A Return of Devotion

by Kristi Ann Hunter

  William nodded and sat back in his chair. “Understandable.” He paused for a moment. “Did you know I lived in Ireland for several years?” He nearly groaned. Of course the man didn’t know. William had made a point of not letting many people know. If his father had known his son was that close he might have become even more of a nuisance.

  The woodworker simply nodded. “It’s a beautiful country, my lord.”

  “That it is. In nature and in people.” William looked Mr. Leighton in the eye, hoping the man understood William couldn’t care two farthings whether or not the man was from Ireland as long as he did a good, honest job.

  “Indeed, sir.” The man nodded and swallowed. “Till the morning, then, my lord.”

  William nodded. “Till the morning.”

  As the woodworker left, William heaved a sigh. Now, finally, his peaceful country home was going to become just that.

  The desk design was magnificent. Mr. Leighton had delivered it as promised and then let William know that he would be measuring and pulling moulding from a few rooms today and then working in his workshop for a while to make the necessary pieces.

  William had been staring at the paper ever since.

  It was a work of art. Designed to go against the wall instead of standing free in the middle of the room, the desk was an intricate combination of bins, drawers, and shelves that made William want to pick up a quill and answer all the correspondence he found trivial and annoying simply so there would be more things to stick in all the little nooks.

  It was a bit of a shame that such an impressive work—if indeed the real thing could live up to its presence on paper—was going to be hidden away in an isolated country house.

  William would just have to commission more pieces from Mr. Leighton. Was the B and S a tribute to someone? It made matters a bit confusing, but the craftsmanship he’d seen developing in the pieces dated most recently made up for the eccentricity. If the desk was as impressive as the drawing indicated, William might even ask for a second one he could take to London with him when he went up for the parliamentary session next year.

  The only thing missing from the desk was a place to store his various estate ledgers. If they could be close at hand but not on the work surface itself, he’d be able to work more efficiently.

  He left the library and followed the noise to the dining room, where he found Mr. Leighton with his back to the door, standing on a ladder and pulling down a section of carved moulding. William waited patiently for the man to come down, not wanting to startle him into falling off the ladder.

  “Benedict, my boy, we may have to carve more new pieces than we thought.” The Irishman, still balanced near the top of the ladder, frowned as he poked at the back of the wood he’d just removed. “Looking at the state of this wood, I’m guessing it was damaged before it even went up. Putting paint on inferior wood is like putting a silk dress on a cow.”

  There was a laugh from the other room, followed by, “She may make it into the ball, but she’ll ruin every dance.”

  Apparently the nonsensical statement was something the woodworker said often.

  The young voice—most likely the apprentice William had yet to meet—continued speaking as Mr. Leighton made his way down the ladder, the section of wood tucked under his arm. “It shouldn’t be a problem. Do you want me to come measure and sketch it out now? I’ve just finished sketching the proportions of the flowers for the doorpost.”

  Leighton got to the bottom of the ladder and froze, one foot still on the rungs, eyes wide above his bushy red beard as he saw William standing there. He swallowed hard enough that the bob of his throat was visible even through the beard. “No,” he called out. “We’ll just take the piece with us. You can, er, finish that rose and then, uh, go out and get some water from the pump.”

  “I can bring you refreshments.” William’s eyebrows shot up as his housekeeper’s voice emerged from the parlor where the apprentice was working.

  The click of shoes on bare floor drifted away even as Mr. Leighton called after her, “No, that won’t be—”

  “She’s already gone, Mr. Leighton,” the boy answered.

  Mr. Leighton flipped the piece of wood over and over in his hands, shifting his weight as he glanced from William to the parlor door and back again. Why was he so nervous? Hadn’t William’s commissioning more work from the man eased his fears about William’s acceptance?

  Perhaps something had gone wrong and he didn’t want to tell William about it. Everything in the room looked as it should, though, perhaps even better since the atrociously ugly furniture had been pushed to the side and covered with a sheet.

  “You’ve been doing exceptional work from what I’ve seen,” William began, attempting once more to put the man’s mind at ease. “And you’re working quickly, which I appreciate.” The pace was quite impressive, given there were only two of them. When they got to the more structural portions, such as the garret rooms, more help would probably be needed.

  “Thank you, my lord.” The woodworker flipped the wood around one more time. “What can I do for you?”

  William nodded, assuming his compliments had settled the concern in the other man’s mind, and held up the sketch of the desk. “These plans. Is it possible to turn this cabinet part here into drawers similar to this section over here? Also, I’d like to be able to store five or six ledgers somewhere easily accessible.”

  Leighton set the wood moulding on the floor before lifting his brown woolen cap off his head and running a hand through the riot of curls. “Well, uh, let’s see here.”

  The man’s voice had dropped low, almost to a whisper as he took the sketch from William.

  He cleared his throat and ran a finger along the paper. “The ledgers shouldn’t be a problem, here in the middle.” Another anxious glance drifted toward the parlor before the man cleared his throat and continued. “As for the drawers, well, it depends on where the mechanisms for all the other openings and compartments need to be.”

  William’s eyebrows shot up. The sketch was incredibly detailed, with seemingly every square inch of space carefully allotted to serve a purpose, and the man who was going to build it didn’t know how that worked? “Shouldn’t you know that already? You said those other pieces came out of your shop.”

  “They did. It’s simply that . . .” The man’s shoulders deflated as the longest sigh William had ever heard from a man’s chest fluttered over the sketch. “The thing is, my lord, this isn’t my design.”

  William’s eyes narrowed. “Whose is it, then?”

  The woodworker swallowed. “My apprentice.”

  The young voice he’d heard from the other room had designed this desk? Created the other pieces he’d seen throughout the house? It would explain the advancement in quality over the years. “Well then,” William said slowly, “why don’t we ask him? I think you called him Benedict earlier, yes? Maybe he’d be interested to know you’ve been telling me his work is yours.”

  Leighton pulled himself up to his full wiry height. “I did no such thing, my lord. I told you those pieces were made out of my shop and that’s the truth. The wood, the tools all came from my shop. Benedict’s been working with me for years, even before his apprenticeship became official. I’m still the master woodworker here, and I’m still the one who will be taking orders and payments.”

  “But you are not the one designing my new desk, apparently,” William countered coldly. He raised the volume of his voice slightly as he called, “Benedict?”

  “You don’t need to do that, my lord.” Leighton shifted his weight back and forth. “It’s really best if you work this with me.”

  William narrowed his gaze, watching the woodworker while continuing to call for the apprentice. “Benedict, I would like to discuss an alteration to my desk design.”

  “Of course, my lord!” Whereas Leighton had gone from nervous to looking nearly frightened, the apprentice sounded almost excited. Tools clattered in the other room and then foots
teps approached the door before William could see a shadowy figure in the corner of his vision.

  “I . . .” The figure stopped moving. “Oh my giddy goat.”

  William blinked, breaking his stare with Leighton. The woodworker appeared about to faint as the boy’s voice changed from excited to cold. Not just cold. Icehouse cold. Frozen-over-Thames cold.

  A curl of anger unfurled in William’s throat. This must be who they’d all been trying to hide from him. He set his mouth in a grim line, preparing to do whatever was necessary with the finally exposed secret. He turned.

  And then he, too, stood completely still. Was he even breathing? Did someone in the house possess smelling salts? There was a possibility they were all about to need them.

  It was like looking in a mirror. An old mirror. The nose. The eyes—both shape and color. The hair—even the way it was a slightly darker color on one side of the head than the other. This boy was him twenty years ago.

  How was that even possible?

  “Who are you?” William demanded.

  “Benedict Sutton.” The boy squared shoulders that were only beginning to broaden and lifted his chin. “If you don’t mind, my lord, I’d like to ask the same question of you.”

  Name and title were probably not what the boy was looking for, but William didn’t have anything else to give him. “I am the Marquis of Chemsford.”

  “Dear Lord, save us all,” whispered Leighton.

  While William could certainly appreciate the man’s sentiments, it seemed a strange thing to pray at the moment, unless he knew more about the situation than he was letting on. “Do you have something to add, Mr. Leighton? The boy and I both appear to be at a loss.”

  “Well, I, that is to say, I . . .”

  The woodworker was saved by the entrance of yet another person into this farce. Mrs. Brightmoor came striding in, a tray of lemonade and sandwiches in her hands. She stumbled to a halt, looking from William to the boy and back again.

  “I know who you are,” the boy said, the ice in his voice turning to shards that threatened to pierce William’s chest.

  William’s stomach clenched as he began to get an idea that he, too, knew who he was to the boy. By nature, he was private and discreet, but there’d been a time for a few months after his mother’s death and his father’s sudden remarriage that William had lost control. He’d made more than one poor choice before coming out of his emotional stupor and righting his life, and he’d always been thankful that God had allowed him to come through that time unscathed.

  Or so he’d thought.

  “No,” Mrs. Brightmoor said as she rushed to put the tray down on the sheet-covered table. “No, you don’t.”

  “He doesn’t?” William asked at the same time the boy added, “I don’t?”

  William didn’t wait for the housekeeper to answer. He spoke directly to the boy. “How old are you?”

  “Thirteen.”

  Thirteen. William swallowed hard. That was the same age as his half brother Edmond, who didn’t look half as much like William as this boy did.

  The age was right. It was possible. William’s knees threatened to give way.

  “It doesn’t matter how old he is.” Mrs. Brightmoor stepped between them, face pulled into a determined grimace as she looked from boy to man and back again. “He’s not . . .” She paused, took a deep breath. “He’s not your father.”

  “Are you certain?” the boy asked, echoing the question bouncing through William’s brain.

  “I am very certain.”

  “Then who is?” William asked. “Who is the boy’s father? If you are so very positive that it isn’t me, you must know who it is, and as the current head of the Oswald family, I demand to know his identity because the lad is sprung from somewhere on my family tree.”

  Of that William was absolutely certain. It wasn’t possible for the boy to so closely resemble William and not be somehow related. Since there hadn’t been a female cousin born in decades, his connection with this boy was certainly through the paternal line.

  Mrs. Brightmoor backed away a step. What sort of emotion was she seeing on his face to elicit such an action? He wasn’t entirely sure what he was feeling at that moment.

  He’d never cared much for his family. In fact, hadn’t liked a great deal of the aristocracy he’d met. When Edmond had been born, William briefly dreamed of finding a way to convince the Clerk of the Crown that he’d died so the title could pass to Edmond and William wouldn’t have anything more to do with it.

  Since proof of death generally required a dead body, he decided to make the best use of his money and power instead and simply put as much distance as he could between himself and the frivolous immaturity of the rest of his peers.

  Apparently someone in his family had decided to distance himself from responsibility in another way.

  “I made a promise,” Daphne said quietly. “I’m so sorry.” But she wasn’t talking to William—wasn’t paying William much attention at all. She stood in front of the boy, wringing her hands and looking for all the world like she wanted to wrap him in her arms and shield him from all the bad news coming his way.

  And he looked like he wanted to let her.

  Was it possible . . . ? It couldn’t be. But she was so adamant that William hadn’t fathered this boy. He blurted the question out before he could stop himself. “Are you his mother?”

  Chapter fourteen

  Despite the fact that Daphne had resorted to fabrications yesterday in an attempt to prevent this very meeting, she really wasn’t a good liar. Nor did she want to lie in front of her son. Even if she’d never acknowledged his true parentage, she’d raised him—was still raising him in a way—and she wanted to set a good example.

  Then again, she also didn’t want to let him learn her secret.

  But oh how she wanted to answer yes, to claim Benedict as her own. Not being able to do so hadn’t been as difficult when there’d been a houseful of children. With a dozen young lives to care for and love, she could tell herself it was better for Benedict to feel like he was the same as the others, that he belonged. He was already different from the rest of the world. There’d been no need to make him different from his family, too.

  Now that the house was nearly empty and would only grow emptier in the next few years, she felt like she’d lost something. She couldn’t risk telling Benedict the truth and losing even more. She was already his mother in everything but name. It was enough.

  She’d have to contemplate how to handle the questions already forming in her boy’s pain-filled blue eyes later. Right now she needed to manage the marquis.

  Somehow.

  She took a deep breath and set her shoulders, turning to face him and picking a point over his left shoulder to focus on. “I raised him,” she said, lifting her chin a bit and trying not to let it tremble.

  “You raised him?” the marquis asked. “Then who is his mother?”

  “I promised not to share that either.” And she had. She’d promised Benedict, even though he didn’t know it. She’d promised to help him feel as normal as possible, to not hurt him any more than life already had. She’d promised to love him like a mother but never tie him to her with the knowledge of their relationship.

  “As you are the only person in this room who seems to know anything, I suggest you tell me something,” Lord Chemsford said. “I think we can all agree the resemblance between two people in this room is a little more than coincidental.”

  Daphne’s heart broke as she looked back at her son.

  Benedict, who had always been so mature, so determined to be the man of the house and protect them all, wrapped his arms around his middle and looked from adult to adult like a child lost in the market crowd. He didn’t look like a scrawny adult, didn’t even look like a young man of thirteen. His world was threatening to crash around him and he looked ready to crumble with it.

  She wasn’t about to let that happen.

  Telling herself to look the mar
quis in the eye even though it made her stomach jump and her knees tremble beneath her skirts, Daphne racked her brain to find the words that would make this right. Or if not right then at least not detrimental to Benedict.

  The stickiness of sweat made her palms itch, but she refused to wipe them on her skirts. Not one sign of weakness could be allowed. She had to be strong for Benedict.

  “I don’t see why anyone has to tell you anything.” She swallowed. “My lord.”

  He lifted an eyebrow. “You don’t?”

  “You’ve no problem with his work, obviously.” She tried to swallow again, but there was no moisture in her mouth. Instead, it was pooling in her stockings, making her feet wiggle within her boots as the spark of nerves worked its way to the tips of her toes. “I see no reason why you need know about his, er, private affairs.”

  The marquis’s eyebrows lifted even higher and Daphne tried not to wince. Affairs was probably not the best word to use in this instance.

  The fact that Lord Chemsford believed he could be the father meant that he was familiar with the word as more than just a term. That alone should be enough to kill off any more fantasies about riding through the glen together on horseback. They’d been ridiculous fantasies anyway. Daphne didn’t even ride.

  “Mrs. Brightmoor,” Lord Chemsford said slowly, “I am not in the habit of shirking the responsibilities of a man of honor.”

  Daphne nearly choked on her tongue. What would Kit say? No, Kit would attack him. What would Jess say? “Admirable, I’m sure.” Daphne almost grinned at the droll tone she managed. “But in this case you’ve no responsibility to take.”

  Lord Chemsford glared at Daphne for a few more moments before seeming to dismiss her as he stepped to the side to have an unencumbered view of Benedict. His gaze was steady and unwavering, even as his mouth tightened at the corners. “Being the marquis means I have a responsibility to the title beyond what I do personally. I’ve no intention of shirking that duty, even if it means accepting the repercussions of the previous title-bearer.”