“News?” Rob asked.
Eli shook his head. “I was hoping you’d heard from the earl. We’re stuck until I get my hands on the will and the bank accounts. They claim they’re waiting for the earl’s permission, but I think Spangler is stalling.”
Rob’s heart sank. He had hoped to avoid David Caulfield. “If we don’t hear this week,” he decided, “I’ll write myself.”
“I don’t know, Robbie,” Eli said. “You may have to ride on back to London and knock on the man’s door if he won’t respond.”
“Wait until Emma’s party is over. If we haven’t had word, I’ll consider that.” It would give Rob a chance to meet with Rockford as well. It made sense, but it didn’t appeal as it ought.
On Thursday, Lucy brought an order of candles for the assembly rooms. Emma decreed that the event be held in the big room above the village offices that had fallen into disuse these past few years. “We need space for dancing, don’t we?” A crew of Ashmead wives had been scrubbing and waxing for days.
“The tributes will begin at the assembly rooms, followed by dancing,” Emma explained to Rob’s baffled wonderment and to Lucy’s obvious amusement.
“Then why have I been stocking barrels of ale, seeing to stabling, and airing rooms?”
“Folks will come in from around the shire, silly,” Emma said, “And after the dancing, we’ll have a family party here, won’t we, Lucy?”
The inclusion of Lucy was Rob’s clue that Emma’s view of “family” was a bit larger than his.
Lucy, when asked, expressed satisfaction with the crew working to repair the stables. She pronounced Miller knowledgeable and personable if a bit closed-mouthed about his past. There had been no more trouble.
Rob glanced at Emma. “I can’t get away the next few days, but I’ll ride out to check as soon as this party nonsense is over.”
Both women glared at him, but he suspected they had different reasons.
“Has Mr. Morgan returned to London?” Lucy asked. He couldn’t tell if she hoped for a yes or a no.
“I have Brynn Morgan repairing the struts to the mezzanine for the band. He’s going to play for us as well. Did you know he plays the violin, Robbie? I was that surprised!”
Lucy didn’t linger, and Rob thought her wise. Emma would have recruited her, and he suspected her claim of work waiting at Willowbrook was true enough.
By Friday, Emma’s father had taken to hiding at Ellis Corbin’s livery. Rob found him there, spinning stories with his son-in-law.
“Escaping, are you, Robbie?” Old Robert asked.
He nodded. “I thought to ride out to Willowbrook. To check on the workers I sent.” He ignored a knowing look from the old man.
“That fierce mount of yours has hooves that need tending. I’ll have him fit and ready to ride by nightfall, but the party’s tomorrow. You can go after,” Ellis told him.
“Not if you let your father-in-law chat your ear off,” Rob retorted, taking a seat.
When Ellis rose to go back to work, Rob found himself alone with the older Robert for once. The two men watched each other warily.
“Something’s been stuck in your craw since you got here, Robbie. If you have aught to say, spit it out. If it stays in much longer, it may choke you,” the old man said at last.
Why did you lie to me? Why let me believe you were my father? Why not tell me who I really was? Were you ashamed? That last sickened him, the great fear under everything, fear that the man he so admired as a boy saw him as a shameful secret. Robert Benson eyed him steadily while his jaw worked and the words stuck in his throat. What good will it do now?
“Grandda!” Little Audrey skipped into the livery. “Mam sent me to fetch you. She can’t decide about the punch.”
The man was gone before Rob could object. He sank back in relief. He’d say the words, he decided, when he was ready to leave. He’d tell the man what he thought of him and then go back to London and the honors the years away had given him. He would. As soon as he solved the problem of Willowbrook and Lucy Whitaker.
Chapter Seventeen
Lucy glanced around the newly refurbished assembly room gleaming under the light of her candles and took pride in their quality. The exposure was bound to help her—or at least Willowbrook’s—reputation. She had been skeptical about the grand scale of the party Emma planned for her father, but, she had to admit, the village had turned out and some of the shire as well. The duchess rarely left her dower house, but there she sat, chatting with Maud Styles, the vicar’s wife, and—
Is that Brynn Morgan sitting with Lady Madelyn? The odd mix of people made Lucy smile. Grand for a village assembly, the gathering had a joy to it that she doubted a London society hostess could manage.
Mr. Benson stood between his two younger children accepting the flood of greetings and congratulations. Emma beamed, and Eli leaned in earnestly, listening to every visitor. There had been a brief speech, more of a toast, in the beginning, touting the guest of honor, and now people lined up to offer their wishes while they waited for dancing to begin. Small gifts had been left in a basket by the door. Of his oldest son, she saw no sign. Certain he would not miss the occasion, she scanned the crowd.
When she turned back toward the Bensons, the hairs on the back of her head rose. Spangler entered just as the receiving line thinned out. Eli, grim-faced, went rigid at the sight. Even Emma looked uneasy, but Mr. Benson managed the thing. She watched him urge Spangler toward the punch bowl. When the toad made a beeline in her direction, she held her breath, casting about for escape.
Warner Simpson, the Ashmead grocer, waylaid him, giving her a break. She suspected Simpson, like others in Ashmead, lived in buildings rented from Spangler but had no time to think about it. She darted up the stairs to the mezzanine, reached the top out of breath, and clutched her middle to regain it.
“What do you think he’s up to?” The words came from the edge of the railing in the far corner of the balcony, where the man she’d been searching for, Sir Robert, leaned over, watching the proceedings. She joined him, peered down following his line of sight, and saw Spangler gawking about. “Hunting for me.” She stood back a step from the rail lest the despicable man catch sight of her.
Sir Robert turned, one elbow still on the railing. “Tormenting hapless villagers as well, perhaps?”
She nodded and replied, “That, too, one suspects.” Lucy stood up on tiptoe to scan the crowd. She caught her companion studying her, bringing her to her heels. Something in his eyes made her heartbeat race.
“That frock flatters your coloring, if I may say so, Miss Whitaker,” he said. “You ought to dress up more often.” The words, though perfectly polite, left her feeling exposed and vulnerable. Men rarely had cause to compliment her, least of all on her choice of gowns. Heat crept up her neck, and she had no reply beyond a mumbled, “Thank you.”
She fixed her eyes on the crowd below, though he continued to watch her past the point of good manners. Several moments went by in silence before Lucy let curiosity about the man next to her overrun her common sense. “Why aren’t you standing with your family?” she blurted.
“My sister and brother manage fine without me,” he said, straightening up. They stood shoulder to shoulder watching the festivities below, eyes averted from one another.
“Folks in Ashmead have been eager to greet the returning hero,” Lucy pointed out, though she believed he must know that.
“All the more reason to leave the field to my—” He drew breath. “To the man of the night. This fuss is all in his honor.”
Lucy didn’t miss the hesitation. “You don’t think you belong?”
Tense silence made her regret her hasty words. “I’m sorry,” she began.
“You are an impertinent baggage,” he said, still not looking at her. “But you are correct. Robert Benson isn’t my father. Surely that must be obvious even to you, Miss Whitaker.”
Words were out before good sense could control her tongue. “Everyone in
Ashmead knows you’re a Caulfield, but they know you are Benson as well. He is no less your father.”
Musicians tromped up to the mezzanine. If Sir Robert meant to respond to her inappropriate outburst, their presence put a stop to it. The players crowded in apologetically and began tuning instruments as Lucy turned to the stairs.
Sir Robert stayed where he was to the side of the railing. “Spangler hasn’t left,” he called over the sound of the instruments. “You best wait.”
She stopped, her back to him. The thought that he wanted her company heated her, but she let her head fall forward. Don’t be a ninny. He’s being gallant, warning you about Spangler. Chiding herself not to take him seriously, she nonetheless walked back to peer down at the hall with him.
Dancers had begun to take their places for the first set. Emma and her beloved, Ellis, grinned at one another. Vincent Thatcher stood up with one of the Simmons girls and Eli with another. Little Matt Corbin, concentrating intently, got in line with Maud Styles, next to his parents. The vicar led out old Mrs. Ingleby, the haberdasher’s mother-in-law.
It all made Lucy smile. I suspect London is never like this. “There are some surprising pairings at a village assembly,” she said out loud.
“There certainly are,” he replied, nodding toward the sight of Brynn Morgan bowing over Her Grace’s hand as if to request a dance.
Lucy sucked in a breath. “Poor Morgan. I’ve never seen Lady Madelyn dance at a village assembly since she returned to Caulfield Hall,” she told him.
“Maddy was never high in the instep before.”
He calls the duchess Maddy?
Lucy’s shock must have shown on her face. He went on, “Her Grace, I should say. I wonder what Glenmoor did to stiffen her manners—or was it her mother?”
Lucy knew the duchess’s mother for the formidable force she was but had no answer to give this man whose time away made him more a stranger than not. “I think perhaps Her Grace’s aloof manner comes from something other than snobbery. You know the dowager countess?”
“Too well. I’m sorry if my frankness makes you uncomfortable.”
Guilt nagged at her. “It must be the night. My own tongue has run away. I ought to apologize.”
“Don’t. I—”
A disturbance below interrupted their concentration. A newcomer stood at the door, and the dancing stopped. The Earl of Clarion’s unexpected arrival riveted the entire assembly’s attention. He peered around the room, spied the guest of honor, and made his way toward him. Dancers reformed their sets as he passed.
The earl’s resemblance to the man at her side jolted Lucy. David has the same deep auburn hair, the same intelligent green eyes, the same height… She dared a glance at Sir Robert. None of the muscled strength and broad—
“Startling, isn’t it?” Sir Robert asked with an ironic curl of his lip. “Astounding that I could have grown to age fourteen without seeing it.”
Lucy had to close her gaping jaw.
They watched the earl shake Old Robert’s hand and smile at him. “Condescending to the masses…” the man next to her muttered.
She wanted to defend the earl, but something in Sir Robert’s eyes cut Lucy to the quick. Bitterness, confusion—longing? Both Caulfield and Benson, and yet neither. Something in her shifted. He still planned to sell her home from under her, but she wouldn’t be able to look at him the same way.
Sir Robert offered Lucy his arm. “Shall we go down and greet the lord of the Shire?”
*
Lucy’s fingers trembled on Rob’s arm. Afraid of me? Or the folks below? he wondered as he led her to the stairs. He covered her hand with his free one and smiled at her, bringing a blush to her cheeks. He had to remind himself that this fragile-looking bit of femininity was the same woman who greeted intruders with a gun and stood up to anyone who threatened her domain at Willowbrook. Miss Whitaker, you are anything but fragile!
She was, however, a menace. Rob longed to drag her out of the stifling assembly of family expectations, ogling neighbors, and overwhelming refreshments, and kiss her senseless on the riverbank. If he gave in to the urge, he would bind himself to Ashmead on Afon forever, the one thing he vowed to avoid at all cost.
The stairs from the mezzanine let out at the rear of the assembly room, and dancers blocked their path. The crush gave way along the edges to allow them through, but knowing smiles, congratulatory greetings, and glowing faces from the good people of Ashmead made him feel like a prize bull in a spring meadow.
If this were a London ballroom, an unmarried woman like Lucy Whitaker would have a doting mama or hatchet-faced companion waiting to demand to know what she’d been doing alone with a man. She had neither. Here the women beamed at them in approval, and the men cast Rob envious looks, an entire village of matchmakers.
How does one dispense with a lady on one’s arm at a country assembly? Would anyone care if I simply leave her here? He briefly considered leading her to Emma, but his sister and her husband were still dancing and laughing up at each other with embarrassing affection.
She clung to his arm as he kept moving around the periphery of the dancers until he wondered if she harbored the same hopes the villagers made apparent, even though he had made it abundantly clear to the woman that his life lay elsewhere.
When they turned a corner and came face to face with Old Robert and the earl, she dropped his arm and hurried to meet Clarion. The earl’s face lit up at the sight, and he held out both hands to take hers. A stab of jealousy cut through Rob. He had just been looking for ways to escape her, but seeing her reaction to Clarion, he fought the urge to pull her back. Don’t be daft Benson, he chided himself.
“When did you arrive? We didn’t expect you,” Lucy said.
“I was out of town and just now got your letter. I came as soon as I read it,” Clarion replied.
Hell. He ignores Eli but drops everything for Lucy.
“Smile, Robbie,” a voice whispered in his ear. “You look like you want to gut the man like a fish.”
Rob frowned at the man Lucy Whitaker believed he ought to accept as his father. The old man gestured over Rob’s shoulder with a nod. “Best greet the earl civilly. Use those Paris manners of yours, or I’ll begin to think they’re a fairy story.”
Old Robert’s words were a cold-water bath, waking up his common sense. Still, Rob had to call on every diplomatic skill he had learned when he turned and faced David Caulfield, Earl of Clarion, for the first time in fifteen years.
“Benson! I heard the prodigal son had returned to Ashmead, at last,” the earl said, his expression wary.
Lucy, Rob noticed, did not take the earl’s arm. He gave a proper bow. “Lord Clarion. Welcome home. I understand you’ve been gone, as well.”
“My invitation to your father’s event reached me late. I’m glad I didn’t miss it.”
Your father. Coming from Clarion, the words cut, but what else could he say? “He is much loved here,” Rob said.
The smile Clarion turned on the old man appeared to be genuine. It almost shamed Rob. Almost. The people of this village love him. I always loved him. Until I knew he had lied about me.
“Tonight isn’t the time, Clarion, but we need to talk,” he said.
“Yes. I got your brother’s message. Ride up to Caulfield Hall, and we’ll… talk.” No promises, Rob noted. “I also have a message for you from Viscount Rockford.”
Damn. Rob started to demand Rockford’s message now.
“Tomorrow,” Clarion said, cutting him off. With nothing to say—and everything that needed saying postponed—an awkward silence fell between the two men who were, in many ways, mirror images of one another, but in other ways, continents apart. Rob dug deep into his reservoir of poise, but all he came up with was, “You must want to get home after a day of travel.”
Clarion looked as if he had been slapped. He recovered quickly. “And leave the party so soon? I think not.”
“Come, David, greet Lady Madelyn before you go
,” Lucy Whitaker interjected, glaring at Rob and taking Clarion’s arm to draw him away.
Rob watched them walk away, oblivious to anyone else until Old Robert shook his head and said, “Not well done, son. Yer mother taught you better than that, even if all those fine folks in the foreign service didn’t.”
“I’m sorry. This is—” he waved a hand at the assemblage in general. “—is all a bit overwhelming after so many years. I don’t belong here.” I’m neither fish nor fowl.
“Leave now, and I’ll make your excuses to Emma, but if you fail to meet us back at the Willow for cake and gifties, she’ll have your guts for garters.”
Rob bobbed a jerky nod and left feeling like a fool, unable to decide whether to lay his anger at the feet of Robert Benson, David Caulfield, Lucy Whitaker, or his sister Emma. “The sooner I leave Ashmead, the better,” he shouted to the full moon as his long strides carried him down the coaching road toward the inn.
*
The Bensons, including all four of the Corbin children bouncing with the brittle energy characteristic of overly tired youngsters, tumbled into the Willow after midnight. The few inn guests retreated to their rooms with jovial wishes.
Rob, who sat morosely in the dark sipping Da’s best whisky, half expected the entire village to follow. They did not. Lucy didn’t come either, which shouldn’t have disappointed him as much as it did.
Over the buzz of family chatter, Emma rhapsodized about the success of the party while she lit candles. “It’s a shame Lucy didn’t want to join us,” she said but declared herself thrilled that her older brother “looking fine as any lord in his regimentals” came and lamented that he didn’t stay. “Still, he came. ’Tis hard to predict what Robbie will do, I can tell you, and I wasn’t sure. Good he came. Having all of us together was pure joy.”
Rob almost spoke up then, but Ellis Corbin answered his wife. “I think the earl scared him off.”
“Don’t see why. Robbie’s a baronet and a war hero, to boot. The earl’s well enough, but Robbie’s the village hero,” Emma said, pride radiating from her.
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