“Can’t be done?” Rob demanded.
“Isn’t done,” Spangler clarified.
“What happens to Willowbrook if I refuse it?” Rob asked, never taking his eyes from Spangler’s changing expressions.
“I—that is, it would require some research, precedents to be found…”
So, it can be done.Rob wondered what Spangler gained from his acceptance. The need for a solicitor of his own came to him sharply.
At his hesitation, the calculative gleam in Spangler’s eyes sharpened. “Can one assume you do not wish to reside on the property?”
“One can assume anything one wishes. I’mtellingyou I don’t plan to stay in the valley. What are my options—aside from refusing?”
Something in Spangler’s avid expression, as if glimpsing an opportunity and weighing his own gain, made the hairs on the back of Rob’s neck stand on end.
“You might sell it, of course,” the man said smoothly. “I would be happy to serve as your agent in that. You could give it away, but I wouldn’t recommend it.”
Give it back to the earl?Everything in him rebelled against that. He realized with sudden clarity he shouldn’t have tried to refuse the bequest for that reason alone.Give it to Emma? Maybe. Rent it out? Responsibility for the damned place would trap him as surely as living on it. Selling would probably make the most sense.
“I have my own agent in London.” It wasn’t a lie. He’d never sold a property, but he’d put a deposit on one the week before. Something about Spangler made his skin crawl. The way his eyes glittered at the thought of the property selling set alarm bells off.Trust Clarion to employ a muckworm to do his business.
“Hand me the documents,” he said. Did he imagine Spangler hesitated over the papers?
“Of course. Now, if you sign here…” Spangler slid the last page of a longer document to Rob.
“All of it, Spangler.” This time the hesitation was obvious.
“Most of it is legal nonsense, Sir Robert,” the muckworm said.
“Legal language is never nonsense. All of it, if you please.”
Spangler pushed the document across the desk with a shaky smile. Rob read it through quickly and raised his hand to sign the last page before innate caution pulled him back. He would have to go over the bequest more carefully and perhaps consult a solicitor.
When he requested a full copy of the actual will, the man balked. The original resided with the Clarion estate, of course, and it would, Spangler declared, take time to make a fair copy, but perhaps he might supply the applicable portion in a week.
The solicitor should already have a copy, but Rob didn’t argue. He scooped up the papers and brought the meeting to an abrupt end, to Spangler’s disgust. His own solicitor could view the original.
Riding back toward Ashmead, he couldn’t shake the sensation that the bequest and the estate involved something more than a simple transaction. It would take some time to ferret out the truth. Anxious as he was to return to London, he would have to stay until he found the best way to get it off his back.
A sudden need to question the doxie at Willowbrook seized him, and he urged Khalija onward.
Chapter Five
Lucy arranged twostraw skeps a short distance from the dozen that buzzed with activity, grateful she’d been able to convince Vincent Thatcher to take up the skill over winter. Ashmead’s general store once employed a skepper to keep the valley beekeepers supplied, but opportunity in Devon called him, or so he said, when business dropped off. Vincent’s weren’t as well made, and one listed a bit to the side, but they seemed to be woven tight enough. She wished he had made more. Next year, she’d set Thatcher’s boys to learning the task as well.
She hoped her bees would find the new skeps attractive when she inevitably destroyed the existing ones, and the bees swarmed to follow their queen to new quarters. Chasing wild swarms took time away from other work. She’d know by summer’s end when she destroyed the older ones to harvest the bees’ produce. A bit of comb in the new skep usually did the trick. She paused at that thought and breathed in the sweet smell of honey and wax in the active colonies. It should be a good year. There would be plenty for Willowbrook and a fair amount to sell.
I will hold my usual bit back—just wages. If the heir doesn’t put me out before that.Memory of the big man who had ridden up with his puzzling questions dampened her hope.
Set as it was uphill beyond the Willowbrook stables, between the barn and the apple orchard, the bee yard had always felt safe, a quiet kingdom all her own. She jumped at the unexpected sound of a horse behind her and spun around to see a proud bay with black mane and tail, trotting into the barnyard, as if conjured by her memory. Benson’s nosey son had returned again. None of the claimants had ever intruded into the working area of the farm before.
He stood in his stirrups and looked up at the bee yard, as if studying what she did. Lucy stiffened her spine, picked up the basket of tools she’d been using, and walked down to confront him. As she approached, he leaned on the pommel, never taking his eyes from her. Something in his insolent gaze heated her skin and set her heart racing. His fiery eyes swept from the battered half-boots she wore for farm work, past her tattered hem, and across her shabbiest day dress. When he frowned directly into her face, she almost tripped but refused to show weakness.
Who is Robert Benson—baronet and major he may be—to judge how I look?
“May I help you?” she demanded, chin high.
He paused for a moment, without answering, and then dismounted.
