Rob’s lips twitched in amusement. “I may just do that,” he replied, though he devoutly hoped never to see the Earl of Clarion again in his lifetime.
When she said no more, he planted his hat firmly on his head. “I’ll be on my way then.”
*
Lucy watched theman ride away until he was out of sight before she let her shoulders sag in relief. She turned to Agnes and saw all her questions reflected there.
Agnes closed the door behind them and locked it for good measure. “Benson. Same name as the innkeeper. They said he took the king’s shilling, butSir! Think it’s him?”
“You saw him. More Caulfield than Benson, top to bottom. He must be the heir come at last.”
“He didn’t say. He acted like he didn’t know. Why would he do that?”
“Perhaps hedoesn’tknow. He’s been gone a long time. Maybe word never reached him.”
“Someone will tell him soon enough,” Agnes muttered.
Lucy stalked back toward her study. “I have a letter to write,” she said over her shoulder to Agnes, who followed closely behind. “David will want to hear about this one.” She closed the door and changed her mind about the letter. Lucy would cope on her own.
Chapter Two
Deep in thought,Rob’s abundant and often inconvenient curiosity took over; questions crowded in. He took his time riding on toward his destination, puzzled by the women at Willowbrook.
Who are they? Who holds the lease on Willowbrook these days? Perhaps old Clarion has his latest light skirt tucked away there,he thought, though the woman doesn’t look like one.The feisty woman looked like she’d make a tidy armful, though, if she weren’t as prickly as a hedgehog and carrying firearms. Her dress had been plain, but the breeze wrapped the soft muslin around some exciting curves.
Rob admired the way she stood her ground to a stranger, too, and yet her demeanor ate at him. He well knew the look of fear on the faces of brave men taking danger straight on. He recognized it in both women. No question. They were afraid of something. Secrets lurked at Willowbrook, and Rob hated secrets more than anything. Getting to the bottom of them had become his profession.I’ll ferret this one out, if not here, then in London.
Satisfied with his decision, he rode on, only to pause at the turn in the road just before it descended to a bridge, reluctant to continue. He gazed down at the swift-flowing Afon River, spring lining it with a riot of glorious foliage and the village beyond. Nothing had changed—the spire of Saint Morwenna still pointed skyward at the far end of a village arrayed along the river as it had been for centuries. The coaching road meandered through the houses and businesses that constituted Ashmead on Afon as it had for almost as long.
At the near end—just across the bridge and close enough that he could see comings and goings from where he paused—the inn dominated the approach to town. It also appeared little changed. Two great willow trees still towered above the roof between the inn and the river. Warm brick still glowed in the sun.
He couldn’t see the Tudor half-timbers and multi-paned windows, but he knew they still stretched along the road like welcoming arms. Too many battlefields lay behind him, however, and neither the inn nor the village beyond it promised him rest.
With a clear view of the stable yard, he watched passengers scurry into a massive mail coach, a hostler slam the door shut, and the vehicle lumber out of the inn yard and on down the road. The sight had an eerie familiarity that called to him, even though he hadn’t witnessed it in fifteen years.
The major lingered a few moments longer. If he rode on down, all the years and the honors they brought him would fall away. To the people in this place, he would be naught but Wee Robbie, the innkeeper’s wayward son. Except he wasn’t and never had been.
The urge to turn around and go back where he came from warred with the need to ride down. He had commitments to keep. His sister Emma’s letters told him they had troubles and begged him to come. She reminded him he promised long ago that he would come when she needed him.The time is now, her last letter said.
He nudged his horse forward, sparing a glance up the far hill to his left. A roof, just visible above the trees, met his eyes. Caulfield Hall, seat of the Earl of Clarion. He turned his face away. At least he didn’t have to deal with those people; he’d be gone soon enough, and, with luck, he wouldn’t encounter any of them, even to investigate the Willowbrook woman.
He forced his gaze back to his destination and rode down, only to pull up, jolted by a flash of recognition, when an old man turned to make his slow way from the stables to the kitchen door. The elderly laborer spied the major before he could speak, stopped to gape, and spoke first. “Are you home, then, Robbie?”
The major studied the familiar lines of the innkeeper’s face, and a remembered panic came to him.How do I address this man? What do I call him?He took a deep breath.
“Hello, Da,” he said.
The two men watched each other in silence for a moment before the younger dismounted. A sudden flash of motion disrupted the awkward moment; a boy no more than seven or eight years old darted out and grabbed the empty bucket from the old man.
“My mum will have my hide, me letting you empty the slops, Grandda! Come sit before she catches me.”
Rob’s brows rose.Grandda? Emma’s boy?Must be; there were letters… But my sister can’t be old enough to have a boy that age.
“Slow yourself, boy. Make your greeting to your uncle.” The old man laid a gentle hand on the boy’s head.
At “uncle” the lad’s mouth gaped open, and the bucket hit the dirt. “Uncle? Is he Robbie, then, Grandda? The one who’s a hero? Gol.”
“Robbie…” So it begins. Torn between irritation and laughter over the boy’s expression, Rob put a hand to his chest, gave a ludicrous bow, and proclaimed, “Major Sir Robert Benson, at your service. And what is your name, young sir?”
