Page 71 of The Recluse of Wolfeton House (Ladies of Devon 4)

Chapter 24

Bentley stood on the rounded portico of his ancestral home in Kent, the pillars behind him blocking shafts of weak sunlight as rain poured down in sheets. He was drenched, unable to escape the rain during the last few hours of his ride and unwilling to prolong the trip any longer by stopping to wait it out. He’d been at it for far too long already, and uncomfortable on an unfamiliar borrowed hack he’d been forced to use when his own steed grew too weary.

But now that he stood on the steps of his home, the house his father had raised him in, where his mother had now lived with her husband for the last seven years, he could not bring himself to go inside.

The servants knew Bentley was there. They’d taken the horse and promised him a hot bath would be waiting in his old room. It had been a shock to the old groom Wiley and the stable master, Jeeves, when he’d shown up in the stable’s doorway, and Bentley hadn’t realized how glad he would be to see their familiar faces after so long.

He would be satisfied if he could change out of his wet clothes and warm his chilled body before facing his mother. But managing to slip upstairs unseen could prove tricky. The enormous house towered above him and he wondered at the feeling of contentment that had settled over him when it had first come into view. He was home. This was where he would always feel a connection to his father. Though in truth, after his many years at Wolfeton House, this mansion now felt far too big.

The door swung open and he straightened, staring into the shocked, wrinkled face of Haskett, his old steward.

“Master Silas, is it really you?” The man’s mouth gaped like a trout. “The servants are in a bit of a flutter, and I had to see it for myself.”

Bentley slicked water from his hair and nodded.

“Dashed rain. Come in, sir.” He shook his head quickly, his jowls shuddering from the motion like a shaken jelly mold. “No, forgive me. Your Grace. You’re Bentley now, aren’t you? These old bones will take some time to get used to that.”

He’d been Bentley for seven years but knew none in his household likely saw him that way. How could they? He’d left as soon as the dukedom had fallen on his shoulders. To them, he’d always been Master Silas.

“I requested a bath,” Bentley said through chattering lips.

A woman appeared behind Haskett, and Bentley stiffened until he recognized the timeworn face beneath the white cap. Mrs. Ramsbury, an old maid. Was she the housekeeper now? She was certainly dressed as such, the chatelaine jingling from her thin waist. She clicked her tongue. “Your Grace, come in. You must be frozen through.”

“Nearly,” he said, allowing the older woman to usher him inside. The house was much warmer than he remembered the chilled halls being as a boy, and he at once recalled that it was his own income and resources going to heat it. The sourness in his gut built and swirled as Mrs. Ramsbury led him up the familiar stairs in the waning light and toward his bedchamber.

He’d clearly spent too long waiting on the portico, for a bath was already prepared alongside a few footmen he didn’t recognize.

“Philip and Ralph will assist you with whatever you need, Your Grace. Can I send for a tray or will you be joining the duchess for dinner?”

She was no longer the duchess, not to Bentley. When she married Mr. Humphries, she lost any right to call herself that. Instead of voicing his thoughts, however, Bentley tried to smile. “A tray would be grand.”

“I’ll see to it at once, Your Grace.”

Mrs. Ramsbury scurried from the room, Haskett just behind her. He sat stiffly in the latter-back chair and allowed the footmen to begin removing his boots.

He hadn’t seen Mother yet, but she likely knew he was there. The meeting loomed ahead, and he forced himself to think on other things, like sweet Hattie’s slender arms doing their best to comfort away his sorrows. She was the most giving, compassionate person of his acquaintance and he wished she was with him now. He could manage anything with her by his side, he was certain.

And she’d been correct. He needed to see his mother again, to allow her one last chance to apologize. Surely if he did so, he would not carry any more guilt for the remainder of his life. He certainly could not handle more than he had now.

Bentley was decided. He would bathe, then sit before the roaring fire and warm himself while he considered the best way to go about this. Once he was warm and his belly was full, he could probably stomach the idea of facing his mother.

He would just have to pretend Hattie was by his side.

* * *

Hattie stepped into the dimly lit White Hare Inn and looked around the crowds for a familiar, dark-headed duke.

“I know who you’re looking for,” Lucy said, leaning close so a cloud of rose-scent descended upon them both.

Hattie struggled to draw a fresh breath of air and trained her face into a bland expression. How could Lucy know? “Who?”

“Mr. Warren, of course.” Lucy leaned in closer, an excited light in her eyes, and lowered her voice. “I see him just over there.”

Oh. Hattie tried to rally, tamping down the disappointment snaking through her. Lucy took her hand and led her across the floor to where Mr. Warren stood beside Mr. and Mrs. Carter, leaving Jeffrey behind to speak to a neighbor.

“Caroline,” Lucy purred. “I didn’t expect to see you here this evening.” Though she spoke in a tone that sounded as though quite the opposite was true.

Caroline dipped her gaze over Lucy’s gown before looking at Hattie and giving them a slight smirk. It was so subtle, her disapproval, and delivered with such a slight flick of her eyes and chin that Hattie nearly believed she’d imagined it. But Lucy’s bright red cheeks told her she hadn’t, and Caroline Carter was exactly the sort of unkind woman who would judge another based on the cut and style of her clothing.

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