Page 83 of The Virgin Who Humbled Lord Haslemere
Benedict could hardly believe it, but it made perfect sense. “Kenilworth’s an utter villain, Georgiana. A cold-hearted debaucher who ruthlessly betrayed a friend and ruined a young lady’s hopes. How far do you think he’d go to keephis secrets?”
Benedict hardly had a chance to think the question before the answer was there.
Asfar as he must.
He stared at Georgiana, bile crawling up his throat. “He’s already tried to drag Jane and Freddy out of London, to bury them in some remote part of England, away from all their friends and family, and he sent a half-dozen blackguards to beat Lord Draven to death.”
Georgiana’s face had gone pale. “My God, Benedict. You don’t think…could Kenilworth be so depraved he’d actually do his young wife an injury once she became an inconvenience to him?”
“He didsomethingto her, that much is certain.” Benedict’s voice was grim. “Whatever it was, he must have beenverysure she’d never turn up again, or he never would have daredto marry Jane.”
“Benedict, do you know what this means? If Kenilworth and Clara did marry, and Clara is still alive, that would make the Dukeof Kenilworth—”
“A bigamist.”
If they could prove Kenilworth was a bigamist, his marriage to Jane would be declared invalid, and Jane would be free of him forever. There was still Freddy to consider—no matter what, he was still Kenilworth’s son—but they might find Kenilworth willing to negotiate once Benedict held the power to destroy him in his hand.
Hope surged, but Benedict pushed it away. Until they could prove their suspicions, there was nothing to celebrate. “What are the chances Clara Beauchamp is still alive, Georgiana?”
She gave a helpless shrug. “I don’t know, but Jane seemed very sure of it. Lord Draven must have believed it as well, but bigamy is merely speculation unless we can prove a marriage between Clara and Kenilworth actually occurred.”
“We need the vicar who performed it, or another witness, or Kenilworth’s and Clara’s names recorded in a marriage register.”
Even if they were fortunate enough to find proof of the marriage, they still had to determine if Clara Beauchamp yet lived. Finding a lady who’d been glimpsed only once in the past six years seemed an impossible task, but if there was the least chance Clara was alive, Benedict would tear England apart piece by piece to find her.
He glanced at the sky. It was still early afternoon, but dusk would be upon them soon enough, and they weren’t likely to find the proof they needed in the first place they looked.
“We’ll begin with the parishes closest to High Wycombe.” He clasped Georgiana’s hand in his and led her toward their horses. “They couldn’t have gone farther than a day’s journey from here without Clara spending a night away from home.”
They’d have to move quickly, and pray Kenilworth hadn’t buried his secrets so deeply they could never be uncovered.
Chapter Twenty
Georgiana had never given much thought to the number of parishes there might be in Oxfordshire. One didn’t tend to think of such things until they were obliged to scour their marriage registers.
They hadn’t turned up anything of interest at St. Michael’s and All Saints in High Wycombe. Neither of them had expected to, the duke being far too wily to marry Clara in her home parish, but the parishes in Chinnor and Princes Risborough proved equally fruitless.
It was well into midafternoon by the time they left All Saints Church in Little Kimble and started on their way to Great Missenden. It was nine miles to the southeast, and from there it was an additional three-hour ride back to High Wycombe, and on to the gamekeeper’s cottage in Burham.
This time, no matter how she looked at it—miles or hours—the numbers were not in Georgiana’s favor. She tried to banish the hateful things from her mind, but it insisted on busily calculating, just as it always did, until her head was as sore as her backside.
She wasn’t a skilled horsewoman. She was doing her best to hide that fact, but it didn’t take long for Benedict to notice it. “You look fatigued, Georgiana.”
Fatigued? Yes, that was one way to describe it. Another was that her bottom was screaming in protest with every step as if they’d ridden across the entire county of Oxfordshire and back. But there was no help for it, and thus no sense in complaining. Neither of them wanted to risk waiting until the following day. There simply wasn’t time. Georgiana was stunned they hadn’t yet come across any of Kenilworth’s men. Their luck wouldn’t hold out forever.
Georgiana glanced at Benedict, then quickly looked away. Shewasfatigued. Her arms ached from holding the reins and her thighs were completely numb, but there was no way she’d admit to it him when he looked as if he’d been born on his horse, with his broad shoulders relaxed, his back straight, and his hands easyon the reins.
“I’m perfectly fine,” she said throughgritted teeth.
He gave her a skeptical look, but he said no more until they rode into the courtyard of an establishment called the Silver Stagg an hour or so later. He brought his horse to a halt, leapt nimbly from the saddle—no numbness inthoselegs—and strode over to Georgiana, who was still mounted. “Enough of this.”
“Enough? Are we in Great Missenden, then?” Georgiana made an effort to keep the desperationfrom her voice.
“No, we’re in Dunsmore. Great Missenden is another five miles south of here.”
“Five miles!” Dear God, she’d never make it. Already her body felt as if it had sustained irreparable damage. Any more time spent in the saddle and she might never walk again.
Benedict’s gaze roved over her, his lips tightening. “It’s not even an hour’s ride for an experienced horsewoman, Georgiana. Two hours, for you.Perhaps three.”
