Saved By Scandal's Heir

Benedict glanced at the footman—Cooper, it was, he now saw. ‘That leg could be broken. Have you ever helped set a leg before?’ he asked.

‘I have,’ a new voice interposed. One of the post boys had dismounted and had joined Benedict standing over Janet, who was shivering violently. ‘I’m used to it,’ he added with a grin. ‘Always someone breaking somethin’ when horses are involved.’

‘Tell your mate to take the horses back to the yard and bed them down for the night,’ Benedict said. ‘The ladies will be going nowhere.’

‘Right you are, sir,’ the post boy said, signalling to his partner, who waved an acknowledgement before kicking his horse into motion.

Benedict crouched beside the stricken maid.

‘Don’t touch me!’ she shrieked. ‘It’s my back! I can’t stand it!’

‘Hush, now,’ Benedict said as the maid subsided into sobs. ‘We must find out if your leg is broken. It will have to be straightened before we can move you.’

The butler appeared at the top of the steps and gingerly made his way to where Janet lay.

‘Ah, Crabtree. Thank you.’ Benedict took the glass and held it to Janet’s lips. ‘Drink.’

Janet shook her head. ‘I never touch—’

‘Drink. It will help dull the pain when we straighten your leg. You need to be moved.’

Benedict tipped the glass up, pinching her chin to force her mouth open. This was no time for niceties. The cold had seeped through his clothes, chilling his flesh already. Janet must be in an even worse case, lying on the snow-blanketed stone steps.

‘What are you doing? How is she?’

His head jerked round. Harriet was back, peering over his shoulder at her maid.

‘I thought I told you to stay inside.’

‘Janet is my responsibility. I can help.’

‘If you want to help, go back inside.’

Her stare might have frozen him had he not already been chilled to his core.

‘Don’t leave me, my lady. Pleeeease.’

Harriet crouched by Benedict’s side and gripped Janet’s hands. The length of her thigh pressed briefly against his and he was aware she shifted away at the exact same time he did, so they no longer touched. Another footman appeared, carrying lengths of cloth and a wooden board, with the information that the doctor had been sent for.

Benedict pushed Janet’s cloak aside and raised her skirt, Harriet’s soothing murmur punctuating Janet’s whimpers. A close look at the bent leg raised Benedict’s hopes. The foot looked twisted, making a broken ankle a distinct possibility, but the leg itself appeared intact. A pink stain in the snow, however, suggested it was cut.

Benedict spoke to Cooper and the post boy. ‘If her back is damaged, we must move her carefully.’ He directed the men on how to tip Janet sideways, keeping her back as straight as possible whilst he moved her leg from under her, silently blessing the time he had spent with Josiah Buckley, the ship’s surgeon, on his recent voyage back to England from India. He might not know how to help Janet, but he did know how not to make things worse.

The next few minutes were hellish. Benedict gritted his teeth and forced himself to continue, gently straightening Janet’s leg and then, using a knife proffered by the post boy, cutting off her boot. Another snippet of knowledge gleaned from Buckley—that an injured foot or ankle will swell, making boots hard to remove. Not that the sailors wore footwear aboard the ship, but their discussions had been wide-ranging. Benedict distracted his thoughts from Janet’s screams by thinking of that voyage but then the shrieking wind recalled the storm that had almost foundered the ship, and he found his heart racing and hands shaking with the memory. He hesitated, squeezing his eyes shut as he gulped down his fear—It isn’t real. I’m here at Tenterfield, not on board—then jerked back to full awareness as a gloved hand covered his. He glanced round into familiar violet eyes.

‘You’re doing well,’ she murmured. He focused on her lips: too close...sweetly full...so tempting. ‘Do not lose your nerve now.’

Benedict dragged in a jagged breath and the icy air swept other memories into focus with a vicious stab in his temples. Not life-threatening memories such as that storm, but soul-destroying nonetheless. Memories of Harriet and her betrayal. His hand steadied and he continued to cut Janet’s boot until it fell apart.

They slid the maid onto the board then and, between them, Benedict and the post boy used lengths of linen to bind her to the plank and keep her still whilst they moved her to a bedchamber. Benedict rose stiffly to his feet as the two footmen lifted the board and carried Janet up the steps and back into the house. Benedict clasped Harriet’s elbow, resisting her attempt to tug free, and supported her up the steps and into the hall.

‘Why have you dismissed the chaise?’ she demanded as soon as the front door closed behind them, shutting out the swirling snowstorm. ‘I have accommodation bespoken at the Rose Inn.’

‘You will stay here tonight.’

‘I most certainly will not!’ Her voice rang with outrage. ‘Stay overnight at Tenterfield Court, with no chaperone?’ Harriet marched over to Crabtree, about to mount the stairs in the wake of the footmen carrying Janet. ‘Send a man to the stables, if you please, with a message to bring the chaise back round.’

‘Your maid cannot travel.’

Harriet pivoted on the spot and glared at Benedict. ‘I am well aware Janet must remain here,’ she spat. ‘I, however, am perfectly fit and well, and I will not stay where I am not welcome.’

‘I thought you were concerned for your reputation?’ Benedict drawled, the drive to thwart her overriding his eagerness to see her gone. ‘Yet you would stay in a public inn without even a maid to lend you countenance? My, my, Lady Brierley. I have to wonder if your reluctance to remain here at Tenterfield owes less to concern over your reputation and more to fear of your own lack of self-control.’

‘Oh!’ Harriet’s eyes flashed and her lips thinned. ‘How dare you?’ She spoke again to Crabtree, waiting patiently at the foot of the staircase, staring discreetly into space, the epitome of an experienced butler. ‘Is there a maid who might accompany me to the inn?’

Crabtree’s gaze slid past Harriet to mutely question Benedict, who moved his head in a small negative motion.

‘I am sorry, my lady,’ Crabtree said, ‘but with Sir Malcolm so ill and now your maid to care for, I am unable to spare any of my staff. And I am persuaded it would be unwise to venture on even such a short journey in this weather.’

The satisfaction Benedict experienced at frustrating Harriet’s plans glowed for only a brief few seconds. Her presence could only reopen old wounds. Why had he been so insistent that she stay?

‘Inform me when the doctor arrives,’ he bit out over his shoulder as he took the stairs two at a time, silently cursing himself for a fool.

In his bedchamber, he stripped off his wet clothes and shrugged into his banyan, then paced the vast room, his thoughts filled with Harriet.

The announcement of her arrival had nearly floored him. His heart had drummed against his ribs as his palms grew damp. She could not have known—could she?—that he was here, attending his dying cousin. That leap of hope, swiftly banished, had angered and unsettled him. Whatever her reason for visiting Malcolm, he didn’t want to know. He was only here himself from a sense of duty to his erstwhile guardian. He had no affection for Sir Malcolm but he was indebted to him for supporting him financially ever since the death of Benedict’s parents. Malcolm had ensured Benedict attended the best schools, followed by Cambridge University, and, for that, Benedict owed him some consideration.

He hadn’t needed to meet with Harriet at all—he could have relegated the task to one of the servants. He should have relegated it but, dammit, that would be tantamount to admitting he still cared. Besides—and he might as well be honest with himself—curiosity had got the better of him. He’d wanted to see what she had become, this jade who had so thoughtlessly betrayed him and his heart: who had pledged her love for him and then coldheartedly wed another man for the sake of a title and wealth.

Before facing her, he’d gone to the library to fortify himself with a glass of brandy from the decanter there. She hadn’t appeared to need any such additional support. He walked into the drawing room to find her—cool and elegant, an utterly gorgeous woman, with the same abundance of lustrous moon-pale hair he remembered only too well. His fingers had twitched with the desire to take out her pins and see her tresses tumble over her shoulders again. She was more voluptuous than he remembered, but then she had still been a girl when they had fallen in love. Correction, he thought, with a self-deprecating sneer, when he had fallen in love. And those eyes—huge, violet blue, thickly lashed; they were as arresting as ever. He had always thought of them as windows to her soul. He snorted a bitter laugh at his youthful naivety. Now, with the benefit of eleven more years’ experience, he could see that those eyes had lied as easily as that soft, sensual mouth with its full pink lips.

Such a pity so perfect an exterior disguised such a mercenary bitch.

* * *

Later, before dinner, Benedict visited Malcolm in his bedchamber, as had become his habit in the seven days since his arrival at Tenterfield Court. Malcolm’s breathing had grown noticeably harsher in the past week and Benedict was conscious that the air now wheezed in and out of his cousin’s lungs faster than ever, as if each breath failed to satisfy the demand for oxygen. He pulled a chair to the side of the bed and sat down. Malcolm’s eyes were closed, the thin skin almost translucent. A glance at Fletcher elicited a shake of the valet’s head.

Benedict placed his hand over the paper-dry skin of Malcolm’s hand where it lay on the coverlet. The flesh was cool to his touch, despite the suffocating heat of the room. Sweat sprung to Benedict’s forehead and upper lip, and he felt his neck grow damp beneath the neckcloth he had tied around his neck in deference to his dinner guest.

Damn her! Why did she have to come? And now she would be here all night, a siren song calling to his blood as surely as if she lay in his bed beside him. He forced his thoughts away from Harriet as Malcolm stirred, his lids slitting open as though even that movement was too great an effort for his feeble energy.

‘Water.’

Fletcher brought a glass and held it to his master’s lips, supporting his head as he sucked in the liquid. As Fletcher lowered his head back to the pillow, Malcolm’s eyes fixed on Benedict.

‘Going out?’

Benedict fingered his neckcloth self-consciously. Malcolm still had the ability to reduce him to a callow youth with just a single comment. He had been a careless guardian with little interest in Benedict, who had been a mere eight years old when he was orphaned. As Benedict had matured and developed more understanding of the world, Malcolm’s behaviour and reputation had caused him nothing but shame. Now, although he found it hard to feel any sorrow at Malcolm’s imminent death, he could not help but pity the man his suffering.

‘I dressed for dinner before visiting you tonight.’ The lie slid smoothly off Benedict’s tongue. He kept forgetting that, although Malcolm’s body had betrayed him, his mind was a sharp as ever.

‘Has that harlot gone?’

‘Harlot?’

‘The Brierley woman. She’s no business here... I told her... Fletcher? Has she gone?’

Fletcher glanced at Benedict, who gave a slight nod of his head. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said. ‘She left the house straight after she saw you.’

‘Good. Good riddance. Have nothing to do with her, you hear, boy?’

Benedict bit back his irritation at being addressed in such a way. He was a successful businessman. Yes, he was Sir Malcolm’s heir and would inherit both the baronetcy and Tenterfield, but he had no need of the man’s support or wealth. Not any longer. He was his own man.

It was strange to think he would soon be master of Tenterfield. When he had arrived a week ago, he had gazed up at the red-brick Jacobean manor house with a sense of disbelief that, soon, this place of so many memories would be his. He already felt the pride of ownership and had vowed to restore both its reputation and that of the Poole family name after the years of damage caused by Sir Malcolm’s disgrace.

‘I have no intention of having anything to do with her, you can rest assured on that,’ Benedict said. Then, curious, he asked, ‘What do you have against her? I thought Brierley was a friend of yours.’

‘That’s got nothing to do with it. I saw what her fickle behaviour did to you. She’s not to be trusted.’

Benedict felt his eyes narrow. Now Malcolm cared about his feelings? Or perhaps he knew more about Brierley’s marriage than he was saying. Had Harriet played Brierley false, too? He shoved his chair back and stood up.

‘You should rest,’ he said. ‘I will see you in the morning.’

He went downstairs, Harriet and the evening to come playing on his mind and churning his gut.

Chapter Three

Crabtree appeared, seemingly from nowhere, to open the drawing room doors for Benedict.

‘Has Lady Brierley come downstairs yet?’ Benedict asked the butler.

‘Not yet, sir.’

Benedict was conscious of a sweep of relief. At least they would not have to make small talk before their meal—that would be strained enough, he was sure.

‘Please impress upon the rest of the staff that they must not reveal the presence of either Lady Brierley or her maid to Sir Malcolm,’ he said. ‘It will only agitate him to no purpose.’

‘Indeed I will, sir.’ Crabtree bowed.

Benedict entered the room to await his dinner guest. Moodily, he poked at the coals in the grate, stirring them to life, pondering this spectre from a past he had long put behind him. He had been caught on the back foot—his feelings tossed and tumbled like a ship caught in a squall. Surely his reaction to Harriet was merely shock and, like a squall, it would soon pass. After all, what was she to him? She was just somebody he used to know a long time ago, when she was a girl. She must be all of seven and twenty by now, by God. Her betrayal—her marriage to Brierley—was ancient history. He was confident he would soon recover his equilibrium, and then he could treat her with the same detached courtesy he would employ towards any unexpected guest. Perhaps he should look upon this unexpected trial in the light of a rehearsal—an opportunity to put their past into some sort of reasonable perspective. In the future, should he happen to see her around town, maybe he could remember their shared past with dispassion and not with this angry bitterness that was eating away inside him.

Voices from outside the door roused him from his thoughts. He turned as Harriet entered the room, his breath catching in his throat at her stunning beauty. She wore an elegant lilac gown that accentuated the violet of her eyes and the fullness of her breasts, despite the neckline not swooping as low as some of the more daring fashions Benedict had seen. Her blonde hair was pinned into a smooth chignon, exposing the creamy skin of her neck and décolletage.

Battening down his visceral reaction, Benedict bowed.

‘Good evening, Mr Poole.’

He straightened. Her gaze was both cool and distant, stoking his resentment. The grand society lady: graciously poised and certain of her superiority regardless of the circumstances. Had she forgotten her humble beginnings?

‘Good evening, my lady.’ His voice was smooth and assured—a stark contrast with his inner turmoil. ‘I trust your bedchamber meets with your approval?’

‘Thank you, it does indeed.’

The door opened again, and Crabtree announced that dinner was served. Benedict gestured for Harriet to precede him to the dining room.

‘How is your maid?’ Benedict asked, once they were seated and the food had been served. ‘Janet, is it not?’

‘Janet, yes,’ Harriet said. ‘I’m afraid her ankle is broken. Dr Green has set the bone and seems optimistic it will heal well. I do hope that is true and she does not end up with pain or a limp. Her back is very painful, too—the doctor cupped her and will examine her again tomorrow, when he visits Sir Malcolm. He did warn me, however, that she should remain in bed until the bruising comes out and he can see if there is any further damage to her back.’

‘How long is that likely to take?’

A faint crease appeared between her brows. ‘He did not say. A few days at the least, I should imagine, so I am afraid I shall have to impose on your hospitality a little longer.’

A few days? With her as a house guest? Benedict clenched his teeth against a sudden urge to laugh. What a fool! He was aware Harriet lived in London and since his return to England from India, he had taken care to avoid any risk of bumping into her. His efforts had been in vain; fate, it would appear, did not like to be thwarted.

‘She may stay as long as proves necessary,’ he said with a shrug of indifference, determined to give her no reason to suspect he could care less how long she stayed.

Harriet studied him for a long moment as she sipped her wine. She then put her glass down and leaned forward, trapping his gaze.

‘In order there is no misunderstanding between us, sir, I should clarify that I will not leave Janet here alone. I intend to remain with her until she is fit enough to travel to Brierley Place. It is only eight miles away, and she can remain there until she is able to undertake the journey to London.’

‘As you wish,’ Benedict said. ‘Heaven forfend your maid should be forced to undergo the privations of recuperating in these miserable surroundings.’

A flush lit Harriet’s cheeks. ‘The point is that she will be happier surrounded by people she knows,’ she said. ‘And I shall not hesitate to leave her there whilst I return to London.’

‘Your maid will be perfectly safe here without your protection,’ Benedict said, smarting at yet another reminder of the past scandals that had tainted both Tenterfield and the Poole name. It would take time to restore the reputation of both but he was determined to do so, and the sooner the better.

Harriet’s words prompted another thought: he had forgotten Brierley Place was quite so near. ‘I wonder, though, that you did not plan to stay with your family at Brierley Place, rather than at a public inn, after your visit to my cousin. Why?’

Her gaze lowered. ‘I wish to return to London as soon as possible, and if I stayed with my stepson and his family they would expect more than an overnight visit.’

Her hand rose to her neck, and she began to twirl a lock of hair that curled loose by her ear. That achingly familiar habit catapulted Benedict back in time. She was hiding something. It was the first reminder of the girl he’d once known. He studied her, wondering what currents were masked by that calm, ladylike exterior of hers.

‘Besides,’ she continued, ‘my stepson is always up and down to London in his carriage. He will return Janet to me as soon as she is well. The carriage will be far more comfortable for her than a hired chaise.’

‘Indeed it will,’ Benedict said, ‘and, with that in mind, I shall arrange to pay off your post boys in the morning.’

‘Thank you. I shall, of course, reimburse you.’

‘Of course,’ he agreed smoothly. ‘And, when you are ready to leave, I shall put my carriage at your disposal.’

Her brows rose. ‘Your carriage? Do you not mean Sir Malcolm’s?’

Benedict’s anger flared in response to that challenge but he battled the urge to vent his feelings, telling himself that anger came from caring, and he did not care.

‘I am not so devoid of feeling as to step into my kinsman’s shoes whilst he is still alive,’ he said, careful to keep his tone neutral. ‘I have my own carriage. It is the use of that I offer to you.’

A delicate flush swept up from her chest to tint her cheeks as she turned her attention to her food. ‘Of course. I apologise. I should not have cast such aspersions.’

The conversation faltered, and the silence accentuated the lonely wail of the wind outside. The windows rattled with every gust, the wind forcing its way through the gaps in the frames to cause the red velvet curtains to billow into the room from time to time.

‘How long have you been here, at Tenterfield?’

Benedict finished chewing and swallowed his food before answering, ‘A week. My cousin’s solicitor sent for me on the doctor’s advice.’

‘So there is no hope of a cure?’

‘None.’

He read sympathy in those glorious eyes of hers. He had no need of it. She, of all people, should know he had no fondness for Malcolm. He would be no loss to humanity and Benedict would not pretend a grief he did not feel. His predominant emotion was impatience to return to London. His business—importing goods from the Far East—needed his attention and he had matters to discuss with his partner, Matthew Damerel, who was due back in town again shortly.

They finished eating and Benedict stood, saying, ‘Serve the brandy in the drawing room, will you please, Crabtree?’ He caught Harriet’s eye and added, ‘Would you care to join me?’

‘Thank you.’ She rose elegantly to her feet. ‘I shall wait for the tea tray and then I shall retire. It has been a somewhat exhausting day.’

Benedict had not proffered his arm to Harriet before dinner but now, mellowed by wine and bolstered by the certainty that he was in control of his temper, he waited for Harriet to round the table and reach him, then crooked his arm. She halted, her gaze fixed on his arm, then raised her eyes to his. She seemed about to speak, but then merely laid her gloved hand on his sleeve and allowed him to lead her from the room.

Every muscle in his arm tensed, even though her touch was feather-light. Her scent, sophisticated, floral and quintessentially feminine, assailed his nostrils and he found himself swallowing hard, trying to ignore the unaccustomed flutter of nerves in his belly. He gritted his teeth. He was a grown man, for God’s sake. This ridiculous reaction meant nothing; it was merely the spectre of the past playing games with him. Maybe he should take advantage of the circumstances that had thrown them together like this. Lay her and those ghosts at the same time.

‘Would you care for a glass of brandy?’ he enquired when Cooper, the footman, followed them into the drawing room carrying a silver salver, complete with decanter and two glasses.

‘Thank you, but I have no taste for spirits. A cup of tea will suffice.’

Cooper handed a glass of brandy to Benedict, then bowed to Harriet. ‘I will hurry the maid along with the tea tray, milady.’

She smiled at him. ‘Thank you.’ She settled on the sofa opposite the hearth and Benedict noticed her shiver.

‘Are you cold?’ He poked the fire, which had recently been refuelled and was therefore not emitting much heat.

‘Not really. It is the sound of that wind.’ When he turned to look at her, she was staring towards the window, one hand playing with the pearls at her neck. ‘I had forgotten, living in London, quite how desolate it can sound. Like a lost soul, crying into the void.’

‘Like a lost soul?’

She started, and then laughed a little self-consciously. ‘Oh! I do beg your pardon. I had quite forgot...that is...’ Her voice tailed away and her cheeks bloomed pink as her lips quirked in a wry smile. ‘I did not mean to spout such poetical nonsense. Please do forgive me.’

‘There is nothing to forgive. I confess there have been times, usually aboard ship, when the wind has conjured many superstitious imaginings in my own mind. I generally avoided voicing them out loud, however, for fear I might be thought to run mad.’

She laughed, a genuine laugh this time. ‘Goodness, sir. You put me quite out of countenance. You imply that I might be thought mad.’

Not mad, but bad. Why did you deceive me, Harriet?

The words pummelled his brain and battered at his tightly closed lips. It was a question to which he had long yearned for an answer. But he would never ask. What would be the point? She could mouth all the excuses in the world but she could never deny the truth. She simply had not loved him enough. She had broken her pledge of love for the promise of status and riches.