Benjamin rode over the last low ridge and drew rein to look down on his home. It was a vast relief to be back, far from the incessant noise of London. The mellow red brick of the house, twined with ivy, the pointed gables and ranks of leaded windows, were as familiar as his face in the mirror. Furness Hall had been the seat of his family for two hundred years, built when the first earl received his title from King James. The place was a pleasing balance of grand and comfortable, Benjamin thought. And Somerset’s mild climate kept the lawn and shrubberies green all winter, though the trees were bare. Not one stray leaf marred the sweep of sod before the front door, he saw approvingly. The hedges were neat and square—a picture of tranquility. A man could be still with his thoughts here, and Benjamin longed for nothing else.
He left his horse at the stables and entered the house to a welcome hush. Everything was just as he wished it in his home, with no demands and no surprises. He’d heard a neighbor claim that Furness Hall had gone gloomy since its mistress died—when he thought Benjamin couldn’t hear. Benjamin could not have cared less about the fellow’s opinion. What did he know of grief? Or anything else, for that matter? He was obviously a dolt.
A shrill shout broke the silence as Benjamin turned toward the library, followed by pounding footsteps. A small figure erupted from the back of the entry hall. “The lord’s home,” cried the small boy.
Benjamin cringed. Five-year-old Geoffrey was a whirlwind of disruptive energy. He never seemed to speak below a shout, and he was forever beating on pans or capering about waving sticks like a demented imp.
“The lord’s home,” shouted the boy again, skidding to a stop before Benjamin and staring up at him. His red-gold hair flopped over his brow. He shoved it back with a grubby hand.
Benjamin’s jaw tightened. His small son’s face was so like Alice’s that it was uncannily painful. In a bloody terror of death and birth, he’d traded beloved female features for an erratic miniature copy. He could tell himself it wasn’t Geoffrey’s fault that his mother had died bringing him into the world. He knew it wasn’t. But that didn’t make it any easier to look at him.
A nursery maid came running, put her hands on Geoffrey’s shoulders, and urged him away. Staring back over his shoulder, the boy went. His deep-blue eyes reproduced Alice’s in color and shape, but she’d never gazed at Benjamin so pugnaciously. Of course she hadn’t. She’d been all loving support and gentle approbation. But she was gone.
Benjamin headed for his library. If he had peace and quiet, he could manage the blow that fate had dealt him. Was that so much to ask? He didn’t think so.
Shutting the door behind him, he sat in his customary place before the fire. Alice’s portrait looked down at him—her lush figure in a simple white gown, that glory of red-gold hair, great celestial-blue eyes, and parted lips as if she was just about to speak to him. He’d forgotten that he’d thought the portrait idealized when it was first finished. Now it was his image of paradise lost. He no longer imagined—as he had all through the first year after her death—that he heard her voice in the next room, a few tantalizing feet away, or that he would come upon her around a corner. She was gone. But he could gaze at her image and lose himself in memory. He asked for nothing more.
• • •
Three days later, a post chaise pulled up before Furness Hall, uninvited and wholly unexpected. No one visited here now. One of the postilions jumped down and rapped on the front door while the other held the team. A young woman emerged from the carriage and marched up as the door opened. She slipped past the startled maid and planted herself by the stairs inside, grasping the newel post like a ship dropping anchor. “I am Jean Saunders,” she said. “Alice’s cousin. I’m here to see Geoffrey. At once, please.”
“G-geoffrey, miss?”
The visitor gave a sharp nod. “My…relative. Alice’s son.”
“He’s just a little lad.”
“I’m well aware. Please take me to him.” When the servant hesitated, she added, “Unless you prefer that I search the house.”
Goggle-eyed, the maid shook her head. “I’ll have to ask his lordship.”
Miss Saunders sighed and began pulling off her gloves. “I suppose you will.” She untied the strings of her bonnet. “Well? Do so.”
The maid hurried away. Miss Saunders removed her hat, revealing a wild tumble of glossy brown curls. Then she bit her bottom lip, looking far less sure of herself than she’d sounded, and put her hat back on. When footsteps approached from the back of the hall, she stood straighter and composed her features.
“Who the deuce are you?” asked the tall, frowning gentleman who followed the housemaid into the entryway.
Unquestionably handsome, Jean thought. He had the sort of broad-browed, square-jawed face one saw on the tombs of Crusaders. Dark hair, blue-gray eyes with darker lashes that might have been attractive if they hadn’t held a hard glitter. “I am Alice’s cousin,” Jean repeated.
“Cousin?” He said the word as if it had no obvious meaning.
“Well, second cousin, but that hardly matters. I’m here for Geoffrey.”
“For him? He’s five years old.”
“I’m well aware. As I am also aware that he is being shamefully neglected.”
“I beg your pardon?” Benjamin put ice into his tone. The accusation was outrageous, as was showing up at his home, without any warning, to make it.
“I don’t think I can grant it to you,” his unwanted visitor replied. “You might try asking your son for forgiveness.”
She spoke with contempt. The idea was ridiculous, but there was no mistaking her tone. Benjamin examined the intruder with one raking glance. She looked a bit younger than his own age of thirty. Slender, of medium height, with untidy brown hair, dark eyes, and an aquiline nose, she didn’t resemble Alice in the least.
“I’ve come to take Geoffrey to his grandparents,” she added. “Alice’s parents. He deserves a proper home.”
“His home is here.”
“Really? A house where his dead mother’s portrait is kept as some sort of macabre shrine? Where he calls his father ‘the lord’? Where he is shunted aside and ignored?”
Benjamin felt as if he’d missed a step in the dark. Put that way, Geoffrey’s situation did sound dire. But that wasn’t the whole truth! He’d made certain the boy received the best care. “How do you know anything—”
“People have sent reports to let his grandparents know how he’s treated.”
“What people?” There could be no such people. The house had lost a servant or two in recent years, but there’d been no visitors. He didn’t want visitors, particularly the repellent one who stood before him.
“I notice you don’t deny that Geoffrey is mistreated,” she replied.
Rage ripped through Benjamin. “My son is treated splendidly. He is fed and clothed and…and being taught his letters.” Of course he must be learning them. Perhaps he ought to know a bit more about the details of Geoffrey’s existence, Benjamin thought, but that didn’t mean the boy was mistreated.
Two postilions entered with a valise. “Leave that on the coach,” Benjamin commanded. “Miss…won’t be staying.” He couldn’t remember the dratted girl’s name.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Take it back. I’m only here to fetch Geoffrey.”
“Never in a thousand years,” said Benjamin.
“What do you care? You hardly speak to him. They say you can’t bear to look at him.”
“They. Who the devil are they?”
“Those with Geoffrey’s best interests at heart. And no sympathy for a cold, neglectful father.”
“Get out of my house!” he roared.
Instead, she came closer. “No. I won’t stand by and see a child harmed.”
“How…how dare you? No one lays a hand on him.” Benjamin was certain of that much, at least. He’d given precise orders about the level of discipline allowed in the nursery.
“Precisely,” replied his infuriating visitor. “He lives a life devoid of affection or approval. It’s a disgrace.”
Benjamin found he was too angry to speak.
“Please go and get Geoffrey,” the intruder said to the hovering maid.
“No,” Benjamin managed. He found his voice again. “On no account.” His hand swept the air. “Go away,” he added. The maid hurried out—someone who obeyed him, at least. Though Benjamin had no doubt that word was spreading through the house and the rest of his staff was rushing to listen at keyholes.
“Would you prefer that I report you to the local magistrate?” his outrageous visitor asked. “That would be Lord Hallerton, would it not? I inquired in advance.”
She scowled at him, immobile, intolerably offensive. Benjamin clenched his fists at his sides to keep from shaking her. While he was certain that any magistrate in the country would side with him over the fate of his son, he didn’t care to give the neighborhood a scandal. It seemed that spiteful tongues were already wagging. Who were the blasted gossips spreading lies about him to Alice’s parents? The tittle-tattle over this female’s insane accusations would be even worse.
The two of them stood toe to toe, glaring at each other. Her eyes were not simply brown, Benjamin observed. There was a coppery sparkle in their depths. The top of her head was scarcely above his shoulder. He could easily scoop her up and toss her back into the post chaise. The trouble was, he didn’t think she’d stay there. Or, she’d drive off to Hallerton’s place and spread her ludicrous dirt.
The air crackled with tension. Benjamin could hear his unwanted guest breathing. The postilion, who had put down the valise and was observing the confrontation, eyed him. Would he wade in if Benjamin ejected his unwelcome visitor? He had a vision of an escalating brawl raging through his peaceful home. Actually, it would be a relief to punch someone.
Into the charged silence came the sound of another carriage—hoofbeats nearing, slowing; the jingle of a harness; the click of a vehicle’s door opening and closing. What further hell could this be? Benjamin had long ago stopped exchanging visits with his neighbors. None would dare drop in on him.
When his uncle Arthur strolled through the still-open front door, Benjamin decided he must be dreaming. It was the only explanation. His life was a carefully orchestrated routine, hedged ’round with safeguards. This scattershot of inexplicable incidents was the stuff of nightmare. Now if he could just wake up.
His uncle stopped on the threshold and surveyed the scene with raised eyebrows. “Hello, Benjamin. And Miss…Saunders, is it not?”
“You know her?” Benjamin exclaimed.
“I believe we’ve met at the Phillipsons’ house,” Lord Macklin replied.
The intruder inclined her head in stiff acknowledgment.
Benjamin could believe it. His lost wife’s parents were a fixture of the haut ton. Entertaining was their obsession. One met everyone in their lavish town house, a positive beehive of hospitality. Indeed, now he came to think of it, he was surprised they’d spared a thought for Geoffrey. Small, grubby boys had no place in their glittering lives. “And do you know why she’s here?” he demanded, reminded of his grievance.
“How could I?” replied his uncle.
Too agitated to notice that this wasn’t precisely an answer, Benjamin pointed at the intruder. “She wants to take Geoffrey away from me.”
“Take him away?”
“To his grandparents,” Miss Saunders said. “Where he will be loved and happy. Rather than shunted aside like an unwanted poor relation.”
Benjamin choked on a surge of intense feelings too jumbled to sort out. “I will not endure any more of these insults. Get out of my house!”
“No. I will not stand by and see a child hurt,” she retorted.
“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You have no idea—”
“Perhaps we should go into the parlor,” the older man interrupted, gracefully indicating an adjoining room. “We could sit and discuss matters. Perhaps some refreshment?”
“No!” Benjamin wasn’t going to offer food and drink to a harpy who accused him of neglecting his son. Nor to a seldom-seen relative who betrayed him by siding with the enemy, however illustrious he might be. “There’s nothing to discuss, Uncle Arthur. I can’t imagine why you suggest it. Or why you’re here, in fact. I want both of you out of my home this—”
“Yaah!” With this bloodcurdling shriek, Geoffrey shot through the door at the back of the entry hall. Clad in only a tattered rag knotted at the waist, his small figure was smeared with red. For a horrified moment Benjamin thought the swirls were blood. Then he realized it was paint running down the length of his son’s small arms and legs. Shrieking and brandishing a tomahawk, the boy ran at Miss Saunders. He grabbed her skirts with his free hand, leaving red streaks on the cloth, and made chopping motions with the weapon he held. Fending him off, she scooted backward.
In two long steps, Benjamin reached his small son, grasped his wrist, and immobilized the tomahawk—real and quite sharp. Benjamin recognized it from a display shelf upstairs.
Geoffrey jerked and twisted in his grip, his skin slippery with paint. “Let go! I’m a red Indian on the warpath.” He kicked at Benjamin’s shins. As his small feet were bare, it didn’t hurt. His red-gold hair was clotted with paint, too, Benjamin noted. There were a couple of feathers—probably chicken—stuck in the mess.
His son began to climb, as if Benjamin was a tree or a ladder. Paint rubbed off on his breeches, his coat. Because of the tomahawk, Benjamin couldn’t let go of the boy’s wrist. He grabbed for him with his other hand.
Geoffrey lunged, caught the ball of Benjamin’s thumb between his teeth, and bit down. “Ow!” Benjamin lost his grip. Geoffrey thudded to the floor, frighteningly close to the blade he held. But he was up at once, unscathed. The rag he was wearing fell off. Geoffrey capered about stark naked, waving the tomahawk and whooping. A drop of blood welled from Benjamin’s thumb and dropped onto his waistcoat.
The immensely dignified Earl of Macklin knelt, bringing his head down to Geoffrey’s level. “Which tribe do you belong to?” he asked.
The boy paused to examine Benjamin’s uncle. Benjamin edged around to take his son from behind. But it was no good. Geoffrey spotted the maneuver and raised his weapon.
Benjamin’s uncle Arthur waved him back. “Your ax is from the Algonquian tribe, I believe,” he said to Geoffrey.
The boy blinked his celestial-blue eyes. “You know about red Indians?”
“Your grandfather was very interested in them. He showed me his collections and told me stories he’d gathered.”
Benjamin wondered when his father had had an opportunity to share his fascination with artifacts from the Americas with Uncle Arthur. He didn’t remember any such sessions. Perhaps when he was away at school?
“Grandfather,” repeated Geoffrey. He said the word as if he’d never heard it before. A pang of emotion went through Benjamin. Gritting his teeth, he pulled out his handkerchief and tied it around his bleeding thumb.
“Your father’s father,” added the earl, nodding at Benjamin.
Geoffrey turned to look. There was something unsettling in his blue gaze, Benjamin thought. Not accusation precisely; rather a speculation far beyond his years. And nothing at all like the gentle inquiry characteristic of his dead mother.
A gangling lad in worn clothing erupted from the rear doorway through which Geoffrey had come and skidded to a halt beside the boy. “You said if I reached down the paint, you’d stay in the schoolroom,” the new lad said. “Where’s your clothes?”
“No,” said Geoffrey. He was holding the tomahawk down at his side as if to conceal it, Benjamin noticed.
“You gave me your word,” argued the newcomer. He was a dark-haired boy of perhaps fourteen, with hands and feet that promised greater height and sleeves that exposed his wrists. Benjamin had no idea who he was.
“Didn’t!” declared Geoffrey. “Never said it.” The little ax came up in automatic defense.
“Where did you get that?” cried the older lad, clearly horrified.
Geoffrey laughed. He danced in a circle, waving the tomahawk.
In a move that looked well practiced, the youth stepped forward, snapped out a blanket from under his arm, threw it over Geoffrey, and quickly wrapped him up like an unwieldy package. Picking up the squirming bundle, he attempted a bow. “Beg pardon, your lordship,” he said, backing toward the rear of the house. Muffled shouts of protest mixed with laughter came from the woolen folds. They faded as the door closed behind the young duo.
Silence fell over the entryway. Benjamin’s uncle stood up. The postilion was staring like a spectator at a raree-show. Miss Saunders brushed at the drying paint on her skirts. She looked shaken. “You allow Geoffrey to play with…hatchets,” she accused.
“That thing was on a shelf ten feet up,” Benjamin said. He was pretty sure that was the spot. “In a locked room. I’m certain it’s locked.” Wasn’t it always? “I’ve no notion how he got it.”
“Precisely. You know nothing about your own son! Who can tell what other dangers surround him? I’m surprised he hasn’t been killed.”
“Nonsense.”
“And was that…rustic youngster your idea of a proper caretaker?”
Unable to supply any information about this person, and aware that appreciation of his ability to truss up a wriggling miscreant would not be well received, Benjamin ground his teeth.
“I must take Geoffrey to the Phillipsons at once,” his unwanted visitor added.
“Drag him into your post chaise and rattle off together?” asked Uncle Arthur amiably.
Benjamin nearly growled at him. Then he noticed Miss Saunders’s expression. The prospect of sharing a carriage with his naked, paint-smeared, ax-wielding son clearly daunted her. He could almost enjoy that. Indeed, if he hadn’t been defending his home from invasion, he might have laughed at the scene just past. Before taking steps to see that it never recurred, of course.
“It seems to me that we need a bit of time to consider the situation,” his uncle added. “I know I would appreciate a chance to get acquainted with my great-nephew.” This latter sentiment seemed perfectly sincere.
Miss Saunders muttered something. The word savage might have been included.
“I won’t have her in my house!” Benjamin said.
“I’ve no wish to stay with a monster of selfishness!”
But in the end, his uncle somehow persuaded them. Benjamin was never sure, afterward, how he’d come to agree. Was it simply easier? Had he been that desperate to escape his two unwanted guests and shut himself in the library again? And why had he promised to review his son’s educational program with these near-strangers? It was none of their business. And he was not afraid of what he might discover. Absolutely not. Even though he had no idea what it might be. Finally alone again, he sank into his familiar chair and put his head in his hands.
• • •
Upstairs, Jean Saunders sat on the bed in her allotted chamber, hands folded in her lap, jaw tight, and contemplated a rescue mission gone seriously awry. Her plan had been simple, efficient. She would swoop in, collect Geoffrey, and be gone. She should be on her way back to London by now. Her cousin Alice’s husband had been portrayed as so deeply sunk in mourning that he didn’t care what happened in his household. Hadn’t he? Where had she gotten that notion? She’d expected to face a drooping, defeated fellow who might welcome a relief from responsibility, not a gimlet-eyed crusader blazing with outrage. How could people have characterized that…masterful man as broken by grief? His eyes had practically burned through her. He’d pounced like a jungle cat to restrain his rampaging son.
Jean let out a long—not entirely unappreciative—breath at the memory. Still, the gossip about his lordship’s shameful neglect of Geoffrey was clearly on the mark. The boy was like some sort of wild animal. If he’d landed a blow with that hatchet… Folding her arms across her chest, Jean realized that she’d expected Geoffrey to be a cherubic child, like the smiling illustration on top of a chocolate box. She’d envisioned him in a little blue suit with a lace collar, dimpled and pink, putting his arms around her neck and softly thanking her for rescuing him. She’d thought to take his little hand and lead him off to happiness. Nothing could be more unlike the reality of a naked, prancing imp painted red, shrieking, and bent on mayhem. The maniacal glee in his eyes!
She let her arms fall to her sides and sat straighter, gathering her tattered resolution. It wasn’t Geoffrey’s fault that he hadn’t been taught manners—or any vestige of civilized behavior, apparently. That was the point, wasn’t it? He deserved far better. He must be guided and nurtured. She’d come here to save him, and she was going to do so. Hadn’t she nagged the Phillipsons half to death to make them offer refuge to their grandson? If Lord Furness found out the whole plan was her idea, and that Geoffrey’s grandparents were far from enthusiastic… Well, he could hardly be angrier than he was now.
Jean gripped the coverlet with both hands. He’d been furious. Standing up to him had been like confronting a force of nature. Perhaps he cared about his child after all? She’d be glad of that, naturally. Yet he hadn’t been affectionate with Geoffrey. And the boy had bitten him! What sort of bond was that?
No, Jean was all too familiar with neglectful parents. Geoffrey needed a new home. Probably her host was worried about his reputation and resented being exposed and thwarted. An old adage floated into Jean’s mind. Like father, like son. Did Geoffrey get his wild ways from his parent? A shiver passed through her. With a grimace, she banished it. She’d vowed never to be afraid again, and one blustering earl wasn’t going to cow her. Still less a five-year-old child.
The streaks of red paint on her gown caught Jean’s eye. She’d had to promise the Phillipsons that she’d take care of establishing their grandson once he was in London, seeing that he had the proper attendants. They were far too busy to bother with a child. It had seemed a trivial condition at the time, with her righteous indignation in full flood. Jean’s chocolate-box vision wavered into her mind again, immediately replaced by the naked, whooping reality. But Geoffrey would improve with gentle guidance and plenty of affection. Wouldn’t he? Quite quickly? Jean had no brothers or sisters. Indeed, she’d never had much to do with children of any stripe. Had she made a mistake?
No. Jean pushed off the bed and stood up like a soldier reporting for duty. She knew what it was like to be a miserable child. Memories of cold, dark silence rushed over her, setting her heart pounding and making her mouth dry. With practiced determination, she shoved them away. She’d come here to do the right thing. She would fight, and she would prevail.