Eleanor And The Duke (Berkshire Brides Book 1) (20 page)

The injured footman was likely to shed more light on the events that had occurred in town, but Andrew allowed Stillwater to continue.

“Your men were attacked – ambushed – by four others on the bridge. Young Mr. Fletcher here was the first to reach them and give his assistance.”

Andrew nodded to the gentleman who had helped to carry Carrick inside. “Four? Who were the attackers? Did you recognize them, Matthew?”

The footman shrugged, clearly still stunned by the attack. “They came for us after we left the tavern. We were halfway across the bridge when they attacked, and they managed to toss Mr. Carrick off. We were outnumbered, Your Grace.”

“You are not to blame, Matthew,” Andrew said. He turned to Stillwater. “Did you capture the felons responsible for this?”

“Alas, no,” Lord Stillwater said. “But we will.”

“Who do you think would do this, Beckworth?” Eleanor asked, taking a dry cloth and gently wiping Carrick’s face and damp hair. The cloth came back bloody.

“I’m afraid I know all too well who ordered this to be done,” Andrew said.

“Ordered it?” Stillwater asked, his tone one of astonishment.

Andrew’s mouth thinned before he spoke with contempt. “Weatherby.”

“Lord Weatherby? That is a serious accusation, Duke,” Stillwater said with astonishment. “Do you have any proof?”

“No.”

“Perhaps it would be better to take this discussion out of the sickroom, gentlemen,” Eleanor said with some authority in her voice.

“Miss Easton,” Thornberry said, “Harry and I will remove Mr. Carrick’s wet clothes and get him situated in bed. There’s no need for you to trouble yourself . . .”

Eleanor stepped away from Carrick and out of the room. “I will collect what you will need for Mr. Carrick and see to Matthew’s cuts. Thank you for your assistance.”

While Eleanor drew Matthew to the nearby kitchen, Andrew stepped outside Carrick’s room where he could see both of his men. He watched as Eleanor had the footman sit down at the table and directed Sally, the kitchen maid, to pour heated water into two bowls and take one of them, with some clean cloths, to Mr. Carrick’s room.

Eleanor was unquestionably mistress of her house, and Andrew was glad he could count on her to manage things while he talked to Stillwater. Andrew had been so intent upon finding out what Weatherby intended, he felt responsible for Carrick’s injury. If the man died—

“Perhaps you can explain what you said about Lord Weatherby,” Stillwater said.

“I had no idea he would take it this far,” Andrew remarked, almost to himself. He looked up at the baron. “Weatherby’s animosity toward me goes back more than two years. I witnessed him committing an unethical act, and he was sanctioned for it. Since then, he has done everything possible to interfere in my life, to thwart my goals.”

Stillwater raised his brows. “And this?”

“You know of Sir Robert Peel’s labor bill,” Andrew replied. “We spoke of it the other day, so you know Sir Robert and I have been working together to see that it is passed. But I have reason to believe Lord Weatherby is . . .”

Andrew hesitated. Weatherby and Stillwater were neighbors. They must have known each other a long time, and Andrew had no idea what their relationship was.

“You may speak freely, Your Grace. Lord Weatherby enjoys no particular favor with me.”

“The earl is working to defeat the bill. He’s using bribery, intimidation . . . whatever means he can.”

“And your men?”

“Carrick stayed in town this afternoon, on my behalf,” Andrew said, kicking himself for putting Carrick in such a vulnerable position. He should have anticipated some chicanery from Weatherby. “We’d hoped to learn something of Weatherby’s influence over the peers who are on the fence.”

“And you believe Weatherby discovered him?”

Andrew rubbed a hand across his mouth in frustration. “It could not be more obvious.”

“To you, perhaps, Duke,” Stillwater said.

“I know I am not wrong,” Andrew said. “Weatherby is not fool enough to allow himself to be connected to this misdeed. He kept his distance.”

Stillwater inclined his head in thought. “Even if he were personally involved, it would be very difficult to bring charges against an earl.”

That was quite true.

“For now,” Andrew said, “I will be content if Carrick regains consciousness and recovers. It is fortunate my footman was not more seriously injured.”

Stillwater nodded, and they returned to Carrick’s room, where Harry and Grayson stood watching Fletcher stitch a wound in the man’s side.

“He was stabbed, too?” Andrew asked.

“It does look like a knife wound,” Fletcher replied.

“Hell’s bells,” Andrew muttered. This had gone too far.

“It is rather superficial, so I do not believe it has done any internal damage, Your Grace,” Fletcher said.

“You have some experience with this kind of thing, Fletcher?”

“Not in humans, sir,” Fletcher said. “I did work with my father’s estate manager before I apprenticed out, and we had the occasional mishap among the animals . . .”

Fletcher was close to Andrew’s age, with dark hair and eyes tinged with intelligence. He was Andrew’s height, with a ruddy complexion that gave him the look of an outdoorsman, though his clothes clearly signified he was a gentleman.

He was a good-looking fellow, and when Eleanor came into the room, Andrew could not help but notice how Fletcher’s eyes made a quick survey of her face and form before returning his attention to Carrick.

Bloody hell. Joshua Parris, Viscount Maryfield, and now this Fletcher fellow?

“Miss Easton,” Andrew said, feeling slightly less worried about Carrick at the moment, and rather more irritated with Fletcher, “shall we leave Mr. Carrick to his rest?”

A blush rose upon Eleanor’s cheeks, making it clear she was aware of Fletcher’s perusal. She did not meet Andrew’s gaze as she left the room, leading the way ahead of him and Stillwater.

“Your Grace,” Stillwater said, once they’d made their way to the front of the house, “I will take my leave now, but I’ll return to Reading in the morning to begin my inquiries. Would you care to accompany me?”

“Yes, I would,” Andrew replied. He was certain Weatherby was responsible, and though he did not yet have any evidence to accuse the earl for his part in the attack on Carrick, Andrew intended to put him on notice.

He walked outside to Stillwater’s carriage in order to speak to the man so that Eleanor would not hear him. He did not wish to worry her.

“Stillwater, do you have a couple of stablemen or grooms you could send here tonight? To help keep watch on the house?”

Stillwater looked at him gravely. “I do.”

“What is all the fuss?” Minerva asked when Eleanor came upon her in the small parlor. She was sitting near a window with an obviously untouched book on her lap. “What does Stillwater mean, bursting in as he did and crying murder?”

“Beckworth’s secretary and footman were attacked and hurt in town,” Eleanor replied. “Mr. Carrick’s injuries are quite severe.”

“Good heavens. What sort of ruffians does Beckworth keep in his employ?” Minerva asked in a huff. “Those men should be sent back to London immediately.”

“One of them is seriously injured, Aunt,” Eleanor replied. “And I do not believe the incident occurred through any fault of his own.”

Though what Lord Weatherby had to do with it remained to be seen. Just because Beckworth accused the earl did not mean he was involved.

“Well, I heartily disapprove of such goings-on, Eleanor, and I mean to tell the duke exactly that.”

“Do so, Aunt Minerva,” Eleanor replied. “Though I believe Beckworth will be tied up with Mr. Carrick for the next little while. Where is Joshua?”

“Gone home,” Minerva replied with a sniff. “And don’t think I did not notice what you were trying to do at supper tonight.”

“What?”

“Do not act the innocent with me, Eleanor Easton. Your insulting behavior toward the Duke of Beckworth will not serve you well. Mark my words.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean you behaved abominably toward him tonight,” Minerva said. “Shutting him out of the conversation at every turn. Telling him to leave – and in front of a guest!” She made a sound of disgust and set her book aside.

Eleanor did not know what to say. She had been hateful. And now she was actually entertaining the possibility that Lord Weatherby did have something to do with the attack on Mr. Carrick. And if that were true . . .

“Beckworth believes Lord Weatherby ordered the attack upon Mr. Carrick.”

“Bosh.” Minerva’s brows came together tightly, and she spoke with indignation. “What possible reason would an earl— Unless the young man . . .” She shook her head. “Ridiculous.”

Eleanor wished she knew what to think.

“I believe I will retire to my room for the night,” Minerva said, standing. She did not look back as she spoke to Eleanor “You would do well to follow my example, Eleanor.”

“Yes. Soon, Aunt.”

But Eleanor’s nerves were on edge. She knew it would be hours before she was ready to settle down to sleep.

Of course Beckworth would accuse Weatherby of wrongdoing. He knew the earl was the one who’d told her of his infidelity, so it served his purpose to discredit him before her.

Even though Aunt Minerva did not seem to believe the earl capable of wrongdoing, Eleanor’s conversation with Lucy about Weatherby came back to her. What, exactly, had the earl gained by thwarting her marriage to Beckworth? If he had not merely been performing his Christian duty by warning her of what he knew about Beckworth, then what possible purpose could Mr. Carrick’s beating serve?

Did Lord Weatherby have something against Andrew?

The questions made her head ache.

On her way back to the servants’ quarters, she encountered Mr. Fletcher walking out with Harry, the uninjured footman. “I’ll see Mr. Fletcher out, Harry,” she said. “You can go back and assist with Mr. Carrick.”

They walked to the front door and Fletcher stopped. “Now I remember!”

“About the attackers?”

“No. About Beckworth.”

“I don’t understand, Mr. Fletcher,” Eleanor said, puzzled by the man’s odd remark.

“I thought he looked familiar. Beckworth and my brother were at school together,” Fletcher said. “As I recall, Beckworth rescued him numerous times from a sure beating by the older, larger boys.”

“Beckworth did?”

“Yes, but as I recall, he was Marquis Langley at school, which is why I did not make the connection right away.”

Of course. Langley had been Beckworth’s courtesy title until he inherited the dukedom. “Who is your brother, Mr. Fletcher?” Eleanor asked.

“He is Merrill Fletcher, Viscount Swansea,” Fletcher replied. “As a child, he was small for his age, and had some . . . well, some serious difficulties with a certain set of older, larger boys because of it.”

“And Beckworth intervened.” Eleanor could see him doing so, but she had no intention of thinking about him as some kind of hero. Not until she knew the truth about his paramour and the house he’d bought her.

“If you will give the duke my regards, Miss Easton? And tell him my mother still remembers the service he did my brother all those years ago.”

“I will, Mr. Fletcher. Thank you for your assistance tonight.”

Fletcher left the house, and Eleanor went back to the servants’ quarters where she met Beckworth standing in the doorway of Carrick’s room.

“How is he?” she asked him.

His expression was one of restrained anger. “He will recover.”

She pressed a hand to her breast. “I am very glad to hear it. Is he conscious?”

“He’s just coming around. I need to ask him some questions.”

“About Lord Weatherby?”

“As sure as you are of your precious Lord Weatherby’s honorable nature, I am certain he is responsible for this.” He spoke with finality, walking into the secretary’s room.

“Beckworth . . .”

He hesitated but did not look back at her. Eleanor felt like a chastised child.

“If there is anything else Mr. Carrick needs, please let Thornberry know,” she said quietly. She found herself loath to leave Andrew alone to deal with all this. Along with his anger, lines of concern had marred his brow, and Eleanor had resisted the urge to smooth them away with her fingers. Or perhaps with her lips.

As though he’d heard her thoughts, Beckworth turned around and came back to her. He took hold of her arm and pulled her into an alcove out of sight. Pressing her against a wall, he kissed her, sliding his arms around her waist. Eleanor’s knees weakened and she answered his kiss fully, tilting her head as he deepened their contact. She felt the contours of his lips, and when he invaded her mouth, she tasted a hint of the wine they’d had at supper. Their kiss was a meeting of flesh that intensified deeply as her body melted into his.

The warmth of his body enveloped her, his scent tantalized her. An exquisite ache formed in Eleanor’s lower body, and the only way to soothe it was to press even closer to him. When she moved to do so, he suddenly broke away, breathing hard.

Without a word, he left her to return to Carrick’s room.