Читать книгу Regency Affairs Part 1: Books 1-6 Of 12 - Кэрол Мортимер, Кэрол Мортимер - Страница 43

‘I am sorry for disturbing you, your Grace.’ Jenkins sounded slightly put out himself some ten or fifteen minutes later as he spoke to them from the hallway outside the closed and locked door to Genevieve’s bedchamber. ‘But his lordship’s godfather, the Earl of Dartmouth, is here and is most insistent upon seeing him.’

‘Damn it to hell!’ Benedict muttered as Genevieve began to stir in his arms as she lay snuggled next to his uninjured side.

‘Just a moment, Jenkins!’ she called out huskily as she glanced up at Benedict teasingly. ‘Lord Cargill only wishes to assure himself of your well-being, I am sure.’

Benedict scowled. ‘Then he should have waited until morning and called at a decent time. Unless, of course,’ he added slowly, ‘he has urgent news regarding the whereabouts of the two servants from my parents’ estate.’

Genevieve’s eyes widened. ‘You spoke with Lord Cargill on the subject?’

‘Six days ago, before I visited William Forster,’ Benedict answered, still distractedly.

‘I realise that Lord Cargill is your godfather, but I had not realised your friendship was such a close one that you confided such personal matters to him.’ She looked at him expectantly.

‘He is so much more than that, love.’ Benedict gave a rueful grimace. ‘But until I have spoken to Lord Cargill, and received his permission, I am afraid I am unable confide any more of that situation to you.’

‘That all sounds very mysterious …’

He made a face. ‘Tedious, as it happens, love, very tedious. But, nevertheless, it is not just my secret to tell.’

‘Then I will ask no more on the subject,’ she assured briskly.

‘Would you mind very much, love, if Jenkins were to bring my godfather up here?’ Benedict gave a self-derisive grimace as he attempted to sit up and failed. ‘I am afraid our lovemaking has fatigued me more than I had thought.’

‘Of course you must speak to him here.’ Genevieve threw back the bedcovers before standing up to collect and pull on her robe. ‘I will instruct Jenkins to bring him up to you immediately and then go through to my adjoining dressing room.’

Benedict gave her a lazy smile. ‘Have I remarked recently on what a beautiful woman you are?’

Genevieve chuckled softly as she bent to brush her lips lightly against his. ‘You may have mentioned it once or twice this evening.’

‘Only once or twice?’ He gave a shake of his head. ‘Then I shall tell you so again, or more preferably show you, as soon as Dartmouth has departed,’ he promised huskily.

Genevieve touched his cheek lightly. ‘I believe you may already have exerted yourself enough for one evening, Benedict.’

He reached up to clasp her hand in his, the darkness of his gaze compelling as he looked up at her. ‘We have much to talk about, to discuss, Genevieve, and I promise we will do so as soon as my godfather has gone.’

‘I believe I should like that,’ she assured him.

‘As shall I.’ He nodded.

Genevieve straightened slowly. ‘I will be in the next room if you should need me.’

Benedict released her hand reluctantly. ‘The sooner I have spoken to Dartmouth then the sooner the two of us may talk together. And, Genevieve …?’ He halted her as she crossed to the door leading out into the hallway. ‘Thank you,’ he added huskily.

Her brows rose. ‘For what?’

‘My life, for one thing.’

She gave a shake of her head. ‘Any one of your friends would have done the same as I.’

He eyed her quizzically. ‘And is that what you are, Genevieve, my friend?’

‘Amongst other things,’ she said softly.

Benedict nodded. ‘And it is those “other things” I wish to discuss with you as soon as we can be alone again.’

Genevieve’s breath caught in her throat and her heart gave a leap in her chest at the warmth of emotion she saw in the darkness of Benedict’s eyes. At the same time as an inner voice warned her not to read too much into Benedict’s words or his expression; he was newly recovered from a fever resulting from the bullet wound in his side and the two of them had just made love together—was it any wonder that he was feeling somewhat emotional?

Her gaze dropped from meeting his in case he should see the love she felt for him shining there. ‘Perhaps we should wait for any further conversation until you are feeling better?’

His eyes narrowed. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Exactly as it sounds.’ She shrugged the slenderness of her shoulders. ‘I am sure that your health will now improve by leaps and bounds, but until it does we should perhaps also refrain from any further … exertion.’

Benedict scowled darkly. ‘I do not at all like the sound of that.’

She smiled ruefully. ‘You are a gentleman far too fond of having his own way!’

He nodded tersely. ‘Something I have every intention of reminding you of the moment Dartmouth has departed.’

Genevieve was still smiling slightly as she unlocked the door and gave the apologetic Jenkins his instructions in regard to Lord Cargill, the smile only fading from her lips once she had gone through to the adjoining dressing room and closed the door behind her.

She loved and was in love with Benedict so much that she could not now imagine her life without him in it. Without the wonder of the lovemaking they had so recently shared. And which she longed to share with him again. And again.

But she did not want Benedict to mistake the gratitude he now felt towards her for anything other than what it was, could not bear it if he were to imagine it was more than that, only to realise in a matter of days, or possibly weeks, that he was bored with her and by her, and wished to end the relationship.

She wanted him to be fully recovered before the two of them spoke so intimately again …

‘I am hoping you have information in regard to the two servants who left my parents’ estate.’ Benedict spoke tersely to his godfather in his impatience to be alone again with Genevieve, chafing at even this brief interruption to their intimacy for whatever reason. Which, considering his parents’ death had been the driving force behind his every action this past ten years, was telling indeed …

Eric Cargill smiled wryly as he eyed Benedict from the doorway of the bedchamber. ‘Could I not just have been anxious to see for myself that you are recovering?’

Benedict gave an uninterested shrug. ‘I have received a bullet wound before now.’

‘So you have.’ His godfather closed the door softly behind him before walking further into the bedchamber. ‘What I should like to know is how you managed to prevent this one from being fatal?’

Benedict blinked. ‘You sound disappointed that it was not?’

‘Not at all,’ the older man assured him jovially. ‘After all, a relapse of your condition will be just as easily explained and accepted, I am sure.’

Benedict became very still beneath the bedcovers. ‘Explained to and accepted by whom?’

‘Any of your friends who are interested enough to ask.’ The earl looked calmly about the bedchamber, his top lip curling with distaste as he saw the evidence of Genevieve’s bathtub beside the fire and the damp towels that she had allowed to fall to the floor. ‘No doubt the solicitous Duchess of Woollerton will now be amongst that select few?’

All of Benedict’s senses were on the alert now as a dreadful—an unbelievable!—truth began to assail him. A truth he found so unacceptable that every part of him screamed out in denial. ‘Genevieve has been kind enough to nurse me herself these past six days and nights, yes.’

The earl gave him a knowing glance. ‘I believe we both know she has done more than nurse you this evening.’

Benedict’s jaw tightened. ‘I advise that you desist from making any further personal remarks in regard to Genevieve!’

‘Like that, is it?’ The older man eyed him derisively. ‘She is a pretty little thing, I give you that.’ His expression hardened. ‘But far too intelligent than is good for either herself or you, I am afraid.’

The cold knot that had been forming in Benedict’s chest now turned to one of ice. ‘Whatever your business is with me, it does not involve Genevieve.’

All pretence of joviality left Dartmouth’s expression. ‘She became involved the moment she decided to interfere in something which does not concern her.’

Benedict’s stillness was now one of readiness rather than surprise or shock. ‘You are referring to her suspicions in regard to those two servants who left my father’s estate so soon after the murders?’

The earl gave a weary sigh as he nodded. ‘As I said, intelligent as well as beautiful. An unfortunate combination in this instance.’

Benedict looked at his godfather as if for the first time, seeing past the jovial exterior he usually presented to society, the quietly steady man of politics he presented to the House, or the briskly efficient spymaster he had secretly been for the Crown for so many years.

‘What happened to them?’ he pressed softly.

Cargill shrugged. ‘It was as your lady no doubt suspected: they are both dead.’

‘You killed them?’

The older man gave an inclination of his head. ‘I arranged for them to die, yes.’

‘Why?’ Benedict demanded harshly.

‘Why did I arrange to have the servants killed? Or why did I kill your parents?’ the older man prompted mildly.

Benedict’s stomach dropped as his worst fear was realised. ‘Did you kill my parents?’

‘Of course,’ Dartmouth confirmed unconcernedly.

Benedict’s jaw was clenched so tightly he could barely speak. ‘Then I wish you to answer both those questions.’

The earl shrugged. ‘Unfortunately, from something I let slip in conversation, your father realised that I had been a double agent all those years and decided to confront me with it when I rode over from my own estate to see him one day that summer. The two servants?’ He grimaced. ‘They both knew that I had visited your father that day and I could not take the risk that a bribe would suffice in preventing them from mentioning it to you or anyone else.’

The ice in Benedict’s chest began to melt and be replaced by a fury that was as hot as it was deadly. ‘You killed four innocent people in order to hide your own treasonous activities?’

‘You will be the fifth.’ Dartmouth nodded. ‘And your little duchess will be the sixth.’

Benedict’s eyes widened. ‘You have absolutely no reason to harm Genevieve!’

‘Her intelligence, whilst commendable, is also her undoing, I am afraid. As such, I am sure it will not take her long, once she has recovered a little from the shock of your own sudden demise, to add two and two together and find the appropriate answer of four.’

Benedict’s hands clenched into fists above the bedcovers. ‘You murdering, treasonous bastard!’ He still found it difficult to believe that this man, his godfather, and his father’s longest and closest friend, had not only killed him but also his wife, along with two of their servants. And that he now intended to kill Benedict, and later Genevieve … ‘Why?’ he demanded again. ‘You are as English as I, so why would you do such a thing?’

The earl looked bored by the conversation. ‘My mother, however, was French. As for the other reasons for my actions? Our king is insane, and our Prince Regent—why, the man is nothing but a profligate and a womaniser!’

‘And those are your reasons?’ Benedict stared at the other man incredulously. ‘You killed your closest friend, his wife, and two of their servants, because Prinny is extravagant and adulterous?’

‘As I have said, my mother is also French and my allegiance lies with that country and its true ruler.’

‘Bonaparte?’ Benedict spat out the name disdainfully.

‘Exactly.’

Benedict gave a pained frown. ‘And does—is my Aunt Cynthia aware of your loyalties?’

‘Of course. She shares them.’

‘And condones your actions?’

The earl sighed his impatience. ‘Of course.’

All this time, all these years, the two people that Benedict had thought of as part of his family had been lying and cheating and conspiring with the enemy.

‘There has been enough talk, Benedict,’ Dartmouth bit out dismissively. ‘It grows late and I am sure your duchess is eager to return to your arms. A pity they will be cold by the time she finds you,’ he added unconcernedly.

Benedict’s chin rose. ‘And how do you intend to go about achieving that?’

‘By persuading you to drink the contents of this vial in the tumbler of water at your side.’ He held up a glass bottle he had retrieved from the pocket of his pantaloons. ‘I assure you, your death will be swift and relatively painless, and give all the appearance of a seizure of the heart following your fever.’

‘And just how do you intend persuading me into calmly drinking that concoction?’ Benedict scorned.

The earl shrugged. ‘Perhaps by promising you that I will spare your little duchess if you will drink it without further argument?’

‘A promise I have no trouble disbelieving!’

Dartmoth’s mouth tightened. ‘Then I will take care of her demise first. A slit of the wrists, perhaps, or mayhap an overdose of a sleeping draught? I am sure that none will disbelieve it if I were to let slip in the right ears how … close the two of you have become in recent weeks, and that her suicide, after discovering her lover dead, was inevitable.’

‘Why tell me these things now?’ Benedict’s eyes glittered with fury. ‘Why not just put the liquid into my drink when I was not looking and be done with it?’

‘And ruin what little fun is allowed to me?’ the earl drawled. ‘I have spent years, all of my life, hiding behind this façade, and you can have no idea of the relief, the sense of satisfaction, I find in being able to tell you the truth at last.’

‘You are insane!’ In that moment Benedict truly believed it to be the truth. This man, a man he had trusted all his life, a man his father had called friend, was nothing but a traitor to his country and a murderer of all the people Benedict held dear.

‘Do you think so?’ The other man appeared to give the suggestion some thought. ‘I prefer to think of myself as a true patriot of France.’

‘Even the French do not wish to see Bonaparte return as their ruler!’

‘Sheep,’ Dartmouth dismissed contemptuously. ‘And ones who will return to the fold once Napoleon has been put back upon his throne.’

‘Something you no doubt intend to see happen sooner rather than later?’

‘Naturally.’ The earl gave a calm inclination of his head. ‘He is a man of order. A true leader of men.’

‘And just as profligate and as much of a womaniser as Prinny!’

Dartmouth’s nostrils flared with displeasure at this criticism of his hero. ‘You are too young to appreciate the pressures of leadership and—’

‘And you, I am afraid, are as insane as Benedict has already declared you to be,’ Genevieve spoke softly from across the room.

Both men turned sharply to look at her, Benedict with a sense of dread, Dartmouth with weary resignation. A resignation that turned to a look of appreciation as he saw that Genevieve held a pistol levelled directly at his chest. ‘I am sure there is no need for bloodshed, my dear,’ he soothed gently.

A gentleness which Genevieve, having overheard Benedict’s raised voice a few minutes ago, before then listening unashamedly to much of the Earl of Dartmouth’s conversation with Benedict, did not allow him to fool her for a moment. This man, Benedict’s own godfather and friend, was responsible for killing four people.

And he had come here this evening with the intention of killing Benedict, before later killing her.

The earl was perfectly correct in assuming Genevieve would not want to live if Benedict were dead, but she had no intention of allowing him to harm so much as a single hair on the head of the man she had discovered she loved with all her heart.

‘I do not intend to shed your blood unless I am forced to do so,’ she bit out contemptuously, more grateful than she could say for the loaded pistol she had kept near her ever since the night Benedict had been shot, in fear that whoever was responsible might come back and try again. As he obviously had … ‘I would much rather see you tried and convicted for your crimes, before facing the hangman’s noose.’

‘Vengeful little wench,’ the earl murmured scathingly. ‘Unfortunately—’ a sneer curled his top lip ‘—I do not believe for one moment that you will actually pull the trigger.’

‘Why is it that bullies such as you severely underestimate what I am or am not capable of?’ Genevieve returned with all the pleasantness of a conversation taking place in her drawing room.

‘Genevieve—’

‘You have rid me of the bully from my own life, Benedict,’ she answered without so much as taking her eyes off the rotund and insane Earl of Dartmouth, ‘please allow me to do the same for you.’

In truth, Genevieve had never looked more magnificent to Benedict than she did at that moment: hair still in disarray about her shoulders, her eyes calm and steady, cheeks flushed, mouth set, body tense beneath the peach-coloured gown she now wore, with not so much as a tremble in her hands as she held the pistol pointed directly at Dartmouth’s chest. In the other man’s place, Benedict knew he would not be questioning her ability to pull the trigger!

‘My dear Duchess—’

‘Do not move so much as a muscle, Dartmouth!’ she rasped now as that gentleman would have done exactly that. ‘I should warn you that my brother, lacking in male siblings, took great delight in teaching me how to use and shoot a pistol with accuracy some years ago.’

‘The brother who took his own life—’

‘No, Genevieve!’ Benedict cried out in warning as her finger tightened on the trigger of the pistol. ‘He is merely trying to goad you into firing irrationally and then hoping to overpower you before you are able to fire off another shot. Come here to me, love,’ he encouraged as he held his hand out to her. ‘Give me the pistol and ring for Jenkins. Genevieve, please,’ he urged gently when she made no move to do as he asked.

The fierceness of Genevieve’s gaze remained fixed upon the Earl of Dartmouth for several long seconds, before the tension began to ease from her shoulders and she lowered the pistol slightly as she turned to him, which was when Dartmouth decided to make his move!

What happened next took but a few seconds, and yet it seemed to Benedict as if it all took place in excruciating slow motion.

Genevieve became aware of the earl’s step towards her almost at the moment he made it. She turned back quickly, aiming instinctively, before squeezing the trigger of the pistol. There was a brief look of surprise on Dartmouth’s face before a bloom of red spread across the front of his jacket and he began to crumble slowly to the floor.