Saved By Scandal's Heir

His head twitched to one side. ‘I said I met her. I admitted to nothing else.’

But Harriet knew, without a shadow of doubt, that Sir Malcolm was the man who had despoiled Felicity’s sister. He had been a rake of the very worst kind; she did not need his confession. She leaned in close, breathing through her mouth to avoid the sour smell emanating from the bed.

‘She killed herself! You seduced her and abandoned her, and she killed herself because she was carrying your child.’

He looked at her, his slitted eyes glinting. ‘Best thing for her. One less fatherless brat to worry about. Isn’t that so, my lady? Although you could not even manage that, could you? Lost it, as I recall. Careless of you.’

Harriet reared back, pain ripping at her heart. She must get out. Now. She should never have come. She suddenly realised this trip hadn’t just been about Emma but about her, too—an attempt to make sense of the path her life had taken since she had fallen in love with Benedict. And she saw that she and Emma were the same: gullible victims of men who used and abused them and abandoned their responsibilities.

‘I hope...’ The words dried on her tongue. No, she would offer no comfort to this loathsome man, dying or not. She marched to the door.

Outside, the door firmly shut again, Harriet leaned against the wall, dragging in deep, shuddering breaths. Janet fumbled in her pocket and offered smelling salts. She had been with Harriet since the very early days of Harriet’s marriage to Brierley, and had proved herself a loyal and protective friend to the young, bewildered bride. Harriet had long blessed the day the older woman had been appointed as her maid.

She waved the salts away. ‘No. I will not faint, I promise you. I am trying to calm my anger,’ she said, forcing a smile to set Janet’s mind at rest.

She glanced back at the closed bedchamber door. How could such a man have lived with himself all these years? She pushed upright and shook out her skirts, smoothing them.

‘Come. Let us go. We must get back to the Rose as soon as we can in case the snow begins to drift.’

She had reserved accommodation at the Rose Inn at Sittingbourne, a bare four miles from Tenterfield Court, on their way through from London. The plan was to stay there the night and return to London the following day, when Harriet would tell Felicity what she had discovered. She must hope the news would not prove too upsetting for her friend, who was now with child herself. Harriet ruthlessly quashed her ripple of envy that Felicity would soon be a mother.

She was thankful there was no sign of Benedict as they descended the stairs and went through the door to the panelled Great Hall with its ancient blackened stone hearths at either end. The butler sent word to the stables for their hired chaise and four to be brought round to the front door, and a maid ran to fetch their travelling cloaks, muffs and hats. It was cold outside and they had prepared well for the journey from London, with blankets and furs piled in the carriage.

‘The chaise is outside now, milady,’ the butler said. ‘Take care, it might be slippery. Cooper here will help you.’

A footman, well wrapped up, stepped forward and Harriet took one arm whilst Janet took the other. They emerged into a world transformed. The air swirled white and she could barely make out the trees that lined the sweeping carriageway that led from the house to the road. The easterly wind had picked up, gusting at times, and blowing the snow horizontal, stinging Harriet’s cheeks. The waiting horses stamped their feet and tossed their heads, blowing cloudy breaths down their nostrils as the hapless post boys hunched on their backs. Harriet hoped they had been given a warming drink in the kitchen; she did not doubt they, like her, would be glad to reach the inn where they were to spend the night.

Harriet clung tightly to the footman’s arm, feeling her half boots slide on the stone steps as they descended warily to the waiting chaise. She looked across at Janet at the very same moment the maid released Cooper’s arm to hurry down the last few steps, presumably to open the door ready for Harriet.

‘Janet! No!’

It was too late. A shriek rose above the howl of the wind as Janet missed her footing on the second to last step. Her feet shot from under her and she fell back onto the steps, one leg bent beneath her.

‘Oh, no!’ Harriet hurried as best she could to where the maid lay. ‘Janet? Are you all right?’

‘Yes, milady. I—’ Janet screamed as she tried to rise, a high-pitched, sobbing scream. ‘Oh, milady! My back! It—aargh! My leg! I can’t move it!’

‘Oh, good heavens!’ What if it is broken? Harriet remembered only too well the pain of broken bones, a pain that, in her case, had been numbed by a far greater agony. She thrust those memories back down where they belonged. In the past. ‘Can you carry her to the chaise, Cooper?’

The footman bent to lift Janet, but the maid batted him away. ‘No! Don’t touch me. It hurts!’

Harriet crouched down next to Janet, taking her gloved hand. ‘We cannot just leave you here in the snow. You’ll freeze to death.’

‘I can’t bear to move, milady. I can’t bear it. And I can’t go in that yellow bounder, not the way they drive. I cannot.’ Her words ended in a wail.

Now what was she to do? Harriet stared through the driving snow to where the chaise and four still waited. It was barely visible now. The weather was worsening. She must move Janet somehow.

‘Allow me.’ A hand gripped her shoulder as the deep voice interrupted her inner panic.

Benedict.

Her instinctive urge to shrink from his touch battled against her relief that help was at hand. She glanced round, taking in his hard eyes and tight-lipped mouth, and she clenched her jaw. Janet must be her only concern.

‘Thank you,’ she said.

Chapter Two (#ulink_98b1a1de-ee65-592e-b61f-8c12bab6ed96)

Benedict Poole had returned to the library after escorting Harriet to the bedchamber where the last remaining member of his family, other than himself, lay wasting away. He poured himself another measure of brandy and settled by the fire, broodingly contemplating the woman he had never thought to see again. He gulped a mouthful of the spirit and grimaced. She’d driven him to drink already and she’d been here, what? Half an hour?

A bustle of movement in the Great Hall some time later interrupted his thoughts—the unmistakable sounds of departure. He would not say goodbye. She had not afforded him that courtesy, all those years ago.

One last look. That’s all.

He crossed to the window and positioned himself to one side, shielded by the curtain, in order that a casual glance would not reveal him. Snow drove horizontally across the front of the house and he was all at once aware of the howl of the wind. He had been so lost in his thoughts he had not even noticed the deterioration in the weather. Three figures, well wrapped against the cold, appeared at the top of the steps, the smallest two clinging on to the arms of the taller central figure, presumably one of the footmen. That was Harriet, huddled in a hooded cloak of deep, rich blue, trimmed with fur. As he watched them gingerly descend the steps, the second woman—Harriet’s maid—suddenly let go of the footman’s arm and appeared to hurry ahead. Benedict jerked forward, ready to shout a warning even though there was no chance she would hear him, but, before he could utter a sound, the maid’s feet shot from under her and she fell.

He didn’t stop to think but ran to the door, through the hall and straight out of the front door. The cold air blasted icy spikes against his face as he hurried down the steps, almost slipping in his haste. The maid’s leg—it could be broken. She mustn’t be moved. Maybe he could straighten it... He had helped more than one ship’s surgeon set broken bones during his travels. He thrust aside any nerves, any doubts.

Harriet was crouching by the maid, who was shaking her head, her tearful voice begging no one to touch her. He reached for Harriet, who seemed about to try to pull her maid upright.

‘Allow me,’ he said.

Harriet turned and gazed up at him, her expression inscrutable, those eyes of hers, once so expressive, guarded. Her nose and cheeks were bright red but her lips, when she spoke, had a bluish tinge. ‘Thank you.’

‘Go inside and wait,’ he said. ‘Get yourself warm and dry. We’ll deal with your maid.’

‘Janet,’ she said. ‘Her name is Janet. It’s her back, as well as her leg. You...you won’t hurt her?’

‘I can’t promise that. We must move her but we must first straighten her leg. Ask Crabtree to bring some brandy and something to bind her leg. He’s the butler,’ he added as she raised her brows. ‘But be careful how you—’

She speared him with a scathing look. ‘I am not likely to risk falling, having seen what happened to Janet,’ she said.

The panic had melted from her voice, which now dripped contempt. Benedict mentally shrugged. Her moods were none of his concern. Harriet stripped off her cloak and laid it over her stricken maid before picking her way back up the steps.

Benedict glanced at the footman—Cooper, it was, he now saw. ‘That leg could be broken. Have you ever helped set a leg before?’ he asked.

‘I have,’ a new voice interposed. One of the post boys had dismounted and had joined Benedict standing over Janet, who was shivering violently. ‘I’m used to it,’ he added with a grin. ‘Always someone breaking somethin’ when horses are involved.’

‘Tell your mate to take the horses back to the yard and bed them down for the night,’ Benedict said. ‘The ladies will be going nowhere.’

‘Right you are, sir,’ the post boy said, signalling to his partner, who waved an acknowledgement before kicking his horse into motion.

Benedict crouched beside the stricken maid.

‘Don’t touch me!’ she shrieked. ‘It’s my back! I can’t stand it!’

‘Hush, now,’ Benedict said as the maid subsided into sobs. ‘We must find out if your leg is broken. It will have to be straightened before we can move you.’

The butler appeared at the top of the steps and gingerly made his way to where Janet lay.