The words hung in the air, driving all other sound or thought away. Clarion looked away first. “What do you mean, ‘got him in a panic’?”
“He told me it couldn’t be done—an obvious lie. Then went to great pains to convince me the place was valuable. He even hinted that the mineral wealth alone made it a treasure.”
Clarion’s horror wasn’t feigned. “Coal? Never! Not Willowbrook. A mine would destroy Willowbrook and Ashmead with it!”
“One suspects that’s why he made sure the bequest didn’t revert to the estate. You would never have let go of it.”
Clarion glared at him, green eyes to identical green. “I would never let go of Willowbrook if I had it. Never. Not for mining. Not for any reason. It was mine, but the old man gave it to you. Take it and enjoy it, but Benson, no amount of blunt is worth what coal would do to it.”
“That’s for the next landowner. I will not let your reprehensible father tie me to this place or make some godforsaken landed gentry out of me. I plan to sell it as soon as—”
“What?”
“That’s the reason I came here to speak with you. Spangler knows I mean to sell. As soon as I signed, he changed tack anyway. Now, all we hear is how the place’s poor repair influences sale price. Once Eli has all the information he needs, I will send an agent up from the city.”
“Do what you wish,” Clarion muttered.
“I will as soon as arrangements can be made for Miss Whitaker. What are you going to do about the woman?”
“What amIgoing to do? What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I said. She has to move. She isn’tmydependent. I won’t put her out on the streets, but it’s time you took some responsibility.” Rob considered telling Clarion he meant to give her the money she had set aside as her salary, but his desire to goad the earl into action won out.
Clarion seethed with anger. “You have no idea about duty. While you’ve been off playing at soldier and wrapping yourself in glory, some of us have been picking up the pieces in the shire.”
“Playing at soldier? What the hell do you mean by that? Were you at Salamanca? Or Badajoz? Were you even at Waterloo?” Remembered horror shook him. “Safe in your bed in England while some of us picked up the pieces, as you call it, on the continent,” Rob roared.
Clarion glared back. “At least you had a choice.” Rob had no answer for that. He left Ashmead on his own and would do it again. It had never occurred to him that Clarion might feel trapped, tied to this land with no way out.
“Now you reap the reward,” the earl went on. “Your name was on the lips of every villager Saturday night, the great returning hero, come to take over Willowbrook. Do you realize they expect you to rescue the village as well? Even the vicar. Styles said, ‘Things’ll turn around now Sir Robert is back. Wait and see.’ They’ll have to wait until hell freezes over, won’t they?” His expression dared Rob to deny it.
“You’re the one responsible for your people! Isn’t that the agreement? You get ermine and a place in line behind the bloody dukes at Westminster. Your title lets you lord it over all of us. For that, you take responsibility for Ashmead—or is the village beneath you, Clarion? You’d rather prance about London making speeches at lords while the women in your life care for the land, dress in drab, and keep people fed? Is that it? Leaving the village and your tenants aside, you leave Lucy and your sister to struggle on their own. They deserve better from you.”
Rigid with outrage, Clarion spat, “Get out, Benson. Get out.”
The two men glared across the desk at one another, violence thick in the air like the tension before a summer storm. A quiet voice cut into the menacing atmosphere.
“Papa?”
Rob breathed heavily when he turned to see the little viscount, peering into the room uneasily. “Hello again, Sir Robert. I’m sorry to interrupt. Papa said he would ride with me today. We’re going to visit Aunt Lucy.”
“As you see, Benson, I have a prior appointment. Kindly leave us,” Clarion said. The boy came around to stand by the desk, but Clarion kept his eyes on Rob.
Shaking off his frustration, Rob jerked a bow toward the earl, made a gentler one to the boy, and turned on his heels.
Chapter Twenty
Rob rode intoa crowded innyard shortly after noon, wishing only for solitude to think over the summons from London. He found Alfred overwhelmed with horses, carriages, and irritable travelers, and Ellis Corbin leading over a fresh team for the mail from the livery.
“Monday, Robbie. Ever the same,” Ellis said by way of greeting.
Rob led Khalija toward the stables, calling to the ostler that he would handle his own horse.
“Sorry, Sir Robert,” Alfred called back. “That isn’t your job.” His eyes darted between Rob and a dandified customer who swaggered into the yard.
“No problem, Alfred. You have your hands full.”
Blessedly, he found Khalija’s stall at the far end empty. Rob removed his mount’s saddle and rubbed him down. “You deserve a rest and some feed, your lordship,” Rob murmured. He had set the horse in a mad gallop across fields and fences in an effort to defuse his anger and all the less-comfortable feelings that lay under it after he left Caulfield Hall. It hadn’t worked. Rob’s uncharacteristically rough ministrations caused the horse to shy.
