Page 117

“Who the hell is that anyway?” Benedict grouched.

“He is the nephew of that lady whose brooch the reverend pilfered. He was not there that night. He lives in Lincolnshire, I believe, and is his aunt’s heir.”

“Thought she got her brooch back,” Benedict commented, seizing hold of her hand once more.

“She did,” Lizzie sighed. “But it seems a good many of the congregation, Mrs. Lessing and my uncle included, have invested their money in Reverend Milson’s various schemes.” Benedict pulled a face. “I’m sorry for dragging you into this,” Lizzie blurted. “You ought to be celebrating with your brothers, not on your way to a police station.”

Benedict snorted but made no other reply. When they reached the gate at the end of the field, they found Mrs. Anderson looking fit to drop. Betsy hurried forward on seeing Benedict. “We did not mean to trouble you, Mr. Toomes,” she exclaimed in a high, unnatural voice. “I hope this is not an inconvenience.” She looked from Benedict to Frederick Mountford, and Lizzie found herself wondering if the formal address was for his benefit.

Compared to Benedict, Frederick Mountford seemed bland and unsubstantial to Lizzie. She marveled that Betsy’s eyes should be so drawn to him. Then again, there was no accounting for taste. She dimly remembered a time when she had thought Betsy mad for looking at Benedict Toomes. She cast a quick look at her husband’s face. With a pang, she realized this situation must be awkward for him as well.

“Hello, Betsy,” he said shortly. “Mrs. Anderson,” he said, nodding toward the older lady. Lizzie’s aunt made an incoherent noise behind her handkerchief.

“If we walk to the end of the road, I’ll hail us a cab,” Mr. Mountford said, clearing his throat. Betsy and her mother clung on to either side of him as Benedict and Lizzie led the way, Sebastian trotting beside them.

28

It was some two hours later that they returned by the same route. Benedict tipped the cabbie and helped Lizzie down from the carriage. Sebastian jumped down behind her, and they made their way back toward the camping field.

“Did you not wish to see if your brothers were still in the beer tent?” Lizzie suggested tentatively. Benedict shook his head. “Mr. Jones may have left some message for you with Frank,” she pointed out.

He shot her a look. “Well, if he did, it can wait. You’ve been sat in a draughty station for two hours. I want to get you back in the warm.”

Lizzie felt touched by his words, though it seemed a strangely anticlimactic end to their eventful day. “I wonder how Frank and Maggie are getting on,” she wondered aloud. When he made no reply, she squeezed his arm. “My aunt seemed a good deal grateful to us for attending today. Do you think the police will apprehend Reverend Milson on my statement?”

“I neither know nor care,” he answered promptly. “If there’s a court appearance, we’ll have to cross that bridge when we reach it.” Lizzie bit her lip. “Did she say anything to you?” he asked abruptly.

“My aunt? She expressed her gratitude, but her emotions made her somewhat unclear in the main part.”

“I mean about being reconciled,” he interrupted her.

“I – that is, not really,” Lizzie frowned. “Betsy said my uncle was too ashamed to come and see me today.”

“Well, at least one of them feels as they should!”

Lizzie glanced at him uneasily. “Should you wish us to cut the acquaintance?”

Benedict threw her an exasperated look. “They’re the ones who threw you out, Lizzie! They had a bloody cheek turning up and expecting you to save their necks now. What do you think they made of the fact you’re sporting a black eye and I’m dragging you round the fairs with me?”

Lizzie blinked. “I’m not sure I understand you.”

He gave a harsh laugh. “I doubt they have any illusions about the life you’re living. If they had a scrap of decency about them, they’d have been begging to take you back under their roof. Yet they didn’t, did they?”

Lizzie hesitated. “I don’t want to go back under their roof. I’m content where I am.” She looked at his expression, dark and angry. “Was it difficult?” she asked abruptly.

“Yes, very. You’re too good for the likes of them.”

“I meant … seeing Betsy,” she elaborated, glancing down at Sebastian.

Benedict made no reply and Lizzie’s heart sank, though his footsteps picked up now the wagon was in sight. She thought someone called his name and tried to turn to see who it was, but Benedict did not let her. He practically hurled her up the steps to the wagon. “Benedict!” she protested, but he was already turning around and addressing Jack who had come running up.

From what she could make out, he was giving his brother short shrift. Lizzie disappeared into the wagon and fumbled for the match box. She had no sooner lit the lamp than Benedict ran up the steps.

“Was Jack – ” she began but did not get to finish her sentence.

“Never you mind about Jack,” he said, setting down a bottle and two glasses on the trunk. “I’m going to sort out some hot water, and then it seems to me we need to straighten a few things out.”

“Now?” Lizzie asked, attempting to turn about and look at his face, but his hands were closing over her shoulders, dragging off her cloak. Lizzie divested herself of her bonnet and placed it on the trunk nearest the door.