Page 57 of The Recluse of Wolfeton House (Ladies of Devon 4)

Chapter 20

Bentley pulled on his leather riding gloves as he made his way toward the front door. It had rained for four continuous days with no reprieve. But now that the sun was finally shining again, he planned to take advantage of the fine weather and ride into town to visit the apothecary before the storm clouds descended once more. He’d felt a decided shift in his mood these last four days. A melancholy had settled upon him that he couldn’t seem to shake, and he imagined it had much more to do with the lack of painting lessons in his life than the lack of sun. Hattie’s sunshine could permeate any gloomy day, he was certain, and he’d been disappointed when she’d sent a footman over with a letter explaining that she had come down with a nasty headache and it would be better if they put off their barn meetings while it was raining so heavily.

Wouldn’t wish to catch our deaths, she had said. She’d signed the letter as Jeffrey—her brother, Bentley believed—in what was likely her attempt to keep them free of trouble if it was discovered that they were passing notes. Her handwriting had become known to him through her recent letters, however, and he knew the true author of the missive.

But nevermind that. Bentley had passed the rainy days working on Hattie’s portrait, and it was coming together quite nicely. He was nearly finished; he just needed to add the freckles. Though, that was not something he could do without her sitting in front of him, he decided. He also needed to wait for the paint to dry a little more, but it was getting closer.

“Bentley,” Warren called from the stairs, causing him to pause before the door. “Where are you off to?”

“The apothecary. I need more pigments.” He would usually ride to Melbury for this errand, but he was eager to return to his painting. One small trip into Graton wouldn’t cause him trouble, surely.

Warren sauntered down the stairs, a lazy smile on his mouth. “You do realize you can order paints already mixed, yes? I know a number of people who do so. Saves them heaps of trouble.”

“Yes, but I prefer to mix my own. Would you care to join me?”

Warren wrinkled his nose. “I’d prefer to have breakfast.”

“At one in the afternoon?”

Warren’s laugh echoed through the wood-encased corridor that led to the entryway. “Yes, breakfast at one. You know I had a late night last night.”

“I did assume as much. Though I never heard you return.” He swallowed. “Just having a bit of fun?”

“Not really. I went down to the pub. Jolly’s, was it?”

“Yes, that would be the inn. The only taproom we have around.”

Warren scrubbed a hand over his face. “Small crowd, but it was lively enough.”

“Quite an astute description of country living,” Bentley said.

Warren barked a laugh. “Right you are.” He yawned. “Oh, while I have you here. What are your thoughts on that dinner invitation? How shall we reply?”

“What dinner do you speak of?”

“Did I not tell you? The woman who lives just on the other side of those woods—Green, was it?—invited us to dinner on Tuesday next.”

Bentley’s stomach clenched. Hattie had extended an invitation to dine? To both him and Warren? “Miss Green invited us? Are you certain I was included?”

“Yes, quite certain. Though it wasn’t Miss Green who penned the note. A Mrs. Green, I believe. I can’t recall meeting her at Carter’s, but I suppose I must have done.”

Bentley’s mind whirled. The sister-in-law was up to something, but what? He knew Hattie better than this. She would never have put him in so uncomfortable a position as to be forced to decline an invitation.

“You can do whatever you wish,” Bentley said.

Warren came closer, a soberness to his expression. “Have you given any thought to what would happen if Mr. Humphries was to die?”

“Yes,” Bentley said, though his throat went dry regardless. “I can hardly think of anything else. But his death wouldn’t change much. My mother has still yet to apologize, and—”

“But your fears, Bentley. They would no longer be necessary. You could go out again, join the Lords, and do all that good for the world that you always spoke of when we were young.”

“Those dreams were dashed the night my father died,” Bentley said. “I no longer carry aspirations of any grandeur.”

“I’m certain grandeur of any sort has never been on your agenda, Bentley. But I won’t press the matter further.” He paused, his eyes sweeping over Bentley’s face. “If you do not go to them, will you regret it later?”

That was the question that had plagued Bentley since receiving his mother’s letter just four days prior. He did think that attending his mother’s husband on his sickbed would only end badly for all involved. Bentley could never forgive them, so what was the purpose of going?

He didn’t answer Warren, instead, stepping back.

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