The Wayward Son

by Warfield, Caroline

  Rob stood, forcing Spangler to do the same. He didn’t offer a hand to shake. “I’ll think about your words carefully,” he said. Very carefully. The old bat is up to something.

  “What do you suppose that weasel is after?” Eli mused when they watched him go.

  “Willowbrook for certain.”

  “Aye. One minute he’s puffing up the place’s value, and as soon as he knew you’d accepted it, he’s tearing it down… He’s covering himself for the missing funds, too.”

  “But what else? We still don’t know who hired the surveyor—if it was a surveyor. For a moment, I thought he was going to accuse someone, but I can’t think who else would dare,” Rob answered, more troubled than ever.

  “He said he had business at the hall. The earl is in London, and there is no steward. Any idea who he plans to see?”

  “None whatsoever.” Eli shook his head.

  *

  “The proceeds are in order, Mr. Spangler,” Lucy ground out through clenched teeth. She stood as she had since the toad entered the manor, blocking his way to the study and forcing him to accept the envelope of cash and checks she handed him in the hallway along with an account summary. Behind his back, Agnes hovered in the kitchen passageway, silently providing support.

  He tucked the envelope into his coat unopened, but he eyed the summary suspiciously. “There was more last quarter. Have you—”

  “Whatever accusation you are about to make, sir, don’t. Last quarter day included proceeds from all of last year’s beeswax and what wool we got from our small herd. You can’t expect that every quarter,” Lucy told him with her waning supply of patience.

  “Perhaps I should seek the insights of an experienced steward regarding what should be expected.” His eyes slid over the paper and over Lucy’s person, coming to rest on her breasts.

  A man, he means. Lucy anchored her arms to her side to keep from covering her chest with great effort. She refused to give the reprobate the satisfaction. Her chin rose even as she bit back a retort and her backbone stiffened. He’ll grow old trying to intimidate me with his height and vile glances.

  Spangler stepped forward. “Come, come, Miss Whitaker. We both know you are in a difficult situation. Perhaps we can come to an arrangement. I’m prepared—”

  “That will not be necessary.” I would die first. The avarice and hunger behind his carefully arranged facial expression made Lucy’s skin crawl, but she stood her ground and glared at him.

  The silent confrontation lasted several breaths before Spangler shot a hateful glance at Agnes, and, by a flicker of eyelashes and a twitch of his lips, showed her that he backed down, no less angry and no more respectful. “I will go over this more carefully after my visit to Caulfield Hall,” he said, lips tight and a drop of spittle sliding to his chin.

  He thinks to remind me he’s the earl’s man, but we both know his lordship is in London. “You won’t find the earl in residence. You will, however, find my accounting to be accurate and the contents of that envelop correct to the ha’penny.”

  “We’ll see, Miss Whitaker. We shall see. For now, I plan to call on the duchess.”

  He said it as if access to Her Grace lent him some superior status—as if Maddy hadn’t befriended Lucy soon after moving to the dower house.

  “Give her my regards,” Lucy replied, drawing a flare of fire in his eyes. “Allow me to escort you out.” She couldn’t resist the emphasis on that last word.

  Agnes darted to his side and thrust his hat toward him. He snatched it away and smacked it on his head. “Your servants must be a lazy lot, Miss Whitaker, if the appearance of your house is any indication.”

  Lucy kept her peace. She stood in the massive entryway door and watched him stomp down the stairs. His carriage waited in the drive, his furtive-looking footman holding the horse’s heads.

  She thought he would climb directly in, but he spun around and examined the manor with a sour expression as if looking for signs of mismanagement. He peered up toward the roof, and sly satisfaction flickered briefly across his face before he turned a smug glance her way. “Enjoy your time here, Miss Whitaker. It will be brief enough unless you come to some accommodation with the eventual owner.”

  “Awful man,” Agnes murmured at Lucy’s elbow.

  “Quite. What do you suppose he meant by ‘eventual’?” Lucy lifted her skirts without waiting for an answer, stepped down into the curved drive, and shaded her eyes with one hand to look up as Spangler had. It took several minutes, but eventually, she spied loose tiles to the right side of the roof that she hadn’t noticed before.

  “What do you think? Will the new heir care about a few loose tiles?”

  “Who knows with that one. It might impress him to know you had it fixed,” Agnes responded.

  Lucy thought it might indeed impress the man. He might leave us on. “It wouldn’t hurt to have a look,” she said.

  “Can’t Thatcher see to it?”

  “I need him in the fields,” Lucy responded. “I will take a look.”

  “Can we afford to hire it done?” Agnes persisted.

  “Perhaps we should put that to the new owner,” Lucy murmured, still looking up. The manor wasn’t Lucy’s to fix, and even if she did, she doubted any man would give her credit for it. Once again, a home was about to be snatched out from under her and given to men who didn’t love it as she did, just as her father’s had been given to his feckless cousin. Spangler’s visit brought that reality home.

  Where will we go then? She kept her gaze on the roof. “It wouldn’t hurt to take a look,” she repeated.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “I don’t know how much I can tell you without digging.” A bit of Welsh always lingered in Brynn Morgan’s English, even after a dozen years in the king’s own regiment and another two in London on half-pay. “Glad to take a look, though.”

  Morgan tipped his head toward the sun letting his overlong black hair grace his collar, closed his eyes, and breathed deep. “I’m grateful to you for prying me out of that foul-smelling city for a bit, I’ll give you that much, Benson.”

  The two men rode side by side through the woods and over the well-maintained bridge Rob had noticed before.

  “I’ll thank you for anything you see, Morgan.” Rob was even more grateful for the company of a friend, a solid fixture from his real life, the one that lay on the battlefields of Spain and Brussels, the drawing rooms of Paris and London.

  “Coal—or better, copper—would fetch a better price if you’re determined to sell. I don’t know why you would want to, though. What does his Irritable Lordship offer you that is better than this glorious place so near to family and possessed with trees, air, and sunshine!”

  Escape. Rob let the thought drift away. “Rockford? A career. Work.”

  “As a nursery maid to a passel of prosy ambassadors?” Morgan gestured across the path. “Better than this? I never thought you a fool.”

  I felt like one the day I left here. I never meant to come back.

  But every day he lingered, Ashmead wrapped itself more securely around him, and with each of those passing days, the old lies didn’t seem to hurt as once they had. If he didn’t act soon, this world would tie him in an unbreakable hold. Am I clinging to those painful memories and my resentment of Da to keep from being choked by this place?

  Morgan paused at the bend that led to the house. “It comes complete with a tidy manor house as well. You are a fool, Benson.”

  “I have prize money,” Rob said as much to himself as to Morgan. “That and the proceeds will let me buy a bigger estate somewhere else.” He nudged Khalija forward. “Let’s warn the caretaker and take a look at that ridge.”

  He didn’t get far. Something caught his eye a short distance along that brought him a ferocious frown. “Damned fool woman!” he spat, speeding up. A ladder had been set up against the front of the house and a pair of shapely legs, tangled in a skirt, dangled over the edge of the roof.

  He leapt from
the horse, ran to the ladder, and shouted. “What the hell do you think you are doing?”

  Lucy Whitaker turned to peer down at him. “I’m inspecting your roof!” She felt for the ladder with one foot while the other swung wildly sideways, giving him a tantalizing view of petticoats, white stockings, and a slim ankle that distracted him so much that he almost missed her failure to actually connect with the ladder that began to slip sideways. When she groped for purchase on the drainpipe, he opened his mouth to warn her. Too late. The tile gave way in her hand and crashed to the pavement.

  Rob’s blood ran cold as Lucy tumbled after it.

  *

  Death loomed, but Lucy had no time to ponder it. Her foot missed its step, the ladder fell away, and the ground rushed toward her. Before she could form a coherent thought, she came to an abrupt stop against a warm chest, and two arms clamped around her in a grip that drove the air from her lungs.

  A blanket of security enfolded her momentarily, while strong arms and a warm body radiated more safety than she remembered since her mother died. The urge to snuggle close overwhelmed her.

  “You daft woman! You could have been killed.” Sir Robert Benson’s deep voice reverberated through her chest and jolted her back to reality.

  “Put me down you, you—” She pushed at his shoulders with both hands, but his arms only pulled her closer.

  “Hold still. You’re a heftier armful than you appear,” he growled, clambering up the steps and forcing her to cling to his broad shoulders. He pushed the door, and it gave, causing Agnes, who had been in the process of opening it, to fall back.

  “Where is the family parlor?” he demanded, looking back and forth. He didn’t wait for a reply, striding directly into the formal drawing room to his right.

  He laid Lucy on the settee against the far wall with excruciating gentleness that caused warmth to pool deep in her belly in response. When his hands slid into her hair and tenderly probed for injury, she shuddered. Concern in his warm green eyes, searching hers, deepened. Lucy couldn’t look away, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t tell him she was perfectly capable of inspecting the roof.

  The roof! The reminder struck her like a splash of icy water. Lucy batted his hands away and sat up. “I’m perfectly fine, you buffoon. Kindly remove your hands from my person!”

  “The lady fell so gracefully into your arms, Benson, that she is quite unharmed. Well done!” A stranger with an amused glint in his eyes leaned against the door jamb, grinning at Sir Robert.

  Lucy glared at the stranger, painfully aware her burning cheeks signaled a red face. Sir Robert’s hovering nearness didn’t help. She stood, forcing him to step back. She kept her gaze fixed on the stranger.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met, sir,” she said.

  The stranger looked expectantly at Sir Robert, one brow arched in question.

  Her tormenter ran a hand through his thick mass of auburn hair. “Miss Lucy Whitaker, may I present Colonel Brynn Morgan—” He wheeled toward her. “—and what were you thinking climbing on the roof with nothing but a rickety ladder between you and the ground?”

  Lucy’s mortification grew, augmented by the stranger’s amusement and Agnes’s smug nod. The older woman had warned her not to do it. Lucy raised her chin and said the first thing that came into her head. “The ladder is not rickety!”

  “It certainly didn’t protect you,” Sir Robert spat back. “Don’t I have servants or at least tenants to see to my roof?”

  The words felt like a slap. His tenants. His roof. His house. Not mine. Lucy took a breath. “We are planting. I thought your people best deployed in the fields. Of course, if you order otherwise…”

  “I do.” He snatched his hat from the settee where he had dropped it and slapped it against his thigh. “If we need all hands in the fields and the roof needs repairs, I’ll hire carpenters in Ashmead.”

  “It doesn’t. At least, it didn’t until I broke the drainpipe.” She added the last sheepishly. You are six kinds of fool, Lucy Whitaker. And take your eyes off the man’s hands.

  “Then why did you climb up there. You assured me the roof didn’t leak the last time I was here.”

  “I thought I saw a loose tile and Spangler—”

  “Spangler?! What does that miserable cheat have to do with the roof?”

  Lucy opened her mouth, but no answer presented itself. When he continued to glare as if he could read her mind, she pulled her eyes from his and peered at the little shepherdess on the mantle. “That cheat, as you call him, called for the quarterly receipts two days ago. I have an accounting for you.” Her head bobbed up. “I had to begin a new ledger since you haven’t returned my books.” She made no effort to keep the edge of accusation from her voice, attack always feeling more comfortable than defense.

  He waved her words away with one hand. “My brother has enough to work with. Keep the ledger for now. But what does that have to do with the roof?”

  How could she explain how uneasy Spangler made her when she didn’t quite understand it herself? “Before he left, he stared at the roof. The side to the right seemed to hold his attention. There is something sly…”

  “With Spangler, there is always something sly.”

  They agreed on that much, at least. “I thought I saw a loose tile. I went up to inspect.”

  “And?”

  “I was interrupted.” She glared at him, daring him to criticize.

  “If there is nothing else, I suggest we leave the roof be for now. If you have any further problems, send word, and I’ll see to it you have workers.”

  Lucy gave into temptation and bobbed into a curtsey much too deep for a mere baronet. “Yes, sir,” she said. At his eye roll, she went on, “If you didn’t come for an accounting, was there something else you wanted?”

  “I came to introduce Morgan. He is an engineer. I asked him to take a look at that ridge.”

  Mining. Lucy’s entire body stiffened at the thought. “Thank you for the warning,” she said through tight lips.

  “Stop looking at me as if I’m the devil incarnate about to open a black pit to hell. There’s something havey-cavey going on, and I need the opinion of someone I trust.”

  “As you wish,” she ground out.

  His nostrils flared at her tone, but he didn’t argue. How could he?

  “Are you certain you aren’t hurt?” The abrupt change confused her.

  She held out one leg and wiggled her foot, snug in a well-worn half boot. “As you see, I can stand, I can walk, and my parts function,” she said, and had the satisfaction of seeing him look askance.

  Good sense reasserted itself. “I’m sorry. This conversation is entirely inappropriate,” she admitted. “But then, a lady doesn’t entertain single men in her parlor either. Still, a tenant might admit her landlord or an employee her employer. What am I exactly? Have you decided?”

  Lucy thought she saw him swallow hard but may have imagined it. “Our situation is entirely temporary, Miss Whitaker. I thank you for overseeing this place for now.” He tapped his hat onto his head. “We’ll take our leave of you. No need to see us out.”

  Of course not. You let yourself in; so you can see yourself out.

  Lace curtains covered the window facing the front of the house, gently swaying in the breeze. Lucy watched through them as the men descended the steps, their voices floating up through the open window.

  “Your steward is a saucy wench,” Morgan said, humor flavoring his words.

  “She is not my steward.” Sir Robert Benson, on the other hand, was not amused.

  Neither was Lucy. Willowbrook possessed her heart, but she didn’t possess Willowbrook. Still, she would care for it as if it were her own until he wrenched it away. She couldn’t help herself.

  *

  “I’m telling you, Da, Spangler rattled on and on about Willowbrook. The carpets are threadbare. The fields have played out. The sheep are poorly. The barns are falling in. The roof needs repair…” Eli shot a look at his brother.<
br />
  “Is that how you find it, Robbie?” Robert Benson asked, tipping the chair behind his desk back, sipping his ale, and peering over the foam at Rob. The three men sat in the sunny inn office, going over Eli’s most recent attempt to get information out of Spangler.

  “I’ll give him the carpets,” Rob said grimly. “The rest is fabrication. I still don’t understand what he hopes to gain.”

  “To drive down the price, to make you desperate,” the old man said, studying him closely. “Seems to me he plans to buy the place. Cheaply.”

  “I’m not such a fool as to let the man take advantage of me.”

  “Aye, that you’re not,” Eli’s father said. “I taught you myself.”

  That you did.

  “I believe you are right. He wants it. He told me Robbie shouldn’t hope for minerals. Said you shouldn’t trust the word of ‘some Welsh diddler’ as he called him.” Eli shook his head.

  Brynn Morgan snorted, reminding Rob he sat quietly in the corner.

  “I’m dealing with a two-headed Janus,” Eli went on.

  “He changed his tune as soon as we signed, of course,” Rob explained.

  “You needed convincing?” Morgan interjected, astonished.

  “Stubborn lad, is my Robbie,” the old man sighed.

  That drew a glare from Rob. His feelings about Ashmead and the blasted inn at its heart were too complicated and none of Brynn Morgan’s business. “Spangler seemed determined that it not revert to the earl. Clarion would never sell, but Spangler thinks I will. Now that I signed, he wants to drive down the price. Can it be that simple? Am I wrong to look for more trouble?”

  “Not terribly bright, that one. I’d like to play cards with ’im. He shows his hand,” the older man mused.

  “He can’t tell if you have minerals one way or the other without digging. It looks promising to me, but I’m not a mining expert. He must know you’d test it before you sold it,” Morgan added.

  “Two things still bother me,” Rob said.