The Shepherd and the Solicitor

by Bonnie Dee

  “Mind you, don’t let Old Lady back with the herd yet.”

  “Aye.” Dickon bobbed his head and handed up the reins. His stare was unnerving and mildly fearful, as if he were waiting for Bennet’s head to explode.

  Bennet wanted to point out he’d only lost a beard, not his entire face. He said, “Garrity may come by to pick up the lambs promised him. You may give them to him. And see if he’s interested in one of Bets’s pups as well.”

  “Reet. Ye can trust me. I’ve everything in hand.”

  “I’m sure you have,” Bennet said, though he still worried. “I’m not certain how long this trip will take, but it should be only a few days.”

  “Aye, sir.” Dickon sighed loudly, obviously anxious for him to be off.

  As he drove away, Bets barked and trotted after the wagon until Dickon called her back.

  Bennet cast a last look over his shoulder at the little farmhouse and the outbuildings that had sheltered him during his darkest grief, and though he knew he would return, the feeling of an era passing filled him. He felt as if he said good-bye to Jacob Bennet but had not become Daniel Pierce quite yet.

  Tobin had done what he’d promised, delivered the board’s letter of intent to Fenton. He hadn’t contacted Bennet/Pierce. He put his head down and did his work. And he was miserable. The one bright side was the dinner at the club held to celebrate Stephen’s upcoming nuptials. Every time his former lover caught Tobin’s eye, Tobin raised a glass in salute and gave a genuine smile.

  Most of the group retreated to the smoking lounge after dinner, and Stephen worked his way through the boisterous crowd over to Tobin. He shook Tobin’s hand, holding on just a little too long. “Rumor was that you’d fled town.” As usual, his smile was broad and full of bonhomie. Tobin supposed he showed so many teeth because they were excellent specimens.

  “I’ve returned, as you can see.” Tobin pulled away and held his hands up and out as if demonstrating his presence.

  “You are well?” Stephen asked in a low voice.

  “Perfectly, yes.”

  “You look wonderful.” Stephen sounded wistful.

  “As do you.” Tobin sipped his port. “The prospect of marriage must be agreeing with you.”

  “No, no. I find myself at…loose ends.” Stephen shifted his eyes to the door quickly. That was how their liaison had begun—ordinary conversation loaded with meaning soon followed by a fast retreat to an unused cloakroom.

  Tobin ignored the hint. His time with Stephen didn’t seem lurid or dreadful, simply of no import. It had been pleasant, but he had no interest in so much as exchanging many words with the man, much less embraces. Still, he would not be rude, and managed to politely fob off Stephen with the excuse that he must go to work early the next day.

  And so he must. There would be the company’s board and the clerks and others from his own offices. He’d had word from Jeffers that at least one senior solicitor planned to be in attendance. Oliver Fenton, the one good friend he could think of to entrust Pierce’s case to, would also be there and might be able to slip Tobin word of Bennet—except he was Pierce now to the whole world.

  He left the smoking room without looking back, lost in thoughts about what Fenton would do. The attorney had said very little of his plans, protecting his client of course, but Tobin knew he’d decided to go north. Perhaps Fenton would examine the farm and could give a report of the lambs and the puppies and the doleful horse.

  Tobin winced. He recalled that raw jolt of pain from one other occasion—the early days at school after he’d been sent away. Homesickness, which was absurd.

  He said his good-byes to his acquaintances still laughing and talking in the pleasant club that was almost as familiar to him as his home. As he strolled over the gray pavement toward the cab summoned by the club’s porter, the longing returned, even sharpened, because he drew in a long breath and tasted nothing wild or intoxicatingly sweet, only the familiar dank air of London.

  How could one long for a breeze? A place, perhaps. A man, most definitely. But air? The thought was so absurd he laughed out loud.

  The next morning, he took extra care in dressing, which delighted his valet, a persnickety individual who disapproved of hurry under any circumstances.

  After breakfast, Tobin avoided the office and went straight to the general meeting. The vast boardroom’s mahogany paneling and high arched windows reminded him of a high church or a boarding school dining hall.

  At the front of the room, staring down at anyone who sat at the long table, was the portrait of a grim-faced old man, and for a long moment, Tobin wondered if he’d met the man. No, he’d met his grandson, who’d been equally grim-faced at first—and considerably less so as time went on. What he wouldn’t give to view Daniel Pierce’s scruffy bearded face again and those solemn eyes that had seemed to peer deep into his very being.

  Tobin was taken aback by the numbers of people in the room. The president, of course, who’d act as chairman. There was the secretary, holding sheets of paper—minutes of the last meeting. There was the treasurer with the sour disposition as well as the recount clerk.

  At least this particular meeting would be held according to parliamentary procedure so no personal attacks would take place. He grinned to himself. Debate must be limited to the merits of the question. This might stop the treasurer from launching into Tobin again.

  He sat next to his own senior and the two clerks who’d come from the office, one of them Jeffers, whom Tobin couldn’t look at without thinking of his little woolly namesake.

  The senior solicitor smelled of cigar smoke and the pomade that kept his gray hair stiff. He leaned close to Tobin. “We wouldn’t be in this position of taking valuable time away from our clients if you had taken better care of yours.”

  “I apologize, Sir Anthony,” Tobin said as he scanned the others at the table.

  Seated along the other side and down the table were shareholders—apparently the sale of the division was more controversial than he’d thought. At least one would be Daniel’s second cousin, the man who’d first suggested hunting for the missing heir in Yorkshire.

  Tobin tried to care about the sale, about the company. Once, the fiddly details of law had mattered do him. And then, suddenly, he did care again, because Fenton walked into the room. Had he advised Pierce to sell his shares? Or to keep his vote alive? What would Fenton have suggested he do with that vote? More likely Pierce told Fenton to go to hell and take the company and his power along with him.

  Tobin grinned at the thought. Tobin wasn’t sure what he would have advised about the vote, but he would have told Daniel to sell the shares. Get away from these men, these sour people who didn’t know a ewe from a wether. They were as ignorant as Tobin had been a week or so ago. If he could go back to the farm as legal counsel, he would have urged Pierce to sell, and take the money and buy a flock of fleecy creatures.

  A man who must be a junior clerk walked in just behind Fenton, a well-built man with broad shoulders and the straight posture of someone used to walking long distances over rough terrain.

  Tobin’s heart thumped hard. Impossible! But then the man took off his hat. Tobin almost pointed and shouted What are you doing here? What the devil did you do with your face?

  Tobin must have gasped out loud, for his senior rested a hand on his shoulder.

  “You appear pale. Are you ill?” Sir Anthony asked. He’d stopped scolding, at any rate, and actually sounded concerned.

  “Not at all.” He wanted to push Sir Anthony’s fingers off him. He wanted to jump to his feet and yell Bennet! God, how I have missed you! He longed to race around the table—hell, he’d climb over it—to grab Bennet in his arms and press his face to that clean-shaven jaw. Despite the fine clothes and tidy, short hair, the gentleman would smell like sheep and wind and Bennet.

  But this most certainly was not the place—and th
at wasn’t this man’s name.

  How in damnation had Fenton managed to get him to London? What had Fenton offered? The wave of annoyance that the other lawyer had succeeded in the task at which Tobin had failed lasted until his gaze met Pierce’s.

  Tobin smiled.

  Pierce gave a nod but nothing more. Was he angry?

  Pierce’s hand was drawn into a tight fist, which he thumped rhythmically against his thigh. He was afraid.

  Of course he was. The poor man hated crowds, as Tobin well knew.

  Tobin grabbed a scrap of paper and scribbled a note. He longed to say more but chose only: I am so very glad to see you. I hope you and your flock are well. He drew a small picture of a panting dog that might vaguely resemble Bets. He got up and walked over to shake hands with Fenton, and then—yes, good, at last, has it only been days?—his hand touched Pierce’s. The icy fingers squeezed. For a brief moment, their eyes met and Pierce’s mouth twitched into a smile. Now that the beard was gone Pierce had a dimple creasing his cheek. Just one, which begged for a touch or perhaps a kiss.

  Tobin wished he could stroke that smooth skin, just a shade paler than the rest of Pierce’s sunburned face.

  He handed him the note and walked back around the table.

  “What the devil did you just give him?” Sir Anthony glowered from under his thick brows.

  “I saw it, sir,” piped up Jeffers. “It was a drawing of an animal. A dog, perhaps.”

  “You gave that to Mr. Pierce,” Sir Anthony said. “This is precisely the sort of behavior the board fears will compromise—”

  Tobin twisted in his chair and growled, “I am not compromised.” He went straight to the one point he knew his superior would respect. “And before you accuse me of not fulfilling my duties to our client, I’d like to remind you that Mr. Pierce will either be a very wealthy man before today is over or he will retain a controlling share of this company. Either way, it behooves us to be in his good graces. The note mentioned nothing at all about the business here. As Jeffers said, it was a picture of a dog.”

  Sir Anthony’s bushy eyebrows went up and down a couple of times. At last he said, “A dog? What is the meaning of a dog? Is it some sort of symbol?”

  Yes, of mud and chill and hard work and fresh air and…the yearning didn’t take him by surprise this time. “Not at all.” Tobin restrained a sigh.

  The chairman rose from his chair and picked up an actual miniature gavel. The meeting had begun.

  The train station in London, with jostling crowds, the smell of too many humans in one place, had been the worst. Pierce almost turned around and climbed back into the first-class car.

  But the thought of Tobin—in trouble because of him—kept him moving, one thick boot in front of the other.

  London loomed around him. After all those wide-open spaces, the crowded, dingy buildings seemed to close in on him, making it difficult to draw a full breath. The necessary stops at a barber and a tailor exhausted him more than a five-mile walk across the moor would. He was already done in before he even reached Oliver Fenton’s office.

  Fenton wasn’t a bad sort, but his excited conversation about the business and the upcoming meeting barely interested Bennet, even though he’d managed to physically transform himself back into Daniel Pierce.

  When the carriage pulled into the familiar cobblestone drive to the plant, he recalled the days he’d spent there as a boy, shadowing his solemn grandfather. Those times had been exciting, watching the huge machines at work, though they never seemed as impressive as his grandfather.

  Pierce smiled, remembering how proud he’d been when grown men had called him Master Pierce and talked to him as if he were an adult. That was before he’d made it clear he had no desire to take over any part of the business.

  He and Fenton walked in silence through the impressive main entry to the offices and the meeting hall.

  “You’re certain you wish to sell?” Fenton asked again. “The business is doing quite well, and it remains an exciting venture.”

  “I will sell all but the ten percent as we discussed,” Pierce confirmed again. “And I only hold on to that because of peculiar, misplaced sentimentality.”

  Fenton snorted. “No wonder Tobin likes you. You’re just the cynical sort he tries to jolly along.”

  Pierce longed to ask him to explain or coax a story about a younger Tobin. He was just forming a question that wouldn’t be too obviously interested when he saw the wide double doors of the meeting room stood open before them.

  Men’s voices filled the hallway. A crowd.

  Pierce’s heart stuttered, and his brow prickled with sweat.

  Come now, this was nothing worse than the train station, he scolded himself. But those people had been moving. There had been ways to escape on the platform. Here he felt like the proverbial Daniel waiting to enter the lion’s den.

  He squeezed his hands open and closed, digging his fingernails into his palms. He should have signed the proxy and been done with the matter. Why was he wasting his time with this? He should be back with his animals in his little gray stone cottage, tending to the life he’d chosen.

  The sight of Tobin sitting across the table helped distract him. Such bright hair didn’t fit the room. And then Tobin saw him and that face became as bright as the hair.

  A friend, Pierce thought. But the men next to Tobin scowled. Of course they wouldn’t hurt him—they didn’t carry knives. They wouldn’t tear him apart or slam his head to the stones. Pierce swallowed, but his mouth was too dry. He blinked, and that didn’t help either.

  Fenton was directing him to other people in the room, all of whom seemed to stare at him. The attention in their gazes riveted on him and seemed utterly malevolent.

  Better him than Tobin. Maybe Tobin would be safe, he thought, and knew his brain was not working as well as it should. Other memories overlaid the present moment. Confusion made him imagine this group of men to be as menacing as that other vengeful crowd. He squeezed his hands tight, and the pain from his fingernails driven into his palms was a relief. He smashed his hand hard against his leg—because if a small touch of pain helped, more pain would be better.

  A large clock ticked in the far corner. He decided he could and would remain in this room for a half an hour. And he would focus on the words, rather than all those eyes or his own idiotic thoughts. A half an hour.

  He would happily trade this half hour for a long night of searching for sheep through continuous sleet and snow. Out in the open, he could move, accomplish something. Run. Away. He would allow himself to run in… Good Lord… Twenty-nine minutes and twenty seconds.

  People were talking to him. Fenton. Pierce automatically raised his hand to shake strangers’ hands as he was introduced.

  But then, someone warm and familiar stood in front of him, and Tobin held his hand. That touch didn’t last nearly long enough. Tobin slipped Pierce a small sheet of paper before returning to his seat.

  He opened it, read the short note in an unfamiliar, rather graceless hand. The small paper seemed to hold power, as if Tobin had pulled him into a hug. Warm words reminding him of home. A silly picture. This time when he squeezed his hand shut, he held the paper in his palm, and it comforted him.

  He was supposed to focus on words. Fenton was reminding him that he’d have the choice today to sell his shares to an individual or a consortium.

  He swallowed again. “Which would be better for the company?”

  “The group. But they won’t be able to give you as much money.”

  Would these people never listen? “I don’t care about the money,” he said for the tenth or eleventh time.

  His attention was caught by the men sitting with Tobin and talking to him in angry tones.

  Pierce had come to the city to stop this sort of thing happening, to make certain Tobin didn’t lose his position due to his inabi
lity to retrieve the heir. He wondered what they’d do if he walked over there.

  But no, of course Tobin could take care of himself. He didn’t wilt. He faced them and spoke up, head high, face slightly flushed.

  Some of the words reached Pierce. They were fighting about him. And Tobin was telling the man, who was obviously his superior, that they had better jolly the rich Pierce along.

  Was that all Tobin had been doing? Was he simply kowtowing to Pierce’s wealth and possible power? The clutch of dismay was almost as deep as Pierce’s fear of the room and its mob of people. Had he totally misjudged Tobin?

  Pierce opened the little piece of paper again. A picture of a goggle-eyed panting dog.

  No. Of course not. Fenton claimed Tobin liked him, and all those hours at the farm had been much more than toadying. There might be a touch of keeping the rich man happy in Tobin’s actions, but he honestly cared about Pierce—or at least the lambs.

  His suspicion about Tobin’s motives died away but the uncertainty didn’t vanish entirely. Pierce wondered if he’d have time enough in London to learn what Tobin actually thought of him.

  Someone banged a hammer. Pierce flinched and looked at the clock. Only twenty-eight minutes before he could make his excuses.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Never in all his time in boardrooms or at negotiating tables had Tobin been so keyed up and anxious to be done. He felt Pierce’s nervousness as if it were his own. He knew what it cost the shy man to face this room full of strangers, yet Daniel conducted himself with aplomb and grace, every bit the Cambridge-educated gentleman he had been before becoming a recluse. Fenton had obviously coached him in the correct verbiage to use, but Daniel spoke for himself as he presented the board with his demands. He would sell his shares at a shilling per pound, no less, and retain a ten percent share of his grandfather’s company.

  All counteroffers the board attempted were refuted in no uncertain terms, and at the end of twenty minutes, Daniel Pierce signed the papers relinquishing control of his shares.