Page 6 of The Scarred Duchess
Lambrook tapped his forefinger to his nose. Information was power. He trusted the man seated across from him above all others. Scratching his chest, he felt the scar through his linen shirt. Their last competitive fencing match had ended in an unforeseen wound. With anyone else, he would have had the man clamped in irons for attempted murder. George Darcy was not ‘anyone else’. His immediate remorse and prolonged self-recriminations had endeared him to Lambrook; his daily calls solidified the goodwill and, at length, forged a bond of friendship that had lasted a decade.
“My ancestors bequeathed a smallish estate in a county three hours outside town. It is let out for the occasional house party. We maintain it under my mother’s surname.”
“You shall live there?” George Darcy raised his brows when Lambrook nodded. “How do you plan to remain anonymous with your household’s requirements? An assumed name will not be enough.”
“We hire local people. It would not do to raise eyebrows at a town contingent invading the country.”
“I applaud your ingenuity.”
Both men sat comfortably in the silence as they sipped their drinks and attended to their cigars.
“Where is it?”
“Hertfordshire, near a market town named Meryton.”
“And should a Darcy coach find its way to that shire, to whose direction should we enquire?”
Lambrook smiled as George Darcy’s rhyme was an unexpected treat.
“You may seek out the Smyths of Netherfield Park.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Major Bennet exited the War Office. The adjutant had left him a written message that postponed his meeting with General Foote, his commander, as he was in conference with the new Earl of Matlock, who, since ascending to his position, had subsequently manoeuvred himself onto the War Office Advisory. The general was providing an introductory briefing; Bennet would return later.
The note from the adjutant instructed him to prepare a summary of his reconnaissance, plans, and actions of his year-long campaign in India suppressing insurgent groups from overtaking Fort St George. The War Office desired a military assessment from a trusted officer, as they had little faith in the East India Trading Company communications from the politically motivated Governor-General Warren Hastings.
Bennet had led the investigation into the malfeasance, quietly infiltrating the area with his men. It only took two days to realise the quarterly reports were far from accurate and there was a simmering cauldron of hatred towards the occupiers, only awaiting a spark to set off an all-out explosion.Bennet executed his suppression plans on his eighth day in the country, leading his men to deal harshly with the uprising. It was a brilliant and brutal strategy, and Bennet used the model repetitively, with minor adjustments considering terrain, calendar season, and the weather.
When Hastings’s prevarications were made public, the British government acted quickly; they levelled corruption charges, followed by a pending impeachment verdict. Hastings’s replacement failed to impress Bennet, and envisioning a bleak future, he requested orders to return to England. Command surprised him when they granted his request.
Upon his arrival in London, he had been uncharacteristically forthright regarding the overseas situation. As much as he disliked reliving his international adventures, Bennet was one to follow orders. It surprised him that only General Foote had asked him his opinion of the cause of the local unrest in Madras. Although pleased with his step increase to Major, Bennet reminded himself he was but an advisor to the House of Lords. Now that he was in England and assigned to the Royal Horse Guards, he hoped never again to depart the country’s shores.
Deciding he would wait for the earl and his general at White’s, Bennet began walking. He turned the corner onto St James Street to see General Foote exiting a gleaming, highly polished carriage distinguished by a brilliant coat of arms on the door. His peripheral vision picked up movement from the far corner of the club’s building. A hatted head appeared, then receded. Lord Matlock stepped out of the carriage. Bennet ignored him and focused on his far right. He saw the hatted man again quickly disappear from view.
His unease increased and he looked around for further signs of danger. He confirmed another man wearing matching garb near the club’s corner. Bennet knelt to one knee andpretended to polish his boot; he carefully pulled his skean and cupped it against his wrist, pommel in his palm.
A man with a raised pistol ran across his path. Bennet slashed his leg mid-calf. The man screamed and crumpled to the ground. Bennet rapidly plunged his knife thrice into the fallen man’s chest. He grabbed the pistol from the dead man’s hand and ran towards the carriage. The man he had first spotted, gun raised, ran towards the carriage opposite him.
“Down!” Bennet roared. General Foote and the earl dropped to the street.
A pistol fired, its bullet striking the carriage door. Bennet fired and the villain fell. Everywhere were screams and shouts. Uniformed soldiers, swords out, converged upon the transport. Bennet dropped the pistol and shouted repeatedly. “Post Three, Post Six, Post Nine, Post Twelve, Post Three...”
Four uniformed soldiers, sabres drawn, surrounded the three men on the ground. Each assumed a position on the clock—three, six, nine, and twelve—as commanded and held their swords in theen gardeposition. “Awaiting your orders, sir!” shouted a soldier.
Bennet exhaled. He had succeeded. He was alive.Now I want information.
He rose and took in the situation. The second-hatted man was on the ground, hands behind his back. His leg was bleeding from a gunshot wound. Another man was sitting on his chest. Bennet called out and captured his attention. He looked up, smiled, and arose from his position upon his captive.
He was dark-haired and of average height. His clothing was of high quality. The two men locked eyes—or rather, eye; a milky-white vertical scar ran down from the man’s left temple, through his eyelid, to the left edge of his mouth.Another Reeves, I daresay.
Glancing down, the man raised his foot and stomped upon the villain’s wound. The prisoner’s scream added to the general commotion. With a wry smile, the man walked to Bennet, hand extended.
“Well done, Major...?”
“Bennet. Thank you...?” Bennet gestured to provoke the man to introduce himself.
“Roark.”
