One Winter's Night - Page 33

He could think of nothing to say, nothing salacious or witty. For the first time since meeting her, conversation was stilted. They walked back along the path in frosty silence. The tall hedges banking the walkway on both sides emphasised the heavy weight of his burden. After entering the family’s sitting room through the Renaissance-style loggia, they hung back in the shadows while waiting for the unsuspecting Miss Venables to mount the stairs.

Amid the darkness, he was acutely aware of Miss Bennett’s breathing, of the intoxicating scent of her skin that made him want to devour every inch of her soft flesh. Lust might easily be sated, but he feared this all-consuming passion would haunt him for the rest of his days.

Once assured their quarry had returned to her bedchamber—or the viscount’s bedchamber should she have a compulsive obsession to slake her lust—Hugo escorted Miss Bennett through the hall. She unfastened her damp cloak and hung it on the hook in the cloakroom beneath the stairs.

The light in the drawing room drew Hugo’s attention, and he stopped in the doorway to glance inside. Lord Forsyth sat on the sofa flanking the fire, a book gripped between his fingers though his eyes were closed, his breathing light. Hugo’s mother lay sprawled out, her head resting on a cushion in the lord’s lap. With the serene look of a child, she, too, slept peacefully.

Hugo wondered why they had not retired to their prospective chambers. His mother rarely remained downstairs past ten. Would he have lost all concept of time had he been curled on the sofa reading to Miss Bennett? Undoubtedly.

“If only either would have had the strength to make contact when your father died three years ago,” Miss Bennett whispered as she came to stand beside him in the doorway. “Montague struggled to forgive her. And Penelope must have thought he despised every bone in her body. But they’re at a time in their lives when the past should no longer matter.”

“You think I should encourage my mother to follow her heart?”

“I think you must do whatever makes her happy.” Miss Bennett moved to the staircase, and he felt the loss of her company. “Isn’t that what life is about?” She paused with her hand on the newel post, and he noticed that she wore her nightdress and wrapper. Desire should have burst through his veins at a rapid rate. But it was her damp cheeks and the red blotches marring her face that stole his attention. “How can a lie be so wrong when that is the outcome?” And without further comment, she turned away.

He watched her climb the stairs, his eyes drinking in the gentle sway of her hips, the cascade of warm brown tresses spilling over her shoulders and back. “Miss Bennett.” He didn’t know what he would say, but she did not pause on her journey back to her bedchamber or glance back over her shoulder.

Life had suddenly become more complex. His head had hurt with the pressure of choosing a bride. Now it was positively pounding.

He remained at the drawing room door for a time, his mind torn between waking their kin and allowing them the peace denied them these last forty years. But it was not for him to interfere in affairs of the heart.

The trudge upstairs felt like a mountainous climb. Was he not justified in his anger towards Miss Bennett? How might any friendship born on a lie survive? That said, she could have kept up the pretence. She didn’t need to tell him the truth tonight. Did that not speak for the depth of her affection?

Bloody hell!

Were it not a ridiculous hour of the morning, he would snatch the port decanter and down the contents, for he doubted his mind would allow him the luxury of sleep.

And what was Miss Venables doing in the bothy with Bellham’s body? No doubt doing the work of her lover, Lord Northcott. He wouldn’t be the first peer to embroil his mistress in his criminal activities, nor the first to lay the blame at her door.

Numerous other questions and theories raced through Hugo’s mind as he approached his bedchamber door. All of them vanished the instant he turned the doorknob to find the room ransacked.

Chapter Eleven

Christmas Day continued in the same vein as it began—chaotic. Whoever had the gall to enter an earl’s bedchamber, strip the sheets off the bed, empty drawers onto the floor and yank every item from the armoire hid their treachery well.

While the coroner’s arrival, and the few men he could muster to the jury, sent Lady Denham into a panic and the servants fretting over the disturbance to their festive routines, the other guests took breakfast in the dining room with calm equanimity.

Those few who could manage the short ride to Upavon attended the church service, while Hugo escorted Mr Marshall and the other gentlemen to the old bothy. Once there, he explained the course of events that led to him discovering Mr Bellham’s body.

“And you saw no one in the vicinity, my lord?” Mr Marshall, a thin man of sixty with trembling hands, pushed his spectacles further up his hooked nose and examined the body. “Met no one on the road from West Chisenbury?”

“No one.”

A juror continued to scribble in his pocketbook. The podgy man to his right, whose mustard waistcoat barely covered his paunch, mumbled something in the fellow’s ear before asking, “And there was no sign of the gentleman’s horse you say?”

“No. When the snow clears, and we widen the investigation, I’m sure we’ll find someone has taken the animal into their barn.”

“You said you were with the deceased when he died,” Mr Marshall interjected.

“Mr Bellham died within minutes of our arrival at the front gate.” Hugo would never forget his friend’s bloodstained lips or him gasping his last breath. “Lord Flanders and Miss Bennett can bear witness.”

Mr Marshall frowned. “And who saw fit to extract the weapon?”

“I did,” Hugo said with the authority of a man who could trace his lineage back to the Norman Conquest. “A man cannot rest in peace with a knife protruding from his chest.”

“Do you still have the knife, Lord Denham?” The podgy man’s eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“Indeed.” Hugo’s next task would rouse numerous questions from the gentlemen gathered around Bertie’s body. He strode over to the fireplace, pushed aside the charred embers and sooty remains and removed the weapon wrapped in a bloodstained handkerchief. “I felt it imperative to the investigation to keep the knife safe.”

Tags: Adele Clee Historical
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