The Wayward Son

by Warfield, Caroline

  A stricken expression flitted across Emma’s face and was gone.

  “Do you trust me?” This time Rob’s intense expression held only sincere concern.

  Emma nodded and leaned her forehead against her brother’s chest. “Thank you, Robbie. I’m glad you’re here,” she murmured. “I will try to sleep.” It took little effort.

  Moments later, Rob leapt to his feet when Lucy entered the sickroom without knocking. “Emma nodded off as soon as she undressed and crawled between the covers.”

  He glanced at the open door behind her, and she followed his eyes before turning to regard him with her candid stare. “It isn’t perfectly proper for me to be here, although it would give David apoplexy.” She grinned at that before catching his frown and sobering. “I thought a companion might be a comfort. Emma is just across the hall, and we will leave the door open. Who would know? I can knit quietly in the corner, and—”

  “Stay.” The force of his need for her company rocked him. He breathed in her scent, vanilla with a hint of cinnamon. His body swayed toward it before he caught himself. “You’ve been in the kitchen.”

  “Off and on all day.” Her gaze skittered away, and she took the seat in the far corner with more haste than he liked.

  Her wisdom in putting distance between them rankled even as he breathed a prayer of thanks. You’re a gentleman, Robbie, or you pretend to be. He squelched his very ungentlemanly thoughts about Lucy Whitaker, took his place at the old man’s bedside, and tried to focus his entire attention on the steady sound of the patient breathing in and out.

  It didn’t work. Every fiber of his being vibrated with an awareness of her that was both comforting and arousing. A few hours later, he sensed her leave on silent steps without turning, and a hollow feeling almost suffocated him.

  He had almost gotten control when the swish of her skirts and the scent of cinnamon brought him to his feet, as eager as a schoolboy. Calm yourself, Robbie.

  He took the tray of the tea she carried and put it on the bedside table while she placed fresh candles on the dresser.

  “I’m going to sleep now but wake me if you need anything. Let Emma sleep.”

  She meant to leave him alone. Bereft with the loss, he opened his mouth to beg her to stay, but he had no right and could conjure no honorable reason to ask it. “Thank you,” he whispered.

  “Warm tea soothes.”

  He took her hand before he could stop himself. “Not the tea—at least not just that. Thank you for all of this, your home, your hospitality, your care.”

  He couldn’t bring himself to let go of her hand and tugged her a bit closer, her mouth drawing his gaze as unerringly as her bees went to honey. When she froze under his scrutiny and her pink tongue wet her lower lip, temptation overwhelmed his sense completely. He leaned toward her, but she ducked her head, avoiding his kiss.

  “It’s late, Sir Robert, and we are both under the stress of emotion,” she murmured, pulling away.

  “Aye. We should talk in the morning,” he said as she turned toward the hall.

  She didn’t turn back. Before he could formulate another sentence, the door clicked shut behind her. He stared at it for long moments, pulling his unruly breathing and other body parts under control. “Wise woman,” he murmured to the empty room.

  She left him aching body and soul but, after two sleepless days, it proved impossible to stay awake. Rob’s unread book slipped from his lap, and he nodded off. He didn’t know how long he slept, but it was full dark when a ragged voice woke him up.

  “It’s you then, Robbie? I thought Emma…”

  “She’s sleeping, Da.” Rob brushed the old man’s hair back. “What can I do?”

  “Water.” The word sounded so low he almost missed it but quickly poured a cup.

  Old Robert winced when he slipped an arm behind him to lift him. “Head hurts.”

  “Aye. You took a whack.”

  “How?”

  “You were driving Lucy’s pony trap. The bridge over the brook gave way.”

  The pale face on the bed screwed up as if thinking hurt. “But how?” This time the word sounded more insistent. The rheumy blue eyes demanded honesty.

  “Someone cut the planks. The weight of the trap broke them.” Rob watched the old man’s lids drop and thought he went back to sleep.

  Moments later, he spoke again without opening his eyes. “I’m glad you’re here, Robbie.”

  Rob swallowed hard. “Me too, Da.” He gave his father’s hand a squeeze, but the old man seemed to have fallen asleep. He held on, overwhelmed.

  The candle gutted out a moment later. “I love you, Da.” Rob choked out the words, still holding the old man’s hand. A gentle squeeze was the only response.

  *

  In the silence of the night, he pulled out Rockford’s message. He glanced at the man on the bed and began composing his reply in his mind. He couldn’t leave Ashmead until he ensured the safety of his family and the stability of Willowbrook. He would find out who did this to his father, and they would pay. And then he would go.

  Another thought crowded in, one that had never quite left him, an image that hovered on the edges of his mind even before the kiss that didn’t happen, of Lucy beside him when he returned to his world. Foolish thought, that. Lucy belongs to Ashmead. I’ll secure a place for her, since Clarion won’t. I’ll do it before I leave.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “Aren’t you going to see to the field work?” Agnes grumbled. The horizon had brightened, and soon the sun would be up. Lucy’s habit to join the tenants at dawn, assign tasks, and see that they began, had fallen by the wayside of late, more mornings than not.

  Lucy sat at the kitchen table sipping coffee. “Thatcher can manage it.”

  “That he can. He always could.” Agnes’s sharp tongue cut across the room, and she swiveled, hands on hips, to glare at Lucy. “He’ll be down when he’s ready. It isn’t like you to moon around.”

  Hot coffee sloshed onto Lucy’s bodice. She surged to her feet and grabbed a bit of toweling from the sink to mop frantically at the stain. “I am not mooning!”

  “Is there a problem here?”

  Lucy thanked the saints she had put the remains of her coffee down. Rob’s deep voice startled her and rumbled right through her. He leaned one elbow on the door frame without a coat, in a shirt wrinkled from sleep in a chair all night. The dark stubble across his unshaven cheeks and rumpled hair didn’t help. Her foolish heart found him even more attractive than it had the night before, and that sensation, God, forgive her, had been powerful enough for a lifetime.

  “A small mishap,” she choked out.

  “You seem to have had a spill.” His intense scrutiny of her person—and the site of the brown stain—did nothing to calm her. Rob blinked and stood upright as if suddenly realizing how improper his gaze had been.

  “Mrs. Spears, my sister has gone in to sit with her father. Could you please bring her up a tray?”

  “I was preparing to do just that.” Agnes hesitated, however, glancing between Lucy and the baronet.

  “Come now, Mrs. Spears, I can hardly ravish her in the time it would take you to carry up a tray.”

  Agnes stiffened her back with a huff, poured a cup of coffee, and placed a sweet roll next to it on the table for him. He sat with a murmured “Thank you.” The older woman loaded a tray and left before Lucy, still standing by the sink, managed to control her scrambled thoughts.

  “Her father?” she blurted out when they were alone, an emphasis on “her” carrying a weight of meaning. What had he said at the assembly? Robert Benson isn’t my father. And yet he sat up all night… She hadn’t mistaken the anguish in his eyes.

  He raised one brow over his coffee. “It’s too early in the morning to probe the sinews of my soul, Miss Whitaker.”

  She briefly considered running to her room. The stains on her gown made a handy excuse, but she thought herself made of sterner stuff. She sat down across from him, picked up th
e remains of her coffee, and snatched a roll from his plate. “You said we needed to talk.” Her heart, foolish organ, pounded.

  Rob—she tried and failed to think of him as Sir Robert—drank his coffee. His solemn expression did not appear to be that of a man who planned to make a declaration to a lady. Of course, he doesn’t, you ninny.

  “I’ve been considering your conditions, Miss Whitaker.”

  “Conditions?” The squeak in her voice appalled her.

  “The conditions you laid out before you would vacate Willowbrook.”

  Vacate Willowbrook. She shuddered under the force of it, but he didn’t take notice. He spoke steadily while consuming both coffee and a prodigious pile of sweet buns. “The funds you put aside as a steward’s salary are fair enough. If anything, they appear modest. My brother, Eli, will arrange to have those funds put under your control if at all possible. Do you have a guardian?”

  She stared for a moment before shaking her head. “David, that is, the earl manages a small bequest from my mother for me, but guardian? No.”

  He peered at her intently, a line between his eyes giving him a stern appearance. “You seem very young.”

  She wasn’t sure whether to be flattered or provoked. “I’m of age if that is what you want to know.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply that you are incompetent or anything close to that. Your skills and good judgment shine wherever I look at Willowbrook. I’m merely trying to sort through the legalities. No husband hidden away, either?”

  She almost rose to the bait before she saw the twinkle lurking in his eyes. “No, there is not,” she responded tartly.

  “Then Eli should encounter no obstacles. Shall we ask that your bequest from your mother be transferred to the account under your control?”

  His steady gaze failed to unnerve her. She took strength from it. “Yes. David won’t like it, but yes.”

  Rob fetched the coffee pot and brought it to the table, pouring for both of them. “Clarion can’t have it both ways. Either you are in his care, or you are independent.”

  The urge to defend David died on the rock of Lucy’s belief in her own abilities. Rob believed in her, but David, alas, did not. He cared for her, but it didn’t occur to him to trust her. She nodded, delighted by the grin her agreement provoked.

  “Once that is accomplished, you will need a place to live. It isn’t a fortune.”

  Yet he trusts my good sense. Confident of that, she outlined her plans. “The cottage need not be large, but I’ll need sufficient land for the apiary.”

  “Your bees don’t take up much room, but you’ll want to live near fields and orchards for nectar gathering.”

  “Quite!” she beamed at him.

  “And have a steady income to augment your funds,” he mused. “Do you want to take the hives and equipment from Willowbrook?”

  “If that is an offer, it’s a generous one that would save me both money and time. It isn’t a simple proposition, but yes. I transport them wholesale with care or take queens, at least, and fresh skeps. Hive tools…”

  “They are yours.”

  A memory stirred. She peered at him carefully. “Did you know I began with your mother’s bees?”

  “No one said, but I suspected. The work has been in good hands.”

  His words and something in his gaze made heat pool in her belly. She felt the burn rise up her neck to her cheeks. “Thank you, Sir Robert.”

  “If you don’t settle nearby, The Willow and the Rose will need another purveyor of wax and honey.”

  Will I? “That will depend on finding a place I can afford.”

  “I’m sending Morgan to London for an estate agent. When he arrives, I’ll have him look on your behalf as well.”

  Her eyes narrowed. He looked entirely too pleased with that tidy idea.

  “You will, of course, make all your own decisions,” he added hastily. “I am also sending for some of my men.”

  “What men?” Lucy’s whole body stiffened.

  “Former soldiers trained for security detail.”

  She opened her mouth to object to his interference, but he spoke over her. “In the meantime, Abbott has organized the carpentry crew to keep an eye on things.”

  He downed the last of his second cup and rose before she could formulate a sensible response. “Now, I’ll see how…” He hesitated and met her eyes. “—my father fares. Then Farley and I are off to Ashmead. I fear you will have Emma for some days yet. Make sure you send to the Willow for anything you need.” Those green eyes narrowed. “I do mean anything, Miss Whitaker.”

  Lucy sank back in her chair, alone with her thoughts. Her annoyance with his arrogant assumption he could manage her life faded. He had just promised her everything she wanted. Why didn’t it feel like enough?

  *

  A new routine had settled in at Willowbrook in the aftermath of the accident and Dr. Farley’s pronouncement that the worst was over. Mr. Benson would do. “He’ll need time, mind you, but the worst is over,” the doctor said, tapping his hat to his head and setting out for Ashmead with Sir Robert.

  Three days later, Lucy walked down from the bee yard at peace. She carried the musket as she promised but found it a nuisance. One of the carpenters loitered against the barn, part of the new reality. He straightened and inclined his head as she passed. It seemed a waste of a good worker, something Lucy couldn’t abide.

  Agnes and Emma took turns nursing the patient and seeing to meals. Cilla saw to the house between bouts of nerves, the Thatchers went back to work, and the carpenters finished the stable block.

  As to the rest of the Bensons, they returned to Ashmead over a plank bridge thrown up over the creek and deep gully. Progress began on a more permanent solution, but for now, a steady parade of visitors crossed the temporary one to visit the Benson family—and Ashmead’s—patriarch.

  Lucy found Emma exclaiming over her children in the drawing room. She smiled up at Lucy and hugged little Roberta to her breast. “Ellis took Audrey up to see Papa. Matt will have a turn next, and then it is off home with the lot of them, so they don’t wear him out.”

  Lucy stooped to hear Lenny, age four, explain how he managed to skin both knees while chasing Henry around the innyard. “Who, pray tell, is Henry?”

  “Grandda’s dog o’course.” Lenny frowned at her ignorance.

  “You mean King Henry? He is taller than you are.”

  The little one brightened. “Aye, but I’m still growing. Mam says I’ll be taller soon.”

  She swept into the kitchen where Agnes worked, arms covered with flour while she stirred some sweet-smelling batter. She didn’t look up. “Remove those biscuits from the oven, if you would, Lucy. We’re going through them at a steady rate. I gave Mr. Corbin a list. More flour and sugar for certain. Candied fruit if he can find them in the village, too. Our dried ones are running low.”

  Lucy snatched an oatcake from the supply on the kitchen table, scooped some tea from the caddy, and added hot water from the hob. “Best add tea to that list.”

  “No need, Mr. Ellis brought some from the inn. He said Sir Robert means to replenish all our supplies and sent off to London for tea.”

  Sent off… Lucy had expected him to leave for London himself now that the crisis had passed, but he remained at The Willow and the Rose, managing the inn and sending agents out in pursuit of Miller, gone these four days. His visits had been brief, and Lucy had no time with him—not that she expected it. “That is kind of him,” she said.

  Agnes snorted at that. “He said as how they ate us out of house and home, and he wasn’t wrong.” She punched the dough extra hard. “Locusts.” That last muttered under her breath made Lucy laugh.

  “You’re loving an appreciative audience for your cooking. Admit it.”

  Agnes grunted, and Lucy carried her tea to the estate office. An hour later, Cilla poked her head in after a perfunctory knock, eyes wide. “It’s the earl come to call, ma’am.”

  Lucy removed her
apron and smoothed her day dress as best she could. She found David standing in the entrance, watching Ellis Corbin lift a grinning Marj into a wagon full of Corbin children. His son Edward sat in back with as much dignity as the young viscount could muster while engaged in conversation with Matt Corbin about ball games.

  “The Corbin boy enticed Edward into a game, and of course, Marj would not be left behind. Their father promises to return them to the hall intact.” Worry etched his voice.

  “Good.”

  David turned with raised eyebrows.

  “Higgins and that stiff-rumped governess your mother hired keep your children much too confined in the name of propriety. The only time they are able to be children is on the rare occasions when you come home or when they visit the duchess. It’s no wonder they adore Maddy.”

  “They must be taught behavior befitting their station.” He sounded dubious.

  Lucy shook her head.

  “I don’t think you came here to argue with me about child-rearing, David. Have you spoken with Spangler?”

  The earl’s jaw went rigid. “Tomorrow,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “At Caulfield Hall?”

  “Of course. The imbecile ignored my first message. He claimed he didn’t get it, but my footman says otherwise. The second resulted in a grandiloquent missive about the many pressing demands on a man in his position, rife with hints that I would be called back to London before he could respond. He had the gall to ask if I might not prefer to have my man of business put my questions in the form of correspondence.”

  “You told him otherwise.” She didn’t phrase it as a question.

  “I do know how to act as an earl when I need to. I expect him on the dot of one on the clock tomorrow. Eli Benson will join me, though I doubt his overbearing brother will be able to stay away.” He ran a hand around the back of his neck. “I have another complication.”

  She raised a questioning brow.