Guarding the Spoils (The Wild Randalls - Book 3)

by Boyd, Heather

  The next instant, George wrapped himself around Oliver’s waist, the book and pencil box squashed between them. The boy held on a long time and only released him at Oliver’s urging. When he caught sight of the boy’s face, he reached for his handkerchief and handed it over without a word.

  “Thank you, sir.” George sniffed and turned away to wipe his eyes.

  In truth, Oliver was rather glad he did because the sight of the boy’s emotions did strange things to him. He was not used to being ruled by feelings instead of facts. He’d rather discuss a topic rationally than be stirred to passion over it.

  He returned to his packing, or rather repacking, for his trip, his thoughts whirling with arguments and contingency plans. He had to convince Henry Turner to leave the boy and his mother here at Romsey, and if he couldn’t be persuaded by rational argument, then he would consider what incentive would be sufficient to sway him.

  He dug down to a small pouch at the bottom of the trunk and calculated the sum contained there and in the other cases strewn about the room. Likely not enough to convince Henry Turner to go away, but there was always the Duke’s Sanctuary below should he need additional funds quickly without raising eyebrows at his actions. People seldom went along with his plans until he explained them fully.

  He returned his money to its resting place as he considered how to get into the sanctuary without being seen. That could prove a problem. There was a constant stream of servants traversing the corridor beyond and the long hall was in frequent use. But how to get back out without detection was the biggest worry. He’d likely need help. He’d need someone he could trust not to ask to see the room or covet the contents held there or speak of it to anyone else for the rest of their lives.

  Even Eamon couldn’t be trusted to that extent. The lure of that much untended wealth would be too great a temptation to avoid speaking of.

  Perhaps he could sneak there at night.

  George eventually drifted into the room he liked best, leaving Oliver alone with his thoughts. But he wasn’t really alone, for now he had Elizabeth and George’s happiness foremost in his mind. Now there were two people whose futures he thought of beside his own. The discovery disturbed him.

  He sat down at a table and drew paper toward him. His reaction to Elizabeth and George were far from rational and he didn’t trust his thinking to be clear. By recording his thoughts exactly as they occurred to him, he filled up a page with cramped script. The fors and againsts of interfering in Elizabeth’s life.

  When he was done, he poured a glass of port and strolled about the room, considering each item on his list. Firstly, there might not be sufficient funds to even buy the boy’s freedom from his uncle’s plans. Two, to become involved would arouse suspicion of Elizabeth’s character and spark rumors of a relationship existing between them that might in turn give rise to a false expectation of marriage. Three, who was he to determine the course of another person’s life? He valued his freedom and should extend the same courtesy to others.

  He skimmed the remaining items and paused on the last. Elizabeth might not even want his help. When she had been faced with the news, it had not been him she had turned to for direction.

  He tossed back the contents of the glass and refilled it, contemplating the frustrating woman. She was as headstrong and protective as she was pretty and intelligent, but likely to ignore sound advice when presented, no matter how thoroughly. Elizabeth wouldn’t ask for his help at all and if he offered, she likely wouldn’t listen.

  He crushed the paper and threw it into the flames. There was no point involving himself too deeply if he was leaving. Elizabeth had made it very clear she didn’t need him.

  Chapter Fourteen

  GETTING TO KNOW her brother-in-law again was a slow and troubling task for Beth. Henry simply could not focus on answering the whole of her questions. Before he’d granted her an answer she wanted, he’d veer off onto another topic entirely and it could take almost half an hour to realize that fact.

  Since Henry had insisted that it was too warm outside to be comfortable, she’d agreed to his suggestion to give him a tour of the abbey. She kept her eyes on him as they strolled through the library, but he wasn’t very interested in books. They stopped often to admire the paintings hung on the walls, vases, and the views revealed at different locations.

  Henry leaned close to the glass in the drawing room, peering out into the gardens beyond. “I’ve not missed England, let me assure you.” His fingers skimmed the glass, leaving yet another careless finger mark that one of the overworked maids would have to polish away, and moved to shift aside the heavy red drapes that impeded his view on the next window.

  Beth moved a few paces away, hoping to lure him toward the center of the room where there were fewer items he could touch. “Are there any dangers we should be prepared for?”

  Henry dropped the drape, his expression thoughtful as he gazed about him. “A few. Nothing for you to be concerned about. I’ll be there and you’ll always have my servants about you at the plantation house. I gather this room is used most often?”

  “It is. The duchess greets all her guests here,” she said quickly before returning to her questions about his situation. “Is it named? The house at the plantation, I mean.”

  Henry studied the clock on the marble mantelpiece, his fingers gliding over the gilding. He tapped it with his finger. “Yes, I believe it has one.”

  Beth frowned at his answer. Every question answered left her wanting more. And if he did not stop handling the duchess’s possessions she would have to ask him his intentions. His attentions to the small but expensive items in the house were making her extremely nervous about his character. “Will you not tell me what the house is called?”

  “Lillyvale. I don’t much care for it,” he added with a shrug. He walked away from the clock and peered out another window.

  “It sounds very pretty to me,” she murmured.

  “Pretty,” he exclaimed with enough contempt dripping from his voice to make her shiver. “Now there is a word that could never apply to the place. “

  During the course of his visit, Henry had given her the impression that softness or grace had no place in his life. Given what he’d told her so far, it seemed he’d worked very hard to get where he was today. He may be dressed as well as any gentleman she had encountered, but he wore it with such disdain. Dark brocade waistcoat above dark pantaloons, gold fob chain glittering in the sunlight, it all appeared the picture of propriety. The fit of his coat was perhaps a little snug, but that hardly mattered. Her gaze lingered on his hands too often, though. They were not a gentleman’s hands.

  She led him toward the long gallery where George had scampered ahead. “Do you act as host often to your neighbors and friends?”

  “No,” he said somewhat gruffly, pausing to peer at one of the Randall’s less illustrious-looking ancestors. “There’s little time for play in the New World.”

  “Are there no gatherings or even balls from time to time?” Beth quizzed, determined to learn what type of society she would join.

  “Some, but I’ve no patience for that nonsense. I’m too busy with the estate business.” He called to George and demanded her son wait for them to catch up.

  Meandering from room to room as Henry was doing was not of interest to her energetic offspring. She could tell George would rather be elsewhere—the library, hanging on Oliver’s every word, or pestering cook for biscuits—than spending the morning in this boring fashion. Henry still had some way to go in his manner before he could be considered a beloved uncle.

  She wasn’t especially surprised by her son’s reticence to form a closer bond with the man. Henry rebuffed all attempts at kindness, and it was no wonder he had no family of his own. Perhaps all he needed was the right woman to soften his rough edges. Perhaps, when she’d come to know his character better, she could help him find a wife. As sister-in-law she’d be perfectly placed to honestly promote his good qualities to another lady.
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  With this new plan in mind she joined the pair, but their conversation stuttered to a halt at her approach.

  George tugged her sleeve. “Can I go to the library now?”

  “Perhaps later,” Beth murmured quickly to stave off any arguments. The library was one of George’s favorite places in the abbey. He could happily spend hours there and not be at a loose end. But his uncle was here now and shouldn’t be abandoned simply because he was bored.

  “But, Mama, please,” George began. “I was reading about…”

  Henry placed his hand on George’s shoulder and must have squeezed hard because George wriggled out from under it and whirled around to stare at his uncle. “Ouch. What did you do that for?”

  Instead of apologizing, Henry shrugged. “Where I come from that’s mild. You don’t get ahead in this world by reading from books. You think fast and do what you’re told. Living here has weakened you, son.”

  “I’m not your son,” George bit out hotly. “Stop saying that. I’m only your nephew.”

  “Don’t talk back to your betters,” Henry growled out, hand rising a horrifying fraction.

  Afraid her son would provoke him, Beth drew George against her and kept her gaze fixed on her brother-in-law. When she took in Henry’s reddening face, she became all too aware of Oliver’s warning. Henry had a temper and George’s harmless request had triggered it far too easily.

  She caught her son’s gaze. “I think perhaps you should return to our rooms instead of the library. We can go out for some exercise shortly. I should like to speak with your uncle alone.”

  George appeared unhappy about it, but he nodded. “Yes, Mama.”

  He rushed off, leaving Beth to face Henry. She wiped her suddenly sweaty palms on her skirts, troubled by Henry’s aggression and what it might signify. “I would appreciate it if you would not chastise my son again. You are not his father to mete out a punishment. That is for me to decide.”

  “If you’d raised him right I wouldn’t have to intercede. Children should do as they’re told the first time and not complain about it.”

  “You’ve experience with children?” When Henry muttered “some,” she continued. “George has always had an inquisitive mind, but we could never afford enough books to satisfy him. Being here has filled that lack. He was likely wishing to return to the library to continue his research on America, since we are to live there soon.”

  Henry pointed a finger at Beth. “Don’t you speak ill of my brother. Do not dishonor your husband in such a fashion again.”

  Beth frowned. “I wasn’t. William often lamented that he couldn’t do more for George and his siblings. Each loss was painful to us both.”

  “They said you had another son.”

  “A daughter, too. They died suddenly of a fever that wouldn’t abate.” She stepped back from her brother-in-law. “Who spoke of my children? Who told you we were living here?”

  “I’ve got ears.” Henry looked around them, his eyes narrowing to slits. “But my sources also hinted you were doing more than that.”

  She understood his implied meaning immediately and did her best not to react. She had often feared Leopold’s concern and charity would be misunderstood by others. The gossip about her moving to the abbey must be very thick if Henry had come here fully informed with groundless suspicions exactly one month since she’d improved her living conditions. “The things people gossip about,” she said offhand, hoping to break the tension between them. “Not a grain of truth in any of it.”

  “They say Leopold Randall charged in to save the day. Quite the romantic story if one believes it.”

  The idea that Leopold Randall could have had romantic intentions toward her, or any woman after meeting the duchess, was ludicrous. She struggled not to laugh aloud because she suspected Henry wouldn’t appreciate any levity. “My husband once said that Leopold would feed a starving field mouse if he could. He hadn’t learned until his return that William had passed. When he saw how bad it was for us after William’s death, he wanted to honor that friendship by supporting us.”

  Henry’s expression grew scornful. “He brought more than just food. They say he brought you here to warm his bed.”

  “That’s a lie.” Beth’s head snapped up, heat flooding her face at his vulgar suggestion. That he’d voice a suspicion aloud so determinedly proved he was not the kind man she remembered or thought she’d known. She struggled not to clench her fists. “I came to be employed as Lady Venables’s companion. There is no impropriety in that.”

  He stepped closer, eyes hard as flint. “You’ve got a guilty look about you.”

  Beth lifted her chin. “I’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Henry’s face grew skeptical. “Not yet, but women are all the same. Don’t think I won’t be watching you. You’ll not be bringing disgrace on the Turner name if you know what’s good for you and your son.”

  With that he took his leave, but Beth was shaken to her core. She leaned against the wall as she strove to slow the fast beating of her heart. It was clear Henry believed the rumors that she had earned her way into the abbey on her back. She covered her face as the memory of Oliver’s hands and lips upon her body taunted her. If Henry learned the truth about Oliver then he might have cause for his anger.

  But it had only been one kiss and not repeated. She would make sure it was not and that she was never alone with Oliver any more than she absolutely had to be.

  She pushed off the wall and made her way upstairs to her bedchamber, expecting to find George there waiting. The peace inside the chamber gave her pause and she looked about. Instead of George, she found a note on her pillow. She rushed to pick it up. Notes were never good news. Out walking in the east garden with Mr. Randall.

  Beth snatched up her warmest pelisse, hat, and gloves and quickly left the abbey. She trudged through the long grass and less populated area of the estate but saw no sign of her son. She kept walking until she reached a stream and the charming footbridge that crossed it. Downstream a little way, George stood knee-deep in water, a fishing pole poised in one hand. Beside him, Oliver Randall fished too.

  So much for avoiding Oliver Randall.

  Chapter Fifteen

  THE COLD OF the slow-moving stream caressing Oliver’s bare ankles as he secured the fishing line to the pole reminded him of happier times spent not far from here before his captivity. Then he’d been struggling to master angling with his brothers farther downstream. Trying and failing most often to catch even one trout to lie beside his brother’s impressive efforts. Fishing was not a skill he excelled at, but when he’d seen the insect activity in the air outside the abbey’s lower windows, he’d rushed outside, dragging Elizabeth’s son with him for the adventure of the unseasonably warm autumn day.

  The boy’s brow was furrowed in concentration, as it had been from the moment the stream had come into view. He cast his line close to a fallen log some distance away. Even now, an hour after landing his first catch, he didn’t appear bored by the activity. The boy’s skill and persistence impressed him. He had more patience for the activity than Oliver had ever had.

  A steady noise, audible over the slow rush of water, interrupted his musings—twigs snapping under the pressure of soft footfalls. He glanced over his shoulder at the closest bank, mildly annoyed by the interruption. His eyes widened and his pulse danced in excitement when his gaze locked on Elizabeth striding toward them. He held his finger to his lips. “Quiet, he has a knack for this.”

  As the boy’s mother drew closer, he discovered his error in thinking her an eager participant in the fishing adventure. Elizabeth’s face twisted furiously. She waded out into the shallow water at the edge of the stream, wetting her footwear and skirts in the process, to grab her son by the arm. “I said to wait in your bedchamber. How dare you disobey me?”

  The boy yelped and dropped the rod, guilt writ large on his face. “But Mr. Randall said we had to go now as the mayflies were out. I thought you would still be with Uncle Henr
y. He said you had things to discuss in private and I had to make myself scarce.”

  Oliver quickly retrieved the rod before it floated downstream, turning over the boy’s words in his mind. At no time had the boy hinted he couldn’t come when Oliver had invited him. He hadn’t known about Elizabeth’s instructions. He’d not meant to undermine her wishes. He cursed under his breath as her gaze turned on him, blue eyes hardening to ice chips.

  “It’s my fault,” he said quickly, taking full responsibility for getting swept up in his own concerns with no thought to what she might have expected. It wasn’t in his nature to think of others first, but when it came to the boy he had to remember to do that.

  “Of course it is.” Her grip on the boy eased and eventually she released him. “You listen to me and no other.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” George retrieved his pole from Oliver and stood tall. “May I continue fishing or do I have to go back with you now? We haven’t caught enough for Cook yet.”

  Elizabeth glanced at the bank where George’s efforts, three sizeable trout, lay waiting to be delivered to the kitchens. “I suppose you may as well, but do not disobey me again,” she said eventually.

  George crowed with happiness and quickly cast his lure into the slow eddy he had been methodically working.

  When Elizabeth struggled with her heavy wet dress to regain the bank, Oliver tossed his rod ahead of him before scooping her up in his arms. He carried her to shore, water streaming from her skirts, and deposited her gently on her feet on the grassy slope.

  He knelt and caught the bottom edge of her gown and squeezed as much water from the material as he could. Her footwear was likely ruined, however.

  He stood to tell her so and her expression caught him off guard. To his eye, her agitation was too great for George merely slipping from the house without her permission or the inconvenience of a wet dress. Had something occurred with Turner when the boy had left her side?