Their Stolen Bride (Bridgewater Ménage 7)

“And what would Mr. Benson gain from this arrangement?”

“Besides you?” He looked at me directly, his gray eyes piercing.

“Besides me, what does Mr. Benson gain from your business arrangement?”

“We each gain twenty percent share in the other’s mine interests.”

I nodded my head as if thinking about his words. It was as clear as crystal, at least for me. “And when you die, who would inherit?”

“If you had wed Mr. Benson, you would have.”

“Meaning, he would have inherited it all since a wife can hold no property. A wife’s worldly possessions belong to her husband. I’d say the arrangement is quite in Mr. Benson’s favor.”

“Explain your insinuations again?”

“They are not insinuations, they are fact.” It was hearsay, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. “The Beauty Belle is dry, meaning you would a gain twenty percent share in nothing. As for Mr. Benson, he would gain a twenty percent share in your mine, which is thriving. You don’t need any shares of his company, for you do not face bankruptcy and are quite solvent, but in this arrangement, all you would lose is that interest in your company.”

“How would you know something like this? Who told you? You can’t know of business dealings like this!”

My father tossed the paper on the floor, pushed to his feet and stepped closer. His gait was slow, for he was grossly obese and his gout was surely inflamed again.

“You forget, Father. You are the one who had me educated so well.”

“I don’t believe a word you say.” His face turned mottle red and he used the back of his hand to wipe spittle from his chin.

“You should,” Mr. Benson said, stepping into the room.

I turned to face him, my skirts whipping about my ankles.

“Benson! Have you heard such lies?” my father asked.

Mr. Benson eyed me shrewdly. The dark anger was still there, in his eyes, the tenseness of his jaw, in every line of his body. I also saw the cunning he’d hidden so well before. Gone was any artifice of caring or concern, for myself or my father.

He closed the door behind him, turned the lock with a loud snick. I took a step back, knowing that the man was unhinged and I was truly in danger. My father hadn’t realized it yet.

“Actually, Gregory, your daughter is very astute. The Beauty Belle is dry. I’m barely pulling enough from her a day to pay the bills.”

Father’s eyes widened and I worried for his health. I’d never seen him so angry, so out of control. “This is preposterous. You’re bringing in a million a day!”

“You are,” Benson countered. “I’m bringing in as much as a two-bit whore on Broad Street. It would have all worked out, if not for you.”

He shifted his focus from my father to me. Knowing the arrangement was dead, that he would not be owning a portion of the Millard mine, he wanted retribution.

I took another step back, held my hands up in front of me. “You had not declared yourself and I met Mr. Sullivan while I was in Billings. It was very romantic.”

“Romantic? You talked of fucking on the train platform.”

Father moved back, stumbled over an ottoman. A lamp teetered, a small clock tipped and fell over.

“He is my husband, Mr. Benson. I am allowed to have… sexual congress with him.”

“Yes, of course you are. But he is not here? Where, pray tell, is Shooter Sullivan?”

He knew where Sully was, knew that his paid men were laying siege to kill him. I just had to have faith that Sully and Parker, the other Bridgewater men, were more skilled and outmaneuvered them. I had to hope they were all safe.

I had not expected to have Mr. Benson arrive at my father’s house. I’d intended to tell my father of Mr. Benson’s plan, warn him so he wouldn’t follow through. Simple, really.

Except…