Page 3 of The Recluse of Wolfeton House (Ladies of Devon 4)

Chapter 2

The Duke of Bentley was about to pass his thirtieth birthday and thus was far too old for games. He eyed the letter on his desk with misgiving, the familiar scrawl peeking from the bent paper and mocking him. He’d read it over and over again, doing his best to ascertain the jest, but it seemed his mother was entirely serious. She truly wished for him to travel all the way to her estate in Kent to visit her and her husband.

Bentley scoffed, running a hand over his stubbled jaw. Surely she could not be in earnest, contacting him after all these years to beg him to reconsider. He had no interest in her husband, as she should well understand, and the man’s declining health bore little hardship on Bentley.

Mother had mentioned her husband’s various illnesses over the previous few years, and never once had Bentley felt the least concern or desire to go to them. He had a feeling this latest letter was nothing but a ploy to force him to travel to Kent. But even if it was the truth, the last sickbed he’d attended had been that of his father seven years ago, and he had no further reason to duplicate the experience. He’d since sequestered himself in the wilds of Devonshire to safeguard himself from this very thing.

Egerton, his butler, came into the room and placed a polished, silver tray on the edge of his sturdy, oak desk. “Your tea, Your Grace.”

“Thank you, Egerton.” Bentley stared at the missive, ignoring the tea. It would take much more than this measly letter for him to reconsider. His lodge was secluded, quiet, and peaceful, and he was content where he was. He did not plan to change that now, not even for the man who was married to his estranged mother.

“The Times has come.” The tall, slender butler took the folded newspaper from under his arm and set it beside the tray, casually awaiting more instruction.

Bentley should tell the man he was permitted to leave now, but he needed a distraction. Besides, curiosity had taken root on the edges of his consciousness since leaving the milliner’s earlier that day, and he was terribly desperate to set his mind to anything besides his mother’s letter.

Shoving the folded paper to the side, he set his gaze on his butler. “Do you know much of the woman who runs the millinery shop in Graton? I believe she is called Mrs. Dawson.”

Egerton’s hands came to rest behind his aged, stooped back. The dying fire flickered just beyond him though it had long since ceased giving off any real heat. “Yes, Your Grace. Mrs. Notley and I have had occasion to speak to her after services on Sundays.”

“What do you make of her?”

A flicker of uncertainty passed over Egerton’s face. “She is a good, God-fearing woman. I believe she was widowed some five or six years ago, but she has not remarried.”

What relevance her marital status held was beyond Bentley. He nodded. So the woman was alone, reliant on her shop patrons for income—and companionship if he had his guess—and completely willing to persuade young women to spend more than they ought.

Bentley had nearly inserted himself earlier at the shop and mentioned to the young woman that she needn’t buy the expensive gloves if she had no use for them. He’d noticed her indecision but had held back, curious to see what she would do.

He hadn’t been surprised by the young woman’s actions. So easy it was to be swindled. Bentley would know.

But he was disappointed. He’d wanted this woman to be different. When she’d tripped over the mirror stand and he’d reached for her impulsively, he hadn’t expected to feel such a strong response—he’d merely reacted to her fall. It had been years…years since he’d held a woman in his arms, and warmth had ripped through him with swift ferocity, spiking his intrigue at once. But she had hastened to remove herself from his hold, as if she couldn’t get away fast enough, and her somewhat insipid speech had put him off her right away.

If only Bentley could determine why the small, inconsequential meeting had left him so unable to focus on anything else for the last hour.

He hadn’t even meant to stop in Graton. He usually avoided it at all costs. But he’d been sorely in need of a new pair of gloves and that wasn’t the sort of thing one could send a servant for. Not when the milliner had to measure Bentley’s hands. Today he’d chosen to save some time and order the gloves in Graton—he could send someone to retrieve them when they were ready.

He hadn’t realized the quick trip was going to become so lively, or that he would be so troubled by a strange woman’s behavior.

“Is there anything further I can do for you, Your Grace?”

Flattening his lips together, Bentley gave a shake of his head. He ought to push the woman from his mind and drink his tea before it went cold.

Egerton, as stoic and calm as ever, continued as though the odd line of questioning had never been pursued. “I took the liberty of having Edwin set up the blue room, Your Grace.”

“Very good, Egerton. I shall be in shortly.”

His butler gave a stiff bow and let himself quietly from the room. When Bentley had chosen this estate from all his father’s holdings to escape to years ago, he’d done so largely because of its distance from his mother, and secondarily because of the sheer seclusion it provided. The small woods which encircled the house were a barrier between his estate and the neighboring ones.

He prepared his tea precisely how he liked it, with one small lump of sugar and a dash of milk, then he brought the cup to his lips and tentatively sipped the steaming beverage.

Bentley had once met his neighbor to the east when he’d fished in the lake they shared, but the man was too jovial and friendly, too interested, and Bentley hadn’t bothered to pursue the acquaintance.

People, he’d found, were far too curious by nature to allow a man to live in peace unless he took particular measures. Bentley had accomplished this easily by refusing to form relationships with anyone. He did not smile at those he passed in the road, nor did he bother with frivolous greetings to strangers. He merely built and cultivated a simple existence in his small estate with his servants and himself for company. He had nearly everything he needed here.

The one thing he missed in his chosen life of seclusion was attending church. But doing so would be dangerous. It led to building relationships with the townspeople, to caring. He risked enough by his monthly jaunts to Melbury’s apothecary for the ingredients he needed to make his paints—but that was not a task he wished to relegate to the servants. And anyway, the visit he’d received from the vicar, Mr. Conway, had gone a long way in ensuring that he’d not regret missing that particular man’s services. He was too pushy by half.

Lifting his teacup, Bentley tucked the newspaper under his arm and crossed toward the low-burning fire. His eyes scanned the familiar handwriting on the back of the letter, depicting his name and direction, before he tossed it onto the grate. The paper glowed over the flames as they licked its edges, curling them up and into ash. He waited for remorse or guilt to permeate his chest, but neither arrived.

Walking away, Bentley sipped his tea and shook out his newspaper. After seven years, Mother should know her pleas would fall on deaf ears. He was better off alone.

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