The Wayward Son

by Warfield, Caroline

  Did the earl scare me away? Or too much family crowding in? Rob brooded over the matter in silence.

  “The earl stayed, Emma,” Eli pointed out. “He danced with Lucy. Twice.” Rob jerked upright at that. His ears perked up while Eli continued. “Then he dragged Lady Mad out on the floor, too, and Morgan took advantage.”

  “I did no such thing. Her Grace honored me with a dance.” Brynn Morgan had trailed in behind them. Though not family, his presence at the inn and as Rob’s friend made him part of the celebration.

  “Honor for certain,” Emma said, continuing her way around the taproom, lighting candles. “Lady Madelyn never dances at assemblies. I think she’s shy.”

  Too good for the folk, most likely, Rob thought.

  “Robert Allen Benson, what are you doing in the dark?” Emma cried, spying him at last. She didn’t require a reply. “Come over and get ready for the best cake you ever tasted.”

  Emma’s Da studied him from across the room with a hint of approval. He ought to approve. After all, the old man had ordered him to be here, for Emma’s sake. “I wouldn’t miss your cake, Emma. You’ve been teasing us with it the entire week.”

  The cake proved as tasty as promised. The guest of honor dutifully opened family gifts, quietly grateful. He even managed a show of enthusiasm over little Audrey’s gift of a handkerchief with a carefully—if crookedly—stitched “B” and what looked like a flower. The old man’s shoulders sagged, however, and he seemed to lean more and more in his chair.

  Before Rob could intervene, Ellis Corbin acted. “We best be getting these young ones home, Emma. Your Da looks fit to drop.”

  Emma knelt down next to her father’s chair. “Oh, I hate the night to end, Da, but Ellis has it right. We’ve fair worn you out.” She kissed the old man’s cheek and was gone, shooing her family before her like a hen in a flurry of feathers. Moments later, Eli announced he was for bed, and Morgan followed.

  Suddenly alone with the man, Rob asked, “Do you need help?”

  “I can manage. I’m not in my dotage yet, though your sister might have you think so. It was a good night. Thank you for that fancy shaving set.”

  What could he say to that beyond a mumbled “welcome,” while Old Robert’s knowing eyes scanned his face?

  “I’m glad you’re here, Robbie.”

  “The party mattered to Emma. I think it’s the true reason she summoned me.”

  “Maybe. Whatever the reason, it has been good to see you.”

  A tangle of confused feelings choked Rob. Words, some harsh, some hurtful, some tender, clamored for attention.

  “It’s late,” the old man said at last, pushing himself up one-handed with a moan. “I best find my bed.”

  He clamped a hand on Rob’s shoulder. “We’ll talk,” he said. “Before you go back to London, we’ll talk.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Rob kept to his room on Sunday, aside from a relaxing ride south, away from Ashmead and in the opposite direction to Willowbrook and Caulfield Hall. He’d had a surfeit of family and made no attempt to join them at church.

  Monday morning, he resolved to confront the earl. Eli did his best to convince Rob to postpone the visit until he could join him, but Eli had a client to see to in Nottingham, and Rob felt a growing sense of urgency.

  “The sooner I get the information we need, the sooner I can leave. A week. I ought to be gone within a week.” The meager belongings he had brought had been packed and repacked. He would have to have his regimentals shipped. Emma would do it. He could leave at a moment’s notice. He would do so when the time was right.

  He saw his brother off shortly after the inn came awake and prowled the grounds and kitchen until it was only a few hours short of a polite hour for calls.

  His solitary ride to Caulfield Hall gave him ample time to list the reasons he could and should dispose of Willowbrook and be gone. Now the earl’s here, let him see to Lucy Whitaker’s well-being. She isn’t any more my responsibility than the blasted inn. I’ll leave Morgan to see to the repairs; he seems willing enough. I’ll send an agent from the city to see to the sale.

  He recognized the Caulfield butler’s cold eyes and stiff manner, his air of a loyal servant who yearned to show the upstart the door. He’d met his like before.

  “Kindly tell the earl I’m here on business. This isn’t a social call,” he said, handing over a heavy, perfectly engraved calling card.

  The butler took it between finger and thumb, gave it a dismissive glance, and left him standing in an entryway as opulent, cold, and dead as he remembered. The lifeless silence filled him with oppressive gloom. He would see the earl if he had to storm the upper rooms.

  Just as his control began to slip and the temptation to confront the earl—or perhaps to bolt out the door as his fourteen-year-old self had done—became unbearable, an unexpected sound startled him out of his black mood.

  A shriek of childish laughter echoed off the walls, the clatter of small boots on marble stairs descended, and a tiny voice unleashed the universal cry of childhood, “You can’t catch me!”

  A small girl slid to an abrupt halt three feet from Rob, startled eyes taking in the stranger in her world. A slightly older boy ran into her, gleefully proclaiming, “Got you! Now you must catch me.” The lad sobered at the sight of Rob, and both pairs of eyes studied him intently.

  The girl, who couldn’t be much more than five or six, had the deep auburn hair of a Caulfield. The boy who looked to be about Matt Corbin’s age had darker hair that reminded Rob of someone.

  Lucy. He has Lucy Whitaker’s hair and eyes. An unreasonable shard of jealousy stabbed Rob until he remembered Lucy’s sister had been the earl’s wife and most certainly the mother of these children.

  The girl took a step toward him and blinked to take a closer look. Green eyes. The color of Maddy’s. “You look like my Papa,” she said with a puzzled frown.

  The boy hissed, “Stubble it, Marj.” He demonstrated a rather more formal set of manners, giving a well-executed bow and elbowing his sister, who dipped into a creditable curtsey. “I am Viscount Ashmead. May I help you, sir?” Courtesy couldn’t keep the naked curiosity from his eyes.

  Bright boy! Rob bowed gravely in return. “I am Major Sir Robert Benson. I have business with the earl.”

  “Same as Mr. Benson, the innkeeper,” the boy noted. “Has Higgins taken your card?”

  Rob nodded, and the lad brightened, relieved that the courtesies had been met. “He will see if Papa is in.”

  “Shouldn’t you be in the schoolroom at this hour?” Rob asked.

  “Letty fell asleep,” the girl told him as if it were obvious.

  “I don’t need a schoolroom. I’m ready for Eton. The vicar said so.” The expression on the boy’s face appeared more brave than eager, like a raw recruit’s just before his first battle.

  Very bright, indeed; public school requires courage. This one seems a bit young for it. No such privilege had been given him.

  The boy went on, “Marj plays with her dolls in the schoolroom. Girls don’t need education.”

  “Do too, Ed. Aunt Maddy says so! You’re just mad that I am better with numbers than you.”

  “Her Grace is quite correct. Girls need education as well,” Rob said, drawing their attention back. Ed. Good to know the stiff little viscount has a name.

  The return of Higgins cut off any reply from the children. The butler stared down his nose at them as if they might contaminate his perfectly pressed clothing if he didn’t keep them at bay. “Miss Graham has been searching for you two. Get you to the nursery floor at once.” The little viscount gave a shuddering sigh, took his sister’s hand, and pulled her toward the rear of the house, most likely to the servants’ stairs. Marj looked back at Rob, shrugged dramatically, and waved goodbye.

  Absorbed in the children, Rob missed Higgins’s words. When he turned, the butler’s frown punctuated irritation at repeating it. “His lordship will receive you. If you would please f
ollow me.”

  The butler, ramrod straight, led him up the marble stairs the children had so unceremoniously clambered down. The man’s stern disapproval didn’t waver, even when he opened a drawing room door with a flourish and announced, “Sir Robert Benson, my lord.” He cast Rob a baleful look as if to remind him to behave in such august company and to express doubt that he could do so.

  It only served to make Rob stand a little taller. Stronger characters than you have tried to make me feel worthless, some of them in this very house.

  The earl stood by the hearth, one arm on the mantle, eyes wary, impeccably if conservatively dressed. “You didn’t waste time coming here, Robbie.” He tapped a folded piece of vellum that he held in one hand. “I expected Eli Benson, not his esteemed brother.” His eyes grew wide as if at a sudden thought. “But it is Sir Robert now, is it not?”

  “Benson will do, Clarion.” He refused to be drawn into a childish game. “Eli had business in Nottingham. I didn’t wish to wait two days. I believe he made our needs clear, however.”

  “Spangler assured me you had finally claimed your bequest. Do you think the original will might promise more?” Clarion braced himself for Rob’s response.

  “You met with that muckworm?”

  “He presumed on me at the assembly rooms Saturday night. I must say it took you long enough.” Rob noticed he didn’t correct the word “muckworm.”

  Someone else spoke over Rob’s shoulder. He hadn’t noticed that Lady Madelyn sat quietly in the corner. “David! R—Sir Robert didn’t even know about the bequest until a month ago. He needed time to come to terms with it.”

  “Come to terms? Our father left him the jewel of our family holdings. What more needs to be said?” The bitterness in his voice and the pleading in Maddy’s eyes gave Rob pause. He recalled Maddy’s words about their father’s spite. “Spangler can handle the details.”

  “I didn’t ask for Willowbrook, Clarion, and I don’t pretend to understand your father’s intention, but it has fallen into my lap, and I have to figure out what to do with it. Do you trust Spangler?”

  The earl ignored the question. “Do with it? Live on it, of course, so you can lord it over the shire when you aren’t in London consorting with your betters.” Bitterness dripped from his words. “I saw you at a ball at the Russian embassy six weeks ago, peering around the room as if you were Prinny himself.”

  Rob held his temper with great effort. He had been in London just days before Emma’s letter reached him. Rockford sent him to the embassy affair to study the security challenges there. He hadn’t noticed Clarion in the crush of people, and that irritated him for professional reasons. He bit back a response to the implication about his “betters” and changed direction. “You said you had a message from Lord Rockford.”

  Clarion blinked. “Of course. I had forgotten.” He turned to his sister, “Lady Madelyn, if you’ll excuse us, Benson and I will retire to my study so we can deal with this matter. Quickly.”

  The duchess rose gracefully to her feet. “I think not. The two of you are shooting daggers at one another. I should come with you to keep the peace.”

  She approached Rob, extending both hands to him. He had no choice but to take them. Gripping his, her hands felt warm and reassuring. “Your father’s fete warmed me utterly. Robert Benson is the steady beating heart of Ashmead, and the people know it. It thrilled me to hear them express their respect.”

  My father. Hearing those words in this place rattled him. The desire to run overtook him. Again. He cleared his throat. “Thank you, Your Grace. Your presence pleased him greatly.” The instinct to be fair pushed more words out. “Clarion’s attendance, unexpected as it was, did, too.”

  He let go of her hands and pulled his gaze from hers. “No need to join us. Clarion is right. There is no point in extending what is obviously an uncomfortable bit of business. I’ll have my information from Rockford, clarify what my brother—” Rob stumbled over the word, glancing at Clarion. “What Eli needs and be on my way.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  The late afternoon sun lay warm on Lucy’s face when she wandered downhill from the bee yard to speak with Aaron Miller, trying to decide if the damage she found amounted to something or if she ought to ignore it. Miller slept in a room in the barn loft and might have heard something.

  Like the broken gate that allowed goats to escape into the flower garden three days before, the two bee skeps that had been knocked from their base didn’t seem serious. Perhaps the incident was one and the same, and the goats knocked the skeps over. Or a honey-loving badger.

  Work had begun late that day since most of the men and their families had been at the assembly the Saturday before and spent much of Sunday sleeping off the informal gatherings afterward, but she found them preparing to raise a new roof truss.

  Miller greeted her politely if distantly.

  “I didn’t see you at Mr. Benson’s party Saturday night,” Lucy told him. “The entire shire was invited.”

  “I’m new here, Miss Whitaker. I didn’t want to intrude.”

  “Emma Corbin doesn’t know the word stranger. She grew up in an inn that embraces the world.”

  He had no answering smile. “Good to know,” he said. He shifted impatiently.

  She got down to business rather than keep him. “Did you see anyone up in the bee yard yesterday, Mr. Miller?”

  He glanced up the hill to her operation at the top. “No, ma’am. I can’t say that I did.”

  She studied him for a moment but couldn’t think what else to ask. “Thank you. I won’t keep you from your work.”

  He nodded. “We best keep at it. Sir Robert wants it done quickly.”

  Quickly done so he can sell Willowbrook. “Good day then,” she said, sorrow pooling in her stomach.

  Two incidents in a week, but still, she wondered if she weren’t overreacting due to the damage to the stable. Such minor things happen on any working farm. She resolved to contact her landlord if something serious occurred, but not to trouble him about such minor damage. At least I won’t look like a nervous ninny.

  *

  With the message from Rockford, predictably urgent, tucked in his coat, Rob had every incentive to deal with the rest of his business quickly.

  Clarion offered to unlock the strongroom where the family papers were kept and pull out his father’s will, but when he explained it was by the estate office at the other end of the house, Rob shook his head. “That will take time. Eli told me to notify you that he will come the day after tomorrow. You might want to have it ready for him. He’s the solicitor, not me. He’ll also want your written permission to see the bank records.”

  “You don’t trust us.”

  “We don’t trust Spangler. He’s blocked efforts to look at bank records, and the numbers he gave Eli don’t match Lucy Whitaker’s.”

  Clarion’s brows rose. “You can trust Miss Whitaker completely.”

  “We do. That’s why we don’t trust Spangler. Do you?”

  Clarion’s frown deepened. “I hardly know the man. He was my father’s solicitor. He drew up the damned will, and I’m happy to let him deal with the horde of claimants. I have my own people in town.”

  “You haven’t spoken to him or taken a look at what he’s been doing?”

  Clarion bristled. “Why should I. The will—”

  “I understand why the will is a burr under your saddle, Clarion, but the man can’t be trusted.” Rob described what Old Robert suspected about Spangler buying up businesses in Ashmead. “He’ll find I’m harder to manipulate.”

  “How can he possibly manipulate you? Willowbrook is yours.”

  “Whether I want it or not. My first instinct, to refuse it, got him in a panic.”

  Clarion couldn’t hide his shock. “Refuse it? Why would you do that?”

  “Why would I want to be tied to this place?” Rob’s voice rose.

  “It’s your home, you damned fool. Your sister and brother are here. The
Willow. Your father—”

  “Let’s leave my parentage out of this—dear brother.”

  The words hung in the air, driving all other sound or thought away. Clarion looked away first. “What do you mean, ‘got him in a panic’?”

  “He told me it couldn’t be done—an obvious lie. Then went to great pains to convince me the place was valuable. He even hinted that the mineral wealth alone made it a treasure.”

  Clarion’s horror wasn’t feigned. “Coal? Never! Not Willowbrook. A mine would destroy Willowbrook and Ashmead with it!”

  “One suspects that’s why he made sure the bequest didn’t revert to the estate. You would never have let go of it.”

  Clarion glared at him, green eyes to identical green. “I would never let go of Willowbrook if I had it. Never. Not for mining. Not for any reason. It was mine, but the old man gave it to you. Take it and enjoy it, but Benson, no amount of blunt is worth what coal would do to it.”

  “That’s for the next landowner. I will not let your reprehensible father tie me to this place or make some godforsaken landed gentry out of me. I plan to sell it as soon as—”

  “What?”

  “That’s the reason I came here to speak with you. Spangler knows I mean to sell. As soon as I signed, he changed tack anyway. Now, all we hear is how the place’s poor repair influences sale price. Once Eli has all the information he needs, I will send an agent up from the city.”

  “Do what you wish,” Clarion muttered.

  “I will as soon as arrangements can be made for Miss Whitaker. What are you going to do about the woman?”

  “What am I going to do? What do you mean?”

  “Exactly what I said. She has to move. She isn’t my dependent. I won’t put her out on the streets, but it’s time you took some responsibility.” Rob considered telling Clarion he meant to give her the money she had set aside as her salary, but his desire to goad the earl into action won out.