Page 42 of The Recluse of Wolfeton House (Ladies of Devon 4)

Bentley dropped the brushes in a cup of turpentine. Taking the rag he’d used to wipe Hattie’s arm, he set to cleaning off errant smudges from his hands. He froze, his gaze falling on Hattie’s gloves at the bureau, and he crossed the room. “Were you able to obtain gloves in Graton, then?”

“No,” Warren said, sighing. “I changed my mind and went for a bruising ride over the countryside instead. Maybe I can stop in on my way to Melbury tomorrow.”

Or Wednesday, and then he would be absent from the house. Bentley tossed his rag over Hattie’s gloves, busying himself with gathering the pigment bottles and pretending to arrange them. He didn’t need to put everything away quite yet, but he needed to look like he had a purpose on that side of the room, and had not just been covering evidence of Hattie’s presence.

“How long do you plan to be away? Just for the night?”

Warren rubbed a hand over his face. “I had thought to stay a few days. I surely will not return the morning after the ball.” He grew serious. “It is not too late to change your mind.”

“You know I cannot go out in Society. Not without risking my—”

“Your good name, yes, I know. But with the beard”—he motioned to Bentley’s face—“you’re nearly unrecognizable. You could take on a false name, pretend to be a lowly…blacksmith or some such thing.”

“A blacksmith.”

Warren nodded, his lower lip curving downward as though he was warming to the idea. “Yes. No man of good standing would arrive at a ball with unkempt facial hair.”

“But a blacksmith would?” Bentley crossed to the other chair and used his boot to drag it to face Warren before sitting. “I’m not sure I’ve ever seen a blacksmith at a private ball.”

“Well, neither have I,” Warren said. “But I’m certain if he was to come, he wouldn’t bother with tasks like shaving.”

Bentley ran a hand over his unkempt facial hair, as Warren put it, the coarse whiskers short enough to still be scratchy. He hadn’t quite reached what he would classify as a beard, but he believed his cousin to be teasing him. “I take your meaning, but I’ll have you know that I care not for your opinion.”

“What opinion?” Warren asked, feigning confusion. “I am merely commenting on the fact that no self-respecting gentleman would be seen in public with scruffy, unkempt facial hair.”

Bentley chuckled. “It’s rather a good thing then that I don’t venture into Society often, eh?”

“I rather thought you didn’t venture out at all.”

Bentley rose. He wasn’t sure he liked the direction this conversation was taking. “You’d mentioned tea. Shall I ring for some?”

“Yes. But you cannot avoid the subject completely, you know.” He took a breath, as if gathering courage to deliver a fatal blow. “Unless you wish to hide out here for the rest of your life, you shall have to face her at some point.”

“Perhaps I do plan to hide out here the rest of my life.” Bentley crossed to the hearth and pulled the bell rope, but his breathing was shaky. He did not wish to speak of his mother. Not to Warren. Not to anyone. “I don’t see any other option available to me at present, and furthermore, I am perfectly content in my life here.”

“Your life here?” Warren threw his arms out to his sides. “Bentley, is all this hiding away really living?”

Bentley paused, staring at Warren, unsure how to answer him. His jaw tightened against the criticism, and his impulse was to flee. But he clenched his hands into fists and stood his ground. “I’ve never been drawn to a social life. That is not a new development.”

“No, it’s not new. I grant you that. But to be wholly secluded is not the same thing as choosing to forgo most social engagements. In Kent, you had other people to speak to. Even if the interactions were seldom, at least you were not always alone.”

He was not alone here, either. He had Egerton, Mrs. Notley, and even Edwin on occasion to turn to for conversation. There were others around, but none that he spoke to. He had a feeling that citing his servants as a source of conversation would only strengthen Warren’s case against him.

The door opened to admit Egerton.

“Have Cook send up some tea, please?” he asked, loosening the tightness in his hands.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Egerton bowed, exiting the room.

“Just agree to think on my words,” Warren said. “I have much more I could say on the matter, but I will hold my tongue.”

The threat was not endearing Warren to Bentley in the slightest. What more could he possibly say? “Do not hold back on my account.”

Warren waited a moment, then he sat forward in his chair. “You have had years to come to terms with what you learned that ghastly night. Do you not feel that you owe your mother some grace? Or at least the opportunity to explain herself?”

“She’s had both in spades,” he said coolly.

“I’m not certain you can count it as giving her grace when you’ve refused to speak to her since your father died.”

Bentley shrugged. “I gave her ample opportunity to provide a reasonable explanation. She had none. I do not need to forgive a woman who has shown no remorse, nor taken the chance to apologize for how she’s ruined my life.”

“You are still the duke. Nothing can change that.”

Warren didn’t truly understand, and Bentley could see no way to show the man how very wrong he was. It went so much deeper than whether or not the dukedom was his.

He would have regretted confiding in his cousin all those years ago, but he’d been overcome with grief at the time, and Warren had proved a valuable confidant throughout his life. Indeed, he was glad that one man knew of his secret and had not cast him off for it. At least he could trust Warren.

He couldn’t say the same for the rest of Society.

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