Page 29 of The Recluse of Wolfeton House (Ladies of Devon 4)

“Daisy, Rosie, come,” Hattie commanded, and the dogs backed away from the carriage, sitting on the gravel beside her feet, their tails wagging behind them and disturbing the small rocks.

The coachman took his place as a groom climbed into a saddle, prepared to ride as a postilion. Wheels crunched over the gravel as the carriage rolled forward, disappearing down the lane and into the wispy fog. The dogs chased after the moving carriage until it reached the edge of the trees, and then they circled back to the house.

“Well?” Lucy’s eyebrows rose, her hands clasped tightly around Jeffrey’s arm. She bent into her husband as though she was cold, and a shiver spread over Hattie.

“They are having trouble,” Hattie said, indicating the letter from the duke. If only the wretched servant hadn’t arrived exactly when the entire family was gathered outside, she could have hidden the note, which Bentley undoubtedly hoped she would be able to do. He had risked much by sending it to her, foremost her reputation. She must now show the note to Lucy and Jeffrey or put them off somehow, and she had no notion of how to do the latter.

“Oh, dear.” Lucy pouted. “The cat won’t go with the servants?”

However was she going to get away with this? “Well, no.”

“But surely they’ve located the animal now. Shall we fetch him?”

“Mrs. Notley, the housekeeper, is a caring woman, and she will undoubtedly make certain he is fed and cared for.” She lifted the note, hopeful her brother and sister-in-law would take that to mean that the letter came from the servant and not Bentley. “I’m certain Romeo will be willing to come home quite soon.”

“But surely we ought to retrieve him.” Lucy’s blue eyes bore into her, but Hattie would not relent. She’d already allowed Lucy’s antics to put her in an uncomfortable position in the woods the day before. She would not permit it to happen again.

She shook her head. “I cannot. I planned to paint out at the old barn this morning.”

“In this fog?” Jeffrey asked.

“It will likely lift soon. But if not, then I shall paint the fog.” She pretended to contemplate this possibility. “Laying over the rolling, green hills. Subduing everything. It would make for a lovely setting.”

Jeffrey eyed her with misgiving.

Lucy nodded in understanding. “Ah, well, that explains the gown, then.”

Clenching her teeth, Hattie cast her brother and his wife a bright smile. She thought her dark blue gown was simple and tasteful, not akin to a work dress as Lucy had implied. Of course, if it did not come from a London modiste, completed in a fabric so gauzy and thin it was certain to tear without the greatest of care, then it was not up to snuff to Lucy. Which only made Hattie want to don her thickest, darkest dresses whenever she was in her sister-in-law’s company.

Fortunately, her dark blue gown also happened to be her warmest. Fingering the thick, navy skirt, she turned for the house. “If you need me, you will know where to find me.”

Strictly speaking, that was not true. But Jeffrey hardly ever had need of her, and if he did send someone after her, she could always claim that she had gone in search of a different scene to paint. Either way, if things went as she expected them to at the duke’s house, she would be returning with her cat soon.

* * *

Bentley lifted the forkful of ham and took a bite before chasing it with a swallow of tea. Sending the note to Hattie had been risky, but no other option had presented itself. Romeo had already given Edwin enough scratches to make the man appear as though he’d just crawled through blackberry brambles, and Bentley was not about to grant himself the same treatment.

But neither could he allow just anyone entrance into his home. No, his privacy was of the utmost importance.

It was bad enough he was letting Hattie in. But she was different—she was an artist.

A throat cleared in the doorway and Bentley glanced up to find his butler, tall and void of any emotion. “A letter, Your Grace.” He proffered a silver platter, and Bentley took the folded paper, at once disappointed that it had been marked from the post and was not from his neighbor.

He’d sent the note to Hattie hours ago and had yet to receive a response. Perhaps he’d been mistaken, but he’d been under the assumption that she was quite eager to have her cat returned to her. And Edwin, upon returning from delivering the note, had informed Bentley of how promptly he’d been dismissed after she’d read it.

Bentley tried to put Hattie from his mind, but nerves shook his body with slight tremors. It was ridiculous and quite embarrassing—or it would be if anyone else knew of it. The discomfort of not knowing precisely what was ahead of him was strong, taking over his body with a physicality that was frustrating. But Bentley could not help it. He had always been this way, which was part of why he’d turned to artistic and bookish pursuits in school, choosing solitary activities whenever allowed.

Turning the note over in his hands, he fought the urge to throw it directly into the fire. He might not want letters from his mother, but he did do her the courtesy of reading them before disposing of them. He held on to the fear that he would one day throw away an unopened letter that contained an apology—the one thing that could make him change his mind.

Taking the knife from the salver Egerton held, Bentley sliced through the wax seal and unfolded the paper, skimming the contents. He suppressed a sigh, his eyes tripping over more of the same. Requests for him to put aside his childish prejudices—as if that would make him inclined to forgive—and travel across the country to see Mother and her husband and mend old wounds. She even had the gumption to request that he set out at once.

But he wouldn’t. Mother should know that. Dropping the knife on the salver with a clang, he crumpled the letter in his hands, balling it tightly as Egerton backed from the room.

Pacing before the table, Bentley continued to squeeze the paper between his palms while flashes of his father’s final night ran through his mind. Had he not been subject to days without sleep, sitting beside his father’s bed and watching life slowly drain from the person he loved above all others, he would not have dozed on the chair. If he had not been half-asleep, he never would have overheard the conversation that had completely changed his life.

And it never would have stolen the most important moment of his life from him, robbing Bentley of being at his father’s bedside when he slipped away from this world.

No, Mother was guilty of more than just a lifetime of lies. She had taken much from Bentley, and he refused to speak to her until she admitted her faults and apologized for them. He could never respect a woman who refused to own blame for the sake of her pride.

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