Much Ado about the Shrew (10 page)

           
"Kendal,
no," Welles whispered. "Wait!" he said, grabbing for Ben's coat.

           
But
Ben had slipped through, and was walking along the lone dance floor towards Bee
and Surrey. Within seconds he had crossed to stand at Bee's back. Surrey took
his eyes from Bee, and stared at Ben warily.

           
"Lord
Surrey," Bee said, turning the attention back to her.

           
Surrey
gave a lazy smile. "Lady Beatrice," he said languidly, and gave a
deferential bow.

           
That,
however, brought him closer to Bee's height, and she slapped him hard across
the face, drawing back and hitting him with such force that the sound
reverberated through the packed hall.
 
Surrey staggered back and he instantly clutched his injured cheek.
 

           
"Why
you pretentious bi-" he said, and moved forward towards Bee.

           
"I
believe it is my turn," Ben said, and picked Bee up by the shoulders,
placing her to the side. Taking advantage of Surrey's confusion, Ben punched
him in the face with his left hand. "Now they match," he puffed as
Surrey dropped to the ground.

           
The
crowd, so silent for the tableau that played out in front of them, now erupted
into gasps and cheers and jaunts and jeers. Women dropped to the ground,
overcome with the excitement; some were caught by neighboring gentlemen, and
some were not, but were left to lie motionless on the ground. Ben stood
standing over Surrey, blinking with surprise at the unmoving form in front of
him. "Disgusting," he spat, and turned to Bee, who was cradling her
right hand in her left.

           
"Are
you alright?" he asked, looking at her hand.

           
But
Bee's eyes widened. "Ben, behind you!" she said, a moment before Ben
was grabbed from behind by another officer.

           
Welles
instantly appeared and
coshed
the young man upside of
the head with a serving tray.
 
"Kendal, we can't take you anywhere," he said breathlessly.

           
"Thank
you," Ben said.

           
"Just
remember this the next time you chastise me about polite society," Welles
muttered.

           
"This
appears to be turning into a melee," Ben said, looking around. Indeed,
there were small pockets of fights breaking out amongst the crowd.
 

           
"We
should go," Welles agreed.

           
"Bee,"
Ben said, taking her left hand, "let's get out of here."
           
"But... Lennox," she
said plaintively.

           
"I
have a feeling that Lennox is the only safe one here," Ben said, ducking
as a glass flew overhead. "Let's go."

           
The
three slipped through the masses as quickly as they could, Ben and Welles
pushing and hitting those who stood in their way. "Where the hell is
Milford?" Ben asked, shoving aside a young man who had the discourtesy of
falling in his direction.
 
Ben pulled Bee
closer to him.

           
"Taking
care of Surrey's men," Milford said, appearing before them. He was
standing just outside of the door, dusting off his hands. Behind him were three
officers in a heap. "I took the initiative of ordering your
carriage," he said. "I hope that wasn't too forward of me."

           
"Excellent,
Milford," Ben said. "Well done."
 
With that, all four of them quickly dove into the awaiting
carriage.
 
Ben yelled Bee's address to
his driver, and they set off at a smart pace.

           
Ben
sat back and sighed, tugging at his cravat.
 
He opened his eyes to find three pairs of eyes staring at him.
 
"What?" he asked. "Am I
bleeding or something?"

           
"That
was...." Welles said.

           
"Going
to have to sell my commission...." Milford interrupted.

           
"So
wonderful..." Bee said.

           
And
all of a sudden, the four began laughing hysterically.
 
It was several minutes before they quieted
into soft chuckles.

           
"Poor
Lady Putney," Bee giggled.
 
"I
saw her crying in the corner when I left."

           
"Shouldn't
have invited Surrey," Welles argued.

           
"Why
the hell is he back?" Ben asked. "He knows that setting foot in
England means hanging."

           
"Before
we go destroying anyone else's parties, we should probably find out,"
Milford mused.

           
Bee
sighed. "I'm sorry," she said, sitting back against the leather seat
with a frown. "This is all my fault. I just... I saw him and... oh, I was
so angry!
 
He just... he killed
William!" she cried sadly, tears beginning to rush down her face.

           
Welles
and Milford sat back, equal masks of fear of womanly tears streaking across
their visages. Ben frowned at them and turned towards Bee, pulling her close to
him, settling her into the crook of his arm. "Now, now," he said.
"I knocked him unconscious.
 
Certainly that had to make you feel better."

           
Bee
sniffed. "Some," she admitted. She looked up at him through watery
eyes. "And you?"

           
Ben
blinked as he felt his insides shift. And him? Well, right now he was
definitely
not
thinking about Surrey,
or poor William, although he knew he should be. He should be thinking of either
of those two, but all he could think about was how neatly Bee fit against his
side, and how silky her skin was.
 
He
pushed away thoughts of Bee in the same position but naked, or merely clad in
those lovely emeralds she was wearing.
 
No, all he could do was look at Bee's splotchy face and gently brush
away the tears.

           
"I
wish I had killed him," Ben admitted to her in a soft voice.

           
"So
do I," she whispered back.

           
"Oh,
that's a fine thing," Milford admonished. "Then you would be banished
to the Continent and what would Welles and I do for fun?"

           
Bee
laughed in spite of herself and pushed herself back into a seating position.
"Here," Ben said, offering his handkerchief, and she wiped the tears
from her face.

           
"It
looks like we're here," Ben said as the carriage slowed. "Let me walk
you to your door."

           
Bee
did not argue, but allowed him to hand her down out of the carriage.
 
They walked up the steps and he rapped on the
front door.

           
"Thank
you," Bee said, turning towards him on the landing.

           
"Put
some ice on that hand," he advised, noticing that she still cradled it in
her left.

           
"I
will," Bee said. "How is yours?"
 
She reached for his hand; both had stripped their gloves and he felt her
silky skin caress him.

           
"I'll
be fine," he said as she gently brushed her fingers against his knuckles.
If his skin hadn't been on fire before, it certainly was now.

           
"I
think," Ben said slowly, gently pulling his hand back and working to
regain his sanity, "that I should call on you tomorrow."

           
He
caught the slight hitch in Bee's breathing.

           
"Not
only to see how you are faring," he paused, "but, to get in front of
any talk."

           
"I...
see," Bee said.

           
"My
mother's at home is tomorrow," Ben said. "May I escort you there, and
then, perhaps take you for a ride around the park?" A show of solidarity
would at least help to prevent Bee from being ostracized; if they cut her, they
would be cutting his family, and all of their connections. He may only be an
Earl, but, well, he was an
Earl
.

           
Bee
smiled, and Ben's heart flip-flopped.
 
Dear God, he was more overcome by the events of the evening than he had
realized.

           
"That
sounds very... practical," she said.

           
Ben
was about to remark when a footman answered the door. "Good evening, Lord
Kendal," she smiled again, disappearing into the large house.

           
"Good
evening," Ben replied, giving a practical bow, and turned back to his
carriage. He groaned internally at having to deal with Welles and Milford
ribbing him all night.
 
Perhaps they
could finish the evening off to Whites before he found his membership revoked.
God knew he needed a drink.

           
"I
will kill him," Ben promised as the carriage started moving, gripping his
fists and pounding them on his knees. Milford and Welles gave each other wary
looks from the seat across from him.

           
"Perhaps
a carriage accident?" Milford suggested.

           
Ben
glared at him, and Welles frowned.

           
"What?"
Milford protested, rolling his eyes and sitting back in the squabs. "As if
shooting him in the street is any more civilized."

           
"He
has a point," Welles mused.

           
"I
am not going to tamper with his carriage," Ben said darkly, crossing his
arms over his chest and sitting back as well. "It's not right."

           
"Of
course," Milford sighed. "Because shooting someone is so much less
like murder."

           
"At
least calling him out would befit a gentleman."

           
"What
gentleman?" Milford argued. "From what you’ve told us, the man killed
Everill
and left for the continent without so much as
batting an eye!"

           
"I
meant
me
, Milford," Ben said
evenly.

           
"Oh.
Well, then," Milford said, mollified.

           
"The
news has to have travelled by now," Welles noted. "Let's see what the
fellows at White's have to say about Surrey, and then we can worry about dawn
appointments."

           
"Fine,"
Ben spat out.

           
The
carriage was silent for several minutes, the gentle rocking motion relaxing Ben,
easing some of the anger that had been radiating from his core. He hadn't felt
this angry since the war, and it unsettled him, that he could, indeed, kill
someone like Surrey without any qualms whatsoever. Ben scrubbed his face with
his hands, wondering what kind of man that made him.

           
"Kendal,"
Milford broke the silence.

           
"What,
Milford," Ben said tiredly. His adrenaline had seeped away along with the
anger.

           
"If
you do call out Surrey, do you want me or Welles to be your second?"

           
Ben
looked up at Milford, expecting his usual smirk, but instead he was looking at
Ben in earnest. "I... um," Ben stammered, not sure how to reply.

           
"That's
a silly question," Welles said. "He should have two seconds; everyone
knows that."

           
"Well,
pardon me for not knowing the finer parts of dueling," Milford muttered,
but continued to look at Ben with an even stare.

           
"Ah,
here we are," Welles said as the coach slowed.
 
"Let's put aside this calling out
business until we have more information, shall we?"
 
He hopped out of the carriage, leaving
Milford and Ben alone. Milford stared at Ben for another moment before breaking
his gaze and following Welles into the street.

           
Ben
gave a slight shake of his head; this was certainly turning out to be one of
the most bizarre days of his entire life.

           
"I
believe the best strategy is to divide and conquer," Milford suggested
once they were inside. "Let us meet back here in say, what? An hour?"

           
"Half,"
Ben said.

           
"Thirty
minutes, then," Milford said, his normal wit returned. "And not a moment
sooner!" With that, he turned and veered off to the card room.

           
Welles
shook his head. "I hope to God we can just have Surrey arrested. I've had
enough death for a lifetime."

           
Ben
pursed his lips. "Thirty minutes," was all he said, and turned to
scour the club.

           
What
he found, however, was that for the first time in his life,
he
was the one spreading the gossip. The
men eagerly surrounded him as he told and retold the events at the Putney ball,
but no one could tell him about
why
Surrey was back in England. A few who had remembered him offered condolences
again on William's death, and a few more asked after Beatrice, but no one
seemed to have any information on Surrey.

           
It
was damned infuriating. He hoped Welles and Milford had found a better gossip
mill than he.

           
A
fter approximately a half an hour had
passed, Ben meandered back to the main room, and found Welles and Milford in a
private room off the sitting area. Milford was lounged in a chair in the corner
with a brandy and cigar, blowing smoke rings. Welles sat on the opposite side
of the room, also with a brandy, periodically waving the smoke away from his
face.

           
Ben
stood at the doorway, but neither man acknowledged him.
 
"Well?" he finally asked.

           
"Kendal!
How good of you to come! Come in, come in," Milford said, gesturing with
his hand. "Close the door behind you, like a good man, eh?"

           
Ben
furrowed his brows, taken aback by Milford's speech, but closed the door firmly
and took a seat in one of the large plush chairs. "So did you find out
anything?"

           
"Did
we find out anything?" Milford asked with a lazy smile, looking over at
Welles while puffing on the cigar. "He wants to know if we found out
anything."

           
"Just
tell him, Milford," Welles said tiredly, looking down.

           
"Oh,
now," Milford said, sitting up and taking the cigar out of his mouth.
"You're ruining it."

           
"When
Surrey left England, he fled to France," Welles spoke quickly. "As we
were at war with France, he used his position and connections there to work as
an… intelligence officer, ferreting information back to England. He was never
charged with
Everill's
murder, and probably won't
ever be. The crown was so impressed with how he charmed the French, they bloody
well may think he won the war for them."

           
Ben
felt the blood rush out of his head, and was glad he was sitting. Surrey had
been working as a spy?

           
"You
didn't have to be so rough," Milford said. "The poor chap is
speechless."

           
"Why
didn't you say it, then?"

           
"I
was getting to it," Milford said defensively.

           
"This
century?" Welles asked.

           
"Enough,"
Ben said, putting up a hand. "Just... enough. Who did you ask... how do
you know?"

           
"We
asked a few of the men who work over at the Home Office," Welles said.

           
"It
was my idea," Milford smiled, apparently proud of himself.
 
He began puffing again on the cigar. "It
was the uniform that gave me the idea."

           
"So
he's
actually
an officer?" Ben
asked incredulously.

           
"Appears
that way," Welles said. "Everyone thinks Surrey's a right bastard,
but apparently espionage is a way to erase murder from your record."

           
"So
I'm back to calling the bastard out, then?" Ben said angrily.

           
"That's
a possibility," Welles said diplomatically.

           
"What's
the other possibility?" Ben asked.

           
"
Not
calling him out?"

           
Ben
leveled a glare at him.

           
Welles
shrugged.

           
"The
thing is," Milford said, leaning forward, "we beat the bloody frogs,
so it's not as if you can do the same as Surrey and work your way back into the
crown's good graces. If you kill him, you'll be charged with his murder."

           
Ben
sat back in his chair and frowned.

           
"That
means hanging or exile, Ben," Welles said softly.

           
Ben
wished daily that his brother and father hadn't died, but this was yet another
occasion wherein their deaths prevented him from doing as he wished. Now that
he was an Earl, he had obligations that stretched beyond his own personal
vendetta. He had to think about his mother, his sisters, the estate, his
tenants... Ben rubbed his temples. A few years ago, he would have found where
Surrey was staying, called him out right then, and they would be preparing
pistols at dawn. Now, however, he didn't know what to do.

           
"So,
what, then?" Ben asked, throwing his arms up.

           
"I
think we need to regroup," Milford said, sitting back and blowing smoke
rings once more. "Gather more intel before we attack."

           
"You
can always call him out," Welles reminded him. "It doesn't have to be
tomorrow."

           
"The
world has to be coming to an end if you two are the voices of reason," Ben
grumbled.

           
"What,
you mean you didn't hear that?" Milford asked, looking at the ceiling,
watching his smoke rings dissipate into the plaster.

           
"Hear
what?"

           
"The
snow falling in hell," Milford said.

           
"Snow
doesn't make a noise," Welles admonished. "How would he hear
that?"

           
"There
would be a hiss from the snow hitting the hot ground," Milford argued.

           
"No,
because it would be cold," Welles reminded him.

           
"Oh,
good point," Milford acknowledged. "Never mind, then, Kendal. You
wouldn't have heard."

           
Ben
sighed. "Speaking of hell, this has been a hell of an evening."

           
"Oh,
that reminds me," Milford said, sitting up again. "Welles, remind me
tomorrow to sell out my commission."

           
"Of
course, because yet again I have nothing else to do than play your
secretary," Welles frowned.
          

           
"Excellent,"
Milford smiled, being purposefully obtuse. "I wasn't looking forward to
being sent over to Ireland, anyhow. Frogs are one thing, but the Irish speak
English."

           
"They
do?" Ben asked. "Since when?"

           
Milford
paused and short laugh and slapped his knee. "Kendal made a joke, Welles!
Now I'm
certain
hell has frozen
over."

           
"If
hell had frozen over, that damn cigar would have frozen right along with
it," Welles groused.

           
"And
look, Kendal," Milford said, sitting back in the chair and taking a large
puff of the cigar, "it froze Welles' sense of humor as well."

           
Ben
looked at his friends sadly. Although he had sold his commission after the war
as he was needed for the Earldom, neither of his friends were in direct lines
to inherit, and he knew neither of them had been planning on leaving the
military anytime soon.
 
"I am sorry
about tonight," Ben told him. "Are you sure you'll need to sell
out?"

           
Welles
gave a humorless laugh. "We just accosted
several
officers. In uniform, no less, and officers at Putney's
ball, of all places. He has the regent's ear, even if he's not a direct cousin.
It's either sell out or be sent to some God-awful post. Worse than
Ireland," he amended.

           
"You
would be bored without us, anyway, Kendal," Milford grinned. "Now
you'll have to deal with us forever."

           
"God
help me, now I really am sorry I dragged you into this," Ben said with a forced
smile.

           
"It
was really more Lady Beatrice's fault," Welles reminded him.

           
"Alas,
now we have no way of winning back the Americas," Milford wailed.

           
"What?"
Welles asked.

           
"Well,
without any of us there, the campaign was sure to fail," Milford said
smugly. "Now... well, now I'd say they're a lost cause."