Dying For A Duke

by Emma V. Leech

  Chapter 23

  A thing of beauty is a joy for ever:

  Its loveliness increases; it will never

  Pass into nothingness; but still will keep

  A bower quiet for us, and a sleep

  Full of sweet dreams, and health, and quiet breathing. - Keats

  By the time his valet reached him, Ben was already dressed and shaved and only needed the man’s help to ease his perfectly cut coat over his shoulders. Ignoring murmurs of reproach from his employee that his help had not been required, Ben left the man to sulk in private and went downstairs.

  He slipped past the breakfast parlour, resisting with great difficulty the urge to see if Phoebe was down yet. He had to see Mr Formby and fast, before the wretched woman could go and shred her own reputation with such a gleeful want of care.

  He waited, tapping his boot with frustration as his horse was saddled, and he set off for the village where he knew Mr Formby was installed at the local inn.

  So it was with feelings of deep foreboding that he saw one of Sylvester’s carriages waiting outside The King’s Arms and felt the weight of the narrow-eyed scowl from Phoebe’s maid as he walked past.

  Damn and blast the woman!

  He paused in the doorway to see Mr Formby laughing with obvious delight at something the wretched creature had said while she poured him a cup of tea.

  “Ben!” she exclaimed, smiling at him with such pleasure he wanted to shake her. “There you see, Mr Formby, I told you he’d get here sooner or later,” she added, casting Ben a look of pure devilry.

  “Whatever she’s said it’s a damned lie,” he raged, closing the door and stalking over to glower down at Mr Formby.

  The man raised an eyebrow at him and Ben cursed, knowing it was impossible. He sat down at the table opposite her, scowling with fury.

  “The devil take it, Phoebe!” he muttered, throwing his hat and gloves on the table with frustration. “You’ll be the death of me long before any jury can convict me.”

  “There, there,” she murmured with the tone of an adult soothing an overexcited child. “Drink your tea,” she added, sliding a cup and saucer towards him. “You’ll feel much more the thing after you’ve had that.” She turned back to Mr Formby with a reassuring smile. “He’s dreadfully grouchy if he doesn’t get his breakfast you know,” she added in a confiding undertone to the man, whose eyes glittered with amusement much to Benedict’s irritation.

  “What have you told him?” Benedict demanded, ignoring the tea and the plate of bread and butter that Phoebe put in front of him.

  “Why everything, darling, as one should with an officer of the law,” she replied, her big blue eyes wide and guileless.

  Ben groaned.

  “Come, come, my Lord,” Mr Formby said, his eyes surprisingly warm and understanding. “I can well see you’ve got your hands full with this young woman and I would like nothing more than to wish you both very happy,” he added, winking at Phoebe who beamed at him. He nodded and reached for the ubiquitous pencil and notepad as he spoke. “So why don’t you just trust me and I promise I’ll do everything I can to keep you out of trouble, young man,” he said, his voice rather stern. “Though right at this moment it beats me how we’re to do it, for of course you won’t want this young lady’s testimony to save you!”

  “Indeed not!” Benedict replied in horror, feeling quite nauseated at the very idea of it.

  “Well really,” Phoebe exclaimed in annoyance, looking between the two men with a frown.

  “Now then, you dreadful creature,” Mr Formby said, grinning at her and wagging his pencil in her direction. “If it comes to a decision between his neck and your honour I swear you’ll testify,” he added, ignoring Ben’s explosion of fury. “But let’s concentrate on figuring out who the devil is causing this mess first, eh?”

  “Very well,” Phoebe replied, apparently mollified.

  Benedict allowed his temper to cool, with some difficulty, and together they tried to collate the pieces of information to date.

  “Are you sure there is no other reason for anyone to have a grudge against the family?” Mr Formby pressed and Benedict sighed, having heard this question too many times to count now.

  “None,” he replied in irritation.

  “Oh, Ben!” Phoebe replied with a snort of disgust. “Don’t be ridiculous, of course there is.”

  Benedict opened his mouth to reply but wasn’t allowed the opportunity.

  “There was a boundary dispute with a Lord Ormsley,” she said, raising one finger as if to keep a count. “That got very heated and I believe there was a duel, oh ... must be over a hundred years ago now, but you know how these feuds keep running through the generations. Then there’s a mad cousin of Sylvester’s, despises him by all accounts and is always writing threatening letters predicting doom. Though he’s been doing it for more than fifty years now so I can’t believe he’s suddenly decided to act upon it. Gracious, the fellow must be at least as old as Sylvester himself!” she exclaimed with a shake of her head that made her ringlets dance about her face in a rather enchanting fashion. She raised a third finger. “Then there was the husband of Lady Bradford, she had an affair with Sylvester you see,” she said, lowering her voice a little further. “Well no one knew until after she died a couple of years ago ...”

  Ben listened to a further litany of family iniquities, torn between chagrin and laughter as Phoebe ticked each one off on her fingers.

  “And then of course, there is the nose,” she added with a frown.

  “What?” Mr Formby and Benedict said in unison.

  “The nose,” she replied, waving her hand at Benedict’s visage as if this explained everything. “Well you must see how Sylvester and Ben have the same nose. John did too and I’m told Anthony as well though I never saw him.”

  “What the devil are you on about now, love?” Benedict demanded in frustration.

  Phoebe blinked at him, looking annoyed at his apparent stupidity. “Well that’s a very common nose in these parts,” she replied with an expressive lift of one eyebrow.

  “Oh,” Mr Formby replied, giving Benedict a dark look.

  “Well it’s none of my doing!” Benedict retorted, looking horrified.

  “Well, perhaps, dear,” Phoebe said, looking a little sceptical. “But can you be certain? I mean, you were rather wild in your younger days I hear?”

  If it hadn’t been for the twinkle in her eyes he might have walked away in fury. As it was he glared back at her and made himself the promise that she would pay dearly for that remark.

  “Well, as interesting as this dissection of mine and my family’s characters has been,” Benedict replied with an acerbic tone. “I don’t see that it’s getting us anywhere.”

  “Well then,” Mr Formby said, scratching at his chin. “After you I believe your youngest brother is in line for the title?”

  Benedict nodded, feeling a stab of fear at the idea of anyone hurting his little brother.

  “Then I think it wise if you are very vigilant for the foreseeable future,” Formby replied, his expression grave. “Whoever is responsible for these killings will clearly stop at nothing to get what they want. I doubt if an eleven year old boy will stand in their way. Likely that would be rather easier than bumping you off for someone with no conscience.”

  He watched Phoebe shudder visibly and could only echo her revulsion. His stomach twisted at the idea that someone he knew, maybe even cared for, was responsible for all that had passed.

  “Have you any further information to share with us?” Phoebe asked Mr Formby with a smile calculated to twist any man around her finger - the devil.

  Formby, who by now had Phoebe’s measure, just smiled at her. “Sadly I really don’t. Lord Rutland was poisoned as we’d supposed but how or what exactly is not known. Though I am told it would have worked quickly after he ingested the poison.”

  “And what of Oliver?” she demanded. Benedict frowned. He knew something had happened to pu
t Phoebe on her guard around Oliver, though he wasn’t entirely sorry for that. He was, however, sceptical that Oliver could be responsible for such reprehensible crimes. He’d known the man since they were born and they’d been childhood friends. He had never detected anything cruel or vindictive in his nature before. Indeed at one time they’d been as close as brothers. The idea that Oliver could seriously consider hurting him or Jessamy ... No. He refused to believe it.

  Mr Formby shrugged. “I’m waiting for his alibi to be confirmed but it sounds water tight to me I have to say.”

  “Unless he had an accomplice,” Phoebe added, one eyebrow raised. Well she was determined, Ben thought with an inward smile of pride. You had to give her that.

  Formby, who was chewing the end of his pencil in a contemplative manner chuckled. “Sharp, ain’t she?” he asked Ben, his eyes twinkling.

  “You have no idea,” Ben replied, casting her a wry look of amusement.

  “It’s certainly an angle that needs considering,” Formby replied, sticking the abused pencil behind his ear for safekeeping.

  “I did have another thought,” Ben offered and Formby gestured for him to carry on. “Well, I still don’t think Oliver is your man,” he replied, sighing as Phoebe rolled her eyes at him in annoyance. “And so, if not him you must start looking at the next branch of the family, yes?”“

  He watched the runner nod and flick through the pages of his notebook. “Your cousin I believe? A Mr. Charles Grantham.”

  Benedict nodded, leaning forward over the table. “Sylvester’s father and his aunt, his father’s sister, had a grave falling out and he never spoke to her again. Whatever the rift was it never healed and they refused to have anything to do with Sylvester even after his father died. It occurs to me there could well be resentment there. The last I heard the man had done well in the city but ...”

  “But that’s not the same as having a dukedom is it, my Lord?” Formby replied, a sardonic lift to his mouth.

  Ben snorted but shook his head. “I imagine not.”

  “Well I have a colleague tracking down Grantham as we speak so we’ll see where that line of enquiry leads us,” Formby said, tucking his notebook away and signalling the end of the interview. He shook Benedict’s hand, his expression grave.

  “Now you do as you’re bid and have a care, my Lord. I’d be sorry to see you laid out as the next victim or marching up the steps at Tyburn so don’t go doing anything rash, and stay where everyone can see you at all times.”

  Wondering how exactly he was supposed to achieve that Ben kept his own council but thanked Formby for his concern before the man left them alone.

  “Well then, you wretch,” he said to Phoebe with a sigh of frustration. “If you think you’ve meddled enough for one day, we’d best get back for lunch.”

  “Yes, Ben,” Phoebe said, her tone meek and blinking at him with a guileless expression.

  Now having a rather deeper understanding of the lady’s character ... it didn’t fool him for a moment.

  ***

  “Glad to see you, my boy,” Sylvester said, smiling at him as entered the old man’s room. He’d not been down today and Benedict could see he was tired. All the stress and upset was taking its toll on him. Benedict felt a sudden rush of fury for whoever was hurting his elderly uncle. He should be enjoying this time, having the family here around him and someone was spoiling what may well be one of the old fellow’s last summers.

  “Good to see you too, Sir,” Ben said, giving his proffered hand a warm squeeze.

  “That Formby fellow not been bothering you again has he?” Sylvester demanded, a forbidding look that boded ill glinting in his deep green eyes.

  “No,” Benedict rushed to assure him. “No. The fellow’s been mighty decent in fact. He believes I’m innocent at all events, even if he can’t prove it.”

  “Prove it?” Sylvester barked, slapping the arm of his chair and sounding utterly incredulous. “I say it’s so! My word should be enough. Don’t know what things are coming to,” he grumbled, shaking his head. “Times are changing, and not for the better,” he added, waving a finger at Benedict. “When the time comes for you to take my mantle there’ll be precious little good in having it. Nothing but a damned lot of work and bother,” he said with a huff.

  “Well then,” Benedict said, trying to keep his laughter in check. “If it’s all the same to you, you’d best keep it as long as possible.”

  Sylvester snorted and looked at Ben with affection. “Don’t sweat, lad,” he said, chuckling at the idea. “I’m not about to fall off my twig yet, no matter what anyone else thinks. I’ll keep you waiting a while yet.” He fell silent for a moment, apparently contemplating something and then he favoured Benedict with one of those steely, green-eyed looks that reminded Ben that his uncle could be a ruthless man.

  “I oughtn’t say it I know, but I’m damned glad you’ll inherit, Ben. Never could stand my own lads. No honour among ‘em,” he said with clear annoyance. “Always trying to get one over on the other or blame their own troubles on each other. Their sons were no better. Lizzie’s the only one worth a damn. Good girl she is,” he said in approval. “But my boys.” He sighed, shaking his head, his arthritic fingers plucking at the velvet covering of the chair with a distracted air.

  “My fault of course. Never spent enough time with them when they were boys, always too busy, too concerned with my own affairs. Regret it now ... still,” he added, sounding rather melancholy. “Water under the bridge now.” He looked up at Ben, affection in his expression. “Don’t make the same mistake, lad. Marry that Phoebe, not that Pinchpenny creature for starters. Not an ounce of good in that fiancée of yours I tell you straight. Phoebe, she’s the one. You marry her, my lad. She’ll give you many a sleepless night I don’t doubt but she’s fierce and loyal to my mind ... and she’ll give you fine sons I reckon,” he added with a wink. “And you make sure you get to know them. Give them your time while you can. Turn out anything like you and you’ll be proud I know.”

  Benedict took a breath and smiled. He was more than touched by his uncle’s words and he only wished it was as simple as Sylvester seemed to think.

  “I want to marry Phoebe, Sylvester. I’d do anything to be able to, but Theodora ... she’s made it quite plain she’s unwilling to give up on our betrothal. She’ll drag our names through the mud before I’m free of her.”

  “So she says!” Sylvester barked, turning purple with rage. “I don’t believe a word of it. For all the mud she could sling you could give it back ...” he frowned at Benedict and then sighed. “Though I suppose you wouldn’t,” he grumbled. “Well let her anyway. You’ll be a duke soon enough, dammit. God knows everyone in the damned line has had a scandal somewhere along the way. One thing about the title, people’s memories tend to be a bit hazier when there’s the power of a dukedom to be remembered. It’s not like anyone would dare shun you is it, nor any of your close kin. Tell her to do her worst, lad. Call her bluff.”

  “But Cecily, the twins ...”

  An outrageous noise of ridicule followed this half spoken fear. “By God, you think the kind of dowry you could bequeath them with now will not be enough to dangle for a decent husband, let alone their own charms. Fine looking girl that Cecily, like her mother,” he said with clear approval. “And the twins are showing fair too, they’ll have no problems finding a match.”

  Benedict frowned at the old man as hope flickered to life. “But you wouldn’t care? The scandal, the gossip?”

  Sylvester made a noise of disgust. “Don’t be so hen-hearted, Ben. You want Phoebe, you’ve got to take the chances to get her. What does she say about it?”

  “The exact same as you,” Benedict said with a rueful sigh.

  “There you are then,” Sylvester nodded, as though it was all settled.

  “But her reputation,” Benedict objected, thinking about how bad it could get. “The things people will say about her!”

  “She can stay here with me until
it all blows over. Be sooner than you think I reckon, and once she’s a duchess no one would dare breathe a word. If she’s brave enough to face it you should be brave enough to stand by her.”

  Benedict spluttered with outrage. “You surely can’t believe that I lack the courage,” he exclaimed, hurt by the implication. “I’m trying to protect her!”

  “Oh yes,” Sylvester said, his tone dry. “By making her your mistress? Or by waiting until Miss Pinchbeck turns up her toes so you can marry her when you’re both in your dotage. I’m sure that will make her very happy.”

  Benedict fell silent, struck by the force of his uncle’s argument.

  “That’s right, my boy.” Sylvester grinned at him and reached out to pat his hand. “Took a while, but we got there in the end, eh?”

  Benedict snorted and shook his head. “Yes, uncle.”

  Chapter 24

  We are the clouds that veil the midnight moon;

  How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver,

  Streaking the darkness radiantly!–yet soon

  Night closes round, and they are lost forever - Shelley

  Phoebe had just come in from walking the gardens with Lady Rothay when she met Oliver exiting the drawing room. His face was ashen and he looked rather unwell.

  “Phoebe,” he said, his face relaxing a little. “A friendly face,” he added with a sigh of relief.

  “Why do you say that?” she asked, taking off her bonnet and giving him a curious look.

  Oliver jerked his head in the direction of the drawing room and grimaced. “Mr Formby,” he said, his voice tight with anxiety. “Seems to be of the opinion I have an accomplice!”

  “Oh,” Phoebe exclaimed and tried to infuse her expression with one of complete innocence and sympathy. She assumed she succeeded as he took a step closer.

  “Come into the library and have a drink with me before dinner,” he asked, his tone rather pleading. “I’m dashed tired and I can’t face the mob without a snifter to keep my spirits up.”