Patience (13 page)

Patience woke with a start. It was as if she’d fallen straight from her dream to her bed.

Her
bed? Thoughts of her dream scattered as she sat up and glanced around her room. She’d fallen asleep in Matthew’s arms, and in
his
bed. Now she was here—and alone.

She sighed. When had Matthew returned her to her room? Though the window curtains were drawn, she could see gray daylight peeking from between them. The clock chimed. It was eleven thirty in the morning. She looked at the other side of her bed. The linens were undisturbed. She wished he’d stayed with her, even if only for a while.

Falling back against her pillows, she stretched as a sensual languor came over her. Why hadn’t he stayed, so that he might bind her and take her again? She shivered as she remembered the way he had forced orgasm after orgasm from her—with his hand, with his tongue, and with the vigorous thrusting of his cock in her mouth. Tilting her head back, she touched her throat. Her mouth watered just at the thought. There was something about the feel of his firm flesh filling her mouth that set her on fire.

But it was the control he exerted that made everything poignant and perfect.

With a long sigh, she turned on her side and stared at the thread of light between the curtains.

She felt awakened. As if she suddenly held the key to a chamber of secret and unthought-of pleasures—a chamber that had always resided within her, but was only accessible through Matthew.

Her heart quivered.

Lord, how could one night—one man—inspire such yearning?

She frowned. He had only asked for one night. Yet his words had implied, over and over, that last night was only the beginning.

She sat up again and, shoving her hands through her curls, closed her eyes for a moment. One night—or two or three—what did it matter? Nothing, after all, was forever.

Throwing back her sheets, she rose from bed. As she slipped her arms into the sleeves of her dressing gown, her gaze fell upon her cello. Leaning in its stand in preparation for her practice, it faced her, its upper sound holes looking at her like two unblinking eyes. For a moment, she was struck with the odd notion that it had been watching her. It was a silly thought, but the flutter of disquiet that moved through her was palpable.

Normally, she would have been practicing by now, especially since she was due to play that evening. She bit her lower lip. Only, she felt no urgency to play. In fact, as she continued to stare into the blank face of her instrument, her only emotion was a sort of dull resentment.

Shoving aside her odd feelings, she glanced again at the clock. Though the hour was late, she could still practice for a full two hours before her visit with her sister. “Don’t worry,” she murmured to her cello. “I shall be with you soon enough.”

Turning away from her instrument, Patience worked the tiny buttons of her dressing gown as she crossed to the hearth. She’d noticed that her comfortable reading chair had been pulled before the fire, and she wondered if the maid had moved it. But as she rounded the big chair, she drew to a sudden halt.

Sitting on a table beside the freshly fed fire sat a tea tray laden with a small china teapot and teacup. A demure little sugar bowl and pitcher of cream sat beside a cut glass dish of marmalade and butter. And next to a tea plate topped with two golden scones, was a steepled slip of paper.

Unmoving, Patience stared at the tray while a succession of emotions tumbled through her—first happiness, but then a quick and growing discomfort. Why had he done such a thing? It was completely unnecessary. Just because he had served her passions, didn’t mean he needed to serve her breakfast. She was perfectly capable of taking care of such things herself.

Indeed, she preferred to take care of such things herself.

The fire crackled.

She pushed a loose curl behind her ear and then sighed.

Her thoughts were ungracious.

She ought to be pleased. Wouldn’t most people be pleased? She’d been pleased for a moment.

Drawing closer to the table, she saw that a delicate
P
, scripted exactly as the one in the note, had been carved into the top of the butter.

Her chest tightened and her eyes stung.

Lord, she hadn’t realized she was so close to crying.

Tipping her head back to prevent her tears from falling, she forced a slow, deep breath into her lungs. When she exhaled, her stomach growled. She pressed her hand over the rumbling spot and blinked to clear her eyes.

Whatever was the matter with her? She returned her gaze to the table. Everything looked delicious and she was hungry.

She sat down slowly.

Anyway, it was just breakfast. It didn’t mean anything.

Picking up her napkin, she opened it carefully onto her lap. Then, clasping her hands, she leaned forward and let her eye wander again over the little tray.

No one had ever monogrammed her butter before.

And how did he know she preferred marmalade to jam?

 

“So”—Matthew spread jam on his toast—“tell me what you’ve discovered from mingling belowstairs at Benchley Manor. Tell me the Benchleys have a secret I can exploit—preferably a deep, dark one.”

Mickey Wilkes grinned. “Oh, they ’as a secret—prolly more ’n one—I kin feel it. I jus’ ’ave t’ uncov’r ’em. Which’ll take a bit o’ time, fer they’re no’ very chat’y o’er there.”

Matthew frowned. Though winning the coal mine was a blow to Benchley and a great boon for him, he couldn’t rely on it being enough. Victory and some semblance of his former place in society would only come through Benchley’s complete destruction—and, unfortunately, the state of Matthew’s accounts disallowed any delay. He tossed down his toast and leaned his elbows on his desk. “Time is not something I have to spare.”

“Yeah, well, I said a bit o’ time, not a lot o’ time. I’s a’ready got me eye on a pret’y gel. She ain’t th’one what’s got th’ mos’ t’tell, mind ye, but she be real close wit’ th’one what does.”

Matthew steepled his fingers before him. “And who is ‘the one what does’?”

“Tha’ be Mrs. Biddlewick, the ’ead baker. See, nineteen year ’go—th’ same year what th’ ’ol earl died—Benchley changed o’er th’ ’ole ’ousehold, ’ceptin’ Mrs. Biddlewick. An’ ’e did it kinda slow like, only no’
so
slow. Which says t’ me, tha’ ’e were actu’lly in a real ’urry an’ were jus’ tryin’ t’ ’ide it.”

Matthew frowned. “Did this Mrs. Biddlewick tell you this?”

“O’ course not.” Mickey looked indignant. “I’ve chat’ed, real casu’l like, wit’ e’ery servant in tha’ ’ouse. I figgered all this out on me own, mat’matics an’ all.”

Matthew raised his brows. “Forgive me. Go on.”

“Yeah, well, turns out th’ only one Benchley kep’ be Mrs. Biddlewick. Kep’ ’er cause o’ ’ow she makes ’is fav’rite strawb’y tarts.” Mickey leaned back in his chair confidently and steepled his fingers in seemingly unconscious imitation of Matthew. “Course, Benchley ’ad to ’ave some reason, didn’ ’e—some secret reason—fer bringin’ in a ’ole new staff so no’chalant-like.” He paused and narrowed his eyes. “Right? I mean, i’s a lot o’ work that, an’ good ’elp’s ’ard to find.”

Matthew nodded. It
was
strange. While there might, at any given time, be a change or two in the servant roster of a noble house, most families cultivated their staff. Many even employed generations of servants from the same families.

Matthew pushed a bowl of stewed fruit across his desk for Mickey, and then leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee. So why had Benchley done it? What had happened nineteen years ago? The old earl had died, but of what possible import could that be? Insofar as Matthew knew, the man had led an unremarkable life. There had to be something else. “You’re sure it was nineteen years ago that this occurred?”

Mickey looked up from his bowl. “Yeah, I’s sure. ’E go’ rid o’ e’eryone, ’ceptin’ Mrs. Biddlewick, ’twixt the months o’ April an’ August 1832.”

Matthew frowned. “Lady Rosalind was born in 1832—October 5th, 1832.” He looked at Mickey, who had paused mid-chew with a cheekful of fruit. “Which means that Benchley rid himself of his old staff whilst the late Lady Benchley was with child. That’s an awfully inconvenient time to do such an inconvenient thing.”

Mickey nodded as he chewed then swallowed. “T’is that. Don’ know much ’bout th’ late Lady Benchley yet. Did find out, tho, that Benchley’s daugh’er be a real flirt.”

Matthew’s frown deepened. “Really?” How had he never seen that?

“Yeah, ’paren’ly she likes teasin’ th’ footmen wit’ views o’ ’er fem’nin charms. Bit o’ leg here, bit o’ bosom there.”

Matthew’s brows shot up in surprise.

“Yeah, she per’tens i’ all ’appens by accident. But the footmens tells me she be accident’ly showin’ ’erself all th’ time.”

Matthew chuckled bitterly as he set down his coffee cup. Christ, had he only interviewed the servants of Benchley Manor before proposing to Rosalind, he might have saved himself much. He shoved his fingers through his hair. But he hadn’t, and now he must defend himself against the villainy of the man he would have called father.

Glancing at the number at the bottom of his open ledger, his shoulders tensed. He looked across his desk at Mickey. “Find out everything you can. Then bring me something I can use that will force the Earl of Benchley to his knees. Do you understand me? Find his weaknesses—all of them—even if they lie with his daughter. For, somewhere, I must find one fatal flaw.”

Mickey nodded. “I’ll find it, Mr. ’Awkmore. I will.”

A brief knock sounded on the door, and Mark poked his head in. “Ah, I knew I smelled bacon. And where there’s bacon, there’s my brother.” He entered, closing the door behind him. “And if it isn’t Mr. Wilkes. You’re looking very well,” he said as he crossed to the coffee tray.

With his bowl still in his hand, the lad stood and bowed his head. “Thank ye, m’lord.”

Matthew watched Mickey polish off the last of his stewed fruit. Mark was right. Were it not for the clanking of his spoon, and his loud lip-smacking, the tall seventeen- year-old would have looked entirely respectable. Sporting a haircut, a new suit, and new boots, it was no wonder he’d been employed so quickly at Benchley Manor. It was a very different appearance from the one he had presented six months ago when he’d arrived fresh off the rough streets of Seven Dials. It was different even from how he had looked a mere four months ago, when Mark had employed him as a spy in the Lawrence household.

Then, he had still had the quickly shifting eyes of one who is accustomed to being surrounded by thieves and cutthroats. But now, he stood with his shoulders a bit straighter and he looked at Matthew with a steady eye. It was good.

Mark crossed to them and, sitting on the edge of Matthew’s desk, looked at Mickey. “Mr. Pinter misses you in the stables. He says you have a way with the horses.”

Mickey grinned as he put down his bowl. “Yeah, guess I do. I’ll be back jus’ as soon as I finishes up me job fer Mr. ’Awkmore, ’ere.”

Mark sipped his coffee. “Very well.”

“A’right, then.” Mickey looked at Matthew. “I’ll be leavin’ ’gain t’morrow.”

“See me before you go.”

Mickey nodded and, yanking his cap out of his jacket pocket, made a hasty exit.

Mark looked at the closed door and then at Matthew. “Tell me what you’re doing.”

“No.”

“Goddamn it, tell me.”

Matthew frowned. “I said, no.”

Mark set down his coffee. “For Christ’s sake, Matt, I’m your brother. Let me help you.”

Matthew’s frown deepened. “You’re my half brother, and I don’t want your help.” He stabbed a sausage with his fork.
Damn it!
That was rude. He met Mark’s angry frown. “Thank you, but I’ll handle this on my own.”

“Really?” Mark crossed his arms over his chest. “Benchley’s already made it almost impossible for you to obtain coal. You’re paying almost double for the coal you can get. You’ve got engines backing up and goods arriving late. And anyone who needs to ship goods to or from the west is doing it with Marchford Rails. How long can you last under these circumstances?”

His shoulders tense, Matthew tightened his grip on his fork. Mark had a damned annoying way of putting his thumb on multiple bruises at once. “I’ll last. I’ll last, and I’ll win,” he ground out.

Mark shook his head. “You can’t continue to make up GWR’s losses all on your own. Are you prepared to sell Angel’s Manor if it comes to that? And what if your shareholders dump? Do you think the board is going to support you if these issues aren’t resolved? What if they vote to remove you as chairman? What if they force your resignation from GWR altogether?”

“Bloody hell!” Matthew leaned forward as a muscle cramped painfully in his neck. “And what if
all
my investments fail? And what if my estate burns to the ground? And what if Benchley is having me slowly poisoned? Jesus Christ, are there any other menacing possibilities for my destruction that you’d like me to consider?”