A Perfect Scandal (27 page)

Roman’s tight expression relaxed into a smile as he looked at her. “I know all about that. Marcus may have initially been angry with you, but no longer. Nothing in his past compares to what he now feels for you.”

Isabel shook her head. “You’re mistaken. I told Marcus I loved him. I would be willing to give up Paris and art studies if he would just ask. Instead, he has told me repeatedly to leave.”

“That’s because he is deathly afraid to love, to open his heart to someone only to have her ripped from his life. When he received the threat to your life, he was reminded of Bridget’s death, only it would have been far worse. Bridget died by her own selfish hand, but if you were hurt, it would be because of a madman seeking vengeance against him. In Marcus’s mind, he would be as responsible as the killer. He could never live with himself if you were taken from him. Don’t you see, he loves you, but he is stubbornly refusing to acknowledge his feelings for fear of losing you.”

Isabel shook her head. “I want to believe you, but I find it difficult. What about Simone Winston?”

Roman’s brow furrowed. “His former mistress? Simone means nothing to him.”

“When we returned to the house yesterday, she was waiting for him. She said she had information about the recovered painting. He took her into his library office. Alone.”

“Then he wanted to find out if she knew anything that would lead him to the mastermind,” Roman said.

“That is what he said, but—”

“Marcus is obsessed with determining the true villain’s identity. He is compelled to follow every lead—leave no stone unturned—even if that means interrogating Simone. He will not rest until he has destroyed the man responsible for the mysterious note.”

“But the note never mentioned my name; it only threatened what Marcus loves most,” Isabel argued.

“Exactly. That’s why he wants you safely ensconced in Paris. But I believe we can keep you well guarded until the true identity of the mastermind is determined. You must convince him to acknowledge his feelings.”

She laughed. “Your brother is too headstrong to persuade when his mind is set.”

“You alone have the power. I’ve told you everything so that you understand him and do not give up on him and leave for Paris. Your love can heal his bruised soul. You are what he needs, not work or expensive art.”

She placed her fork down. She’d suddenly lost her appetite for the food before her. Could she do it? Unpack her bags and risk her bruised pride and try to reach Marcus once again? Attempt to heal his wounds and make him acknowledge his feelings for her?

She rose and placed her napkin beside her full plate. “Thank you, Roman, for everything.”

He stood, an expectant expression on his handsome face. “Will you stay then?”

“I need time to think.” She made to leave, and then stopped and turned to face him. “One more question. Whatever happened to Bridget’s family?”

Roman shrugged. “Bridget Turner’s father was a well-to-do merchant who was too busy to pay her much attention, and her mother was deceased. Her elder brother, whom we never met, was in the army stationed in France.”

Something about Roman’s story disturbed her, and she fuddled with myriad confused emotions before a thought clicked in her mind.

She anxiously looked up at Roman. “Turner, did you say?”

Marcus arrived at his office on Threadneedle Street by eight-thirty that morning. He sat behind his desk, surrounded by stacks of correspondence and company stock reports, and waited with his door wide open. He occasionally glanced at the papers, but he had no interest in the columns of figures.

His eyes returned to the brass name plate which identified Ralph Hodge’s office directly across the hall. A ray of sunlight from the window behind him reflected off the brass as if to mock him.

Marcus’s mouth thinned with displeasure. He disliked waiting for anyone, especially the sly, traitorous Hodge. But Marcus knew the wily stockbroker was due shortly at his office.

He was rewarded fifteen minutes later when the sounds of footsteps echoed down the hall. Marcus shot up, closed his door halfway, and hid behind it.

Keys jangled, then came the distinct sound of a bolt sliding from its lock and a door opening.

Marcus rushed out and roughly grabbed Ralph Hodge by the M-cut collar of his tailored jacket. Marcus pushed the smaller man inside his office, slammed him against the wall, and kicked the door shut.

Ralph Hodge’s eyes bulged in his face. “Hawksley, what the hell—”

“Shut up, Hodge.” Wrapping his hand around the broker’s throat, he squeezed. “I want the truth,” Marcus growled.

Ralph helplessly pulled at Marcus’s hand. “I don’t…know what…you’re talking about,” he wheezed.

Marcus eased up on his grip. “I’m talking about Isabel.”

“Your wife? I never touched her!”

“I never thought you did. But did you threaten her?”

“Threaten her? No, I merely suggested a liaison should she tire of you.”

Marcus released him. “Not bloody likely, you fool.”

Ralph Hodge massaged his throat and stepped away. “You’re crazy, Hawksley.”

“What do you know about Thomas Gainsborough?”

“Is he one of your clients?” Ralph asked warily. “I swear I never approached him.”

Marcus laughed despite himself. “I find your ignorance of the art world reassuring.” When a look of utter confusion passed over Hodge’s face, Marcus asked, “Did you hire anyone to frame me for the theft of a piece of artwork?”

“No, but the idea has merit.”

“You would love to see me ruined, wouldn’t you?”

Ralph shot him a withering glance. “I won’t deny that I dislike you. Our past is less than amicable, but I would never threaten your wife, and I had nothing to do with any painting.”

Marcus nodded. Despite his aversion toward Ralph Hodge, he sensed the stockbroker was telling the truth. Marcus had never believed Hodge was the mastermind even given the animosity and rivalry between them. Ralph was unethical, arrogant, and ruthlessly ambitious, but he was not a murderer, and he lacked the knowledge and finances to contrive and carry out such an intricate plot.

The sound of booted feet outside Hodge’s door drew their attention.

A persistent rapping followed.

“Open it,” Marcus instructed.

Hodge straightened his jacket and stepped to the door. He opened it, and a man dressed in a crisp uniform complete with red jacket, black trousers, and a high hat with a matching red hat band stood expectantly. His distinct uniform marked him as a courier, and the service that employed him often delivered packages to stockbrokers and jobbers that occupied the offices in the building.

“Good morning, sir,” the man said to Ralph. “I have a delivery for the businessman across the hall.” He looked down at a paper in his hand. “A Mr. Marcus Hawksley. Would you be so kind as to accept the package on his behalf?”

Marcus stepped forward. “There’s no need for that. I’m Marcus Hawksley.”

The courier’s eyes lit up. “Very good, sir.” He turned around to retrieve a sizable package over three feet high and four feet long wrapped in brown paper, and rested it against the door. “Pleasure to be of service, sir,” the courier said before turning to leave Hodge’s office.

Marcus’s brows drew downward as he stared at the package.
It can’t be!

In two strides he reached the package and tore it open. His eyes widened as heart-thudding recognition struck him. Through the roaring din in his skull, he murmured out loud, “It’s the
Seashore with Fishermen
.”

Never could he have fathomed that the stolen painting would be delivered to his doorstep. He reached out to touch it just to be sure it was real. The critics had been correct. The coastal scene, showing three fishermen sitting in a boat with a fourth pushing the boat into the surf, was so lifelike that you could almost feel the wind and the spray of the ocean waves on your face. Three other fishermen handled a net in the surf as they struggled against strong winds and pounding waves.

“Is that the artwork you almost strangled me for stealing?” Ralph asked behind his shoulder.

Marcus ignored him and scanned the brown wrapping for a return address. He found nothing, but a white slip of paper stuck in the lower left corner of the frame caught his eye. He plucked it from the frame and unfolded it.

Fear spurted through him, and his heart thundered in his chest. Dashing to the door, he turned to Hodge. “Keep that safe,” Marcus said, pointing to the painting. “The Regent wants it.”

He then ran down the hall, holding raw emotion in check, and prayed he was not too late.

“It’s a coincidence,” Roman said, stepping away from the dining room table to approach Isabel.

“How can you be certain? Do you believe the surname ‘Turner’ too common as Investigator Harrison had suggested?” Isabel asked. “No.”

“Then why?” she asked. “It’s logical that Bridget Turner’s brother thinks he has motive for his sister’s death.”

“It cannot be the same man,” Roman insisted. “Bridget Turner’s brother died in the army while stationed in France.”

“How do you know?”

“The body was never sent back to England, but we had heard he had contracted consumption and had expired from the disease. We never had reason to question otherwise,” Roman said.

“I see. That would explain why Marcus never made the connection when Harrison had said the studio’s lease was in the name of H. Turner.”

Jenkins interrupted them by clearing his throat and entering the dining room. He was trailed by a servant she did not recognize. The middle-aged man was squat with small black eyes and a bulbous nose. Drops of perspiration clung to his damp forehead, and he was out of breath as if he had run a great distance.

“This is Horatio Kulzer, Charlotte Benning’s footman,” Jenkins said. “He has pressing news.”

Kulzer spoke up. “Pardon the interruption, Mrs. Hawksley. After leavin’ yer home, Miss Benning ’ad wanted a ride in Hyde Park. All was fine till ’alfway through the park Miss Benning fell ill. She’s there now with her coachman and told me to rush ’ere. I ran the entire way. She’s askin’ fer ye, Mrs. Hawksley.”

Isabel paled at the news. “Do you know what is ailing her?”

“No, Mrs. Hawksley. Only that she’s lyin’ down inside the coach and insisted that I fetch ye right away.”

“I shall come at once,” Isabel said, rushing from the dining room.

Roman and Jenkins followed. “I shall accompany you,” Roman said.

Kulzer eyed him. “Miss Benning asked only fer Mrs. Hawksley, my lord.”

Roman’s eyes narrowed. “I’m going with Isabel. We can take my carriage.”

A muscle quivered at Kulzer’s jaw before he nodded deferentially. “As ye wish, my lord.”

They piled into Roman’s carriage and were fast on their way. As Horatio Kulzer instructed, they followed along the Serpentine River. It was a pleasant July afternoon, and Hyde Park’s well-traveled track was littered with carriages and phaetons of high society.

They did not stop here, however, and continued onward until they left the familiar cobblestone path. Thicker foliage, low tree branches, and bushes brushed the sides of the swaying carriage as they passed.

“Why would Charlotte’s coachman bring her here?” Roman asked.

“She wanted a private spot to rest,” Kulzer explained.

The Bennings’ crested coach came into view, and they stopped beside it.

Roman leaned forward, peering out the window, concern etched across his features. “I don’t see the coachman.”

Kulzer opened the door and jumped down. “Maybe ’e stepped away fer a moment.”

Wasting no time, Roman and Isabel followed the footman and ran to the coach.

Isabel rapped on the door. “Charlotte! It’s Isabel. Are you ill?”

Kulzer opened the door, lowered the step, and motioned for Isabel to enter. Roman made to join her, but Kulzer put out a hand to stop him. “Mayhap ye should let the lady enter first to see to Miss Benning.” Lowering his voice an octave, he murmured, “She asked specifically fer her.”

Roman stiffened, but he nodded and stepped aside.

Isabel entered the coach, and Kulzer closed the door behind her.

Blackness enveloped her. The dark shades were drawn and the gas lamps unlit. Her eyes struggled to adjust. An odd smell lingered in the coach, nothing like Charlotte’s familiar perfume.

“Charlotte?”

A deep chuckle reverberated inside the coach. Isabel reached for the shade, but a strong hand grasped her wrist.

“Let me, my dear,” said an eerily familiar voice.

The shade opposite the side she had entered snapped open, and Isabel squinted against the now bright light.

“Mr. Benning!” she gasped. “Whatever are you doing here? Where is Charlotte?”

“My stepdaughter is at home, of course.”

She stared at Harold Benning in confusion. “Is this some kind of jest?”

He regarded her with impassive coldness for a moment before his lips twisted into a cynical smile. “This is no joke, my dear.”

She found him vaguely disturbing, and her pulse began to beat erratically. As her eyes nervously darted over him, she noted his stiff posture and his uncharacteristic clothing. Gone was the flamboyant, effeminate attire. He was wearing a severe-cut navy coat and fawn breeches. Sturdy Hessians encased his feet rather than high-heeled buckled shoes. His eyes no longer held the glassy gleam of alcoholic overindulgence, but were pale blue and sharp. His speech wasn’t slurred or high-pitched, but a deeper timbre.

A primitive warning sounded in her brain.

She reached for the door handle. “I must tell Roman that Charlotte is fine and at home. He’s right outside.”

A glimmer of amusement passed over Benning’s face. “Please do.” He reached across her to open the door.

She gasped at the sight that met her eyes. Roman was on his knees, hands tied behind his back; Horatio Kulzer held a gun to his head. Roman’s driver lay unconscious beside them, blood tricking down his hairline onto his cheek.

Roman met her wide eyes. “Isabel—”

Kulzer cut Roman off with a hard kick to his side, and Roman grunted.

Isabel screamed and made to leap from the coach, but she was jerked back by a vicious grip on her arm.

Roman struggled to rise. “Don’t touch her!” he bellowed.

Horatio Kulzer pressed down on Roman’s shoulder with a meaty hand. “Unless ye want to see the lady shot, ye better stay put.”

Benning sneered and increased his grip on Isabel’s arm. “I take it Hawksley was easy enough to subdue?” he asked Kulzer.

“Aye. The lovesick fool was so concerned with the ’appenin’s inside the coach that I ’ad no problem takin’ care of ’im and ’is driver.” Horatio Kulzer broke into a satanic smile, revealing two missing front teeth.

Isabel was immediately reminded of Robby Bones.

She twisted to glare at Harold Benning. “Dear God, what have you done!”

“Only what justice has demanded for years.”

The shock of discovery hit her full force. “
You
are the mastermind! I recognize you now. You were the one speaking with Robby Bones in the gardens at Leticia Benning’s birthday ball. It was you all along!”

“You always were quite clever, Isabel,” Benning drawled.

“You are H. Turner…Harold Turner,” she sputtered. “You were Bridget Turner’s brother.”

“We thought you were dead,” Roman ground out.

Harold Benning’s eyes hardened like glacial ice. “Your bastard brother killed me the same day he murdered my sister.”

“He didn’t murder her. She took her own life,” Isabel protested in a choked voice.

“She was forced to do so,” Benning snapped, “the moment she discovered she was carrying Marcus Hawksley’s bastard child. I adored my sister, and we had grand plans for her future. Our father was a merchant, but Bridget deserved better than to be the wife of a mere tradesman. She was worthy to be one of the titled nobility. We plotted as children for her to accomplish such a goal. Years later when I was stationed in France, she wrote to say she had bagged an heir to an earldom. The pregnancy was but a hook to lure him into a bigger trap. But Marcus Hawksley misled Bridget into thinking he was the heir. You see, for all her flirtatious knowledge and conquests of the opposite sex, she was raised as a simple merchant’s daughter in the middle class, and she was never exposed to the faces behind the complex social rankings of the
beau monde
. When I wrote back to tell her that Marcus was the younger son, I reassured her that the brat in her belly could have been dealt with. But somehow our father had learned of her condition before she could seek out the abortionist, and he planned to oust her from the family home without a farthing. Bridget was forced to take drastic measures and end her own life.”

“That’s insane! How can you blame Marcus when Bridget intentionally tried to trap him?” Isabel asked.

“He was a rogue, a womanizer, and a liar. He would have said anything to bed a woman.”

“That’s a lie,” Roman said. “Marcus never misled her. You said yourself she had never been exposed to the members of the ton. As brothers we look alike; it was she who assumed Marcus was the older son. He planned to do right by Bridget and the child by
marrying
her,” Roman said.

“She did not want a younger son; his lies forced her to hang herself. He took my Bridget from me!” Spittle flew from Benning’s lips and sprayed Isabel’s face.

She recoiled at the insanity that shone bright and clear in his eyes. Her stomach churned at the realization that Harold Benning’s feelings for his sister had extended well beyond brotherly love.

“I have spent years traveling throughout the continent and perfecting my plans,” Benning said. “I have re-created myself time and again until I became the perfect stylish, wastrel—Mr. Harold Benning—the fop who blended in with every other useless dandy. I returned to England and married the perfect companion, the vain, but deeply insecure Leticia Benning, a pathetic woman who desperately needs affirmation that true love exists in this cruel world.”

Isabel blinked, stunned at the hatred that dripped like acid from his voice. “Have you no conscience?”

Benning’s burning gaze bore into her. “My conscience was crushed the day my sister was taken from me. Now I shall return the favor and take something from Marcus Hawksley. I had initially planned to have the Thomas Gainsborough painting he coveted stolen and his freedom taken from him when he was arrested and incarcerated for the theft. But you, my dear, interfered. I was furious at first, but then I saw the way he looked at you and knew he had fallen in love, and my prior dismay turned into instant bliss.” He hesitated, a haughty smirk crossing his face. “I thoroughly enjoyed taunting him with my menacing notes. I even arranged to have the elusive painting delivered to his office today. I only regret not being able to see his reaction when he recognizes it.”

Isabel’s jaw dropped a notch at his crazed words. Her eyes scanned the interior of the coach and the woods beyond for a way to escape, but he must have sensed her desperation for his grip on her arm tightened.

“I admit I regret it was you he fell in love with, Isabel,” he continued. “I was always fond of you, and it is a shame you must die. But you must hang from a rafter for the murder scene to be accurately re-created, and Marcus Hawksley must be the one to find you,” Benning said, his tone coolly impersonal as if he were discussing the weather.

“You’ll never get away with this,” Roman hissed. “Marcus will kill you.”

“I don’t believe so. He has failed to identify me so far, and by the time he discovers the truth, I shall be long gone from London.” Benning cocked his head to the side and studied Roman. “Your arrival was not part of my plans, my lord, but nonetheless, you shall serve a good purpose. When you rouse, kindly tell your brother he can cut his wife down from a rafter in the art studio where I took care of Robby Bones.”

Roman’s struggles increased. “Don’t do this, Benning.”

“What do you mean ‘when he rouses’?” Isabel asked.

Just then, Horatio Kulzer raised the butt of his pistol and slammed it into Roman’s temple.

Isabel screamed as Roman crumpled to the ground. “You killed him!”

Benning gave an impatient shrug. “Neither Roman nor his driver are dead, my dear. Only knocked unconscious. They should wake in an hour or so with a nasty headache and a large lump on their skulls. Just in time to fetch your dastardly husband.”

She flew at him, taking him by surprise. She clawed at his fingers that held her arm, then raked her nails down his face and kicked his shins with the pointed toes of her pumps. He grunted in pain and released her arm. She immediately pulled his hair and tried to slam his head against the side of the coach.

Horatio Kulzer came to Benning’s aid, and it took both men to overpower her. She cursed and bucked as Benning restrained her, and Kulzer tied her hands and feet and stuffed a dirty rag in her mouth.

Kulzer left the coach, and she was forced to sit across from Harold Benning. He wiped his damp brow with a handkerchief, his expression holding a note of mockery as he glared at her.

She heard the squeak of springs as Kulzer climbed into the driver’s seat, and then the coach jerked forward.