Chapter 10 #2
Ben drove the old curricle to Watley Hall, racing over the stretch of deserted road and up the tree-lined drive until he arrived at the manor’s front entrance.
He’d taken a quick detour before departing Aldercombe, just long enough to head to the riverbank and witness the weak trickle where water had previously flowed in a healthy stream.
Thus stoking both his confusion and ire—sentiments that burned into a full-fledged inferno by the time he jumped from the curricle and bounded up the steps to knock on the door.
Fortunately, a groom was swift in coming to tend to his horses, just as the Watley Hall butler wasted no time in opening the door and regarding him with mild curiosity.
“Mr. Benedict Prescott here to see Lord Frederick Denham,” he bit out, forgoing good manners and stepping into the entrance hall the instant the man made a slight movement to the side. “It’s urgent.”
The butler’s graying brows shifted closer together, giving him a subtle air of disgruntlement.
“Allow me to check if Lord Frederick is available.” He shuffled away, Ben’s claim of urgency not prompting him to hurry.
But at least he made the effort, disappearing down a corridor from which came a steady hum of voices. A feminine giggle.
The house party. Ben’s chest tightened, and he clamped his hands into fists, pressing them against his sides.
He didn’t know which was worse: picturing Violet laughing amongst the guests, or imagining her back at Aldercombe alone, silently bemoaning her fate.
For Watley Hall was where she wanted to be.
With Denham, and her sister, and George.
But he couldn’t think about that. He couldn’t afford the distraction when a pressing estate matter required his full attention.
The sound of footsteps began resonating in the corridor, slowly growing louder.
Until suddenly, a man in shirtsleeves appeared, strolling into the corridor with a glass of brandy in hand.
“Mr. Prescott, I presume.” The man, who couldn’t be much different in age from Ben himself, assessed him with cool gray eyes, running a hand through disheveled hair and bringing it down to the lazy knots of his cravat.
He may be a duke’s son, but he either didn’t employ a valet or had partaken of recent activities to undo his valet’s efforts.
“Lord Frederick.” Ben stiffly inclined his chin, raising it just as a shriek emerged from a room deep in the corridor, followed by a torrent of laughter.
Denham emitted a small chuckle of his own.
“A game of kiss the monkey has grown somewhat boisterous.” His eyes momentarily filled with mirth, and he gave a longing glance down the corridor before abruptly seeming to remember himself and sobering again.
“I understand you have urgent need of an audience, so you’d best come with me to my study.
I can spare you but a minute of my time. ”
Ben swallowed back a retort about idleness and idiotic games, following Denham as he crossed the entrance hall and approached the first door on his right. Hopefully, the lordling wasn’t foxed, or this would be nigh on excruciating.
But disorderly appearance aside, Denham walked in a straight line and opened the door without fumbling, leading him into a sunlit study that overlooked the front drive.
Much like Ben’s study, the room contained a pair of chairs in front of the master’s desk, along with two wingback chairs near the fireplace. However, Ben ignored them all, standing rigidly in the middle of the Aubusson rug while Denham went to the sideboard and fetched a decanter.
“Brandy?” The young lord splashed some of the amber liquid into his tumbler before turning to Ben, decanter outstretched.
“No.” Ben swallowed, his throat like sandpaper. He’d best just get on with it before the man did, in fact, grow tipsy. “Why did you dam the river?”
Denham laughed, although the sound rang cold.
“Really, Prescott. Did you not want to discuss the weather first? Or perhaps you’d rather we swapped stories about our days at university.
” A knowing glint appeared in his eye. A glint that left no doubt he’d heard about Ben’s expulsion from Cambridge—and the reason for it.
Ben planted his feet more firmly against the floor, forcing his chin to remain high. “I didn’t intend this as a social call. It’s strictly a business matter. Namely, why you interfered with a water source that’s the lifeblood of Aldercombe Grange.”
With an infuriating shrug, the lordling took a long swig of his drink. “Have your land agent arrange a meeting with mine.”
My land agent, who isn’t even in the county at present. “No.” Ben took a clipped step toward the sideboard, fire raging between his ribs. “I want to hear it from you. Now.”
Perhaps Denham was unaccustomed to having his directives contradicted, for the spite in his gaze swiftly darkened to ire, and his brandy-coated lips twisted into a scowl.
“Very well. Everyone knows the river was a devastating source of flooding last year. If you’ve failed to speak with your tenants on the subject, I suggest you do so without delay, for I’m sure they’d regale you with plenty of tales about how that doddering old Morris neglected to do anything to prevent it.
In any case, the flood forced Morris to recognize his grievous error, and he agreed that Mr. Gingell—my capable land agent—should take control of water management. ”
What bollocks. The words rose in Ben’s throat but then died on his tongue, a seed of doubt catapulting its way in.
His uncle had acquainted him with the unfortunate story of Mr. Morris, Aldercombe’s former land agent—the man who’d rejected the marquess’s suggestions of retirement, insisting he remained capable of doing the job until an apoplexy had taken him in late winter.
Uncle Rockliffe said he’d noticed slight oversights in Mr. Morris’s correspondence in the weeks leading up to his death, signs the man’s impeccable shrewdness was maybe beginning to fade.
However, omitting a figure or two from a letter was a far cry from making an agreement that proved deleterious to the estate.
Even if Mr. Morris had suffered from occasional bouts of forgetfulness or confusion, surely he wouldn’t have done such a thing. Would he?
“Do you have proof of this arrangement?” Ben asked tightly, hating that the question warranted asking.
Denham gave a contemptuous snort. “Of course I do. We drew up an irrigation deed.” He flicked his wrist, then brought his glass back toward his lips. “As I said, have your new land agent take it up with mine.”
Bloody buggering hell. Ben stared at the swirl of amber liquid as Denham drained it in one swift gulp.
His thoughts spiraled backward to his own study, to the numerous ledgers, letters, and deeds that sat on bookshelves and lined his desk drawers.
He and Mr. Hayward had been perusing them thoroughly, familiarizing themselves with matters that for close to four decades had rested in the hands of another man.
They’d encountered nothing so preposterous as an irrigation deed granting control of the river to Watley alone.
But was that merely because they hadn’t discovered the document yet?
Because in his distraction, Ben had somehow overlooked it?
Damn, damn, damn. How infuriating to lack answers. To be unable to denounce the lordling’s words as rubbish because there was the smallest chance they held merit.
He stiffened his shoulders, forcing them to remain high despite how they felt laden down by boulders. “I’ll be sending a solicitor as well to verify your claim.”
Lord Frederick’s empty glass clattered back to the sideboard, and something in the air suddenly shifted.
A heightened tension, a heaviness, that left his countenance dripping with renewed malice.
“Do as you see fit. But who are you to question my word as a gentleman?” He abandoned the decanter, taking a few ominous steps toward the center of the room.
“I’m the son of a duke. You may be an heir presumptive, but no one would ever mistake you for bon ton.
Not with your lowbred mother and that tart Violet for a wife—”
“Don’t you dare speak of them.” Fury uncurled in Ben’s chest, squeezing his ribs, propelling him forward until he and the lordling were eye to eye.
“Don’t you ever let me catch you with my wife’s name in your mouth again,” he snarled, his lungs on the verge of exploding, his fists quivering at his sides.
“Or what?” Denham jutted his chin upward, the hiss of his words ensconcing Ben in a liquor-scented cloud.
It would be so easy to raise his fist. To wipe the sneer off that cocky face, because no one should get away with speaking of his family—and his wife—that way. The few seconds of gratification would nearly be worth it.
Except what would he prove? His fists wouldn’t make Denham renounce his claim to the river. Indeed, they would only demonstrate the lordling’s point: that Ben was inferior. Uncouth. Out of control.
Maybe his father had been right in his insistence that they all remain far from the aristocracy.
That their place in the world was elsewhere.
Yet his father’s beliefs couldn’t change fate.
They wouldn’t make Ben feel any less bilious about writing another letter to his uncle, the marquess, and explaining his lack of self-restraint. His failure.
He took a brusque step backward, assuaging the violent tempest between himself and Denham just before it delivered a catastrophic deluge.
However, his insides continued to churn, his bones feeling brittle enough to crack.
“You’ll hear from my solicitor directly,” he choked out, already pivoting, no longer able to peer at that defiant chin or breathe the brandy-infused air.
Denham’s boots thumped against the carpet in the opposite direction.
Liquid splattered against glass. “I look forward to it.” The lordling’s caustic retort hit him just as he reached the doorway, but he didn’t look back.
He didn’t turn when a round of boisterous cheers echoed from the room farther down the corridor, followed by another burst of feminine laughter.
Let the lordling have the last word. Let them all have their games, their frivolity, their dalliances.
Ben was finished here.