By Friday, Emma’s father had taken to hiding at Ellis Corbin’s livery. Rob found him there, spinning stories with his son-in-law.
“Escaping, are you, Robbie?” Old Robert asked.
He nodded. “I thought to ride out to Willowbrook. To check on the workers I sent.” He ignored a knowing look from the old man.
“That fierce mount of yours has hooves that need tending. I’ll have him fit and ready to ride by nightfall, but the party’s tomorrow. You can go after,” Ellis told him.
“Not if you let your father-in-law chat your ear off,” Rob retorted, taking a seat.
When Ellis rose to go back to work, Rob found himself alone with the older Robert for once. The two men watched each other warily.
“Something’s been stuck in your craw since you got here, Robbie. If you have aught to say, spit it out. If it stays in much longer, it may choke you,” the old man said at last.
Why did you lie to me? Why let me believe you were my father? Why not tell me who I really was? Were you ashamed?That last sickened him, the great fear under everything, fear that the man he so admired as a boy saw him as a shameful secret. Robert Benson eyed him steadily while his jaw worked and the words stuck in his throat.What good will it do now?
“Grandda!” Little Audrey skipped into the livery. “Mam sent me to fetch you. She can’t decide about the punch.”
The man was gone before Rob could object. He sank back in relief. He’d say the words, he decided, when he was ready to leave. He’d tell the man what he thought of him and then go back to London and the honors the years away had given him. He would. As soon as he solved the problem of Willowbrook and Lucy Whitaker.
Chapter Seventeen
Lucy glanced aroundthe newly refurbished assembly room gleaming under the light of her candles and took pride in their quality. The exposure was bound to help her—or at least Willowbrook’s—reputation. She had been skeptical about the grand scale of the party Emma planned for her father, but, she had to admit, the village had turned out and some of the shire as well. The duchess rarely left her dower house, but there she sat, chatting with Maud Styles, the vicar’s wife, and—
Is that Brynn Morgan sitting with Lady Madelyn?The odd mix of people made Lucy smile. Grand for a village assembly, the gathering had a joy to it that she doubted a London society hostess could manage.
Mr. Benson stood between his two younger children accepting the flood of greetings and congratulations. Emma beamed, and Eli leaned in earnestly, listening to every visitor. There had been a brief speech, more of a toast, in the beginning, touting the guest of honor, and now people lined up to offer their wishes while they waited for dancing to begin. Small gifts had been left in a basket by the door. Of his oldest son, she saw no sign. Certain he would not miss the occasion, she scanned the crowd.
When she turned back toward the Bensons, the hairs on the back of her head rose. Spangler entered just as the receiving line thinned out. Eli, grim-faced, went rigid at the sight. Even Emma looked uneasy, but Mr. Benson managed the thing. She watched him urge Spangler toward the punch bowl. When the toad made a beeline in her direction, she held her breath, casting about for escape.
Warner Simpson, the Ashmead grocer, waylaid him, giving her a break. She suspected Simpson, like others in Ashmead, lived in buildings rented from Spangler but had no time to think about it. She darted up the stairs to the mezzanine, reached the top out of breath, and clutched her middle to regain it.
“What do you think he’s up to?” The words came from the edge of the railing in the far corner of the balcony, where the man she’d been searching for, Sir Robert, leaned over, watching the proceedings. She joined him, peered down following his line of sight, and saw Spangler gawking about. “Hunting for me.” She stood back a step from the rail lest the despicable man catch sight of her.
Sir Robert turned, one elbow still on the railing. “Tormenting hapless villagers as well, perhaps?”
She nodded and replied, “That, too, one suspects.” Lucy stood up on tiptoe to scan the crowd. She caught her companion studying her, bringing her to her heels. Something in his eyes made her heartbeat race.
“That frock flatters your coloring, if I may say so, Miss Whitaker,” he said. “You ought to dress up more often.” The words, though perfectly polite, left her feeling exposed and vulnerable. Men rarely had cause to compliment her, least of all on her choice of gowns. Heat crept up her neck, and she had no reply beyond a mumbled, “Thank you.”
She fixed her eyes on the crowd below, though he continued to watch her past the point of good manners. Several moments went by in silence before Lucy let curiosity about the man next to her overrun her common sense. “Why aren’t you standing with your family?” she blurted.
“My sister and brother manage fine without me,” he said, straightening up. They stood shoulder to shoulder watching the festivities below, eyes averted from one another.
“Folks in Ashmead have been eager to greet the returning hero,” Lucy pointed out, though she believed he must know that.
“All the more reason to leave the field to my—” He drew breath. “To the man of the night. This fuss is all in his honor.”
Lucy didn’t miss the hesitation. “You don’t think you belong?”
Tense silence made her regret her hasty words. “I’m sorry,” she began.
“You are an impertinent baggage,” he said, still not looking at her. “But you are correct. Robert Benson isn’t my father. Surely that must be obvious even to you, Miss Whitaker.”
Words were out before good sense could control her tongue. “Everyone in Ashmead knows you’re a Caulfield, but they know you are Benson as well. He is no less your father.”
Musicians tromped up to the mezzanine. If Sir Robert meant to respond to her inappropriate outburst, their presence put a stop to it. The players crowded in apologetically and began tuning instruments as Lucy turned to the stairs.
Sir Robert stayed where he was to the side of the railing. “Spangler hasn’t left,” he called over the sound of the instruments. “You best wait.”
