am,” Lizzie replied, nodding. “But sometimes it’s better if people see what they expect to see, because then ... it stops them looking any closer.”
She winked at Phoebe who laughed and realised that she had greatly underestimated her friend.
They talked a while longer before heading inside for lunch. If Benedict was surprised that she had got over her fit of the sullens so quickly he said nothing. She made it clear, however, that his little ploy hadn’t worked in the slightest by favouring him with a warm look and her most inviting smile. That he hadn’t been able to look away seemed to her a good sign.
After lunch Phoebe headed back outside. It was a lovely warm summer’s day with a gentle breeze that blew the laden boughs of the fruit trees as she strolled through the orchard. Hearing squealing and laughter on the other side of the gate that led into the fields beyond the orchard and gardens, she went to investigate.
She found Jessamy and the twins Patience and Honesty involved in a game of rounders.
“Phoebe!” Jessamy exclaimed, clearly delighted. “You’ll play won’t you. Cecily just wants to sit in the shade and look pretty,” he said in clear disgust.
Phoebe glanced with amusement to where he’d pointed to see Cecily arranged in a very picturesque setting. She did indeed look very lovely in her summer bonnet tied with pink ribbon and her skirts artfully arranged about her. “Well,” Phoebe replied with a smile. “You must admit she does it very well.”
Jessamy made a revolted noise and rolled his eyes. “Oh but you’re not so bird witted are you, cuz?” he demanded with pleading in his expression.
“Now how can I refuse such a delightful invitation?” Phoebe chuckled and took off her own bonnet putting it into Cecily’s keeping.
She took the bat from Jessamy and watched as he strode back to bowl. The twins spread out on either side to field.
To her delight she hit the ball squarely and it flew across the field. Jessamy started shrieking at Honesty to run as Phoebe gathered up her skirts and belted for the first post. First second and third were all made and she took the decision to run for the last when she saw Jessamy running towards her ball in hand. With a yelp of dismay she ran faster and made the fourth, but was going too fast to stop in time to avoid Benedict who had just arrived on the scene.
“Ooof!” was a very unladylike sound perhaps but Benedict was every bit as solid as he looked and she was quite winded.
“Phoebe!” he exclaimed. “Whatever will you be at next?”
She looked up feeling rather cross and expecting to see disapproval in his eyes and was slightly wrong-footed when she discovered he was laughing at her.
“What?” she demanded. “I just got a rounder.”
“So I see,” he replied, his green eyes alight with approval. She realised his hands were still at her waist where he had reached out to steady her. She thought it was perhaps only the children’s presence that made him remove them. He was silent for a moment, looking around at the pink-cheeked faces of the children who were watching him anxiously, quite obviously afraid he would put a stop to their game. “Can I play?” he asked.
The beaming looks and shouts of joy made a warm feeling glow in her chest and it only grew as Benedict stripped off his coat and waistcoat and rolled up his sleeves. He looked back at her, his eyes full of warmth.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice quiet.
“Whatever for?” she said in surprise as he picked up the bat.
“For reminding me what’s important,” he said, before walking off and taking his place to bat.
The game grew in excitement and volume over the next half hour or so when Oliver arrived, his eyes growing wi
de as he saw Phoebe picking up her skirts and running hell for leather to the final post before Ben caught her out. She was too slow this time and Ben gave a shout of triumph as he tapped the ball against the post.
“Out!” he yelled with obvious glee.
“Oh!” Phoebe huffed with annoyance and pouted at him as she walked back to the start.
“I say, bad show, old man,” Oliver said shaking his head. “Not good ton, taking out a lady.”
“Piffle,” Ben replied succinctly. “She’s a hoyden. I’ve been trying to get her out since I got here but she moves like lightning.”
Phoebe poked her tongue out at him to illustrate the accuracy of this statement and Oliver laughed. To her surprise he started peeling off his exquisitely cut coat and rather beautiful waistcoat.
“Are you playing?” she demanded in surprise.
“Well of course, my dearest cousin. Someone has to defend your honour after all.”
Benedict snorted at that and Phoebe glowered at him whilst trying not to laugh.
“Wretch,” she threw back at him before she handed the bat to Oliver. “For my knight in shining armour,” she said with great solemnity.
Oliver bowed and made a magnificent leg before taking the bat and swinging back and forth like a sword. “To battle!” he cried.
Phoebe watched the continuing play with great amusement as the men became increasingly competitive. They had changed positions by now and Oliver was bowling, Ben standing up with the bat. Oliver, Phoebe and Honesty were in one team with Ben, Jessamy and Patience in the other. Currently the score sat at 10 rounders to Oliver’s team and nine and a half to Ben’s. Ben was now last up and everything depended on his score.
“Come on, Ben!” Jessamy yelled with obvious excitement, cheering his big brother on with such enthusiasm that Phoebe felt quite a lump in her throat. The two of them had seemed so distant when she first arrived with Jessamy obviously rather in awe and even a bit afraid of his eldest sibling. To see him now, cheering him on with such obvious hero worship was enough to make her eyes prickle with emotion. If she’d done nothing else, if Ben really could never be hers ... at least she’d achieved this much.
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