Page 5 of Brave New Earl (The Way to a Lord's Heart 1)

“How could I?” replied his uncle.

Too agitated to notice that this wasn’t precisely an answer, Benjamin pointed at the intruder. “Shewants to take Geoffrey away from me.”

“Take him away?”

“To his grandparents,” Miss Saunders said. “Where he will be loved and happy. Rather than shunted aside like an unwanted poor relation.”

Benjamin choked on a surge of intense feelings too jumbled to sort out. “I will not endure any more of these insults. Get out of my house!”

“No.Iwill not stand by and see a child hurt,” she retorted.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Youhave no idea—”

“Perhaps we should go into the parlor,” the older man interrupted, gracefully indicating an adjoining room. “We could sit and discuss matters. Perhaps some refreshment?”

“No!” Benjamin wasn’t going to offer food and drink to a harpy who accused him of neglecting his son. Nor to a seldom-seen relative who betrayed him by siding with the enemy, however illustrious he might be. “There’s nothing to discuss, Uncle Arthur. I can’t imagine why you suggest it. Or why you’re here, in fact. I want both of you out of my home this—”

“Yaah!” With this bloodcurdling shriek, Geoffrey shot through the door at the back of the entry hall. Clad in only a tattered rag knotted at the waist, his small figure was smeared with red. For a horrified moment Benjamin thought the swirls were blood. Then he realized it was paint running down the length of his son’s small arms and legs. Shrieking and brandishing a tomahawk, the boy ran at Miss Saunders. He grabbed her skirts with his free hand, leaving red streaks on the cloth, and made chopping motions with the weapon he held. Fending him off, she scooted backward.

In two long steps, Benjamin reached his small son, grasped his wrist, and immobilized the tomahawk—real and quite sharp. Benjamin recognized it from a display shelf upstairs.

Geoffrey jerked and twisted in his grip, his skin slippery with paint. “Let go! I’m a red Indian on the warpath.” He kicked at Benjamin’s shins. As his small feet were bare, it didn’t hurt. His red-gold hair was clotted with paint, too, Benjamin noted. There were a couple of feathers—probably chicken—stuck in the mess.

His son began to climb, as if Benjamin was a tree or a ladder. Paint rubbed off on his breeches, his coat. Because of the tomahawk, Benjamin couldn’t let go of the boy’s wrist. He grabbed for him with his other hand.

Geoffrey lunged, caught the ball of Benjamin’s thumb between his teeth, and bit down. “Ow!” Benjamin lost his grip. Geoffrey thudded to the floor, frighteningly close to the blade he held. But he was up at once, unscathed. The rag he was wearing fell off. Geoffrey capered about stark naked, waving the tomahawk and whooping. A drop of blood welled from Benjamin’s thumb and dropped onto his waistcoat.

The immensely dignified Earl of Macklin knelt, bringing his head down to Geoffrey’s level. “Which tribe do you belong to?” he asked.

The boy paused to examine Benjamin’s uncle. Benjamin edged around to take his son from behind. But it was no good. Geoffrey spotted the maneuver and raised his weapon.

Benjamin’s uncle Arthur waved him back. “Your ax is from the Algonquian tribe, I believe,” he said to Geoffrey.

The boy blinked his celestial-blue eyes. “You know about red Indians?”

“Your grandfather was very interested in them. He showed me his collections and told me stories he’d gathered.”

Benjamin wondered when his father had had an opportunity to share his fascination with artifacts from the Americas with Uncle Arthur. He didn’t remember any such sessions. Perhaps when he was away at school?

“Grandfather,” repeated Geoffrey. He said the word as if he’d never heard it before. A pang of emotion went through Benjamin. Gritting his teeth, he pulled out his handkerchief and tied it around his bleeding thumb.

“Your father’s father,” added the earl, nodding at Benjamin.

Geoffrey turned to look. There was something unsettling in his blue gaze, Benjamin thought. Not accusation precisely; rather a speculation far beyond his years. And nothing at all like the gentle inquiry characteristic of his dead mother.

A gangling lad in worn clothing erupted from the rear doorway through which Geoffrey had come and skidded to a halt beside the boy. “You said if I reached down the paint, you’d stay in the schoolroom,” the new lad said. “Where’s yourclothes?”

“No,” said Geoffrey. He was holding the tomahawk down at his side as if to conceal it, Benjamin noticed.

“You gave me your word,” argued the newcomer. He was a dark-haired boy of perhaps fourteen, with hands and feet that promised greater height and sleeves that exposed his wrists. Benjamin had no idea who he was.

“Didn’t!” declared Geoffrey. “Never said it.” The little ax came up in automatic defense.

“Where did you get that?” cried the older lad, clearly horrified.

Geoffrey laughed. He danced in a circle, waving the tomahawk.

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