Lucy’s anger overrode the warning. “You may appear with signed documents taking ownership here when you wish to do so. Bring the magistrate if you must. How I choose to dress when caring for Willowbrook is not now, nor will it ever be, any business of yours. Unless you plan to eject me bodily, I suggest you be on your way.” Her own audacity took her breath away, and she held it as she glared at him.
“Very well, Miss Whitaker. Since you told me your—caretaker, is he?—is in London, I will take up your tenancy of this place with the steward at Caulfield Hall. I will be back. You may be certain of that.”
He put a foot in the stirrup to mount his horse.
“There is no steward,” she shouted at his back.
He hesitated a moment but mounted after a pause. “No steward? I’ll make myself known to the countess, in that case, if she is in residence.”
“The dowager countess prefers London. You might talk to the duchess about my tenancy, as you call it.” She had the satisfaction of seeing his genuine confusion. It pushed her to go on. “The Dowager Duchess of Glenmoor is in residence in the dower house. She might condescend to speak with you.” Maddy will put this oaf in his place, she thought with satisfaction.
He looked about to ask another question but shut his mouth tightly.
Pride kept Lucy anchored in place, returning his stare.
“We’ll see about that. We’ll see about many things,” he said at last. He doffed his hat, which he hadn’t bothered to remove before, with the arrogance of a royal duke, and set it firmly back on his head. “I will be back.” He turned his shoulder before she could reply and urged his mount on its way.
Lucy’s knees buckled, and she fell to the grass. What in God’s name am I going to do now?
*
Rob left Willowbrook as puzzled as he had been when he rode up. Lucy Whitaker. At least the termagant had a name. But what sort of mistress keeps bees and dresses like a farm wife? She had backbone, Miss Lucy Whitaker.
He came to the fork in the road that led to Caulfield Hall. A tangle of old humiliations, fears, and emotions he chose not to recognize stood in the way of the sensible choice to seek information. He preferred not to meet with David Caulfield, Earl of Clarion, but expected he would have to face the man in London eventually, if not in Ashmead. Who could speak for him here?
He came to a halt. The earl’s mother, he knew for certain, would have servants show him the door, baronet or no baronet, and, in any case, the Whitaker woman implied that she resided in London also.
The earl’s wife would be there, too, wouldn’t she? But the Dowager Duchess of Glenmoor was in residence in the dower house… Why would a Glenmoor relict be at Caulfield Hall? Rob vaguely remembered seeing Glenmoor in Paris, a popinjay with more hair than wit come to irritate those working to establish—and secure England’s interests with—the new monarchy. But dowager. The popinjay’s mother? He could think of no connections between Glenmoor and Clarion. A great-aunt or cousin, perhaps? God knew the aristocracy was inbred in hopeless tangles. The woman might at least explain the Whitaker woman’s role at Willowbrook.
He turned Khalija onto the road that rose to the hall, and then off to the right toward the dower house, grateful it stood at some distance from the manor.
… she might condescend to speak with you. The last thing Rob needed after his morning with Spangler was more condescension. He rode slowly, tempted to turn around at every bend.
The Clarion dower house, a simple square cottage, came into view around one final turn in the tree-lined road. Rob remembered it as empty and in need of repair, but the sun reflected off freshly painted white walls and a riot of flower-filled beds once choked with weeds and brambles. The charm of it slipped under his guard, and he smiled, prepared to admire the resident who cared for the old place so carefully.
A figure bent over a bower of rose bushes, clipping blooms. The woman, dressed in a plain blue gown and a wide-brimmed hat, snipped roses and laid them in a basket at her feet, her movements slow and graceful.
Though he could neither see her face nor gauge her age, the sight held Rob transfixed, reluctant to disturb her. Staring at her unseen would not do, however, and he called to her to alert her to his presence. “Good morning, ma’am.”
When she rose, he admired her tidy gown, an attractive gun-metal blue, buttoned up the front to a modest neckline and lace collar. She put up a hand under the brim of her hat to shade her eyes and peer at him.
Dismounting, Rob spoke to reassure her. “I’m sorry to disturb your work, but I’ve come to speak with the dowager duchess. Is she in?”
The hand came down to the woman’s side. “You’ve found her, sir. May I ask your business?”
This is a duchess? Surprise left him mute.
It didn’t matter. She gave a start and spoke before he could. “Robbie?” she gasped. “Is it you?” When he didn’t immediately respond, she walked toward him, shaking her head. “I’m sorry for my words, sir. For a moment, you reminded me of someone I knew.”
Her deep throaty voice unearthed memories, sweet and painful. He hadn’t recognized her under that hat, but the last time he heard her voice lay riveted in his mind. Her presence here now made sense.
“Hello, Maddy,” he choked out. She called him Robbie, and he responded in kind. He had known the Dowager Duchess of Glenmoor as Lady Madelyn Caulfield, and she would always be Maddy to him, his childhood playmate. My first love, he thought, staring into her green eyes. My sister.
“I’m sorry—Your Grace.” He gave a proper bow. “I didn’t expect—That is, I had no idea.”
“You expected a doddering old dowager?” A hint of laughter seasoned her comment. He recalled her age as a year or so older than his, just past thirty. She glanced down and picked up her basket.
“You’ve come about Willowbrook, I expect. You’d best come inside.” She brushed past him and up the front steps.
The Maddy he knew could be counted on to be honest and straightforward. The Maddy he knew wasn’t a duchess. Reeling with another shock on a day that seemed thick with them, he trudged up the steps behind her.
Chapter Six
A maid bobbed a curtsy when summoned to the drawing room. Rob saw no sign of butler or footmen. Maddy ordered tea and took her leave to tidy up.
He suspected she needed a moment to recover from the unexpected encounter. He knew he did. Drawing breath, he took stock of the room—comfortably but not luxuriously furnished, rather like Maddy’s appearance. Glenmoor provided poorly for her, he thought. Questions buzzed in his head like Lucy Whitaker’s bees, his original mission forgotten. Why does a duchess live in her brother’s dower house? The Whitaker woman said the dowager countess—David’s dragon of a mother, I assume—resides in London. At least Maddy is spared living with her.
She didn’t leave him much time to ponder. Floating back into the room alongside the tea cart, her serenity and grace contrasted so sharply with his agitation that he felt like a brute of a peasant. Perhaps that’s what I am, but I damned well won’t apologize for it to a Caulfield, he thought, pulling out old resentment to ease his discomfort. I managed to find my way around the finest salons in Paris. I can manage a country parlor.
The expected ritual of seating and serving filled the awkwardness for several minutes. When she handed him an eggshell-thin teacup, he balanced it skillfully enough and began to relax until he caught her piercing glance, and her eyes, every bit as green as he remembered, made his heart lurch.
For months after he left Ashmead, he couldn’t bear to look in a mirror because, when he saw his own eyes, he saw Maddy’s. The horror of it lasted until he survived the attack on Alexandria and the Ottoman brothel in Aboukir, when he finally buried it. Caught in the memory, he missed what she said.
“Robbie—It is Willowbrook that brings you here after all these years, isn’t it?” she repeated more forcefully.
He pulled his scattered thoughts together and set the cup down with a shaking hand.
; The duchess glanced away. “I can’t think what else. You’ve done well for yourself. You are quite the pride of Ashmead. I expect they’ll organize a parade for the returning hero.”
“Dear God, have mercy on this weary soldier! I would throttle Emma if she tried it!” The words were out before he could think.
The duchess’s lips twitched in amusement, and for a moment, he saw the old Maddy.
He drew breath and quieted his voice. “I suppose Willowbrook did bring me home. Emma dragged me here to fix some imagined catastrophe. I only found out about the bequest this morning.” He shook his head. “I just don’t understand it—and I don’t want it. My life is elsewhere.”
Her brows drew together sharply. “Don’t want it?”
“Why did your father saddle me with Willowbrook? Some late blooming guilt?” The question had festered since his meeting with Spangler.
The elegant woman startled him with an unladylike snort. “You think that man had a scintilla of guilt?” she exclaimed, bitterness thick in her voice.
“Why did he do it, then?”
“To spite David, of course.”
“I don’t understand. I suppose the new earl expected to inherit Willowbrook with all the rest, but how is it spite?”
“After David learned—” She sat back, thoughtful. The truth of their relationship lay thick between them. “When did you know?” She asked, studying him closely.
Trust Maddy to cut to the quick. “Know what?”
She ignored his question as unworthy of acknowledgment, waiting serenely for him to gather his words to answer her.
Rob stared at his hands, clasped in front of him, and spoke without looking up. “The day you found out. The day before I left Ashmead. I came to the hall to talk to you. I saw you at my mother’s funeral, but we couldn’t talk, and I needed—That is, I just needed a friend’s sympathetic ear.”
“You heard her,” Maddy whispered.
He looked at her then. “Yes. I snuck through the kitchen door as I used to and heard your voice in the breakfast parlor. I came to the door, hoping to slip in unseen, and stopped when I heard your mother haranguing you. She warned you away from… I don’t remember everything she called me. Bastard was the least of it.”
“She would never be so uncouth. I believe she said by-blow. I didn’t understand the word. She had to spell it out.”
“In crude detail. That I’m your brother, and we must never—ever—come near each other. She made it quite explicit.” The girl I craved, who set my heart pounding—my sister. A faint echo of the old, sick feeling throbbed.
“Yes.” A faint blush colored her cheeks. She nodded thoughtfully. “I always suspected it was why you left so abruptly. Others blamed your mother’s death.”
“You said ‘after David learned…’ Did she confront him as well?” Rob couldn’t imagine how his boyhood nemesis would have reacted.
“Goodness no. Servants hear. It went through Ashmead like a shot. Any number of people were happy to tell my brother about our father’s misdeeds. He—”
“Must have been horrified by the relationship.”
“To you? No. He envied you in those days. You must know that. I rather think the relationship pleased him. He had just begun to notice girls himself, however, and our father’s behavior embarrassed him. I’m afraid it drove him to an excess of pious self-righteousness.”
“David? Pious?” Rob sputtered. He couldn’t imagine the boy he knew in that way.
“There’s more. Two years later, he found out that Alice Wilcox, the tailor’s daughter, had a baby who was our half-sister as well, and his humiliation boiled over. He roared into our father’s study to demand he do something for her—and you. He called the earl an immoral rakehell.”
“Did your father beat him?”
“Worse. He laughed, called him a prig, and told him to grow up. Then he sold both of David’s favorite horses and his hound and used the proceeds to buy your colors.”
Rob grimaced, remembering about how angry he had been over what he thought was the earl’s belated, back-handed acknowledgment. He ought to have known better. “But Willowbrook?” he asked.
“The horse was just a start. He called David a weak-livered excuse for a man. He changed his will, using his rage to humiliate David. He might have come to his senses eventually, but David married young, against his wishes, and moved his family to Willowbrook. They quarreled constantly. Father changed the will again. He stripped the estate of every asset that wasn’t entailed and died a few months after that, before he came to his senses.”
“Willowbrook was David’s.” It wasn’t a question.
“He let David think so. None of us knew otherwise until the will was read.”
“Giving it to the bastard son instead of the heir who lived there.”
“He wanted to hurt our brother and didn’t care who else got hurt—me, the tenants, our mother.”
“How did that hurt your mother? Worry about her precious son?” he asked bitterly.
“Utter humiliation. He listed his illegitimate children and their mothers by name, leaving each a piece of the unentailed assets. Shops in Ashmead. Bits of cash. Your birth was not unique. It was a long list. Most came to collect.”
Not unique. The blow hardly registered, hitting as one of many. “He must have lost his mind.”
“I suspect you’re correct. He may have had little affection for us, but, in his right mind, he would have protected the estate. His drinking and excesses had rotted his mind to the point of madness. It’s the only explanation.”
Her story bounced through Rob’s head, old hurts colliding with disgust and new anger.
When the silence became unbearable, he stood. “I shouldn’t have come here,” he said. “My life is elsewhere.”
“What about Willowbrook.”
“It can go to the devil. He already has your father for company.”
She rose when he did. “It isn’t a pleasant story, I know, but Lucy—” she began.
“Is the earl’s concern, not mine. I’m grateful for your bluntness. It is more than I’ve had from anyone else. I’ll bid you good day, Your Grace, and leave you to your flowers.”
She obviously wanted to say more, but he didn’t want to hear it. He was halfway to Ashmead before it occurred to him that he had just fled Maddy the way he did the day he had discovered she was his sister. He never even asked her about Lucy Whitaker. His curses echoed downhill toward the river.
Chapter Seven
Drink never helps. Yesterday’s problems still stare you in the face, only now you have to look at them through blurry eyes and a pounding head. You learned that before you saw twenty, you blasted fool. Rob put a pillow over his face to block the sunbeam that had attacked him from the window and forced him awake. It must be close to noon.
Faces had danced in his dreams all night, Spangler sneering, Lucy Whitaker glaring, the old earl cackling in hellfire, David, as he remembered him at fourteen, lusting after the Whitaker woman, and Maddy sad and disapproving, each worse than the next in an endless cycle. Sleep, he thought, offered less solace than facing the day.
He rose with a groan, still dressed from the night before, and sluiced his hair and face with water from the pitcher left on his washstand next to two empty bottles of rum. He rubbed a hand along his jaw. He needed a shave, but he needed coffee more.
Staggering down the stairs to the empty taproom, he hoped to duck into the kitchen unseen. Perhaps Annie would feed him so he could slip back upstairs. I need time to think.
He didn’t get it.
“Up, are you?”
He squeezed his eyes to focus. Robert Benson, innkeeper, stood behind the bar holding out a glass of noxious looking liquid. “You’ll be needing this,” the old man said. He’d been lying in wait.
Rob didn’t question it. Da knew his drunks. He gagged it down. “Achh, are you trying to poison me? I came for coffee.” He rubbed his tongue against his teeth. “What did you put in that?”
“Trade secret. You look like hell.”
“Good. It’s how I feel.”
“I gather things went poorly with Spangler.”
“Slimy toad, that one,” Rob muttered.
“I always thought so. Did he try to cheat you out of Willowbrook?”
Rob’s brain sprang to life. “Does all of Ashmead know about the will?”
The old man chuckled. “How could they not? The old earl’s bastards, genuine and false, turned up in crowds to collect.”
Genuine and false… Lucy Whitaker has dealt with imposters. It explained the musket.
“Why didn’t you warn me?” Rob demanded.
“Are you speaking with me now, then? I figured Spangler wrote, and if you meant to answer, you would. I told Emma to leave you be, but that girl has a mind of her own.”
“She does that.” A mug of coffee appeared on the bar with a Chelsea bun next to it, and a blushing Clara darted back through the kitchen door. He leaned an elbow on the bar and sipped the hot back liquid cautiously, and, when his stomach didn’t rebel, nibbled the bun.
“What do you plan to do?” The man behind the bar asked.
“Dispose of Willowbrook and go back to my own life,” he said. If his determination to leave hurt, the old man gave no sign, but nagging guilt pushed Rob to say more. “I’ve been offered a position overseeing security details for the Russian, Prussian, and French ambassadors. Lord Rockford expects me in a week.”
The pride on the face of the man who raised him should have felt good. Why did it fill him with guilt?
“How do you plan to dispose of Willowbrook?”
“Sell it. Give it away. Hire a steward. The earl needs to remove his doxie from the place first.”
The old man’s brows shot up. “Doxie? You can’t mean Lucy Whitaker!” When Rob stared at him without denying it, laughter bubbled over until the old man had to hold his stomach. He wiped his eyes with one hand and breathed in to settle himself. “Dear God, Robbie, we need to talk. Get yourself decent—take a bath, for goodness sake—and meet me in my office in an hour.”
The Wayward Son Page 4
