Page 76 of Love in the Time of Scandal
“Only every chance that arose,” was the wry reply. “The army looks the other way—in fact, they might even prefer that men find their own supplies.”
“But what about finer things? Jewels, coin, valuables...?”
“And paintings?” Sebastian finished when he didn’t say it. “By the officers, certainly. Enlisted men had no way to carry much, but officers could ship baggage at will.”
Benedict nodded. He didn’t want to know more. The war had been over for a few years, but that didn’t mean much. Napoleon’s armies had relocated vast quantities of priceless art from all across the Continent; Stratford had spoken with distaste of the public exhibition of looted treasures in Paris. Even though the Duke of Wellington had ordered stolen artworks returned, it was a monumental task. If even some of that art had fallen into private hands... or slippery government hands... Benedict doubted his father would have any qualms in acquiring it through any means possible. When Lord Stratford wanted something, he was rarely denied. But smuggling?
He led the way back into the sunshine, dousing the lantern. What was he to do? A few broken crates and discarded straw proved nothing. Benedict knew little about where Stratford’s art came from; he’d never taken much interest in it, even before he was forbidden to see it. Even if he wanted to accuse his father, whom would he report it to? Stratford might be the coldest man in England, but he knew the value of alliances and connections.
“What will you do?”
He started at Sebastian’s question, asked so neutrally. “What can I do? What do a few broken crates prove? I don’t wish to protect him, or ignore any wrong he’s done,” he hastened to add, “but this is only suspicion, and I dare not act without proof.” He grimaced; hadn’t those been nearly the same words he used to excuse saying nothing on Sebastian’s behalf years ago? “But if one were ever to spy a craft landing here, and discover what it left...”
His companion got a knowing look. “I daresay Mr. Weston wouldn’t oppose a sentry or two on his property.” He raised one hand and pointed. “The boundary is only there, around that curve.”
A dark smile split his face. “Let’s go see how good the view is.”
They had made it a good distance along the waterfront when Boris began barking, and someone hailed them from the river. A longboat was gliding past, dragging the oars to slow its progress. Sebastian hushed his dog again and raised one hand, and the boat pulled nearer. Benedict stepped forward to see better, and the servant in the boat exclaimed aloud. “My lord!” He stood up in the prow and waved his arm so vigorously, the boat almost overturned.
“I knew they’d be out looking for you,” murmured Sebastian. “The heir to an earldom doesn’t just wash away.”
Benedict’s mouth firmed. He didn’t give a damn about the earldom. If nothing else, Stratford’s reaction to Penelope’s possible murder had hardened his heart until no trace of weakness remained, dutiful or fearful or otherwise. “Yes,” he replied coolly as the boat plowed ashore and the servant leapt out to splash toward him. “Here I am.”
“My lord.” The man gulped for breath. It was Geoffrey from the stables, Benedict realized. “Thank heaven, sir. We’ve been searching since dawn. Her ladyship will be overjoyed that we found you...”
Benedict ignored the mention of his mother’s worry. “My wife and I were very fortunate to make it to land. You may tell the earl he shall remain disappointed.” He turned away, intending that cryptic reply to be his final message to Stratford.
“But my lord,” Geoffrey exclaimed. “I can’t.”
“If he sacks you, you have a position with my household,” said Benedict without looking back.
“No, sir. I mean your father is dead. You are the earl.”
Benedict froze. Sebastian inhaled sharply. “What?”
Geoffrey bobbed his head, as did the two men at the oars of the boat. “His lordship your father suffered a fatal attack last night. He expired shortly after he reached Stratford Court, sir. Her ladyship your mother sent every servant in the house to search for you and Lady Atherton—that is, the new countess—as soon as it was light.” He hesitated, then added, “My sympathies, my lord.”
Benedict glanced toward Sebastian, who looked as dumbfounded as he felt. Dead? But that was incredible; just yesterday his father had been as hale as ever. It flickered through his mind that it might be a lie, that Geoffrey had been told to say whatever it took to get him to return to Stratford Court, but it was incredible that Stratford would speak such heresy.
“Will you come with us?” Geoffrey asked again.
He roused himself with a start. “No. You may tell my mother Lady Atherton and I are at Montrose Hill House.” He didn’t want to go near Stratford Court yet. Surely the news about his father was a mistake of some sort.
But it was not.
Less than an hour after he and Sebastian returned to the house, a carriage rattled up the drive. Before the groom could dismount and open the door, the Countess of Stratford threw herself out. Benedict scarcely recognized her. Her hair was a disheveled mess, she wore a plain morning dress, and her cloak was in danger of falling off altogether. She stared wildly about. “Benedict—oh, Ben!”
“Mother.” He strode from the house and caught her as she flung herself at him. “I’m here.”
“They told me you drowned,” she wept. “You and your bride both. They said you had been swept over the side of the yacht and vanished from sight!”
“We are both alive.” He set her back. “But what’s this about Father? Geoffrey said...”
She nodded. Her face was flushed and her eyes glittered as if with fever. It was the least composed he had ever seen her. “He suffered an apoplexy while still aboard the yacht. As soon asDianareached dock, he was rushed to the house, but never regained consciousness. He expired before midnight; the doctor said it was his heart. There was nothing anyone could do for him.” She touched his face, almost disbelieving. “Lord Clary said he turned white and clutched his chest when he discovered you had been swept overboard, and collapsed in a fit. He died thinking you were lost.”
“Clary?” Benedict asked sharply. “Is he at Stratford Court?”
“No, he left for London early this morning.”
