The Wayward Son

by Warfield, Caroline

  Clarion seethed with anger. “You have no idea about duty. While you’ve been off playing at soldier and wrapping yourself in glory, some of us have been picking up the pieces in the shire.”

  “Playing at soldier? What the hell do you mean by that? Were you at Salamanca? Or Badajoz? Were you even at Waterloo?” Remembered horror shook him. “Safe in your bed in England while some of us picked up the pieces, as you call it, on the continent,” Rob roared.

  Clarion glared back. “At least you had a choice.” Rob had no answer for that. He left Ashmead on his own and would do it again. It had never occurred to him that Clarion might feel trapped, tied to this land with no way out.

  “Now you reap the reward,” the earl went on. “Your name was on the lips of every villager Saturday night, the great returning hero, come to take over Willowbrook. Do you realize they expect you to rescue the village as well? Even the vicar. Styles said, ‘Things’ll turn around now Sir Robert is back. Wait and see.’ They’ll have to wait until hell freezes over, won’t they?” His expression dared Rob to deny it.

  “You’re the one responsible for your people! Isn’t that the agreement? You get ermine and a place in line behind the bloody dukes at Westminster. Your title lets you lord it over all of us. For that, you take responsibility for Ashmead—or is the village beneath you, Clarion? You’d rather prance about London making speeches at lords while the women in your life care for the land, dress in drab, and keep people fed? Is that it? Leaving the village and your tenants aside, you leave Lucy and your sister to struggle on their own. They deserve better from you.”

  Rigid with outrage, Clarion spat, “Get out, Benson. Get out.”

  The two men glared across the desk at one another, violence thick in the air like the tension before a summer storm. A quiet voice cut into the menacing atmosphere.

  “Papa?”

  Rob breathed heavily when he turned to see the little viscount, peering into the room uneasily. “Hello again, Sir Robert. I’m sorry to interrupt. Papa said he would ride with me today. We’re going to visit Aunt Lucy.”

  “As you see, Benson, I have a prior appointment. Kindly leave us,” Clarion said. The boy came around to stand by the desk, but Clarion kept his eyes on Rob.

  Shaking off his frustration, Rob jerked a bow toward the earl, made a gentler one to the boy, and turned on his heels.

  Chapter Twenty

  Rob rode into a crowded innyard shortly after noon, wishing only for solitude to think over the summons from London. He found Alfred overwhelmed with horses, carriages, and irritable travelers, and Ellis Corbin leading over a fresh team for the mail from the livery.

  “Monday, Robbie. Ever the same,” Ellis said by way of greeting.

  Rob led Khalija toward the stables, calling to the ostler that he would handle his own horse.

  “Sorry, Sir Robert,” Alfred called back. “That isn’t your job.” His eyes darted between Rob and a dandified customer who swaggered into the yard.

  “No problem, Alfred. You have your hands full.”

  Blessedly, he found Khalija’s stall at the far end empty. Rob removed his mount’s saddle and rubbed him down. “You deserve a rest and some feed, your lordship,” Rob murmured. He had set the horse in a mad gallop across fields and fences in an effort to defuse his anger and all the less-comfortable feelings that lay under it after he left Caulfield Hall. It hadn’t worked. Rob’s uncharacteristically rough ministrations caused the horse to shy.

  “Sorry, your lordship,” he told the animal, gentling his efforts and running a hand across the horse’s neck to soothe him. “It isn’t your fault. Thank you for the ride. I wish it had helped more.” He leaned his forehead against Khadija’s neck for a moment, and the horse went still. “You are better company than most humans, and that’s the damned truth,” Rob said.

  When he stepped out into the sunshine, the overdressed customer stood over Alfred, berating him to hurry while the boy struggled to adjust the loin strap on an overbred, high-strung horse, half of a team hitched to a frivolous high-flyer phaeton with thin yellow wheels that rocked with every movement. Rob stepped to the horse’s head and took hold of the bridle, whispering soothing words.

  “You, there! Tell this bumbler to step away from my team and get someone more competent to care for it.” Rob cast a sidelong glance at the idiot who owned this rig, the temptation to plant him a facer very great. While that might feel good in his current mood, it wouldn’t enhance the inn’s reputation. He acted as if he didn’t hear the man while Alfred finished his work.

  The boy stood up. “Thank you for your help, Sir Robert.” He shot a glance at the customer. “It ain’t your job, neither.”

  At the sound of “Sir,” the idiot who owned the rig paled, ogled Rob’s rough trousers, worn boots, and rough shirt, thenrecovered enough to raise his chin and pretend not to hear. His high collar points and cravat prevented him from moving his head easily.

  The fool can’t possibly drive properly dressed like that, Rob thought. He gave the young ostler a reassuring clap on the shoulder. “We all do what needs to be done, Alfred.”

  The dandy climbed up to his high perch awkwardly, gave his team their head, and they sped out of the innyard, scattering a flock of ducks that chose a bad moment to land by the kitchen door, and narrowly missing the post where the road met the drive.

  “How long do you give ’im?” Alfred asked.

  “Ten miles, and he’ll be in a ditch,” Rob said. Alfred grinned and set about helping Ellis with the mail coach. Rob walked around it, side-stepped a large traveling carriage, gave the Benson’s scruffy mastiff a pat on the head, and went through the kitchen to the taproom, eager for a pint of ale.

  Andy Thatcher stood by the bar, a glass of cider in his hand. Behind the bar, Old Robert filled a mug and slid it to him. “How’d you find the earl?” the old man asked, filling orders as he spoke.

  “How do you think? Irritating, imperious, and a pain in my arse.” Rob drank deep.

  “Y’ve got a message from Willowbrook.” The old man indicated the Thatcher boy with his head without pausing his work. He put used mugs in soapy water.

  “Miss Whitaker says to tell you there’s been more damage at Willowbrook, and t’ask you to come and look,” the boy told him. “Irrigation dam weakened sometime this week. If it goes, the northeast meadow will flood, and we’ll have to move the sheep.”

  “Damn.” Rob looked at the man behind the bar. “Where’s Morgan?”

  “Went with Emma to clean up the assembly room and fix a broken door. Good sport, your friend Morgan,” Old Robert said over the din of the taproom. Clara bustled over with more orders.

  Rob cursed under his breath. “Examining damage isn’t my job,” he muttered. “What do I know about it?”

  The old man glanced over from his work. “Do you want me to take a look?”

  Do I? The earl is on his way over to Willowbrook, and I’ve had a belly full of him and that place.

  “You take over here, and I’ll go,” Old Robert went on. “Andy here brought the Willowbrook pony trap. Someone will see me home.”

  Rob sighed and slid behind the counter. “Thanks,” he said as the old man rushed off with the Thatcher lad.

  “Three more ales, Sir Robert,” a grinning Clara told him.

  He drew three pints from the tap and handed them over.

  “Looks like you’re low on clean mugs,” the girl said over her shoulder as she rushed away.

  Rob pushed his hands in the sudsy water, pleased to find it warm, and began to clean glasses and mugs. “And this isn’t my job either,” he muttered to himself bitterly.

  *

  “Papa is home for a whole week this time, Aunt Lucy,” Edward, the young viscount, gushed. “Marj wanted to come with us, but her pony went away, and Papa hasn’t gotten her a new one.”

  Lucy looked over at David, perched on a settee in her private sitting room, and raised an inquiring brow. The girl’s pony died the previous autumn.


  “I haven’t had the, ah, time to replace it,” David said.

  Money, Lucy mentally substituted. She enjoyed her niece and nephew and saw them often at the dower house visiting the duchess, but they rarely came to Willowbrook, even when their father was home. She suspected David found the place too full of painful reminders. As it was, he stared into his tea with little to say while Lucy questioned Edward about his studies, the baby kittens in his Aunt Maddy’s kitchen, and his ongoing efforts to collect every interesting butterfly in the shire.

  She glanced up at her brother-in-law. An awkward silence passed between them. David cleared his throat like a man searching for a way to broach an uncomfortable subject. “How has honey production been this year?” he asked at last.

  That wasn’t what she expected. “Well. That, wool, and cheese gave the estate a tidy profit this year. Sir Robert ought to be pleased.”

  David blanched. “We need to talk about Sir Robert,” David sighed. “He tells me he plans to sell Willowbrook.”

  “To him it’s a burden to be quickly tossed aside.”

  David shifted uneasily. “That leaves you in a bad position. Moving you to Caulfield Hall…”

  “Is inappropriate, or so you’ve told me.” Lucy let irritation rise. She found the idea distasteful in any case. As a husband, David had been devoted, if reserved, with Marjory. She suspected he viewed all of them from the lens of duty rather than affection, though, given his parents, she wondered if he had any idea how else to behave.

  “I can’t see why my presence in your house is such a scandal. You couldn’t legally court me even if you wanted to.” Which he clearly does not, thank the good Lord.

  “In a single man’s home? You must be jesting. Have you considered the dower house?”

  Maddy would help if I was desperate, but— “Lady Madelyn and I both value our independence too much.” Lucy glanced at Edward, who listened avidly to this very adult conversation.

  “Overmuch, I might say!”

  “We’ve had little choice.” She glared at him and then felt guilty. It wasn’t David’s fault. None of it was. “Do you still have my funds from my mother?”

  He stiffened. “Of course. Safely invested. How could you accuse me of anything else? I may be in straightened circumstances but—”

  She waved his defense away. “I trust you, David, I always have. If the baronet will give me the salary I’ve asked for, that and my inheritance will purchase a cottage, one with room for a bee yard of my own.”

  The word “salary” set Davis sputtering. “Has that man insulted you by offering to pay you?” he demanded when he finally got control.

  “Certainly not. I asked for just compensation for my services as steward these years.” The earl’s eyes went so wide, Lucy chuckled. “What do you think I’ve been doing here while you spend all your time in London? Sitting in a chair embroidering? I’ve had an estate to run.”

  David looked shamefaced. “It isn’t right, Lucy. This land could be left fallow pending the heir. You ought to be in London. With my mother in residence…” He might have no chaperone at the country where Lucy preferred to live, but he had one in London.

  When the old earl died, his widow decamped for London and took over the townhouse. She scowled. “Your mother dislikes me. She disapproved of Marjory and thinks I’m worse. I could never live with that woman. I’m surprised you can.”

  “But now Benson wants you gone so that he can sell.”

  “Did he tell you that? He’s decided for certain?” she asked.

  “Yes. Did you expect otherwise?”

  “I hoped he might let me stay. My services as steward in lieu of rent.”

  “Never! I couldn’t allow that,” Clarion exclaimed.

  Lucy clenched her jaw tight and counted to ten. “I am of age, I have no guardian, and you have nothing to say about it,” she said with exaggerated care.

  Before her brother-in-law could react, Agnes burst through the door without knocking. “We have an emergency,” she said without preamble or apology.

  Andy Thatcher leaned against the wall in the entrance, one arm cradled in the other, blood dripping down his face. He looked ready to faint.

  Lucy put her arm around the boy. “Come to the kitchen. We’ll have a look—”

  “No time.” The boy grimaced and went on. “Th’trap overturned when the bridge collapsed. Mr. Benson is hurt bad—” He groaned and lurched against her.

  “Sir Robert is hurt?” Her heartbeat pounded in her neck.

  “Not him,” Andy rasped through heaving breaths. “Old Mr. Benson, the innkeeper.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The taproom emptied with the departure of the mail, and Rob, still in his shirtsleeves, attempted to restore order behind the bar while Clara and Alice, the maid of all work, cleared and cleaned the tables.

  “Well done, Sir Robert,” Clara said with a cocky grin. It had taken the girl a week or so to get over her awe of him, but she now treated him with the same teasing manner Emma did. She found it amusing to have him working the taproom.

  “Can you handle the afternoon?” he asked, drying his hands. Rockford’s message still lingered in his coat pocket, and he needed to get to it.

  “I think so, sir. I’ll call you if we get a rush,” she answered.

  He got as far as the stairs, one arm in his coat sleeve, when the door slammed open. The sight of Clarion, disheveled, with filth along both sleeves of the coat that had been impeccable hours before, stunned him. Mud streaked the earl’s face, his hair stood up in disarray.

  “Where is Sir Robert?” Clarion gasped for breath.

  “Here!” Rob called from the stairs stuffing his other arm into his coat. “What has happened?”

  “There’s been an accident. At Willowbrook.”

  “Lucy?” Rob sucked in a breath.

  “No, no. Your father. I sent your ostler for Doctor Farley.”

  “Da? He left here fine over two hours ago.” Rob clambered down the steps. “What happened?”

  “I’m not entirely certain. The Thatcher boy—Andy—said they were crossing the little bridge over the creek, and it gave underneath them. The trap slid backward into the stream.”

  Rob’s mind sped up. That bridge had been fine when he checked it.

  “Andy made it up to the manor to alert us, but I fear your father landed under the trap down in the creek. He’s hit his head, damaged his shoulder, and God knows what else. We managed to get him up to the manor, but he needs the doctor.”

  “Alice, Emma is up at the assembly rooms cleaning. Tell her Mr. Benson has been hurt, but Dr. Farley has been sent for, and I’m on my way to Willowbrook.” The girl started to run. “Calmly, please,” he called after her. “Don’t spread alarm.” God knows I have enough for all of us.

  He didn’t wait for Clarion to follow when he ran to the stable, berating himself for letting the old man go in his place, for working Khalija so hard hours before, for side-stepping every opportunity to make peace with the man who now lay injured at Willowbrook. The thought that there may not be another chance ate at him.

  They reached the damaged bridge quickly. The trap lay upside down, smashed among the rocks below, and a blanket covered the head of Lucy’s Buttercup.

  “Broke two legs. I had to put him down,” Clarion murmured.

  “We can take a closer look later,” Rob said, backing up so Khalija could take a running leap over the stream. A sudden thought unleashed a stream of curses. “How is Dr. Farley going to get across? He drives a tilbury.”

  “There’s an easy ford on Caulfield land. Corbin will lend him a horse. I’ll go back and bring him up the hill that way,” Clarion said, riding off without pausing.

  Rob guided Khalija through the brush toward a narrowing in the bank, and his mount took the stream with ease, leaving Rob grateful for the great beast’s stamina. He slid off in front of Willowbrook, where three of the men he’d sent to work on the stable lingered. Aaron Miller wasn’t among
them. Martin Abbott reached for Khalija’s reins.

  “We brought Mr. Benson up to the guest rooms, Sir Robert,” Abbott said.

  “Thank you.” His eyes went to an upper story window. It was on his tongue to ask if he still lived, but he’d see for himself.

  “We’ll go down and see to the wreck.”

  “No!” Rob spun around to face them. “Leave it exactly as you found it. I’ll have a look later. In fact, I’d be grateful if one of you would see to my horse, and one go watch the damage. Don’t let anyone near it.”

  Abbott pulled his forelock, a gesture that still unnerved Rob, and bolted off down the drive.

  Rob bounded into the house. “Lucy? Miss Whitaker?” he called. He didn’t wait for a response. He took the stairs two at a time and ran toward Andy, ashen-faced, in a chair in the hall, his arm cradled in a sling. The earl’s son stood next to Andy, holding a mug of willow-bark tea, a worried frown marring his young face.

  “I’m so sorry, Sir Robert,” Andy moaned. “One minute we were tooling along, the next the whole thing went out from under us, and we turned over into the stream.”

  “Where’s my father?” Rob demanded.

  The woman named Agnes came to the door of the room behind him. “In here.”

  Rob froze just inside the room. Da lay on the bed pale as death. On the chair beside him, Lucy Whitaker gently washed his face. “Is—” He couldn’t say the words.

  She peered over her shoulder. “Still breathing, but shallow breaths. He came ’round when David lifted him from the creek but fainted when we put him in the farm cart, and he hasn’t spoken since. Is Dr. Farley with you?”

  “I didn’t wait. Clarion went back to guide him around the damaged bridge.” He neared the bed, taking in the old man’s naked chest and tangled hair.

  “I cut his shirt off,” she said, indicating a ragged mess on the floor. A wad of clean linen covered his shoulder where she had cleaned a wound. The seepage of blood did not appear to be severe. His hair was wet where she had washed a head wound, and a smear of blood soiled the pillow slip.