Page 18 of To Defend a Damaged Duke
Chapter Ten
THE PLAIN SHEETof good quality foolscap was buried amongst the rest of his morning missives, unsealed and neatly folded into four.It had been hand delivered, according to the duke’s butler, by a boy paid thruppence for his efforts.If the lack of blots and errors were any indication, it was meticulously composed, the list of names in block letters, orderly and legible.As far as his trembling mind could recall, they were the same names Tommy had recited, a register of pilloried mollies, except with the addition of a handful more tacked onto the bottom.One of which, with the courtesy title bestowed on him by his father, stood out more boldly than the rest.BENEDICT FITZSIMMONS,MARQUESS OF ROCKBOURNE.Ever since reading it, a skittish ball of panic had taken root in his chest, ready to take over at the slightest provocation.
And now Benedict had to pretend, being a duke and everything, that all was well.
He rolled his shoulders, letting out a slow breath as he steered his focus back to the present.He could have sorely done without this trip to Tattersall’s and had nearly cried off.But the viewing was one he’d looked forward to, and he’d even persuaded Francis to accompany him.Benedict had his eye on a two-year-old gelding from good French stock, which he hoped might take his brother’s mind off his lovesick woes.And if Benedict stayed another second inside his house, after his miserable encounter with Tommy, he might go insane.
The chilling discovery at breakfast had merely been the icing on the cake.
Deep in conversation with one of Tattersall’s men, Francis ran a hand down the gelding’s withers, while across the yard from him, Benedict had been cornered by Joe Jonas, his head groom.The man’s commentary on yesterday’s race was in full flow.And yet, Jonas’s words hardly registered, streaming through Benedict and out the other side in a jumble of vowels and consonants as if his cranium were as insubstantial as gossamer.Ganymede had lost again, was the gist, and he’d finished outside the placing.In his defence, the field had been strong, and the duke’s jockey off-colour.Feeling decidedly off-colour himself since prising open this morning’s correspondence, Benedict empathised.Nodding every few seconds, he tipped his head on one side, his finger and thumb pinching his lower lip, the very image of a man paying close attention.
“Ashington!”
Like a clashing of cymbals, Benedict’s name rang in his ears.He jerked around, heart thumping fit to burst, only to find Rossingley leaning against a pillar and smiling warmly at him.
“Gadzooks, my friend.Sorry awfully for making you jump.”
Benedict breathed a sigh of relief.“Rossingley, good morning to you.”He mopped at the fine sheen of sweat gathered on his brow, dismissing Jonas with a grateful nod.
“Are you quite all right?”Rossingley enquired.“Is that excellent gelding proving too rich even for your purse?”
“Um…what?”
Something in Benedict’s countenance bothered the earl sufficiently for him to prowl over and regard him properly.“I have been trying to garner your attention for a good minute or more, Ashington.You were knee-deep in the far-flung corners of your mind.”Rossingley looked worriedly up into Benedict’s face.“They can be lonely places.”
The unexpected concern in the earl’s extraordinary silvery gaze had Benedict making quite a performance of folding away his pocket square.He swallowed rapidly.“I’m…yes.”
“Then let us not dally here,” suggested the earl brightly.“No one will dare bid on that gelding at auction tomorrow, not once word of your interest gets around.”He cast his gaze up at the clear, pale blue sky.“And, for once, the rain gods are smiling upon us.Join me in my curricle for a spin around the park.I came here looking for an animal suitable as a gift for my Mr Angel, but so far, nothing of interest has caught my eye.”He gave a curious smile.“Except you, my dear.”
Expertly guided by their master, Rossingley’s handsome pair of greys led them into Hyde Park at a brisk trot.A gentle breeze frolicked through the trees, carrying with it an uneasy promise of more rain later.But, for now, the skies remained cloudless, and the cool air cleansed Benedict’s mind somewhat.MyMr Angel.A peculiar turn of phrase, bolstering everything Benedict already suspected about the man.A man who had never shown him anything but kindness.And at that moment, Benedict was desperately in need of some.
“I fear I’m on the cusp of being blackmailed,” he blurted as they entered a straight section of path devoid of other carriages.“For a scrape I found myself embroiled in over a decade ago.And I haven’t the faintest idea how to proceed.”
The curricle jolted over a pothole, sending his roiling belly up into his throat.If he’d read Rossingley wrongly, spilling to him would make matters tenfold worse, not better.Someone else would be in possession of his greatest secret.Tommy knew it, Benedict’s unknown tormentor knew it, and now Benedict was about share his burden with a person he greatly admired but, when all was said and done, hardly knew.
“Are you…are you aware, Rossingley, of a fresh scandal brewing regarding a raid on a bawdy house known as the White Hart?”Eyes fixed directly ahead, Benedict felt himself withering inside but determined to get to the end.“Back in 1813.Do you know to which…which particular type of raid I’m referring?”
“Ah.”Rossingley nodded.“Yes, I see.You’re in the devil’s own sort of scrape.”
Nothing more needed to be said.It was all there in the simple questions Benedict already regretted having posed and Rossingley’s tactful acknowledgement.He extracted his damp pocket square once more, not sure whether to use it to mop his face or catch his breakfast when it reappeared.
Rossingley didn’t say anything straightaway.In fact, except for a tightening of his hands on the reins to slow the horses a fraction, one would be forgiven for thinking he’d already dismissed the matter from his mind.Benedict shot him a quick, sidelong glance.In haughty profile, the earl possessed a chiselled, chilling beauty, and Benedict concentrated on it, trying to keep his breathing under control as he awaited his response.If Rossingley denied further knowledge of either the raid or the current gossipmongering, Benedict would make his excuses then beg him to forget he ever mentioned it.
“I know more about the White Hart than you might imagine,” Rossingley volunteered.
On the receiving end of the full scrutiny of that silvery gaze, Benedict tried not to squirm.Rossingley inclined his head a touch as if everything was suddenly very clear to him.
“I always wondered if you were of the same persuasion as myself.”Rossingley paused a beat, flashing his small pointy teeth.“And now I know.”With a click of his tongue, the horses picked up speed.“Good to have you on board, Your Grace.How may I be of assistance?”
As several of the knots in Benedict’s chest untangled, he exhaled with relief.“God knows if you can.If anybody can.My family name and that of my brother, Francis, who wishes above everything else to marry Lady Isabella Knightley, will be in tatters when it gets out.And my poor mother, though she spends most of the year living in the dower house on the Ashington estate, should not have to hear from idle gossips of her son and heir’s—”
“The beginning, I think, my dear Ashington,” cut in Rossingley.“Though from the tremble of your hands, may I surmise that your name is on this godforsaken list rumoured to be blast across thetonany day now?”
“Yes,” breathed Benedict, clutching his pocket square tight enough to wring all the dampness from it.“I received a copy of the list amongst my morning correspondence.My name is there, on a neat sheet of foolscap in stark block letters.Amongst the…ah employees of the establishment and one or two other chaps whose names are unfamiliar to me.Surely, it is only a matter of time before the blackmail follows.”
“Do you know of any enemies?Anyone who wishes to see you or your family ruined?One of the mollies, for instance?”
“No!”Benedict’s brow furrowed.“Um…there is one person on the list—one of the… employees, who—good God, this is hellishly awkward—with whom I shared…”
