In the Arms of a Marquess(66)

Ben allowed a moment’s pause.

“I appreciate your concern, my lady. I am a great admirer of forthright speech.”

“That is perfectly obvious to me.” Her eyes glinted.

“I admit I had not previously considered the matter so urgent, nor so mysterious.”

“Well, you will now. I had an interesting conversation with Abel Gosworth while at your country place, and discovered I’m not the only one who’s got the notion that fire was no accident.”

“Madam?”

“When the Tories pushed that bill through Parliament to put the Company in the hands of men who didn’t know a damn thing about the East Indies, your father was spanking mad to overturn it.”

“He believed the men best suited to controlling trade in the East were those who understood and worked hand in hand with the natives.” Natives like Ben’s uncle, who prized the back-and-forth sharing of cultures and married his sister to an Englishman, who did too.

The dowager’s lips pursed. “I can see you don’t believe me.”

“Assassination is a heavy accusation, my lady. And, of course, my brother died as well in that fire. In matters of politics he was quite unlike my father.”

“Jack didn’t care a thing about Parliament, you mean. But others did, and that fire did not light itself. You haven’t time to lose. That poor girl is on the edge of hysteria.” She bustled away. “Now, come have something to eat,” she threw over a shoulder draped with filmy purple fabric. “Your complexion is sallow and you are considerably more handsome when you have some color in you. One must maintain appearances, after all, even when one is pining away.”

Ben could not help but laugh. The unfamiliar sensation in his chest brought quick memory of the last time he had laughed, chasing after a beautiful woman in the midst of a thunderstorm, the rain washing away every doubt. Everything but the moment.

But Lady Fitzwarren’s words spiked a disquiet he had ignored far too long. For Constance’s sake he must now address it.

He strode toward the foyer. His hostess would not mind his abrupt departure, and he’d had enough tonight of the decadent torture of watching Octavia across a room and not being able to touch her. Her eyes had told him that her words were sincere. He had no doubt she despised lying, and he would not ask her to do so again. He was through with lies, through with subterfuge and mistrust. Tomorrow he would see her and try to discover if she was too.

Ben read through records at his house late into the night, then rose before dawn and rode to the docks. The sound of the Thames lapping at the wharf met him beyond the dock walls, and he knew the water would be black beneath shining gas lamps.

Despite Creighton’s dedication to his work, his secretary never appeared before the sun. Ben let himself into the office on the second story of a building across from the gated entrance to the docks, and struck a flint to light a lamp. Then he unlocked a cabinet drawer and pulled forth a file. An hour later Creighton appeared, the gray of morning outlining him in the door frame.

Ben nodded a greeting. “Where is the ledger with the inventory taken of the hunting box after the fire?”

Creighton’s stony face opened. Ben waited through his secretary’s momentary astonishment with a patience he did not feel. He’d gone through every document relating to the incident, and, just as years ago, nothing suggested any mystery. The place had burned when a lit coal went astray from a grate when all were asleep. Any suspicions were unfounded. He was on a wild goose chase.

“I beg your pardon, my lord. It is still at the cottage. I considered it best left on the premises in case you should find use for it while there.”

Ben stuffed the papers into the file.

“I will ride down there now. Send a message to Samuel to meet me at the inn with a bag. I do not need my valet. I will be gone only overnight.” He went to the door and paused. “When is the Eastern Promise scheduled to sail?”

“A week Tuesday, sir.”

“I have not forgotten about her peculiar cache.”

“Of course you have not, my lord.” Creighton sounded offended.

“Have the former quartermaster’s report ready for me when I return. And look into a sailor named Sheeble, his business and close associates.”

“Yes, sir.”

Ben took the southeastern road toward Canterbury, but far before reaching it turned south into the woodland in the direction of Hastings, coming to his property swiftly. The modest pieces of land he owned in England all clustered about the same locale. Except for his father, the previous lords of Doreé had never strayed far from London or Paris.

He stabled his horse at the inn, greeting the tepid welcome of the locals with few words and plenty of coin. They resented him. Jack had been their favorite. In the months before the fire, he had spent all of his time at the lodge, moving in there permanently after Arthur’s death. Jack had told him with a laugh of defeat that since he’d restored Fellsbourne, the lodge felt more like home—more like someplace Arthur had lived. Ben had agreed.

Then the hunting box burned, and Ben hadn’t anyplace left that reminded him of either brother. His renovation of the house in Cavendish Square had as much to do with recapturing a sense of his half brothers’ presence there as erasing his father’s obsession with a land to which he never wished to return.

At the time, he hadn’t any idea that eschewing India had everything to do with the woman he left there against his will. His anger and resentment had boiled far too thick to see that clearly. He hadn’t seen clearly again until he looked upon her smile once more.