Chapter 17
As Benedict was occupied with meetings, Violet spent much of the next day touring the estate by herself.
She hadn’t felt a stab of disappointment—mostly—when word had come, just as they’d both reached the breakfast room, that Mr. Hayward had been spotted on the road north of Aldercombe.
Knowing how anxious Benedict was to converse with his land agent, she’d even encouraged him to make haste when he said he’d ride out immediately and meet the man.
The fact that their encounter from last night hung uncertainly between them, and would remain that way for the foreseeable future, was the unfortunate consequence of Mr. Hayward’s sudden return.
However, she would be selfish to regret the interruption, and it wasn’t as if she lacked her own tasks to attend to.
Namely, surveying the water meadow and then locating the sheep where they’d been brought back out to pasture.
She took her time, and only once thoroughly convinced that the meadow was properly draining and the flock seemed no worse for wear did she make her way back to the house, strolling beneath the warmth of the high afternoon sun.
Would Benedict and Mr. Hayward have concluded their business by now? She was eager to hear of any new developments with the river dispute. With any luck, Lord Frederick would be forced to abandon his ill-fated dam before he inflicted further damage.
And then, once they were through discussing estate matters, and if she and Benedict ended up alone in his study …
Despite the heat of the day, a small shiver darted down her spine as she stepped onto the gravel drive. Why could she not stop imagining him? Wet linen clinging to his chest, his arousal brushing her sex, his mouth on her breasts.
She’d realized from the moment of their first kiss that prompting Benedict to lower his guard—and leave it lowered—would take care and patience.
That didn’t prevent her from experiencing an anticipant pang at the thought of kissing him again.
At the thought of what else could happen between them if the spark they’d created could only be nurtured.
She rushed up to the house, taking the front steps two at a time. However, before she could reach for the door handle, her foot stumbled over something uneven, and her body pitched.
“Oh!” She shot her arms out to steady herself, narrowly avoiding disaster. Had she become so distracted that she’d almost tripped on her own boots? The thought left her red-faced.
When she glanced down, though, a large stone rested on the landing, printed papers of some sort nestled beneath, the edges lightly flapping in the breeze. What on earth was all that doing here?
She nudged the stone aside with her foot, bending over to retrieve the pages.
No, not just any pages. A pamphlet.
Her heart dropped even before her gaze fell upon the title: The Salacious Solicitor.
Printed in the same bold font, with the same scalloped border, as the other pamphlets that had become so familiar.
And then, her eyes darted to the bottom of the cover, revealing the worst thing of all. By an author of the initials A.P.
She blinked rapidly, because surely she’d misunderstood something and this wasn’t what it appeared. No matter how many times her eyelids flickered, though, the text wouldn’t say anything other than what she’d already discerned.
Did Benedict know about this? He couldn’t have this morning; there was no way he would have entered the breakfast room so coolly had that burden weighed on his mind. He mustn’t now, either, for he never would have left his brother’s erotic literature upon the doorstep for anyone to see.
Regardless, somebody was determined he find out about the newly published—and initialed—pamphlet. Somebody clandestine and nefarious, who’d taken advantage of the fact that most servants had been given a half-day off for Whitsun and went right up to Aldercombe’s front door undetected.
An unladylike oath tumbled from her lips.
She could hazard a guess as to the detestable toad who would like to see Benedict lowered and humiliated—a toad whose household was familiar with this series of pamphlets.
The mere thought filled her mouth with bile.
But what was she to do when he’d left behind no evidence to prove her assumption?
And more importantly, how was she going to approach Benedict and reveal what she’d found?
Before she could decide one way or another about how to proceed, a low rumble started on the drive. The unmistakable clip-clop of hooves, the turning of wheels.
She put her hand to her brow, squinting into the afternoon sun. Sure enough, a post chaise was barreling toward Aldercombe, the postilion working the duo of matched bays at a near-gallop.
She knew those horses. That postilion. She recognized the carriage as surely as she knew her own name. It belonged to her mother, the Collingwood crest a colored blur upon the door.
Her heart began pounding with fresh vigor, the pamphlet flapping within her clenched fist. Of all the times her family could have selected for their first visit to Aldercombe, this was among the worst. But oblivious to its poor timing, the post chaise continued its journey up the drive until it ground to a halt near the front entrance.
She could do nothing but watch as the accompanying footman leaped down from the bench seat at the rear of the carriage and pulled open the door.
He barely had the opportunity to extend his hand before the viscountess tumbled out, falling against him as though her legs lacked the power to keep her upright.
“Oh, Violet, it’s terrible,” she moaned as Violet darted down the steps to meet her, quickly taking hold of her mother’s arm to offer added support. “But I never should have undertaken this journey. I haven’t the strength; I’m going to swoon.”
“Shh, Mama, it’s all right,” Violet uttered helplessly, her knees also feeling weak.
Could her mother have somehow found out about the pamphlet debacle even before she did?
Did the whole neighborhood know? She crumpled the pages into a ball within her fist, willing her voice not to tremble. “Come inside and rest a while.”
After exchanging a pointed glance with the footman, she worked with him to half-guide, half-drag the viscountess into the house, where they were greeted by a wide-eyed Mrs. Wheeler.
“Gracious, madam. My lady.” The housekeeper dropped into an inelegant curtsy, the ribbons on her fine Whitsun bonnet bobbing against her shoulders. “What can I do to assist?”
“Perhaps just a pot of tea before you depart for the festivities.” Violet tried not to sound miserable, although it was difficult when her mother trembled next to her, emitting a pitiable moan. She swallowed, an ever-growing sense of dread closing in on her. “Is Mr. Prescott at home?”
“No, madam. He and Mr. Hayward were here in his study for a spell, but they left again about an hour ago.”
Well, that was one stroke of good fortune, at least. Having him here—having him find out about the pamphlet like this—was beyond what she could bear.
She uttered a hasty word of thanks, and she and the footman continued on their way, depositing her mother upon the drawing room sofa.
After dismissing him with a nod—he was only too happy to shut the door behind him and flee—she rushed to the side cabinet that held a bottle of sherry.
She deposited the pamphlet behind a vase, then shakily poured two glasses.
“Here, drink this.” She whirled back toward her mother, extending her arm to pass her one. However, the viscountess was occupied with digging through her reticule, paper crinkling against her gloved fingertips as she clasped the item she sought.
This was it, then. Her mother had somehow gotten ahold of The Salacious Solicitor, had somehow determined its connection to Benedict—
Except the paper that emerged from the reticule wasn’t a pamphlet. It was a copy of that horrid gossip rag her mother liked, The London Tattler.
A sensation approaching relief slackened her limbs, and she stumbled forward, sherry splashing over the rims of the glasses as she set them on the end table beside her mother.
The viscountess didn’t even seem to notice, for she busied herself with unfolding the paper, pointing forlornly to the text at the top. “It’s the first story, Violet.” Her pale eyes turned misty. “The very first one.”
Violet lowered herself onto the sofa, coaxing the paper from her mother’s grasp and placing it in her own lap so she could read what had made the viscountess so distraught.
A certain Lord C, whose wife and daughters have been noticeably absent from London of late, seems to be alone no more.
A Mrs. F—along with another lady of unknown origin, who is decidedly not Lady C—has been seen coming and going from his Mayfair abode at all hours of day and night.
Were one not apprised of the rules of church and country, one might almost think he had forsaken his lady wife and taken two more in her place.
But given Lord C’s noteworthy endeavors at the Theatre Royal earlier in the Season, one can hardly be surprised.
Well. Wasn’t that something? Their town house overtaken by mistresses, as if the viscount’s own family had ceased to exist.
She let the words sink in, a dull throb beginning in her chest. However, the sensation didn’t carry with it the tightness of despair or the burn of indignation.
Truthfully, she was accustomed to her father’s humiliating antics and recklessness by now.
Was it very wrong of her to prefer one more story about him in the Tattler over a fresh catastrophe involving the pamphlets?