Cilla rattled on, ignoring the question. “I saw him stop at the end of the lane, but he’s coming, I just know it. One o’em will kill us in our beds some time. I know it. I just know it.”
Him. One of them. Another imposter.
Lucy rose to her feet, walked calmly to the foyer, and parted the curtains to see a stranger riding up to the house. She removed her musket from behind the potted palm at the foot of the stairs before returning to her surveillance out the window. “Cilla, kindly inform Agnes that we have another unwanted visitor,” she said without turning. The girl bounded up the stairs.
The rider paused in front of the steps and peered up at the house, examining it slowly from right to left as if counting the windows.
This one’s a cut above the rest of them. Arrogant, though. He probably wants to come in and count the silver.
She opened the front door and stepped out onto the porch, musket resting in the crook of her left arm. “May I help you?”
The rider jerked upright, brows rising, eyes riveted on the weapon she carried. The color struck her first; his deep green eyes hit a chord deep inside. The intelligence in them and the sense that he weighed her and found her wanting pushed all other thoughts aside.
He likely expected a butler or a footman. She had neither, and she knew how she appeared, a plainly-dressed woman, past the first bloom of youth, straight-backed if tiny, standing her ground to address a total stranger.With a musket. Don’t forget the gun.He could make what he wanted of that.
She watched him steadily and judged his mount a first-rate animal. The man himself projected strength with a military bearing and an air of confidence.Yes, a cut above, this one.
“Is the gentleman of the house in?”
That’s a first. They usually know better.
His deep voice rumbled through her, and an unfamiliar feminine awareness uncurled deep inside. She shook it off.
“He is otherwise engaged,” she answered, wise enough not to advertise that she lived alone. “Kindly state your business,” she added curtly, taking courage from the sound of Agnes coming out behind her. The rider looked from one to the other, and Lucy studied his eyes.Eyes the color of David’s.Caulfield eyes.Her heart sank.
He removed his hat, watching the musket warily.Auburn. Dear God, he has Caulfield hair!
“I’m sorry if I disturbed you, ma’am. I once lived near here, and I thought…” He tapped the hat against one muscular thigh.
This one is too damned attractive for my peace of mind, Lucy thought absently.
The man spoke again. “Perhaps I should introduce myself. I’m Major Sir Robert Benson, formerly of Ashmead on Afon, currently residing in London. I meant no harm.”
All hope fled. The heir had come to claim her home.
*
Rob leaned forwardin the saddle studying the woman. Tiny in stature, she still projected surprising strength and amusing cheek. She hadn’t acknowledged his title nor offered a name, though her face fell when he introduced himself. Even a mere baronet deserved more respect than that. She studied him steadily.
He tossed about for a polite way to ask her name and found none. He ought to be on his way. It had been a long journey from London, and he’d deliberately lengthened it with the impulse to look in at Willowbrook. Old man Westerfeld had let boys from the village and Caulfield Hall alike run tame through the Willowbrook woods a few glorious summers long ago. The memory had brought a smile to Rob’s lips, as little in this journey had.
Still, something about this situation seemed off. Rob nodded at the musket over the woman’s arm and asked, “Have you reason to fear intruders? Might I be of assistance?”
“We manage perfectly well, thank you,” she replied, never budging or taking her eyes from him. She had backbone; he’d give her that.
“Does Mr. Westerfeld still live at Willowbrook? I knew him once.”
“Westerfeld? I don’t know the name.” The woman offered no further information.
After fifteen years, Rob wasn’t surprised to hear the old man had gone. He puzzled over what to say next. To the best of his recollection, the estate, rented as it was, belonged to the Earl of Clarion.
“Does the earl permit women here alone?”
“What makes you think we’re alone?” The old woman who had come out behind the termagant with the gun spoke up.Every bit as defiant—and rude—as her mistress, he thought.
“Perhaps I should speak to him,” he said instead, addressing the first one, the one who assumed authority in ways he’d never seen a woman do.
“Do speak to him,” the woman replied. “He’ll be in London. You did say you reside there.”
