Chapter 23

Fidgeting was terribly unladylike, but Emily could not stop her knee from bouncing restlessly the entire time Benedict was gone. It was silliness, she knew—he was headed off to have an uncomfortable conversation, not to march off to war—but she couldn't help it. She would not feel right again until he was back home where he belonged.

So she bounced and paced and squirmed, throwing decorum to the wind, not even stopping when it started to clearly make the footmen twitchy.

And she cared not a whit for propriety when, upon seeing her husband cross the threshold, she threw herself directly into his arms.

To her mild surprise, and in contrast to the reassurances he'd given her before he'd left, perhaps an hour or so earlier (though it had felt like a year to Emily's anxious mind), he clutched her with equal fervor.

When she pulled back to look at his face, she saw his heavy brows drawn down in a clear expression of distress.

"Was it so very dreadful then?" she asked quietly.

He huffed a ghost of a laugh. "It was that," he confirmed. "But let us go inside, so we can speak in comfort and in privacy."

Benedict's idea of ‘comfort and privacy' turned out to mean sitting upon the bed, Emily nestled between his outstretched legs, her back leaning heavily against his front, his arm around her waist. She had no objections to the position though she did struggle to keep her attention off the place where his manhood, evident in his well-tailored breeches, pressed nicely against the round of her backside.

That was for later, she told herself sternly. They had more important matters to deal with for now.

"So your mother did threaten him," she summarized when Benedict reached the end of his recounting. As he'd spent the entire time rubbing his thumb hypnotically against the curve of her stomach, she felt it best to place a checkpoint on her comprehension. "But after he saw the first one, read it was a threat, he started sending them back directly?"

"So I gathered," Benedict confirmed. Point one for Emily's higher mental faculties even when beguilingly tempted.

"That means the timing is correct," she mused. The scrap of paper in Priscilla's drawer hadn't been dated; they'd been relying on its depth in the drawer to suggest its age. "All of this coincides with Grace's murder."

Even after all these years, the words Grace's murder burned in her throat.

"It's damning evidence," Benedict said with a sigh.

"If she hadn't turned the thing around into violence, I'd almost feel bad for her," Emily mused. "Not that I do," she added hastily when Benedict made a strangled noise of protest. "But there was this one bit in the letter where she wrote ‘You still love me' and then crossed out the ‘still.' It's almost like she realized, no matter how deep she got into her fantasy of the thing, that he'd never loved her to begin with, so she couldn't argue that it was ongoing. It's really rather sad."

"I'd me more inclined to sympathy if she didn't hire a murderer in revenge—and strike you in the face," Benedict said acerbically.

"Well, one of those is rather different in scope than the other," Emily pointed out reasonably, "but yes, I take your point."

They sat in silence for a long, quiet moment, each seeming to understand implicitly that they needed to draw strength and comfort from the other. Benedict continued to stroke his thumb over Emily's middle, slowly moving toward her hip, the move at once soothing and arousing.

"I hate her for this," Benedict said lowly, his voice agonized. "I hate that I've only just gotten up the wherewithal to send her away, and now, I have to go back. I hate that she is the kind of person who I could even suspect of such a thing, let alone one who likely did it. I hate her for not being better when she has scarcely ever been presented with a reason to be so selfish, so conniving, so awful."

Emily turned her head, so she was nestled more firmly into the crook of his neck, and breathed in the warm, masculine scent of him.

"Will you be angry if I say I hate her, too?" she asked, her lips caressing his pulse. "I hate that she was not what you deserved, and I hate that her petty jealousy likely stole my beloved friend from me."

"No," he murmured. "I'm not angry with you. Never with you." He reached up, pressed his fingers beneath her chin, and tipped her until he could press his mouth to hers.

Emily wanted to say more, wanted to say that she, too, could not be angry with him, not any longer, wanted to say that he'd stolen her heart despite his commandments to keep it safe, wanted to ask him if there was any hope that he might come to care for her in return. Didn't it feel as though he did when he spoke to her thusly? When he kissed her thusly?

But the words were frightening, and his kiss was drugging, so Emily let her questions fall back down deep inside her, let herself be tugged away by pleasure until there was nothing left but the effortless joy of being held in Benedict's arms.

Benedict squared his shoulders and held his wife's hand firmly in his.

"I shouldn't have brought you with me for this," he muttered for about the dozenth time. "It's no place for a lady."

She gave him an unimpressed look. "It's a dower house, Benedict. It is quite literally designed for ladies. Besides, we've been over this."

"Hmph," he said sourly.

The truth was, he was pleased to have Emily beside him. She was smart, adept at managing difficult people, and might see things that Benedict missed, blinded as he could be by the years of animosity between himself and his mother. Not to mention that she, too, deserved answers; it was her friend who had been the helpless victim of Priscilla's cruel machinations.

And, he admitted privately, he felt stronger with her at his side. He had to be capable not only for his own sake but for hers, too. It was a responsibility he took seriously and one that, he had been surprised to find, brought him a great deal of happiness.

"Let's go," Emily said, tugging lightly on his hand. "No sense drawing out the unpleasantness."

"Very well," he agreed, not without some lingering reluctance. He approached the door, keeping Emily angled slightly behind him just in case, and knocked at the front door.

The maid who opened the door looked enormously surprised to see him, which Benedict supposed was fair. Despite Priscilla's ranting about being thrown out into the cold, friendless streets of London, the dower house was a highly respectable property in a fashionable neighborhood that was staffed by a small party of servants. It was not the robust staff that Benedict enjoyed at Moore Manor, but Priscilla was far from needing to cook and clean for herself.

The staff here had all worked originally at Moore Manor, however, which meant they all knew perfectly well the animosity between the Dowager Countess and her son, the Earl.

"My Lord," she greeted, quickly blinking away her shock. "And My Lady. Oh, pardon me, the footmen are shifting furniture. But do come in, please."

Benedict gave the girl an encouraging smile, even though he was inwardly wincing at her nervous attitude. He hadn't considered that his mother would take her ire out on the staff though of course he should have. Priscilla had always loved to bully others.

Well, that was another oversight he intended to correct today. And perhaps he'd send all the servants who had been exiled, however temporarily, to the dower house on a short, paid holiday as thanks for their suffering.

"That's quite all right," he reassured the girl as she led them to the parlor. "Can you please fetch my mother at once?"

"Of course, Your Lordship, Your Ladyship," squeaked the girl, bobbing a hasty curtsey before scurrying off to do as she was told.

The Earl and Countess of Moore waited in cautious, unified silence for the arrival of Priscilla Hoskins, suspected murderess.

They didn't have to wait long. The furious rustling of skirts announced Priscilla's arrival seconds before the woman swept into the room, nose high in the air.

"When that mousy little girl told me my son was in the parlor, I nearly asked her which one before remembering that there was only one in this little hovel," she complained. Damn it, but Benedict's headache was already forming.

"But I suppose you are here to finally admit that you've wronged me and return me to my rightful place. Have you grown tired of that odious little bluestocking already?" She did a dramatic double take, as if just seeing Emily for the first time. "Oh," Priscilla said flatly, "you've brought her along."

"For what it's worth," Emily offered mildly, "I don't think I'm quite learned enough to be a bluestocking. Though I thank you for the compliment to my intellect."

Priscilla looked like she wanted to spit. As much as Benedict got a perverse thrill out of how easily Emily irritated his mother, he wanted to get this over and done with.

"Mother," he said, putting on his most authoritative tone, "sit." He gestured at a settee.

"I don't know why you think you can order me about," Priscilla sneered. "This isn't even your house; it's mine."

Property laws being what they were, this absolutely was Benedict's house, but as his mother sat anyway, he decided not to press the issue. Not when there were so many more significant things to address.

Though, he noted without humor, his mother did elect to sit in an armchair rather than taking the spot he'd indicated. She would be difficult in the most minor ways, of course. Bloody typical.

He remained standing, using his height to his advantage as Emily sat in the place he'd initially indicated for his mother. As she passed him, she reached out slightly so that her fingers brushed his hand. The gesture did not go unnoticed by Priscilla, who looked disgusted.

"So is this what you're here for?" she scoffed. "To flaunt your little union before me? I'm sure you're pleased with yourself; you've got him wrapped around your finger," she said to Emily.

Emily, whose capacity for cool headedness (with all opponents excepting Benedict) was truly a marvel, shrugged a shoulder.

"I'm quite pleased though not in the way you're implying," she said easily.

"That's not why we're here," Benedict interjected. He didn't like his mother's attention on Emily. He really should have left her home, not that she'd have allowed it. "We're here to discuss your threats against the Duke of Graham."

This visibly surprised Priscilla, who reared back in surprise before covering up her reaction with a blandly haughty look. "Graham? I don't know what you're talking about," she said primly. "I scarcely know the man."

"That is not true," Benedict corrected. "You see, I've spoken to the Duke?—"

"You spoke to Graham?" Priscilla asked eagerly before frowning as she realized that this undermined her claims of innocence.

"—and he confirms that you sent him threatening letters when he rejected your advances," Benedict went on, speaking over her.

If she'd looked surprised before, Priscilla now looked as though she'd been slapped. "Rejected my advances? Is that what he said? That I pursued him—that nothing ever came of it? That's not true, not at all. He went after me; we carried on a passionate affair. We loved one another! And then he threw me aside like I was nothing."

Benedict glanced over at his wife, who was looking at Priscilla with a distinct look of pity, her lips pressed into a thin line.

"We have a copy of your letter threatening him," Emily said, the words nearly gentle. "Threatening to harm his career, his reputation—his family," she said with the finality of a magistrate's hammer striking a life sentence.

Priscilla was looking wildly between Emily and Benedict now. The look was dramatic, to be certain, but it lacked the usual self-consciousness of most of the Dowager's acts of martyrdom. She seemed genuinely distressed. Benedict was beginning to see Emily's side of things—this was a bit sad. His mother had apparently invented some elaborate narrative in her head that was entirely in conflict with the facts.

"He was meant to come back to me," she whined. "He was mine."

"He's married," Benedict said shortly. "He was never yours. And he certainly would never have deigned to look your way again after you had his daughter killed."

"I didn't kill her!" Priscilla shrieked. "Theo killed her!"

"At your command!" Benedict insisted. "And then when another man swung for the crime, you blackmailed Dowling because you knew who had really killed Lady Grace Miller."

"Yes, I knew!" the Dowager snapped, looking more and more unraveled every second. She barely resembled the woman Benedict had long known now, appearing like a cornered wild animal, snapping pointlessly as it was pursued by hunters. "And if I blackmailed Theo into coming back to me, what did it matter? Hawkins was already dead. The Miller chit was already dead. There was nobody who stood to lose more—nobody except me."

"How can you say that?" Emily asked, sounding horrified. "How can you make this about you when my friend was murdered for nothing but petty jealousy?"

There was a mad glint in Priscilla's eye as she looked at Emily. It made Benedict want to sidle between them, to block Emily from his mother's gaze, but he didn't want to discourage whatever further admission she seemed on the brink of making.

"Nothing? Nothing you say. You don't know how right you are; Lady Grace was nothing. All you shiny girls are nothing. You're born to be nothing, bred to be pawns. You're fattened up like calves destined for slaughter, fed stories of love and happiness. But I tell you—none of it is real. None of it. If you ask me, the Miller girl was lucky. She left this world while she was still the ton's brightest, shiniest star. She didn't see what it was like to be cast aside, used up, forgotten."

Benedict was disgusted. "You won't be forgotten now," he said, the words low and pained. The truth had to come out, much as the part of him that abhorred scandal hated to admit it. But he could not hide it. Not this.

Priscilla did not heed his words; she was still fixed on Emily.

"You've already seen it," she said, a bitter smile around her lips. "You were a wallflower, a reject, and outcast. You had to become a slattern just to secure yourself a husband. You don't deserve a merciful ending…but you don't deserve your happiness, either."

And then, before Benedict could fully process the implications of these words, his mother plunged her hand down into the side of her chair, the one she'd insisted on sitting upon despite Benedict's direction. She pulled out a stiletto, its long, thin blade glinting in the light.

And then, in a flash, she threw herself at Emily, knife held out before her.

The world slowed, eternities passing between each heartbeat. Benedict lunged in turn, but he was too far away, too slow. He watched, his body alight with anguish, as Emily's eyes went wide, as she screamed. Her hands came out in a defensive position; she lurched to the side, away from the attack.

And then Priscilla was atop her, and Benedict, that one, crucial moment too late, got his hands around his mother, grabbing her skirts and her arm to haul her backward, away from his wife.

He'd moved urgently, without finesse; when he yanked his mother back, he did so with sufficient force to send them both toppling to the ground. Benedict slammed his shoulder into the hardwood with enough vigor that it threatened to go numb, but he pushed his own discomfort away. He couldn't let go, couldn't let her hurt Emily. Not his Emily.

It was only when the guards he'd left waiting outside stormed in, summoned by the screaming, that he realized he'd been calling for his wife, again and again, in a hoarse, desperate tone while his mother struggled for freedom atop him.

Firm hands grasped the writhing Priscilla. "It's a'right, My Lord," a gruff, east-accented voice told him. "We've got ‘er."

The instant his mother was remanded into the custody of two neatly dressed but enormously burly men, another body collapsed atop Benedict's.

"Benedict!" Emily cried, and her worried voice made his heart begin to beat again. "Are you all right?"

He wanted to clutch her, to never let her go, but he needed to see her, too.

"Let me up," he urged, his hands traveling over her back, her waist, trying to ascertain as quickly as possible that she was whole and hale, not the brutal victim of his mother's knife. Emily seemed to find it equally difficult to pull herself from his arms but allowed him to lean her until they were both sitting up.

Priscilla's furious shrieking faded into the background as Benedict took in his wife. Her face was pale, save for the bright, angry splotches of red on her cheeks. But she was mobile, was alert, was checking him over with the same feverishness with which he inspected her. In fact, she seemed entirely unharmed, except…

His eyes froze on the thin scratch above Emily's collarbone, so small it might have been made by a seamstress' careless pinning, rather than a near-miss from a deadly blade. He blazed with fury as he saw where a single, precious drop of blood had welled up.

Emily followed the line of his gaze.

"Oh," she said, craning her neck but proving unable to see the spot, which she traced with her fingers. The drop of blood smudged, already half dried. "Did she get me, then?"

The casual air with which she asked the question made Benedict want to laugh—or weep or perhaps lose his lunch. He wasn't sure which. He drew her hand away from the spot and grasped her at the back of the neck, pulling her forehead to press firmly against his.

If Priscilla's knife hand landed a few centimeters down or to the left, Emily wouldn't be safe and secure in his arms; she'd be bleeding out, another victim in his mother's wretched quest to make herself important to the men she relentlessly pursued.

"You're all right," he murmured, trying to make the knowledge break through the relentless pounding of his heart, the panicked rush of his blood through him, the fear he could not shake—the likes of which he'd never before known.

"I'm all right," she assured him, her fingertips cool and grounding against his cheek.

Benedict would have been content to stay there for hours, no matter the hard floor beneath them or the insistent throbbing from his bruised shoulder. But a polite clearing of a throat reminded Benedict that there was more to be done before he bundled his wife off home where he intended to not let her out of his sight for at least a week. Likely longer.

Inspector Drummond, an ambitious young member of the London constabulary, gave Benedict and Emily a frown that was both apologetic and businesslike.

"Sorry to pull you away from your lady, My Lord, when you've both just had a fright. But we've remaining business to attend to before we consider this matter dealt with."

"Right," Benedict said, trying to remember that he was an earl, not just Emily's fearful husband. "Yes, of course. I beg your pardon."

He got to his feet then extended a hand to help Emily do the same, trying not to let his gaze linger on where a frayed hole had been punched into the back of the settee, a stark reminder that his mother had attempted to punch such a hole in Benedict's wife.

"What is going on?" Priscilla screamed. The two orderlies were holding her securely, looking as though they were perfectly comfortable doing such a thing all day, even as Priscilla thrashed to and fro. "Who are these men, Benedict? Release me at once."

Benedict gave his wife a last squeeze before he let his arm drop from around her, the reassurance more for his own sake than for hers. Emily was, after all, still pale, but the look she was giving the Dowager Countess wasn't lined with fear but rather disdain.

He stepped in front of his mother.

"You have admitted to conspiring to kill Lady Grace Miller," he said, keeping his tone carefully emotionless. "As she was the daughter of a powerful peer, that could well be considered a capital offense. I suspect the Crown would perhaps hesitate to hang an aristocratic woman—" After everything, he could not deign to give his mother the title of lady. "—but you would be looking at a lifetime spent in a miserable, dank prison. I have arranged with Inspector Drummond here—" He tipped his head toward the man, who gave a sharp nod in response. "—to have you sequestered in a respectable asylum, instead. These gentlemen—" This time his gesture was to the orderlies. "—will escort you there."

"Bedlam?" Priscilla shrieked, the noise so loud and so high that it took all of Benedict's self-control not to cover his ears like a child. The orderlies didn't so much as blink. Perhaps a strong constitution in the face of furious hysteria was, like endless strength, a requirement for the position. "You're sending me to bedlam?"

"It is a respectable asylum," he reiterated. "And, frankly, it's better than you deserve. Unless you'd prefer prison?"

For the first time in several long minutes, Priscilla fell silent, her chin jutting out mulishly.

"I suspected as much," Benedict said, a hint of anger creeping into his tone. This was permissible, he felt, as what he really wished to do was scream how could you? until he was blue in the face.

Still, when Emily's hand pressed gently against his elbow, he let himself bask in the fortifying sensation.

"The inspector will explain your circumstances to you more fully along the way," Benedict explained. "But this is the last time we will see each other. Goodbye, Mother."

"Wait, Benedict, wait!" she cried as the orderlies began to pull her inexorably toward the door. "You can't do this! Stop! Stop!" When they didn't stop, a snarl of anger crossed her face once more. "You don't know who you're dealing with!" she shrieked just before the doors closed on her blotchy red complexion and her disheveled hair.

And then the heavy oak door clicked into place, and her words became too muffled to parse before disappearing completely as the orderlies and inspector took her away.

Not that Benedict was paying any attention. The moment his duty to see this thing through was discharged, he cleared his mind of everything except Emily.

He whirled, crushing her to him as she hugged him back with the same intensity. That blessed, gorgeous height of hers meant that this embrace put pressure on his bruised shoulder; when he let out a little grunt, she pulled back in alarm.

"You're hurt!" she exclaimed.

"I'm fine," he said, reaching for her again. "It's just a bruise." She danced out of his reach. "Emily, be serious."

"I am being serious," she retorted. "That horrible woman injured you."

"She stabbed you," he exclaimed. He would have thrown up his hands in exasperation, but, well, his shoulder did hurt.

Emily gave him a pitying look. "I've had papercuts worse than this," she scoffed.

"Was the paper trying to kill you?" he shot back. He couldn't believe they were having this argument.

Well, he could, actually. Hadn't they always been like this? Except, unlike when they'd first met, he no longer saw their sparring as an annoyance. Instead, seeing Emily before him, irritable, stubborn, and alive, he felt himself vibrate with that emotion that had been creeping into him for weeks now, the thing he hadn't dared recognize, let alone name.

Its identity seemed obvious now. Leaving it unspoken would be the act of a fool, and Benedict might be stubborn, but he was no fool.

Even if he did, every so often, let himself be a bit ridiculous over his wife. But who could blame him, really?

"You're speaking to a physician," she told him imperiously.

He scoffed—which was, incidentally, the same reaction a physician would have if a man like Benedict came to him over a mere bump on the arm.

"You are speaking to a physician," he countered. "You've been stabbed."

"I was scratched!"

"Scratches," he said, "can grow infected."

She rolled her eyes, the little minx. "So, next time I prick my finger on an embroidery needle, should I seek immediate medical attention?" Her tone was smug, as if this was a deciding answer.

"Splendid idea," Benedict returned with a saccharine smile. "So glad you've suggested it."

"You are not funny," she informed him.

"I'm not joking. Step to, now. Let's go home and summon the doctor."

"I shall see a doctor if you do as well," she wheedled.

"Done," Benedict said, leading her out of the parlor and towards the front door. The servants of the household had abandoned any pretense of doing their jobs, instead just staring, slack-jawed at the exiting lord and lady. Benedict supposed he couldn't blame them. "But you're going first."

"Not on your life!" Emily exclaimed. "You're going first."

"I am not; you are."

They boarded their carriage, and the Earl and Countess of Moore returned home, happily arguing the entire way.