One

Benjamin rode over the last low ridge and drew rein to look down on his home. It was a vast relief to be back, far from the incessant noise of London. The mellow red brick of the house, twined with ivy, the pointed gables and ranks of leaded windows, were as familiar as his face in the mirror. Furness Hall had been the seat of his family for two hundred years, built when the first earl received his title from King James. The place was a pleasing balance of grand and comfortable, Benjamin thought. And Somerset’s mild climate kept the lawn and shrubberies green all winter, though the trees were bare. Not one stray leaf marred the sweep of sod before the front door, he saw approvingly. The hedges were neat and square—a picture of tranquility. A man could be still with his thoughts here, and Benjamin longed for nothing else.

He left his horse at the stables and entered the house to a welcome hush. Everything was just as he wished it in his home, with no demands and no surprises. He’d heard a neighbor claim that Furness Hall had gone gloomy since its mistress died—when he thought Benjamin couldn’t hear. Benjamin could not have cared less about the fellow’s opinion. What did he know of grief? Or anything else, for that matter? He was obviously a dolt.

A shrill shout broke the silence as Benjamin turned toward the library, followed by pounding footsteps. A small figure erupted from the back of the entry hall. “The lord’s home,” cried the small boy.

Benjamin cringed. Five-year-old Geoffrey was a whirlwind of disruptive energy. He never seemed to speak below a shout, and he was forever beating on pans or capering about waving sticks like a demented imp.

“The lord’s home,” shouted the boy again, skidding to a stop before Benjamin and staring up at him. His red-gold hair flopped over his brow. He shoved it back with a grubby hand.

Benjamin’s jaw tightened. His small son’s face was so like Alice’s that it was uncannily painful. In a bloody terror of death and birth, he’d traded beloved female features for an erratic miniature copy. He could tell himself it wasn’t Geoffrey’s fault that his mother had died bringing him into the world. He knew it wasn’t. But that didn’t make it any easier to look at him.

A nursery maid came running, put her hands on Geoffrey’s shoulders, and urged him away. Staring back over his shoulder, the boy went. His deep-blue eyes reproduced Alice’s in color and shape, but she’d never gazed at Benjamin so pugnaciously. Of course she hadn’t. She’d been all loving support and gentle approbation. But she was gone.

Benjamin headed for his library. If he had peace and quiet, he could manage the blow that fate had dealt him. Was that so much to ask? He didn’t think so.

Shutting the door behind him, he sat in his customary place before the fire. Alice’s portrait looked down at him—her lush figure in a simple white gown, that glory of red-gold hair, great celestial-blue eyes, and parted lips as if she was just about to speak to him. He’d forgotten that he’d thought the portrait idealized when it was first finished. Now it was his image of paradise lost. He no longer imagined—as he had all through the first year after her death—that he heard her voice in the next room, a few tantalizing feet away, or that he would come upon her around a corner. She was gone. But he could gaze at her image and lose himself in memory. He asked for nothing more.

* * *

Three days later, a post chaise pulled up before Furness Hall, uninvited and wholly unexpected. No one visited here now. One of the postilions jumped down and rapped on the front door while the other held the team. A young woman emerged from the carriage and marched up as the door opened. She slipped past the startled maid and planted herself by the stairs inside, grasping the newel post like a ship dropping anchor. “I am Jean Saunders,” she said. “Alice’s cousin. I’m here to see Geoffrey. At once, please.”

“G-Geoffrey, miss?”

The visitor gave a sharp nod. “My…relative. Alice’s son.”

“He’s just a little lad.”

“I’m well aware. Please take me to him.” When the servant hesitated, she added, “Unless you prefer that I search the house.”

Goggle-eyed, the maid shook her head. “I’ll have to ask his lordship.”

Miss Saunders sighed and began pulling off her gloves. “I suppose you will.” She untied the strings of her bonnet. “Well? Do so.”

The maid hurried away. Miss Saunders removed her hat, revealing a wild tumble of glossy brown curls. Then she bit her bottom lip, looking far less sure of herself than she’d sounded, and put her hat back on. When footsteps approached from the back of the hall, she stood straighter and composed her features.

“Who the deuce are you?” asked the tall, frowning gentleman who followed the housemaid into the entryway.

Unquestionably handsome, Jean thought. He had the sort of broad-browed, square-jawed face one saw on the tombs of Crusaders. Dark hair, blue-gray eyes with darker lashes that might have been attractive if they hadn’t held a hard glitter. “I am Alice’s cousin,” Jean repeated.

“Cousin?” He said the word as if it had no obvious meaning.

“Well, second cousin, but that hardly matters. I’m here for Geoffrey.”

“For him? He’s five years old.”

“I’m well aware. As I am also aware that he is being shamefully neglected.”

“I beg your pardon?” Benjamin put ice into his tone. The accusation was outrageous, as was showing up at his home, without any warning, to make it.

“I don’t think I can grant it to you,” his unwanted visitor replied. “You might try asking your son for forgiveness.”

She spoke with contempt. The idea was ridiculous, but there was no mistaking her tone. Benjamin examined the intruder with one raking glance. She looked a bit younger than his own age of thirty. Slender, of medium height, with untidy brown hair, dark eyes, and an aquiline nose, she didn’t resemble Alice in the least.

“I’ve come to take Geoffrey to his grandparents,” she added. “Alice’s parents. He deserves a proper home.”

“His home is here.”

“Really? A house where his dead mother’s portrait is kept as some sort of macabre shrine? Where he calls his father ‘the lord’? Where he is shunted aside and ignored?”

Benjamin felt as if he’d missed a step in the dark. Put that way, Geoffrey’s situation did sound dire. But that wasn’t the whole truth! He’d made certain the boy received the best care. “How do you know anything—”

“People have sent reports to let his grandparents know how he’s treated.”

“What people?” There could be no such people. The house had lost a servant or two in recent years, but there’d been no visitors. He didn’t want visitors, particularly the repellent one who stood before him.

“I notice you don’t deny that Geoffrey is mistreated,” she replied.

Rage ripped through Benjamin. “My son is treated splendidly. He is fed and clothed and…and being taught his letters.” Of course he must be learning them. Perhaps he ought to know a bit more about the details of Geoffrey’s existence, Benjamin thought, but that didn’t mean the boy was mistreated.

Two postilions entered with a valise. “Leave that on the coach,” Benjamin commanded. “Miss…won’t be staying.” He couldn’t remember the dratted girl’s name.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Take it back. I’m only here to fetch Geoffrey.”

“Never in a thousand years,” said Benjamin.

“What do you care? You hardly speak to him. They say you can’t bear to look at him.”

“They. Who the devil are they?”

“Those with Geoffrey’s best interests at heart. And no sympathy for a cold, neglectful father.”

“Get out of my house!” he roared.

Instead, she came closer. “No. I won’t stand by and see a child harmed.”

“How…how dare you? No one lays a hand on him.” Benjamin was certain of that much, at least. He’d given precise orders about the level of discipline allowed in the nursery.

“Precisely,” replied his infuriating visitor. “He lives a life devoid of affection or approval. It’s a disgrace.”

Benjamin found he was too angry to speak.

“Please go and get Geoffrey,” the intruder said to the hovering maid.

“No,” Benjamin managed. He found his voice again. “On no account.” His hand swept the air. “Go away,” he added. The maid hurried out—someone who obeyed him, at least. Though Benjamin had no doubt that word was spreading through the house and the rest of his staff was rushing to listen at keyholes.

“Would you prefer that I report you to the local magistrate?” his outrageous visitor asked. “That would be Lord Hallerton, would it not? I inquired in advance.”

She scowled at him, immobile, intolerably offensive. Benjamin clenched his fists at his sides to keep from shaking her. While he was certain that any magistrate in the country would side with him over the fate of his son, he didn’t care to give the neighborhood a scandal. It seemed that spiteful tongues were already wagging. Who were the blasted gossips spreading lies about him to Alice’s parents? The tittle-tattle over this female’s insane accusations would be even worse.

The two of them stood toe to toe, glaring at each other. Her eyes were not simply brown, Benjamin observed. There was a coppery sparkle in their depths. The top of her head was scarcely above his shoulder. He could easily scoop her up and toss her back into the post chaise. The trouble was, he didn’t think she’d stay there. Or, she’d drive off to Hallerton’s place and spread her ludicrous dirt.

The air crackled with tension. Benjamin could hear his unwanted guest breathing. The postilion, who had put down the valise and was observing the confrontation, eyed him. Would he wade in if Benjamin ejected his unwelcome visitor? He had a vision of an escalating brawl raging through his peaceful home. Actually, it would be a relief to punch someone.

Into the charged silence came the sound of another carriage—hoofbeats nearing, slowing; the jingle of harness; the click of a vehicle’s door opening and closing. What further hell could this be? Benjamin had long ago stopped exchanging visits with his neighbors. None would dare drop in on him.

When his uncle Arthur strolled through the still-open front door, Benjamin decided he must be dreaming. It was the only explanation. His life was a carefully orchestrated routine, hedged ’round with safeguards. This scattershot of inexplicable incidents was the stuff of nightmare. Now if he could just wake up.

His uncle stopped on the threshold and surveyed the scene with raised eyebrows. “Hello, Benjamin. And Miss…Saunders, is it not?”

“You know her?” Benjamin exclaimed.

“I believe we’ve met at the Phillipsons’ house,” Lord Macklin replied.

The intruder inclined her head in stiff acknowledgment.

Benjamin could believe it. His lost wife’s parents were a fixture of the haut ton. Entertaining was their obsession. One met everyone in their lavish town house, a positive beehive of hospitality. Indeed, now he came to think of it, he was surprised they’d spared a thought for Geoffrey. Small, grubby boys had no place in their glittering lives. “And do you know why she’s here?” he demanded, reminded of his grievance.

“How could I?” replied his uncle.

Too agitated to notice that this wasn’t precisely an answer, Benjamin pointed at the intruder. “She wants 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. I will not stand by and see a child hurt,” she retorted.

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

“You have 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.

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