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A muscle in Benedict’s jaw twitched. “I would never intentionally put myself or others in peril. I would have thought you knew that of me. Entering the cottage was something I had to do. It was vital that I retrieve the ledgers.”

“Vital?” Caroline cried. “You would place the value of a handful of books over your own life or Giles’s life or Meg’s life? Are your estate’s finances truly so much more important to you than its people?”

“Of course not.” A flash of anger lit his eyes. “And before you so brazenly question where my priorities lie, it might serve you well to remember that you have limited understanding of this situation.”

She balled her fists. “I believe the same can be said of you, my lord. It is obvious that you have never personally experienced the devastation smallpox leaves in its wake when it infiltrates a home. And neither have you watched someone dear to your heart succumb to the ravages of the disease. It is—” A sob escaped her, and she shook her head, unwilling to reflect any further on those harrowing memories. “It is too awful to recount.” The specter of the disease that had haunted her nightmares for weeks had now entered her real world. Benedict had purposely put himself at risk. John was already at risk. And through him, Meg was also.

Vaguely aware that tears were streaming down her cheeks, she stumbled toward the daylight. She must find Meg.

“Caroline, wait!” Benedict reached for her arm, but she brushed him away.

“No, Benedict!” Her voice broke. “I cannot lose another person I love to that terrible disease. I . . . I will not survive it. I thought you understood—that you cared—how much I have already lost to smallpox, but you clearly do not.”

“Mama?” Meg appeared at her elbow, her expression fearful. “What is it, Mama?”

Caroline clasped Meg’s hand, desperately needing the physical contact. “Come. We must leave right away.”

“But Shep has my stick.”

“We shall find you another one. A better one.” Caroline swiped at the tears on her cheeks. “Quickly, Meg. I beg of you.”

Meg did not hop or skip, but she came willingly, and Caroline did not turn back. She must leave this place and the insidious disease that had found its way here, but she knew that if she looked upon Benedict’s face, there would be no hope of ever stemming her tears. After all they had done together, all he had shared with her, it had come to this. Her ability to discern a gentleman’s heart was flawed. Like Fred, Benedict had placed something else above her well-being and Meg’s.

Chapter 23

It had been four days, and Benedict’s chest ached as badly now as it had when Caroline had unequivocally rebuffed him in the farmyard. He’d been so stunned by her attack on his decision to enter Rowe’s cottage, he’d scarcely known how to respond. And although her violent reaction to his news was heightened by her own horrific experience with smallpox, to have her accuse him of such callous behavior had cut deeply and had ignited his indignation. With no knowledge of Rowe’s tampering with Farwell Farm’s finances, she could not be expected to realize how important it was that he and his father access the ledgers, but neither had she offered him any opportunity to explain his actions.

He kicked a small stone out of his path. Frustration was a poor companion, and he knew full well that he would be better off without it, but that did not make relinquishing it easy.

Why did loving someone have to hurt this much? Up until now, he’d always equated the emotion with joy and contentment, but his last interaction with Caroline had given him new insight into how deeply she had been wounded by losing love in the past. And if she was unwilling to take a chance on it again, it was likely that the pain in his chest would become a permanent ailment.

The steward’s cottage came into view, and he forced away his lingering unhappiness to focus on Rowe’s and Rachel’s situation. He followed the lane to the cottage’s garden gate. There he paused and studied the house. A thin trickle of smoke came from the chimney. The curtains over the upper bedchamber’s windows remained closed, but no fabric fluttered at the door. It was the same scene he’d witnessed every morning since speaking with Rachel. He could only pray that no signal for additional assistance meant that things were stable or improving.

Turning from the cottage, he continued down the lane toward the farm. To his left, the cows in the pasture were visible over the top of the stone wall; to his right, a large field of wheat waved in the gentle breeze. He tensed his jaw. His father had been studying the ledgers late into the night ever since Benedict had delivered them to his study. Whatever deceit Rowe had managed with the sale of the Farwell Farm wheat, he had obviously done a masterful job at covering up the evidence. The proof was there, however. And even if it took more digging than they would wish, Benedict had no doubt that he and his father would ultimately uncover the whole of their steward’s deception.

Grateful that his father had taken upon himself the task of going through the books, Benedict set his mind on their other grave responsibility. Up until now, no one living on Farwell property had reported feeling unwell, but he would not fully relax until a fortnight had passed since Rowe returned. Benedict had experienced no symptoms. Given that John had not complained of any illness, Benedict prayed Meg was healthy still. Surely he would have heard if that were not the case.

He turned into the farmyard. John was walking Ginger around the yard. Glad to see the groom about his work, Benedict crossed the short distance between them and called out a greeting. “Good morning, John.”

The groom inclined his head. “Mornin’, m’lord.”

“How are you feeling? Is all well with the stableboys?”

“Yes, m’lord. Nothin’ new t’ report from the stables. Unless ya count Tim droppin’ a pail o’ oats on ’is foot.”

Benedict grimaced. “How is he?”

“Still limpin’, but ’e’s well enough t’ laugh about it.”

“Good for him,” Benedict said. “Let me know if his foot worsens. I’ll be back to take Saxon out after I’ve spoken to Giles.”

“Very good, m’lord.” John clicked his tongue, and as Ginger began walking again, Giles exited the milking parlor.

Benedict’s cowman spotted him immediately and adjusted his course to join him. “Mornin’, m’lord.”

“Good morning,” Benedict said. “I hope you bear good news.”

“No illness in the milkin’ parlor, m’lord.” He shrugged. “Seems t’ me that there may be some truth t’ the maids’ boast about ’em never catchin’ the smallpox. I ain’t ever seen one come down with it. An’ now there’s a physician down in Berkeley who’s toutin’ the very same thing.”