Ben took the southeastern road toward Canterbury, but far before reaching it turned south into the woodland in the direction of Hastings, coming to his property swiftly. The modest pieces of land he owned in England all clustered about the same locale. Except for his father, the previous lords of Doreé had never strayed far from London or Paris.
He stabled his horse at the inn, greeting the tepid welcome of the locals with few words and plenty of coin. They resented him. Jack had been their favorite. In the months before the fire, he had spent all of his time at the lodge, moving in there permanently after Arthur’s death. Jack had told him with a laugh of defeat that since he’d restored Fellsbourne, the lodge felt more like home—more like someplace Arthur had lived. Ben had agreed.
Then the hunting box burned, and Ben hadn’t anyplace left that reminded him of either brother. His renovation of the house in Cavendish Square had as much to do with recapturing a sense of his half brothers’ presence there as erasing his father’s obsession with a land to which he never wished to return.
At the time, he hadn’t any idea that eschewing India had everything to do with the woman he left there against his will. His anger and resentment had boiled far too thick to see that clearly. He hadn’t seen clearly again until he looked upon her smile once more.
He left his horse at the inn and walked the path through the copse to the remains of the cottage. As he emerged from the stand of willowy ash and thick oak and pine, the sight met him as it always did, a leaden fist to his midriff. The broken piles of burnt stone looked forlorn, soot still clinging to the gray rock that had once been walls and foundations, square holes for crossbeams gaping like mouths bereft of tongues.
He moved toward the only structure still standing. Set apart from the cottage by thirty yards, the stable had escaped the flames. A groom escaped the tragedy as well, along with several horses. Afterward when Ben made the decision not to rebuild, he offered the fellow a place at Fellsbourne.
The stable had been converted to a storage room with a locked door and space enough for objects salvaged from the smoldering ruins. Ben pulled out the keys.
Within, dust motes stirred in the slits of sunlight chasing through the high-set window paned with thick glass and crossed with iron bars. He opened the door wide to allow in daylight. Ignoring the piles of miscellaneous charred debris of his father’s and brother’s life at the cottage, he unlocked the cabinet. A slim leather-bound volume rested within.
Creighton’s neat script covered a hundred or so lines of the ledger’s first few pages. He read it through, not bothering to cross-check the listed items with the objects stacked in the chamber; Creighton was as fastidious with his work as he was discreet. Ben closed the book and returned it to the cabinet. There was nothing of interest here, only partial memories and burnt dreams. Constance’s dreams.
In the morning he would return to London and call upon her. Lady Fitzwarren was right. He had waited far too long to force Constance into this conversation. But enough time had passed now. Neither of them were the children they had been seven years ago. She must move on, just as he intended to.
Locking the stable door behind him, he pocketed the keys and walked in a pensive mood through the falling evening back to the inn. He took dinner in the taproom, checked on Samuel and his horse in the stable, and closed himself in his bedchamber.
He awoke into the darkness between midnight and dawn, his heart pattering in the cavity of his chest. Nothing stirred in his chamber, downstairs, or outside. The inn was quiet, the village asleep. But the alarm that woke Ben had not come from without.
He pulled on his clothing and took a lamp from the taproom. Dry leaves crackled beneath his boots along the short path through the wood to the ruins. He passed their uneven, black mass, cast in shadows by the waning moon, and went quickly toward the stable. His hands on the key and padlocks were steady. Preternaturally so. He unbolted the door and again went straight to the cabinet, his breath frosting.
The ledger rested cold in his palms, like the knife driving into his stomach as he read and reread a single line of the inventory.
Fowling piece, 46 in., single barrel, cherry(?) stock.
Ben knew only one man who used such an antiquated weapon, the single barrel fitted out with a special hardwood for the buttstock.
Cherry. Walker Styles’s favorite.
But Styles had not been at the hunting box when the fire took his best friend’s life. He was in Sussex, checking up on matters at his family’s estate. In fact, Walker had not been to the cottage for nearly a year before the fire. As crushed by Arthur’s death at Waterloo as Jack and Ben had been, Walker avoided anywhere that reminded him of Arthur, including Fellsbourne.
Then Jack died, along with their father, and Ben abruptly came into the title and estate. Walker had been at his side through it all. A stalwart friend, grieving too, but ever present with advice and support to the younger son who had never expected to inherit an English lordship. Ben never suspected him of anything but intense loyalty and a mourning heart.
Suddenly craven, he could not bring himself to investigate the pile of carefully tagged items in the storeroom, to see the weapon for himself. He locked the ledger in the cabinet and returned to the inn. Three sleepless hours later he woke Samuel and told him to settle the bill and return to London.
Ben saddled Kali, strapped a pack containing a pistol and smallclothes behind him, and set off for Fellsbourne.
When he reached his estate he paused to tell his butler he had arrived for the afternoon only, and went to the stable. He found the old groom from the hunting box rubbing down a saddle horse’s sweat-darkened coat.
“G’day, milord.” The man unbent and tugged his cap. “This here’s a fine fellow. Just had him out for a run up the hill. Got your blunt worth of this one, I’ll wager.”
“Yes, he has a smooth gait, doesn’t he?” Ben moved into the stall. The gelding nickered, pressing his nose into Ben’s palm, searching for treats. Octavia had ridden the animal not a fortnight earlier. Constance had chosen him for her.
Constance.
“Andy, I’ve a question for you.”
“Milord?” The currycomb stalled on the gelding’s flank. The man’s brow puckered.
“Do not concern yourself,” Ben reassured. “It has nothing to do with your work here. I am quite pleased.”
“Thank you, milord.” His skinny shoulders dropped.
“I wish to ask you something concerning the days prior to the fire at the hunting box.”
“Don’t know that I remember much about those days. ’While back.”
“Yes, Andy. But you see, I have a most pressing need to know a particular detail, one I daresay you will recall without any effort.” He spoke as though of the weather.
“I’ll try to remember, milord.”
“I will appreciate your effort. Do you recall, were my father or brother entertaining guests in those days just before the fire?”
“Well, no.” The man shook his head. “I can’t say as there was anybody about that week, with the rain like it’d been. Milord thought it poor shooting in rain, you know.”
Ben’s breath stole out of him slowly, relief slipping along his veins.
“Ah, yes. Of course. The rain.” The very reason for the ample charred remains of the cottage. The rain had fallen hard and fast for nearly a week then let up. But as the cottage burned, the clouds let loose again, halting the fire’s progress prematurely but still too late, leaving a ruin of lives in soggy puddles.