With her mind racing Phoebe tried to make some sort of plan. There was a large empty crate just a few feet away, large enough for someone to hide in. As quickly and quietly as she could she tore a strip off the now ragged muslin dress she wore and ran to the crate. She lifted the lid and left the strip dangling over the edge, praying that Oliver would see it and take the bait as she ran back to her hiding place, picking up the crow bar as she went.
She found her place not a second too soon as Oliver returned from his fruitless search of the other room.
His footsteps paused and she prayed that he had seen the tattered yellow fabric. Daring to peer out from her hiding place she saw that he had indeed taken the bait. To her surprise and delight he put the pistol down on top of one of the barrels beside the crate before stepping closer and with deft, quiet moves, reaching to lift the lid of the crate.
The stairs creaked behind her and she knew Benedict was on his way up. She didn’t hesitate. Deciding a gun was more threatening than relying on having enough strength to knock him out with the crow bar she lunged forward, snatching up the gun.
If she had hoped Oliver to stand docile with his hands up she was sorely disappointed. Rage lit his eyes and he struck out at her. Phoebe squeezed the trigger and the gun fired but he had skewed her aim as he pushed her. He roared in pain as the bullet grazed his side but it was neither a fatal wound nor one that seemed to slow him down as he forced her to the floor.
His weight falling upon her on the hard floor knocked the air from her lungs and for a moment she was dazed and breathless as Oliver seemed to lift magically from her ... until she saw Benedict’s towering form hauling him away. He hit Oliver, a terrific blow that made her gasp in shock at the force with which it hit home. Oliver flew backwards but did not appear to be about to give in. He knew it was the gallows for him now if he didn’t get away and his eyes glittered with rage and madness. He leapt back to his feet, circling Benedict as he took off the elegant jacket that was hindering his movements. He hissed as he pulled it away from the gunshot wound, offering Phoebe a nasty smile. “You’ll pay for that, love,” he said, before snatching up the crow bar that Phoebe had so foolishly discarded.
He gave a roar of rage as he threw himself upon Benedict, and she watched in horror as Ben caught his arm before the heavy iron bar smashed into his skull. The two men fought, pushing and shoving, each of them trying to get in a blow.
Phoebe looked around, hoping against hope that there was a weapon to hand and her eyes fell upon the spent gun. If only the bloody thing was loaded, but she had no shot nor powder. With a burst of hope she saw Oliver’s discarded jacket and grabbed for it, praying for an inside pocket. To her joy she found a small brass powder flask and a drawstring bag of shot and proceeded to load the pistol. She glanced up, almost scattering the shot across the floor as a crash sounded across the room and saw with alarm the two man fall heavily to the floor. Oliver was still wielding the iron bar and she returned her attention to the pistol, thanking her papa heartily for having shown her the skill. A life among the army was a dangerous one for a pretty young girl and it was only since she’d returned to England that she stopped carrying her own gun.
With deft, sure moves she loaded and primed the pistol and scrambled to her feet just as the iron bar flew from Oliver’s hand and skidded across the room. Her relief was short lived, however, as Oliver reached down into his boot and she saw the glint of a blade. The two men were still fighting close, barely inches between them as Oliver slashed out with the blade and caught Benedict across the arm before thrusting closer. Benedict caught hold of Oliver’s wrist as the knife angled down at his neck. Whatever madness had Oliver in his grip it gave him strength and she saw the murderous rage in his eyes; he would not stop until Ben was dead.
Terror seizing her heart, she raised the gun and knew she could not miss but the two men were moving and the slightest miscalculation could be fatal. But Oliver caught Ben’s foot and he stumbled, his hold on Oliver’s wrist slipping from his grasp, and the knife began to descend. There was no time for thought, no time to consider if this was the best option. She fired.
The report in the cavernous space was thunderous, echoing and repeating around the room as the two men froze in shock. Time hung suspended and her heart filled with fear as neither moved and then ... Oliver dropped like a stone.
Ben stood, staring down at him in numb disbelief, his chest heaving with effort as he turned to stare at Phoebe, the smoking pistol still in her hand.
“Ben!” she cried, dropping the gun and running to him.
He caught her in his arms, his hands running over her, looking for signs of injury. “I’m alright!” she exclaimed, hearing the tremor in her voice as the reality of the past moments caught up with her. “I’m fine,” she repeated, laughing with a touch of hysteria as the fear continued to shine in his eyes and he pulled her to him. He was silent but his arms held her so tight she could barely breathe and she could hear the thundering of his heart clear enough.
“Oh,” she exclaimed, seeing blood seeping through the arm of his jacket. “You’re hurt.”
“It’s nothing,” he said, sounding just as unsteady as she had though he managed a crooked smile. “Could have been a lot worse. That was quite a shot, love,” he added, not hiding the astonishment in his eyes.
She swallowed and nodded. “Thank my father,” she said, her voice quiet. “He made me practise daily. Soldiers aren’t to be trusted you see ...” she added with a shrug and by way of explanation.
There were heavy footsteps on the stairs and Formby appeared at the top, he was bloody and dazed and he took one look at them and Oliver’s body close by and fell to his knees, gasping for breath. “Thank God,” he rasped, pulling at his dishevelled cravat to try and get some air.
“Where the devil were you?” Benedict demanded in fury, though Phoebe thought it plain enough the man had found his own fight to content with.
“The carriage driver,” Formby rasped, wiping his brow with his cravat. “Nasty piece of work. I was right behind you but he jumped me. Knew I recognised him - hung his brother last week. Fellow wanted revenge.”
“You alright?” Ben asked, as they moved towards him. Formby nodded. “Need a holiday,” he said with a wry grin. “Do me a favour, my Lord?” he added looking up at Ben with a beseeching expression.
“Anything,” Ben replied, with real sincerity in his voice.
“Try and keep your family alive for the foreseeable, eh?” he said, raising one eyebrow. “Least ways until I’ve got me breath back.”
Epilogue
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
The smiles that win, the tints that glow,
But tell of days in goodness spent,
A mind at peace with all below,
A heart whose love is innocent! - Byron
Six weeks later and Benedict found himself handing his wife down from the carriage outside the towering grandeur of Grizedale Court.
The twins squealed as they ran for him and he swept them both up, one in each arm as they pressed kisses to his cheek. Watching with a feeling of such happiness he thought his poor heart would struggle to contain it, he saw his mother embrace Phoebe, her eyes shining with delight at her new daughter in law. Jessamy hugged her in turn once his mother let her go, beaming with delight at his wonderful new aunt, and Cecily could not have looked more delighted. In fact the only one whose felicity seemed to outshine everyone’s by a mile or more was Sylvester’s. He was beaming from ear to bewhiskered ear and looking like he’d arranged everything to his own complete satisfaction. This impression was only clarified further as Phoebe hugged him and kissed his bristly cheek.
“Ha!” the old duke barked with satisfaction, waving his stick in Ben’s direction. “Lucky for you I’m not a younger man, Ben!” he exclaimed. “I’d have fought you tooth and nail for her.”
Ben laughed and walked up the steps to shake his uncle’
s hand with a warm smile. “And won too, no doubt, you old reprobate,” he replied, grinning with a deep affection for the old man.
They walked into the bright white entrance hall and out of the heat of the late afternoon sun. The summer was burnishing the countryside with a last defiant show of heat before the autumn crept in to take up its mantle. As the familiar surroundings of Grizedale wrapped around him, Ben felt for the first time like he had truly come home.
Sylvester had demanded that he and Phoebe, and the rest of the family consider Grizedale as their home now. It would all be Ben’s soon enough in any case, he said, though privately Ben thought - and hoped - that the old man would go on for a good while yet. But Sylvester insisted that he get to know the estate and everything he was taking on while he himself was still on hand to advise him. Phoebe had been enchanted by the idea and though they must return to London for Cecily’s first season, he knew they would be happy here.
They made their way to the drawing room where tea and cakes had been provided after their ten days honeymoon in Scotland. Benedict had offered Phoebe a trip to Paris but she said she’d had quite enough of France and Spain thank you very much. In fact all either of them truly wanted was to establish themselves in their new life at Grizedale, and with this accord they had decided against a lengthy stay away. There would be time enough to travel and see the world if they so chose. For now they were content to be among their family in the place they belonged.
Benedict’s butler, Combes, escorted them through and oversaw the tea things with all the solemnity of a man who has recently found himself serving a duke and a marquess, rather than a mere earl.
Keane, however, was at this moment honeymooning in the Lake District with Lizzie. When Lizzie had finally confessed her love for the man with a combination of blushing defiance, Sylvester had just given a bark of laughter. “Do you think I don’t have eyes in my head, girl?” he’d demanded, waving her off. “Go marry him if it will make you happy. You’ve spent time enough running at my beck and call and you know your own mind. If you’re ready to face the difficulties in marrying beneath you, I’ll not be the one to put a spoke in your wheel.”
Lizzie had been beyond herself, in a daze of happiness that Ben and Phoebe could well comprehend. Sylvester had gifted them a lovely house on the estate with a hundred acres and promised to help Keane with his ambition to start a stud farm with the fine bloodline of Sylvester’s own stable. He’d apparently been in league with the head groom for some time and plans were well advanced.
They looked up now as Combes reappeared and gave a polite cough. “A Mr Formby for you, my Lord,” he said with dignity.
Benedict nodded and a moment later Formby strode into the room and Ben got to his feet to greet him. “Formby,” he said, his smile warm and welcoming. “Devilish glad to see you, man, how are you?”
“Well, my Lord,” Formby replied shaking his hand with enthusiasm. “And no more glad than I. After the trial things were in such a stir I never got the chance to congratulate you and Lady Saltash,” he said, smiling at Phoebe who beamed at him in return. He held out a lovely bunch of white roses to Phoebe looking a touch bashful. “It’s not much but I wanted to felicitate you on your nuptials. They’re from my garden,” he added, gesturing to the beautiful blooms
“Oh, Mr Formby!” Phoebe exclaimed, quite obviously delighted and touched by the gesture. “What a dear you are!” She took the roses from him and kissed his cheek, making him blush profusely. “They’re perfectly lovely.”
“You got your watch and things back then,” Formby grinned as Benedict looked down at his grandfather’s gold ring.
“I did, not that I cared for these until Phoebe was safe,” he said, looking at his wife with adoration. “But I should have been sorry to lose them, so I thank you for that too.”
Formby shrugged. “A pleasure to do so, my Lord.”
“I hear you’ve been promoted,” Benedict said, grinning at him as he saw the man stand a little straighter.
“That I have,” he said, a look of deep appreciation in his eyes. “And no small thanks to you and his Grace,” he added, nodding to Sylvester who waved away his thanks. “And even better that fool Gillerthwaite has been given the heave ho,” he added with a dark chuckle.
“There is nothing to thank me for, that’s for certain,” Benedict said, shaking his head. “If not for you ...” He turned and took Phoebe’s hand and she squeezed it, knowing just how badly things could have gone. “Well, we will forever be in your debt, Mr Formby. I pray you don’t forget it.”
Mr Formby rubbed the back of his neck and shuffled about a bit looking awkward.
“Well, perhaps you’d do me the kindness of calling me Robert,” he said, with a grin. “I’d be pleased enough with that.”
“Robert it is,” Phoebe replied. “In which case you must call his Lordship, Ben,” she added with a mischievous smile.
Ben looked at her with amusement as Robert looked horrified. “Oh that I couldn’t,” he exclaimed
“You could and you shall,” Ben said nodding. “And we have been wondering if you and your wife and family would care to stay on the estate for a holiday. There is a lovely cottage down by the river. It’s yours for as many weeks as you care to take it every year, and for as long as you wish to use it.”
Robert gaped at him in astonishment. “There’s trout in that river,” he said, sounding a little overwhelmed.
“So there is.” Ben nodded. “And we’ll try for them together the first time you’re here.”
Once Mr Formby had gone, beaming with delight at his good fortune, Ben and Phoebe escaped the house and the family and wandered down to the river themselves.
They strolled along the bank, watching dragonflies dart around the rushes as the water tumbled with a merry burble over smooth rocks and stones. Benedict looked down at the angelic blonde beside him and felt an impossible swell of happiness. Such a short time ago he’d been completely unaware of the joylessness of his own life, let alone the unhappiness he had unwittingly inflicted on those he loved most. Then Phoebe arrived and they’d been plunged into such a series of events that he had at times despaired that there would be any escape for him.
Now, in this moment, to find himself here, married to the woman who both infuriated and delighted him beyond anything he had thought possible, he found his good fortune hard to believe.
“Happy, love?” he asked, stopping so that she turned to look up at him.
“How can you even ask?” she replied, smiling at him, her cheeks dimpling as her eyes lit with that mischievous look that both enchanted and terrified him. “I never thought to be so completely content.” She leaned her head against his chest and sighed. “Although,” she added as her hand slid down his chest. Her hand continued to slide lower and he sucked in a breath.
“Although, you never did make love to me beside the river and I really think you ought to.”
“I ought to?” he replied, snorting with amusement and then growing very still as her clever fingers dealt with the fall on his trousers and slid beneath.
“Oh yes,” she replied, with perfect sincerity. “You see, when we first met, I made myself a promise.”
“What promise?” he murmured, feeling any grasp on sanity or decorum flying far from his grasp as her hands moved upon him.
“I promised myself I would teach you to be brave.”
Benedict laughed and shook his head, lifting her into his arms and laying her down on the bank. “Brave is it?” he demanded, covering her body with his own. “You don’t mean brave, you mean reckless, wanton and abandoned to all good sense!”
Her brow furrowed, her expression serious as he looked down at his lovely wife with amusement.
“Yes,” she replied. “That too!”
With a laugh filled with love and the joy of the moment Benedict nodded. “Have no fear, I’m every one of those things where you are concerned, my love,” he replied before ducking his head and proceeding to prove it to h
er very thoroughly indeed.
***
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A Dog in A Doublet
The Regency Romance Mysteries Book 2
Harry Browning was a motherless guttersnipe, and the morning he came across the elderly Lord Preston clinging to a sheer rock face he didn't believe in fate. But the fates have plans for Harry whether he believes or not, and he's not entirely sure he likes them.
As a reward for his bravery, and in an unusual moment of charity, miserly Lord Preston takes him on. He is taught to read, to manage the vast and crumbling estate, and to behave like a gentleman, but Harry knows that is something he will never truly be.
Already running from a dark past, his future is becoming increasingly complex as he finds himself caught in a tangled web of jealousy and revenge.
Temptation, in the form of the lovely Lady Clarinda Bow, is a constant threat to his peace of mind, enticing him to be something he isn't. But when the old man dies his will makes a surprising demand, and the fates might just give Harry the chance to have everything he ever desired, including Clara, if only he dares.
And as those close to the Preston family begin to die, Harry may not have any choice.
Available January 26, 2018 pre-order your copy now
A Dog in a Doublet
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Dying For A Duke Page 25