Page 2

Shep barked again, and with a sigh, Benedict grabbed the dust-covered jacket he’d draped over the stall gate and headed for the door.

Stepping out of the barn, he shielded his eyes and blinked from the glare of the afternoon sun that instantly warmed his damp arms. Rolling his shoulders, he looked across the open area that separated the barn from the milking parlor. At his left, the stables and carriage house blocked his view of the large manor situated on the rise beyond a large row of oak trees. At his right, the yard was bounded by a stone wall and wooden gate that opened onto the lane that led to the nearby village of Leyfield. And currently, despite all farm rules to the contrary, the gate was ajar.

Shep was circling something. Benedict stepped closer. Surely his eyes were deceiving him. He blinked again, but the vision remained the same. There was an unfamiliar small child standing in his yard.

He whistled. Immediately, Shep cut short his loop around the little girl and bounded to Benedict’s side. Benedict gave the dog a pat of approval, his eyes not leaving the child. As far as he could tell, there were no obvious tears. If Shep had frightened her with his prowling and barking, she had overcome her fears quickly.

“Good afternoon,” Benedict said, taking another cautious step toward her. Would she flee at the sight of a stranger?

She moved her gaze from the dog to Benedict, and Benedict found himself looking into two of the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. She stared at him guilelessly.

“Is that your doggie?” She pointed at Shep.

“It is.”

“What’s his name?”

“Shep,” Benedict said.

“Shep,” she repeated, her mouth breaking into a smile. “He likes to run round me.”

“So it would seem.” The child was remarkably articulate for one so young. Benedict studied her a little more closely. She couldn’t be much more than three or four years old. Blonde curls framed her face. A short, dark-blue coat covered a pale-blue frock. Both appeared to be of good quality, although worn. Her small boots were mud spattered, and in one hand, she held a bedraggled bunch of dandelions. “I hope he did not scare you,” Benedict said.

She giggled and shook her head, sending her curls bouncing. “He was being funny.”

Benedict was quite sure his well-trained dog had not been labeled “funny” since he’d been a new puppy and had regularly entertained the stableboys with his propensity for chasing his own tail.

“I am glad you thought so. Do you have a dog?” It was not so blunt as asking if she had a home, but the question seemed to be a step in the right direction if he were to learn more about her.

Her face fell. “No.”

Perhaps it hadn’t been the wisest question after all. He tried a different direction. “What is your name?”

“Meg,” she said. “But when my mama is cross with me, she calls me Margaret Jane Granger.”

Benedict raised an amused eyebrow. This precocious child was proving rather entertaining. And she’d given him a surname. Unfortunately, it was not one he could readily connect to a local family. “That is a very fine name.”

She offered him a slight smile. “My grandpapa says that too.” She cocked her head to one side and eyed him curiously. “What’s your name?”

“Benedict.” He spoke before thinking. “But most people call me Lord Benning.”

“Because they’re cross with you?”

Benedict chuckled. “Not all of them, I hope. But on occasion, I daresay some of them might be.”

“That’s all right. You can do better next time,” she said, undoubtedly repeating something her mother had told her.

“That is admirable advice.”

Her smile returned, and she raised her droopy dandelion posy. “Would you like a flower, Mr. Bent Nicked?”

If another adult were present, protocol would dictate that the child address him by his title, but Giles had yet to emerge from the barn, and the stableboy walking the plow horse on the other side of the yard was too far away to hear her small voice. Besides, surely a gentleman should not correct a young lady when she was in the very act of offering him a broken dandelion stem.

“That is very kind of you, young Meg.” He accepted the wilted flower with an exaggerated bow, and she giggled.

“Meg!”

At the sound of a breathless female voice, Benedict looked toward the gate. A woman hurried into the yard, dressed in a floral gown, brown jacket, and bonnet with an exceptionally wide brim and lace veil.