The Care and Taming of a Rogue (21 page)

Once back inside his borrowed room at Howard House he stripped and lay down, hoping for an hour or two of sleep before the rest of the household awoke. Before he could do more than close his eyes, though, his door began rattling and a distinctive chittering sounded in the hallway beyond.

“Oh, good God.” Rolling to his feet again, he went to the door. “Come on, then,” he muttered, as Kero scampered in, bypassing him in favor of her pile of pillows.

Almost immediately she began emitting her dainty little snore. Bennett blew out his breath and returned to bed. At least one of them would begin the day well rested—though it would likely be best if she didn’t accompany him to Ainsley House. Langley could stand to lose the rest of his ear, but Kero wouldn’t win the argument for him. Logic would see to that.

He sat up again, giving up on sleep. Kero lifted her head to eye him, then sank back into the soft pile once more. Thankfully she’d become much more at ease in Howard House, though she’d first explored every inch of it for predatory birds and snakes. Once she’d deemed it predator-free, and after finding… another sibling, he supposed, in Geoffrey, she’d stopped insisting that he be within view at every second.

At breakfast he made certain Kero ate well, which would leave her less likely to insist on accompanying him to Ainsley House. Before he could track down his cousin and ask whether he’d be amenable to looking after her, Geoffrey strode into the breakfast room. “There she is.” He walked up to scratch her on the chin, while she hummed at him. “I thought she’d gone looking for you this morning, but I didn’t want to go barging about the house.” He leaned on his elbows, stretching across the table toward Bennett. “Father doesn’t like when I go barging about.”

“That’s understandable,” Bennett returned with a short grin. Even if he hadn’t been in an exceptional mood thanks to several hours spent in Phillipa’s bed, he rather liked Geoffrey Howard, young Lord Clarkson. And that was surprising, considering that what little thought he’d spared the lad over the years had been less than charitable. “Would you do me a favor and look after her for a bit this morning?”

“I don’t want my son bitten by that rabid beast,” Fennington stated, as he walked into the room. From his expression he didn’t feel any more affection for his nephew than he did the monkey. After all, he’d provided Bennett with the means to attend the soiree last night. And by now, everyone in London probably knew it.

“She’s not rabid.” Bennett returned his attention to his cousin. “She just ate half a bowl of strawberries, however. You may want to encourage her to take a stroll in the garden in half an hour or so.”

“I’ll be happy to. And I caught some crickets for her.”

“She’ll adore you forever, then.”

Fennington, still looking displeased, selected his own breakfast and sat at the table. “So now you’ve got my son catching insects for a monkey,” he noted.

“I only told him what she ate. The rest was his idea. He’s learning the Latin names of all the insects in the area, if that makes a difference.”

“Not particularly. There isn’t much use for that in the House of Lords.”

“I’m not going to sit in the House of Lords,” Geoffrey contributed. “I’m going to be an explorer, like Bennett. I’m particularly interested in Africa.”

“Well, isn’t that splendid.” The marquis curled his fingers around his fork as though he wanted to stab Bennett in the eye with the utensil. “You
are
going to sit in the House of Lords, because you
are
going to be the next Marquis of Fennington. You are
not
going to Africa, nor are you going to return from there to begin fights with people whose reputation exceeds your own. Now sit down and eat your eggs.”

That was a bit blatant. “After this morning, Fennington,” Bennett said, keeping his tone low and calm, “Langley’s reputation won’t be an issue, because he won’t have one. My purpose last night was not to embarrass you.”

“I wrote—” The marquis stopped. “Geoffrey, I’ve changed my mind. Go walk the monkey now.”

“But I thought you—”

“Now, son.”

Geoffrey sighed heavily, then grinned. “Come along, Kero,” he said, offering his shoulder.

The vervet patted Bennett on the cheek, then scampered up the boy’s arm. “Be good,” Bennett instructed, and the two of them were off.

“As I was saying,” Fennington continued, “I wrote the foreword to Langley’s book. His reputation and mine are intertwined. And I don’t like this.”

Bennett shook his head. “You thought I was dead, did you not?”

“Of course I did. But…I did know that he had possession of your journals. I knew that he would use them in writing his own book. I used
his
popularity and
your
reputation because I knew it would be profitable.”

That surprised Bennett. Not that his uncle had gone along willingly with a fraud, but that he would now admit to it. “I suppose if I was dead, I wouldn’t care,” he said after a moment. “And thank you for telling me.”

“Yes, well, you’re welcome.” The marquis drew in a breath. “If it comes to it, I give you permission to inform the Africa Association that I saw your journals, and that Langley said they were yours, given to him on your deathbed.”

For a moment Bennett looked down, making a show of cutting the ham on his plate. “You’re friends with Thrushell.”

“Yes, I am. So don’t say anything if you don’t absolutely have to.”

This was damned odd. A decade ago—hell, a month ago—he would have gone out of his way to cause trouble for Fennington and his brood. Now, though, that urge seemed to have left him. “May I ask you a question?”

“What is it? Why am I trusting to your discretion after the display you put on last night?”

“I’m more interested in why you didn’t want to take me into your household after my mother died.” Bennett clenched his jaw; he didn’t like feeling vulnerable. And however little regard he’d ever claimed to have for this man, Fennington seemed long ago to have acquired the ability to wound him.

“We don’t need to dredge up that nonsense now.”

“Yes, we do.”

With a scowl, Fennington lifted his head and made a sharp gesture at the footman who stood ready to refill their tea. Immediately the servant left the room, closing the door behind himself. “My father—your grandfather—had willed your mother five hundred pounds a year. That amount went to you after she died.”

“I know. As I reckon it, that money is the only reason I didn’t end up in a workhouse.”

The marquis glanced up at him, then returned to contemplating his breakfast. “Five hundred a year, regardless. It didn’t matter if one year the fields flooded at Fennington Park, or if some sort of rot ruined all the wool we took from the sheep another year. Before anyone else earned anything, could put anything into repairs or schooling or taxes, you received five hundred pounds. And so honestly, Bennett, I didn’t want to have anything to do with you.”

“Hm. You would rather have had the blunt, and I would rather have had a family.” Bennett pushed away from the table. “I’ll attempt to be discreet during the meeting.”

“I would hope so.”

So that was it, Bennett reflected as he made his way out to the stable and collected Ares once more. Fennington resented a nine-year-old orphan the income to put himself through school and keep food in his belly. That explained why the marquis had been so eager to profit from the publication of his—or rather, Langley’s—book. How odd, that he’d grown up detesting his relations, while they’d had the very same opinion of him.

Phillipa would call it irony, and point out that if he’d grown up differently, he might have learned to favor cattle over travel. And since travel had ultimately brought him back to London, and to her, he couldn’t dispute that his life had its merits.

From the number of carriages and horses crowded around the large stable yard at Ainsley House, most of the Africa Association had arranged to attend the meeting. Good. The more men who could thereafter attest to Langley’s theft and slander, the better.

“Good morning, Captain Wolfe,” the duke’s butler said, stepping aside to let Bennett into the house. “I’ll show you to the conference room.”

They went upstairs and down a corridor that apparently passed over the top of The Adventurers’ Club below. He wondered briefly how many other members of the Association knew about the sanctuary Sommerset had created. Or what shape this meeting might have taken if it had been Langley rather than himself who’d impressed the duke enough to merit a membership in his private club.

“Wait here, if you please.” The butler left him in the hallway and slipped inside the nearest room.

Sommerset had said ten o’clock, and it was still two minutes before the hour, according to his bat tered pocket watch. Apparently they’d needed to discuss events before the participants arrived. That was well and good, as long as they meant to wait on making a decision until after they’d heard him speak.

The abrupt furor of voices inside the room didn’t sound all that welcoming. If he needed to apologize for his actions at the soiree, then, he would do so—to the Africa Association. Not to Langley. Fleetingly he wondered whether the room had two entrances, one for him to stand behind, and the other for Langley. Sommerset didn’t seem to approve of fisticuffs, though he’d found it rather satisfying, himself.

While he waited for permission to enter the meeting, he took a moment to study his surroundings. Additional trinkets from foreign travel stood out among the more mundane vases and clocks and paintings. It was an eclectic mix, and he found it appealing. If he spent any time at Tesling, he imagined his house would look rather similar. And of course he would have books, because Phillipa loved them.

Would she remain there if he secured sponsorship for another expedition? Would she wish to join him? Did he want her exposed to the dangers that he’d encountered on an almost daily basis? Bennett frowned. He wanted her in his life. His general approach to problems was that with the appropriate application of weaponry, they would work themselves out. Phillipa was much more complex and important than anything else he’d encountered, however. And he didn’t have any answers. None that left him feeling any easier, anyway.

The door opened again. “This way, Captain,” the butler said, gesturing him into the room.

From the servant’s face alone, Bennett knew that something was afoot. Anyone employed by Sommerset would have learned to school his expressions. The man hadn’t batted an eye when he’d first arrived with Kero on his shoulder. Bennett stepped forward.

Thirteen men were in the room. He’d met them before, when he’d first applied for their sponsorship of his Congo expedition. But the Association had eleven members. The other two, Lord Thrushell and his son, were new. And they’d clearly been in the room for a time.

“Have a seat, Captain,” the Duke of Sommerset said, gesturing him to the one empty chair at the large table.

“Was I in error about the time for the meeting?” Bennett asked. “You seem to have begun without me.”

“We wanted to discuss the matter of your outburst last evening,” Lord Talbott stated.

“Do you also want to discuss the reason for my outburst last evening?”

“Bennett. Sit down.” Sommerset sent him a hard look.

“If I’m going to be ambushed, I prefer to stand.”

“This is not an ambush,” Thrushell put in. “We of course want to discuss the entire matter of the expedition.”

“ We’?” Bennett repeated, his confidence melting into frustrated anger. “Are you on the Association board now?”

“I am.”

Damnation
. “Ah. Congratulations, my lord.”

Langley evidently hadn’t had any reservations about seating himself. He lounged in the chair between his father and Lord Hawthorne, looking like a well-fed baboon unable to decide between napping and scratching his arse.

“I’ll begin, shall I?” David said, dropping a tattered book onto the table. “My journal.”

“Captain Wolfe, do you recognize it?” Hawthorne asked.

Bennett nodded. “I recognize it. I believe you’ll find some pages missing—Langley had a bout with incontinence.”

The Duke of Sommerset cleared his throat. “What is your complaint, Captain Wolfe?”

As far as Bennett knew, Sommerset was his only ally in the room. Not at all what he’d expected this morning. He hadn’t thought he’d be the conquering hero—not when no one but Sommerset had bothered to see him since his return—but what he sensed at the moment was…hostility.

“My complaint is that Captain Langley left the Congo four days after I received an injury, and that he took nine completed journals, authored by me, with him. Without my permission.”

“Captain Langley, do you have any of Sir Bennett’s possessions?”

“What are we, in the nursery?” Bennett muttered.

“I do not,” Langley said smuggly. “My book,
Across the Continent: Adventures in the Congo
, was written based—”