One winters night, p.8
One Winter's Night, page 8
The second clang of the dinner gong rang through the hall, bringing the hungry guests out of the private sitting room.
“At least dine with us and stay the night,” Hugo said, dragging Forsyth out of his contemplative mood. The lord seemed to find staring at the countess preferable to accepting the invitation. “Tomorrow, you may reassess the situation.”
Hugo wasn’t just acting out of selfish interests. Penelope de Wold looked markedly different since the lord’s arrival—brighter, more vivacious. Forsyth had managed to achieve something in three minutes which Hugo had failed to do in thirty years.
“Well, Forsyth?” he prompted. “Do you wish to stay?”
“As you rightly said, only a fool would attempt to leave.” The lord bowed. “We graciously accept your hospitality. If it pleases Lady Denham, I would like to escort her into dinner this evening.”
“Of course you must be my escort.” Penelope shivered visibly, and the faint beginnings of a smile played on her lips. “After such a perilous journey, you must be famished.”
Lord Forsyth arched a brow. “I’m ravenous, Lady Denham.”
Chapter Eight
Lara couldn’t sleep. She hated lying to Lord Denham, hated the fact Montague had only told a variation of the truth. When she had played the scenarios out in her head, she imagined her grandfather would confess to pining for a lost love, confess that he could not leave this world without knowing if he’d been wrong about Penelope all those years ago.
In Lara’s fantasy, Penelope had embraced him and explained the terrible twist of fate that had kept them apart. Lord Denham understood that sometimes it was impossible to tell the truth, and the whole issue of deceit was forgiven and forgotten.
Yet it hadn’t gone quite to plan.
A dolt would have noted the look of suspicion flaring in Lord Denham’s handsome eyes. Worse still, her grandfather and Lady Denham’s flirtatious banter at dinner had drawn more curious looks from the earl. When Lara had stolen a moment to air her concerns to Montague, he kissed her cheek, patted her arm and promised all would work out as intended.
“Have faith,” he’d said.
Faith?
Faith that the earl would still speak to her again when he learned of the deception? That he wouldn’t reclaim the mistletoe berry and crush it beneath the heel of his boot?
Frustration drew a sigh from her lips.
Lara sat up in bed, plumped the pillow and flopped back down.
Guilt brought the lump back to her throat. Her thoughts returned to the earl, to the terrible crime that had left him subdued all evening. And to her ever-growing need to feel those muscular arms wrapped around her in a strong embrace. The more time she spent in his company, the more she dreaded leaving Wollaston Hall.
She closed her eyes, but numerous thoughts plagued her mind. It occurred to her that if she helped the earl solve the crime against Mr Bellham, he might forgive her one small lie.
The fire’s amber flames stole the chill from the air, and so she threw back the mound of blankets and sheets, climbed out of bed and paced the room while rousing her logical brain into action.
Someone must have been waiting at the gate for Mr Bellham. By the viscount’s admission, his friend had been desperate to leave the Swan, desperate to reach Wollaston Hall. But why? And what had taken him so long?
Perhaps the culprit had seen Mr Bellham talking to someone at the gate, had crept outside for a reason unbeknown and thrust a blade into his chest? It would be helpful to know whose bedchambers overlooked the drive. Who might have had their nose pressed to the window awaiting his arrival?
She parted the curtains and glanced outside. Her room overlooked the manicured gardens and the path leading to the orchard, to the walled garden and the old bothy where Mr Bellham lay cold and dead.
The world was like a dull canvas of a pure white marred by black shadows. Thick storm clouds in the distance promised more snow, but for a brief time, moonlight bathed the garden in a soft glow. Lara stared, lost in the irony that the severe weather was not the thing to fear. The real danger lurked somewhere in the warm and secure walls of the house.
Then the glow from a lantern caught Lara’s attention. She noticed a gentleman on the path cutting through the giant manicured hedges, hurrying towards the orchard. Lara rubbed her tired eyes and looked keenly at the figure, whose top hat sat askew. Odd. The person moved not with the straight linear steps of a gentleman, but the graceful, shorter feminine ones that marked the midnight walker a woman.
With no time to dress, Lara yanked on her stockings and boots. She thrust her arms into her wrapper and tied the belt before creeping downstairs.
The sound of conversation spilling out of the drawing room captured her attention. More so, when she heard Lady Denham’s raised voice. Though eavesdropping was almost as shameful as lying, she couldn’t help but tiptoe closer to the door.
“I was a young girl of eighteen,” Lady Denham protested. “You know the control my father had. Even if it had been possible to deny him, the devil weaved his wicked words until I could no longer think straight. Money and duty. Duty and money. The man whined like an out-of-tune organ.”
“You could have run away, come to me. I would have taken care of you.” Pain clung to Montague’s words. Lara had seen the hurt in his eyes when he told her of his love for Lady Denham. “I’d have shot your father between the brows rather than lose you.”
“And you would have paid the price for the rest of your life.” The heavy tone of regret tainted Lady Denham’s voice. “It’s been forty years, Montague, must we argue about it now?”
Montague sighed. “Forty years, yet the pain is as raw as if it were a day.”
“That didn’t stop you carousing with Lady Bagshaw, Mrs Dutton and a host of other unsuitable ladies.”
“You married Bartholomew de Wold. A man does foolish things when he’s hurt. Tell me, Penelope, what was I supposed to do to numb the pain?”
Lady Denham started sobbing. “I’ve been so lonely.”
Knowing she should respect their privacy, Lara stepped away.
She found her cloak in a cloakroom further along the hall, and so wrapped herself in the thick garment and raised the hood. One did not need to follow the midnight walker to know of her intended destination. But what was it about Mr Bellham’s body that had drawn the woman out of the house? What had persuaded her to don gentlemen’s clothes?
Lara hurried along the path to the orchard and followed the only pair of footprints in the snow. Confusion reigned when she caught sight of the dark figure slipping inside the bothy. Lord Denham had locked the door and taken the key. The person who had let themselves into the old brick building was not as tall or broad or as inherently masculine as the earl. So how the devil had they found a key?
Hidden behind the stumpy trunk of one of fifty apple trees, she peered at the bothy’s tiny window. Only a fool would enter the building and demand to know what the devious vixen was up to. If one could kill a peer’s nephew, then why not a peer’s granddaughter?
She waited for the glow of the lantern to illuminate the room in the hope of seeing something through the window. Indeed, she was so focused on the bothy, she failed to hear someone creeping up behind her until they slapped a gloved hand over her mouth.
Her first instinct was to thrash and writhe against her attacker, but the whisper of a rich masculine voice was one she knew well.
“Don’t move, Miss Bennett.” Lord Denham drew her back against his hard chest. One strong arm snaked around her waist to hold her still. “I shall remove my hand, but you’re not to make a sound. Is that understood?”
A shiver rippled to her toes. It had nothing to do with fright or suffering the cold and everything to do with being held in Lord Denham’s tight embrace. Against the odourless aroma of the frigid night air, she could smell his exotic cologne—the manly scent of spice and musk she found so appealing. With every inhalation, it was as if she drew the earl into her body, deep into her core.
“Is that understood?” he repeated when she failed to reply.
Lara nodded.
“The last thing we want to do is scare away our nocturnal visitor.” His hand slipped from her mouth, but he kept her locked in his embrace. The brush of bristles as he pressed his cheek to hers preceded the breeze of his warm breath. “Might I ask what you’re doing out of bed?”
“I couldn’t sleep.”
“So you thought a stroll around the orchard might help?”
The bitter wind whipping at her ankles made her shudder. “I saw someone on the path and came to investigate. What intrigues me now is how the person entered the bothy through a locked door. And what business have they with Mr Bellham?” What intrigued her more was how this man aroused such pleasant sensations from the merest touch.
“I unlocked the door in an attempt to catch the person in the act.” The heat from his body went some way to stave off the icy chill numbing her bones. “Open your legs, Miss Bennett.”
Lara swallowed down her shock. “Pardon me?”
“Open your legs for it will allow me to step that bit closer with a view to keeping you warm. It’s too cold to worry about propriety. Although if you’re caught out here with me, your grandfather will insist we wed.”
Perhaps it was fortunate he held her in his muscular prison, else her knees might have buckled. “Montague would never tell me who to marry. Besides, we are conducting an investigation. Should we not enter the bothy and discover which lady has taken to wearing gentlemen’s clothes as a disguise?”
“You noticed the feminine gait, too.” Admiration infused his tone. “I know exactly who it is. I watched her leave the house then I cut through the walled garden to make access to the bothy easier for her.”
Was Miss Mason-Jones eager to see her lost love? Was the murderer keen to rob a man of his boots? “Then should we not surprise her?”
“We?” He relinquished his grip on her waist and turned her around to face him.
Oh, Lord, she wished he hadn’t.
It wasn’t the way his eyes sparkled like blue gems beneath the moonlight that held her captive. It wasn’t his full lips or the arrogance in his arched brow and sculpted jaw. It wasn’t the power that radiated from every toned muscle or the confident way his arm snaked around her back to draw her close. It was everything combined. The rakish lock of black hair hanging over his brow. The promise of something magical in his touch. The magnetic connection that made her foolish desires seem possible.
“Are you so desperate to court danger, Miss Bennett?” The husky drawl of his voice sent her insides fluttering. He bent his head, his mouth but inches from hers. “Does your adventurous spirit long for a sudden rush of excitement?”
If his skill in the bedchamber matched his skill at flirtatious banter, then Lord Denham must be an exceptional lover. Indeed, Lara could feel her control slipping.
To regain some ground, she said, “If we hope to surprise the midnight visitor, time is of the essence, my lord. If you want to kiss me, I suggest you stop talking and do so now.”
A sinful smile curled at the corners of his mouth, one that complemented the hunger in his eyes. “I wanted to kiss you the moment we met, Miss Bennett.”
Impatience, curiosity and lust saw her grab the lapels of his greatcoat and press her lips to his. It was supposed to be a chaste brushing of mouths. Desire’s first greeting, first nervous hello. But those initial strokes back and forth awakened an impetuous passion, a burning need to satisfy the loneliness within.
Lord Denham angled his head and crushed her in his embrace. With expert skill, he teased her lips apart, slipped his wet tongue into her mouth and deepened the kiss. The tantalising dance seduced her mind and body. Every nerve tingled. Her sex pulsed. Heat journeyed like brandy’s scorching trail from her lips to her core.
He moaned into her mouth. His hands edged lower to grip her buttocks as he moved against her in a suggestive rhythm. The masculine essence of the man sent her head spinning. All-consuming need left her clutching at his coat like a wild wanton.
Bless the saints!
Oh, a lady might easily lose herself in this blissful dream—in this unique and highly arousing fantasy of lust and love. Indeed, she might have remained there all night. The heat from his hands meant she was in no danger of freezing.
As they parted, their misty breath mingled in the air.
“Your mouth is as exquisite as every other aspect of you,” he said, both hands still resting on her buttocks. “Please tell me you agree it would be criminal not to explore our growing attraction.”
Lara looked up as snow started falling like feathers from heaven. Attraction was too tame a word. Something magical happened when they were together—something she had never experienced with another living soul. Such was the power of it she could barely breathe in his presence. Clearly he felt it, too.
“On the subject of all things criminal,” she began, pausing to taste his mouth once more, “we should attend to the lady hiding in the bothy. Perhaps when the coroner has been, and he’s resolved this dreaded mess, we might debate the addictive connection that exists between us.”
“A thoroughly stimulating connection,” Lord Denham agreed. He released her buttocks and bestowed a rakish grin. “You should know I’m extremely skilled in all aspects of conversation.”
Lara smiled. “I speak from experience when I say your tongue is remarkably flexible.” She captured his hand and drew him out from behind the apple tree. “We shall say that, due to the delay in the coroner attending, we’ve come to make a sketch of the wound.”
“A plausible reason under the circumstances. As the daughter of Phineas Bennett, I presume you have some skill with a pencil.”
Yes, but she didn’t practise as often as she ought. “A skill that suffers from my impulsive and untamed nature.”
“A nature so impulsive you’ve forgotten to bring the necessary materials.”
She shrugged. “Our quarry will be so terrified to see us hopefully she won’t notice.”
A sudden thud from the bothy captured their attention. Heaven knows what the wicked woman was up to in there.
Lord Denham put a finger to his lips as they approached the crude wooden door with caution. “Stand behind me,” he said, his expression turning grave. “At the first sign of danger, I want you to run.”
Chapter Nine
With the rickety door creaking as soon as Hugo turned the handle, it was impossible to enter the two-roomed cottage and catch the culprit unawares. From the person’s height and build, he knew it was Miss Pardue. As for the reason she’d chosen to don gentlemen’s attire and attend a dead body, they were about to discover.
Without the frigid wind biting one’s cheeks, the room felt a few degrees warmer than the temperature outside. That said, it was still as cold as the icehouse and yet Hugo’s blood burned with a passion for Miss Bennett that could melt a glacier.
“So, a quick drawing of the wound and the—” Miss Bennett stopped playing her part in this charade and stared at the half-naked body of Mr Bellham stretched out on the wooden table.
The lady holding the lantern aloft, and with her face a mere inch away from the wound that had ended Bertie’s life, straightened and swung around to face them.
“Miss Pardue?” Hugo scanned the greatcoat, boots and breeches that appeared to fit the petite woman rather well. “Are you so displeased with your outfit that you must steal the clothes of a dead man? Is that what you call paying your respects?”
The lady blanched. “Lord Denham, I … I …” Miss Pardue looked back at Bellham’s body, stripped of his boots and stockings, and whose waistcoat and shirt hung open to reveal areas of mottled skin. “It’s not at all what it looks like. I can assure you.”
In the hellholes of London, a person might have a multitude of reasons for acting with such depravity. In the bleak Wiltshire countryside, not so many. “Well, either you have a morbid fascination with the dead, Miss Pardue, or you killed Mr Bellham and have come to ensure you left nothing incriminating on the body.”
Miss Pardue turned ashen. With a shaky hand, she placed the lantern on the crude table behind and stood dumbstruck.
Miss Bennett lowered her hood, closed the bothy door and stepped into the room. She walked over to the old table and picked up a small black book and pencil. From what little Hugo could see, Miss Pardue had made her own sketches along with a few scrawled notes.
“You have an interest in medical matters, Miss Pardue?” Miss Bennett looked up and met Hugo’s gaze. Despite the grisly aspect of the scene, despite his curiosity about Miss Pardue’s motive, his mind raced to the moment he might kiss her again. “Might I commend you on the quality of your drawings.”
“Society does not permit ladies an interest in anything other than the feminine arts.” The bitter edge to Miss Pardue’s tone rang of frustration. “Had I been born a man, Miss Bennett, I should have liked to be a surgeon. Saving lives, understanding the complex nature of the human form, is worth more to society than a neatly sewn tapestry.”
Miss Bennett handed Hugo the lady’s pocketbook. He read one note aloud. “‘His muscles have begun to loosen ready to pass through the stage of rigor mortis, although the cold extremities have slowed the process considerably.’” He looked at Miss Pardue. “Is this the first time you’ve examined a body?”
“Indeed.” Her eyes grew brighter. “What little I know on the matter comes from books, though I am keen to learn by whatever means necessary.”
Hugo observed Bertie’s bare feet and dishevelled attire. “Out of respect for my friend, I cannot permit you to continue your examination.”
Miss Pardue’s shoulders sagged as her gaze dipped to the stone floor. She gave a resigned sigh and lifted her chin. “I meant no disrespect, my lord, but a passion burns in my veins that is impossible to ignore. If I knew of some way I might pursue my cause, I would grasp the opportunity with both hands.”
