The Duke & the Preachers Daughter Read online

  As he grew older, he found women amusing and indispensable.

  But while he gave them his body, his heart remained untouched and in his mind he despised them for their frailty and for the manner in which they were all too eager to offer him their favours and be unfaithful to their husbands.

  If he felt compassionate towards anyone, it was the husbands whom he, like so many other men, deceived.

  He would often think of his father and wonder if he ever had the slightest inkling that his wife was being unfaithful.

  Nolan was certain when his father died, he had lived in a ‘Fools’ Paradise’ and he watched his mother’s show of grief with a cynical twist of his lips and a hard expression in his eyes.

  ‘A fine performance!’ he told himself, when she cried bitterly at his father’s funeral.

  When she had married again two years later, it had been with difficulty that he restrained himself from telling the man she married and who was obviously infatuated with her, that he was an idiot to trust her.

  There had been dozens of women in the Duke’s life in London, Portugal and France, but they had never meant any more than a short respite from his other occupations.

  “Women are like flowers,” he said once to Bevil Haverington. “Pick them and they soon die. It would be best for one just to admire them and pass on.”

  “Best for who?” Bevil asked, “and how could one be so unadventurous?”

  The Duke had not spoken and the Major continued,

  “To me a new woman is always an adventure. It is like exploring a strange country with the hope that one will strike treasure. Always one is disappointed, but that is part of the game.”

  “Perhaps that is the right way of looking at it,” the Duke agreed.

  “I have a feeling,” Bevil Haverington said, “that you are looking for the crock of gold at the end of the rainbow. Fairy gold, Nolan, which vanishes when you touch it! So be content with what is not so elusive and out of reach.”

  “I am perfectly content as I am,” the Duke answered positively.

  Now he knew that was not true.

  He wanted what he had never wanted before – a woman to belong to him, to possess, not just for the night or a short period, but for life.

  He asked himself how he could have changed so quickly and so unexpectedly.

  But he knew from the very moment he had first seen Benedicta, with her big eyes looking up at him as she pleaded for help, that she was different in every way from any woman he had ever met before.

  He had talked to her and been stimulated by her mind, they had duelled with each other in words.

  Surprisingly he had wanted to impress her and please her and without his realising it, she had crept beneath his defences until finally the last barrier had fallen.

  Now that he had lost her, he knew that he must find her again because she was his, every precious piece of her.

  He had denied the truth to himself day after day, night after night, until she had turned to him for consolation because her father had died and he had held her in his arms.

  He had known then as he felt her slim body trembling beneath her nightgown and when he had lifted her in his arms, that everything that was idealistic in him had been reawakened.

  His cynicism, his contempt for women, was stripped away as if by a magic wand.

  Now he knew that love had made him as vulnerable as he had been as a boy and that the hard, harsh veneer that had encased him throughout the long years of war had vanished.

  The Duke reined in his horse and looked across the valley where the corn, still green, was standing high in the fields.

  On the border of his estate he saw a farm that he had not visited recently, but which he knew belonged to a tenant farmer, an old Scotsman who had been there for many years and was a rather surly dour man.

  Beyond the farm was a thick wood, half of which belonged to Kingswood estate, while the other half was in the possession of Lord Marshwell, a neighbour with whom the Duke had little in common.

  He thought that he would first ask at the farm if they had seen any sign of Benedicta and, if not, he would feel obliged to ride on to Lord Marshwell’s land and perhaps find one of his farmers or keepers who might have noticed her.

  He reached the farm and to do so he had to ride around the cornfields, noting as he did so, that the sun had sunk and soon it would be dusk.

  As he rode into the farmyard, a number of dogs came towards him barking ferociously and a voice with a broad Scots accent called,

  “Wha’ are ye blatherin’ aboot, you stupid beasties?”

  The farmer came to the door and, as the Duke dismounted, said,

  “Why, it’s yeerself, Yer Grace. I wasna expectin’ ye to be visitin’ me at this hour o’ the nacht!”

  “I am not visiting you, McNab,” the Duke replied, “except to enquire if you have seen a young lady walking through your fields.”

  “A young lady?” the farmer asked in astonishment. “And wha’ would her be a-doin’ heere?”

  “She left Kingswood early this afternoon,” the Duke said, “and, as she was moving North, I reckoned she would be somewhere in this vicinity.”

  “Weel, if that’s so I’ve had neither sight nor sound o’ her,” the old man answered.

  He looked across the yard and saw a milkmaid coming from the cowshed with a pail of milk in her hands.

  “Hi, Bessie,” he called out. “Have ye seen a young lady aboot the place today? His Grace be a-lookin’ for her.”

  “A young lady?” Bessie repeated. “Nay, that I’ve not. But I were a-goin’ to tell ye that a wee while ago I saw three men agoing into the wood – poachers, like as not.”

  The farmer frowned.

  “Poachers, I’d nay be surprised.”

  He looked at the Duke.

  “Will ye tell ye’re keepers, Yer Grace, ’tis time they paid us a wee visit. There’re poachers in the woods right enough and I’ve even heard shots in the last few weeks,”

  “I will tell them,” the Duke replied, “and thank you for your information.”

  He mounted his horse, aware, as he did so, that the horse was tired and so was he.

  “Good day to Yer Grace,” the farmer said.

  “Good day, McNab,” the Duke replied. “I see your fields are looking in good shape.”

  “Aye, we should ha’ a decent harvest if God be kind,” the Scotsman replied.

  The Duke rode out of the yard.

  He would have liked to return home, but he knew it would be impossible to go anywhere until he was certain that Benedicta was not in the wood.

  He did not like the sound of three rough men wandering about and, at the thought of them, every nerve in his body was suddenly tense with a fear such as he had never experienced for himself.

  Supposing they found her alone, perhaps asleep and unprotected? Supposing they assaulted her?

  He felt he wanted to cry out her name, to let her know that he was near, that he would fight for her and protect her.

  But there was nothing he could do except ride on towards the wood.

  When he reached it, he saw that the undergrowth was thick and it would be difficult for a horse to move through it.

  Dismounting, he tied the reins to the branch of a fallen tree and reckoned that the animal would not wish to wander far.

  Then, thinking that it was a hopeless task, but one he must undertake, he fought his way through the undergrowth into the wood itself.

  He soon found it easier to move among the tree trunks to avoid the shrubs and the brambles that caught at his clothes.

  It was dark in the shadow of the branches and he thought apprehensively that it would be easy to lose his way. Nevertheless, propelled by his anxiety for Benedicta and a fear for her that seemed to be growing every moment, he walked on looking this way and that for any sign of a girl in a patched gown.

  Then he heard voices.

  He stood still to make quite sure he was not mistaken, then heard them
again – men talking to each other.

  He walked on and a few seconds later saw a light between the trunks of the trees.

  The ground was covered with moss and there were patches of bluebells which made it easy for him to move without being heard.

  The Duke drew nearer and nearer towards the light and now at last he could see that there was a clearing where the woodcutters had been working and in the centre of it was a small fire.

  The three men were sitting round it.

  One glance at them told the Duke that Bessie had not been mistaken when she had said they were rough.

  They were attired in ragged garments which told the Duke that they were not countrymen, but more likely to have come from a town, perhaps London.

  Each man carried a stick, either beside him or across his knee, with a heavy knobbled end which the Duke knew could be a deadly weapon if used in combat on an opponent’s head.

  “I be footsore,” one man complained in a grumbling tone when the Duke was within hearing.

  “Us ain’t got far to go now,” another replied.

  The last speaker was facing the Duke and he could see that he was a man of about twenty-five, dark haired with a brooding surly look that was accentuated by a downturned mouth.

  He looked the kind of thug, the Duke thought, who would probably be a footpad or a criminal of some sort or other. The other two men had their backs to him but he was sure they were a similar type.

  “’Ow much furver?” the man who had complained asked.

  “I finks about eight mile,” the other replied. “’Ave a rest ’ere and we’ll move on at daybreak.”

  “I be ’ungry and I ’ates the country – it gives I the creeps!” the third man came in.

  This confirmed the Duke’s impression that they were not countrymen.

  The man facing him drew something from his pocket.

  “P’raps this’ll make you feel better,” he said. “I’ll give you the money now, ’case we ’as to separate after the deed be done.”

  “I’m all for that, Jeb,” one of the men opposite him replied. “’Ow much do us get?”

  “What I tells ye. Ten now, and there’ll be twenty more when us gets back.”

  “Twenty!”

  There was a note of awe in the man’s voice who had complained he was hungry.

  “Yus, twenty! And on that us goes equal shares, but now there’s two ‘jimmy o’goblins’ for you and four fer I.”

  “Four?”

  “’Tis my job, ain’t it? Ye wouldn’t be ’ere but fer I.”

  “All right, but us shares the next ’un.”

  “That’s wot I says. Ye can believe I.”

  Jeb who was facing the Duke, took the guineas out of a small bag, throwing them one by one to the two men sitting on the other side of the fire.

  They each caught a golden coin deftly, bit it with their teeth to see if it was real, then slipped it away into a pocket.

  “S’posing when us gets there ’e don’t come?” one of the men suggested.

  “’E’ll be there,” Jeb replied. “’E rides every morn ’er says, and ’e’ll be alone.”

  “’Ow does ’er know that?”

  “’Er knows!”

  “An’ s’posing ’e gallops orf?” one man suggested.

  “’E won’t do that ’cos of what ’er tells we to do. I told yer already, but you don’t listen.”

  “Tell us agin,” the man said.

  “Right then. I lies ’alf under the hedge screamin’ out, ’Elp! ’Elp!”

  “S’posing ’e takes no notice?”

  “’E’ll tike notice all right ’cos ’e’ll think as ’ow me legs’ve caught in a gin trap.”

  “What ’appens then?”

  “’E gets orf ’is ’orse, and comes to ’elp I, and as ’e bends over I, you slug ’im ’ard on the head! Knock ’im down and if ’e ain’t dead, then I’ll finish ’im orf!”

  “That be murder, Jeb!” one of the men said gloomily.

  “What of it?” the man who had given them the guineas enquired. “You’ve been paid, ain’t yer? But, Charlie, tell I the truth. D’ye want to go back? If you does, you can give I back ’em guineas!”

  “No, it’s all right,” Charlie replied, “but you’re certain ’e’ll be alone?”

  “If there’s anyone wiv ’im we’ll deal wiv ’em too, we’ll see ’em coming, an’ it’ll give us time ter pull a ’kerchief over our faces.”

  “Looks like you’ve thought of everythin’,” Charlie remarked.

  “I ’ave!” Jeb said complacently. “And all we’ve got to do when it’s over, is skip back to London and tell ’er Lidyship to ’and over the dibs.”

  “And supposing she does nothing of the sort?” a voice questioned.

  If the men round the fire were startled, so was the Duke, for stepping from behind Jeb into the light of the fire came Benedicta!

  She had nothing on her head and she was wearing the darned, patched gown with the little white collar in which he had first seen her.

  She seemed, the Duke thought, to be enveloped in a strange light, but she was alone – alone with these men who he realised had been sent to kill him.

  He wondered frantically what he should do.

  He was not afraid for his own safety, but there were three of them and while they carried their knotted sticks, which he knew could kill a man with one well directed blow, he had nothing in his hands except his thin riding whip.

  For a moment he was indecisive, then he heard Benedicta say,

  “It is Jeb Cutler, is it not?”

  “’Ow did you know?” Jeb exclaimed truculently, then, “Why, ’tis Miss Benedicta!”

  “Yes, Benedicta Calvine, and I see you have not forgotten me, nor my father.”

  “Now, Miss Benedicta, ’ow be the Reverend?”

  “He is dead, Jeb, and how do you think he will feel when he knows that after all he did for you, after all you promised, you are planning a crime so terrible, so wicked, that I cannot bear to think of it.”

  Jeb fidgeted uncomfortably.

  “Weel, ’tis like this, Miss Benedicta – the lidy sends for I and offers I so much ’twas ’ard to refuse.”

  “Money to kill a man? Oh, Jeb, you promised, you promised that you would go straight if Papa could persuade the Governor to reduce your sentence.”

  “I were grateful, Miss Benedicta. I were really!” Jeb said. “But times be ’ard, an’ me old Ma don’t get enough to eat.”

  “She would have enough it you worked for it, Jeb,” Benedicta told him quietly.

  “’Ere! What’s a-goin’ on?” Charlie asked from the other side of the fire. “Who’s this ’ere goil ?”

  “You speak to ’er polite-like,” Jeb said fiercely. “This ’ere young lidy’s father got me out of prison ’cos ’e believe I were innocent – which I were. ’E speaks to the Guv’nor and he sets I free.”

  “I asked you a question,” Benedicta said. “What do you think my father feels now?”

  “You said ’e were dead.”

  “And so he is, Jeb. But you know that he believed, as I do, that when one dies one only goes to another world where one can still help those we loved when we were on earth. Papa will still be wanting to help you, but how can he do so, if you commit this wicked act?”

  There was a silence, then one of the men piped up,

  “You don’t know, miss, what it’s like to go ’ungry and your children are cryin’ fer somethin’ to eat.”

  “They will be hungrier still if you are caught for this crime and hanged,” Benedicta answered firmly.

  “Jeb says as ’ow us won’t get caught.”

  “Do you really imagine that, if you kill a nobleman of such stature as the Duke of Kingswood, you will get away with it?” Benedicta asked.

  There was silence before she continued.

  “Within hours the whole country will be alive with troops searching for you and there will be no time for you to get back to Lon
don. Your children will cry for their father, and Jeb’s mother for her son and just what good will your gold be then?”

  She paused for a moment to let what she had said sink in, then she added,

  “I know the lady who has bribed you to carry out this dastardly deed on her behalf, and even if you are not found and arrested before you reach London, I very much doubt if she will pay you what she has promised.”

  “’Er’d better – or else!” Jeb said furiously.

  “And how can you make her?” Benedicta asked. “Supposing when you go back and tell her that the murder has been done, she hands you over to the Bow Street Runners? They will also be looking for you and there are few places in London where you can hide from them.”

  “I tells yer – I tells yer, I didn’t like the sound of it!” Charlie wailed in a nervous voice. “I don’t like the country – ’tis too quiet!”

  Benedicta looked down at Jeb and the Duke watching her thought that in the light from the fire, there was a spiritual expression on her face that made her look as if she had stepped from one of the paintings of Saints that hung on the walls at Kingswood.

  “I am sorry, Jeb, that your mother is ill,” she said quietly, “and I know you love her, but I think it would kill her if she knew you were to be hanged.”

  “Stop it, Miss Benedicta!” Jeb cried. “Like Charlie says, you’re a-givin’ I the creeps!”

  “I think that what I am doing is awakening your conscience. I think too, Jeb, that you are afraid to offend Papa who helped you so much. Can you imagine how humiliated he would be to know that he trusted someone who was not worthy of that trust and believed in a man who was not truthful and not innocent – ”

  “I were innocent of that job, miss,” Jeb interrupted. “I tells the Reverend the truth.”

  “Then don’t spoil everything now,” Benedicta begged.

  Suddenly she raised her voice to say,

  “You are being very foolish not only to risk being hanged for the ghastly crime of murder, but also because you do not understand country ways, to linger here with a lighted fire in the centre of a wood. If the gamekeepers catch you, you will be charged with poaching and you should be aware that the penalty for that is transportation.”