“In the meantime, Lucy is in danger.”
Eli peered at his brother shrewdly. “I thought you set a guard.”
“Miss Whitaker and all of Willowbrook,” Rob amended, not meeting his brother’s eyes, “are in danger as long as Spangler can spin his plots.”
“I’m not so sure the weasel is capable of plotting, Robbie. Thievery yes, plotting, no. He isn’t clever enough. We may have been giving him too much credit.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
Rob removed hisspectacles and rubbed the bridge of his nose. He rarely needed the blasted things but, after two days of reviewing the books for The Willow and the Rose, deciphering handwriting on messages from Morgan who had found an estate agent he believed they could trust, and Eli’s steady stream of reports, his eyes had begun to swim.
Morgan had trotted off to London carrying Rob’s errands and a message to Rockford, but there had been no response from that quarter. Rob took up inn management. After a few days, even washing dishes behind the bar sounded preferable to keeping the ledgers.
I should hire Lucy to manage the books.The thought of her perched in the Willow’s office brought a smile to his lips. He wondered what she would make of the steady stream of “loans” to the people of Ashmead in need, loans that never seemed to be paid back, at least not in cash that could be accounted for. Just that morning, Johnston, the miller, delivered flour and refused payment. “Owe it to Mr. Benson, don’t I?” was all he said. Rob found no paper for any such agreement.
Still, Da managed to keep the inn above water. Just. With Eli busy elsewhere, he carried the weight of it alone. Emma and Ellis helped a bit, but Corbin’s livery didn’t run itself, and they had young ones to care for. The twinge of guilt for years away felt as uncomfortable as it did unfamiliar. He could change that. From London, he could at least check in regularly. He could hire someone to assist.
Rob slammed the ledger closed. As soon as the midday rush slowed and they finished servicing the mail, he expected a quiet moment. He wanted to confront the earl and demand that Clarion, as magistrate, act against Spangler but knew the earl had been correct in his insistence they had no real evidence that the doltish solicitor had weakened the bridge himself or even that he had hired Aaron Miller.
Eli remained in Nottingham, keeping watch on Spangler, reviewing the bank accounts with Clarion’s authority, and trying not to lose his own clients.
No, he would not vent his frustrations on Clarion. Better he should pop in at Willowbrook and check on Da and what was, after all, his estate. He should check on the men he had ordered to stand watch.
And Lucy. He should check on Lucy. The thought brightened him considerably.
An hour later, Rob watched the mail lumber its way along the coaching road and whistled a jaunty tune on his way toward the stables, only to see a massive traveling coach rumble into the innyard. His first hope that it was Morgan returned with reinforcements, was quickly dashed. The coach’s former elegance had been marred by age and wear, in spite of efforts to appear consequential—banners flew, and footmen in extravagant livery stood up behind. The crest on the side, trumpets and rampant bear proclaiming the importance of the earls of Clarion declared its owner.
Bile rose in Rob’s throat. With the earl at Caulfield Hall, the carriage could carry only one passenger. When the liveried servants leapt to the ground, opened the door, and let down steps, a woman stepped out, dressed in the height of fashion, and rouged and powdered in a vain attempt to disguise age. Just as he feared.
I should have left an hour ago, Rob thought, feeling ill, looking for a quick way out of sight, and finding none.
“You!” The woman eyed him from boots to hair as if he were some species of insect. She knew him, of course; she recognized him as soon as she stepped out. She raised her chin and fixed her glare on his face. “Secure a private parlor. Quickly, if you please. And see to our horses. One has come up lame.”
Rob clamped his jaw shut and glanced over at a wide-eyed Alfred. “Have Clara open a private room for the dowager countess before you see to the horses. Luckily the traffic has thinned.” He strode to the stables without looking back.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Lucy leaned overMr. Benson, holding him up so he could sip his lemon water. She felt Rob’s presence as a prickle on the back of her neck even before he said, “Where is Emma?”
“Your sister comes mornings and leaves to see to her children and to prepare dinner after noon. She’ll be back before dark.” She craned her neck to see him loom over her and was rewarded with one of his fierce frowns.
“You should have sent for help. We’ll get another maid for you.”
“I tried to tell her so, Robbie. She has naught but Johnny Thatcher to see to my needs that are not fit for a lady’s help. She does the fetching and carrying, though, and I’m not her job.”
Lucy thought the patient’s voice sounded stronger today. She hoped it wasn’t wishful thinking. “Agnes and Cilla—”
“Stubborn woman,” the old man growled. A twinkle softened his words.
“We’ll send another woman to help.” Sir Robert spoke as if it were a settled matter and her objections of no account. He sat on the edge of the bed so close that Lucy could feel the heat from his body where she sat on the bedside chair. She started to rise and murmur her excuses to leave them alone.
“Stay.” He reached for her but pulled his hand back, as if belatedly aware how improper it would be to grab her arm. “I, ah…” He glanced down at his father. “I came to check on the state of our patient. You, at least, will give me an honest answer.”
A snort from the bed made Lucy smile. She reached over and pulled up the covers to tuck them around the gentleman’s chin. “You told Emma you could walk just fine and would be back at the Willow by the end of the week.” He seemed unimpressed with her attempt to treat him to her sternest expression. She turned to Sir Robert. “He’s bright as a new penny and eating well.”
“See. I’m fine.”
“But he’s weak as a kitten and can’t stand without two people to assist.”
