Chapter Ten

Graham tried not to grin—really, he did—but the frustration stamped across Kit’s face was simply too fun to ignore. The woman had intrigued him in London, but this added complication made her fascinating. The last thing he wanted to do was let her shuffle him out of the house and down the road to town, which she’d obviously intended to do before the sky had opened up.

She couldn’t send him out in the rain, not after he’d saved her . . . well, he wasn’t sure what relation Henry was to the woman, but they were connected in some way that made her at least a little bit beholden to him.

What had the children called her? Mama Kit. And the other two women had been Mama Jess and Mama Daphne. Graham may not know a lot about children, but he knew enough to know that one couldn’t actually have three mothers. Was it possible these women were nannies?

He looked Kit over once more, from her quickly tapping toe to her crossed arms to her mouth pressed tightly together in a grim line as she tried to decide what to do with him. She didn’t look much like a nanny.

Neither had the other blonde. The scary little one.

He could easily believe the one with the brown hair to be a nanny. She’d had kind eyes and gentle hands as she’d tended Henry’s wounds.

Graham waved a hand at the kitchen door. “I’ll just go see to my horse then, get him settled. Is there room in your barn?”

Her cheeks sucked in as she pressed her lips together hard enough to turn them into thin, white stripes. It made her cheekbones stand out even more in her heart-shaped face. “Yes. But not near the chickens. He might”—she waved a hand toward the ground—“step on them or something.”

Graham had never seen Dogberry, or any other horse for that matter, trample a chicken for the fun of it, but he wasn’t about to argue.

His cloak had been left on the table, so he scooped it up and tossed it around his shoulders. Hopefully it would be enough to keep the clothing beneath mostly dry. He’d seen no sign of anyone other than women and children in this house. There probably weren’t many extra linen shirts lying around, at least not any large enough for an adult.

The rain pelted his face as he jogged around the corner of the house only to stumble to a halt in the middle of a puddle. His horse wasn’t where he’d left him.

Graham stood in the rain, looking back and forth across the land. It wasn’t surprising that the animal had chosen to get out of the rain, but where had he gone?

The door to the barn was open. It was the most stable-like building in the area, so he could only hope Dogberry had chosen to be smart today.

Once he was out of the pounding rain, voices could be heard from deeper in the barn, which did appear to also be a stable of sorts with several stalls lining one of the walls.

“Do you think we’re supposed to brush the horse like we brush the donkey?” A young male voice floated across the building’s musty air.

The responding voice was also young, though it was deeper and more masculine than the first. “I think so. The saddle was sort of like the wagon harness, so I would think the coats would be the same.” There was a pause, and then the older boy continued with a bit of awe lacing his tone. “Though this beast’s coat is ever so much softer than Balaam’s.”

“Horse,” said a third voice, definitely the youngest of the three and possessing a slight lisp at the end of the word.

Graham chuckled as he followed the voices deeper into the building. A gangly boy, with reddish-brown hair and spectacles sliding down a nose that was a bit too large for his face, was draping Graham’s saddle over a low wall. The bridle lay next to it. Beside him a little boy stood in front of Dogberry, head leaned back so he could look up into the horse’s face. The horse was looking down at the boy, occasionally lowering his head to snuffle at the little boy’s hair and make him giggle.

A rough brush appeared over Dogberry’s back, held by two hands that obviously didn’t know what they were doing. The brush dug into Dogberry’s back with enough force to draw a wince from Graham, but the horse didn’t even shift his weight.

“Hullo, there.” Graham stepped out of the shadows of the entryway and crossed to the small group.

Graham patted Dogberry on the neck, and the animal butted his brown head into Graham’s chest before returning his attention to the little boy’s hair, apparently as grateful to the boys for getting the horse out of the rain as Graham was.

Over the horse’s back, Graham’s gaze connected with dark eyes under a shock of straight dark hair.

The hair was longer than was fashionable, falling off the boy’s head like a sleek cap of black. His hand froze on the horse’s back and he lifted his chin a notch. “This your horse, my lord?”

“Yes,” Graham answered, swinging his gaze to look at the boy at his feet. He looked to be about the same age as Henry and the solicitor’s son, Daniel. Perhaps a bit younger. Or maybe a bit older. The boy’s upturned face was bordered by shags of light brown hair, and caramel-colored eyes stared out over a thin, straight nose. Graham had yet to see a bit of similarity among all the children running around the estate. Where had they all come from?

He cleared his throat and looked back at the boy brushing the horse. “I’m Lord Wharton.”

The boy didn’t say anything for a moment as his dark gaze searched Graham. What the boy was looking for was anyone’s guess, and Graham couldn’t tell whether or not he’d found it when he broke the connection and turned his attention back to the horse. “I’m Blake.” He jerked his head toward the boy with the spectacles. “That’s Reuben. And down there’s Arthur.”

Graham blinked at the informality of the introductions. No surnames?

“Thank you for taking care of Dogberry.” Graham saw another rough-looking brush on the low wall near the saddle and took it in his hand. He began smoothing Dogberry’s other side in a brisk circular motion, hoping that Blake would pick up the correct method by example.

“Couldn’t just leave him in the rain,” Blake murmured.

“We’ve got some grain we feed the goats sometimes. I could get your horse some of that.” Reuben shifted from foot to foot.

Graham nodded his thanks, and the boy took off down the short stable aisle, arms and legs flapping awkwardly.

Arthur didn’t say anything, just stared up, alternating between looking at Graham and the horse. Apparently all children were not as open and chatty as young Daniel had been or as accepting as Henry and Alice. How was anyone supposed to know how to act around children if they all behaved so differently? With every moment he spent near one of the tiny human beings, he grew more unsure of the proper response.

For a man who was adept at always reacting properly even without having to think about it, the sensation was more than a bit disconcerting.

A little thrill of triumph ran through him, though, when Blake began to copy Graham’s circular motions with the brush. Dogberry grunted and sighed.

He’d managed to do something right there. Perhaps he could engage the littlest boy as well. “Arthur, was it?” Graham leaned around the horse’s shoulder to look into the little boy’s freckled face. “Do you think you could find a spare pail around here? Perhaps get Dogberry some water?”

The boy glanced up at Graham before darting off. Hopefully to fetch a pail and not to run and tell the women in the house that he found the big man a bit scary.

Graham turned back to the horse to find Blake watching him. The dark eyes were a bit disturbing, being nearly black in color.

“You named your horse Dogberry?”

Graham fought the urge to blush. Naming a horse after a Shakespearean character wasn’t the manliest thing to do, but it had seemed appropriate at the time.

Reuben returned with the grain, and there was no sign of Arthur. He was about to ask Reuben to get some water when the clank of a bucket echoed down the barn corridor.

Raising himself onto his toes, Graham peered over the stall wall. Arthur had indeed found a pail and filled it with water. A wave of liquid sloshed over the sides with every step the little boy made. Every inch of threadbare clothing was soaked and plastered to the boy’s skin. His little lip was caught between his teeth as he lurched another step with the bucket, causing another small flood down his front.

Maybe Graham shouldn’t have sent such a little boy off on such a task? He was managing it, though, so that was good, right? Graham should let him finish the job. At least, it seemed like he should. He knew he wouldn’t want someone coming to the rescue just because he found a task a bit difficult.

When neither of the larger boys jumped forward to help Arthur, it seemed to confirm Graham’s suspicion.

That or neither boy had even noticed Arthur’s dilemma because they’d both returned to staring at their toes.

Finally Arthur was back in front of the horse, plopping a half-full bucket of water in front of the animal with a triumphant smile. Dogberry lowered his head to drink, and Arthur reached out a hesitant hand to run his fingers lightly over the horse’s mane.

The wonder on the boy’s face was hard for Graham to fathom. Horses had been part of his life for as long as he could remember. He’d patted them, rode them, fed them since he was younger than Arthur. Well, at least shorter than Arthur.

After drinking, the horse stuck his nose in the bucket of grain and blew it around a bit. Whatever feed they had wouldn’t be what Dogberry was used to, but the animal was going to have to adjust the same as Graham. He had a feeling his own meal tonight would be rather simple fare.

Blake stepped around the horse and slid his sleeves back down. Like the girl’s skirt earlier, the sleeves were lacking an inch of appropriate length. Both Blake’s and Reuben’s trousers showed the same signs of wear that Arthur’s clothing had.

He tried not to stare even as he added these facts to his growing list of things that didn’t quite make sense.

Dogberry seemed settled and happy, so Graham followed the boys back into the rain. They looked from him to each other as they slowly walked up the lawn to the door he’d taken Henry through only a short time earlier.

He’d take a moment to dry off by the kitchen fire, but then Graham had every intention of locating the curious woman who he’d come on this journey to try to forget. It was time to get some answers.

Fortunately, she was still in the kitchen. Looked like he didn’t have to hunt her down, after all.

Kit stirred the stew for that night’s meal, forcing herself to keep her head down as the unfamiliar sounds of a grown man moving about in the kitchen surrounded her. The lighter sounds of boys shuffling across the floor were noises she knew, heard every day. Lord Wharton’s heavier tread made Kit’s skin shiver in a not-all-too-unpleasant manner. That scared her more than if the sensation had been terrifying and cold.

She glanced at the boys, who were dripping water onto the stone floor of the kitchen. “Go get dry. Benedict is upstairs already. He’ll help you find clothing, if you need it.”

“I’ve got another set,” Blake said as he sidled toward the table to slip his hand beneath one of the linen squares and snitch a hunk of bread.

Kit pretended not to see him. Not because she didn’t have a problem with the boy’s constant challenging of the rules, but because she didn’t want to have to turn and face the room to scold him. Once she turned, there would be no excuse for not acknowledging Lord Wharton’s presence.

“If you keep stirring that, it’ll turn into a pudding.”

Kit sputtered out a laugh and looked over her shoulder at the man, standing far enough away that he wouldn’t get her wet but close enough that he could see into the large pot bubbling gently over the fire. “You have no idea how pudding is made, do you?”

He grinned and lifted his gaze to connect with hers. “Not the first notion.”

Breath slid out of Kit’s lungs and she forgot to pull any back in for a moment.

He tilted his head. “But I do know that is an excessive amount of stirring you’re doing.”

He held Kit’s gaze for a moment and then stepped away and slid his dripping cloak from his shoulders. He draped it over the back of a wooden chair and then shucked his damp coat. His hands went to his throat and began unwinding his cravat.

Kit jerked herself out of her slack-jawed fascination. “What are you doing?”

“I doubt the aforementioned Benedict has clothing that will fit me, as I’ve yet to see a male taller than a wagon wheel since I got here.” He dropped his hands to the buttons on his waistcoat. “I’m not keen to stay in wet clothing, though.”

“Of course not,” Kit mumbled. She wasn’t sure what the best response was to Lord Wharton’s methodical arranging of his clothing on the backs of chairs he moved closer to the fire, but standing there staring at him probably wasn’t her best choice.

Particularly when he pried off his boots and arranged them on the hearth. Strange how intimate feet seemed. Kit was fascinated by how big and strong they looked. Which really didn’t make much sense. Shouldn’t feet seem very similar to hands? Her gaze crawled up to his hands, where she noticed they too looked broad and strong.

Kit turned back to the stew and gave it another vigorous stir.

“The bridge I came from town on was nearly covered earlier today,” the man said quietly, still standing near the fire and Kit. “This rain is going to put it underwater.”

“That has been known to happen,” Kit said through a thick throat. It wasn’t often that they got enough rain to make the bridge impassable, but it did happen at least once a year or so. “I’m afraid there’s not really another way to Marlborough from here. Not one that won’t take you a day or two out of the way.”

“I suppose I’m rather trapped here for the night, then.”

He didn’t sound very upset about the prospect. But where on earth would Kit put him? She certainly couldn’t put him in the room with all the boys. She didn’t know the first thing about this man. Well, maybe the first thing. But certainly not a second or third thing. He would be staying as far away from her charges as she could manage. “We can make you a pallet here in the kitchen,” Kit offered. “I’m sure it’s not what you’re accustomed to.”

“I can make do. It’s only for a night.”

Kit swallowed. She hoped it was only for a night. After a truly long rain, they’d sometimes had to wait three days for the bridge to be safe again. He couldn’t stay here that long.

Although, on the bright side, a stay of that length would probably get her to stop dredging up thoughts of the man at odd times. Days of staying in the same clothes and sleeping on a drafty floor were sure to make him a bit less of a gentleman.

It wasn’t like his staying longer put them in considerably more danger. He already knew where they were, had already seen the children. The best she could do now was make his stay as unremarkable as possible so that he had no reason to mention it to anyone else.

“We eat dinner upstairs,” Kit said as she used a hook to take the pot of well-stirred stew over to the worktable.

Lord Wharton laughed and looked down at his bare toes, giving them a little wiggle. “I think, for tonight, it might be best if I stayed in the kitchen. Dry out by the fire.”

“Are you sure?” Kit blurted out before she could think better of it. She should be glad he’d offered to stay in the kitchen and wasn’t trying to work his way into the rest of the house. But could that really be his intention? To eat a bowl of stew and then settle down for the night? He wasn’t going to ask about the children? The house?

The man nodded and snagged a bowl from the shelf. “If you wouldn’t mind finding me a book when you bring that pallet down, I’d appreciate it.”

“A book,” Kit said numbly. “We have those.”

He grinned. “Good. Every child should grow up with books.”

Kit didn’t say anything, simply stared into his eyes for more moments than she should have.

“Kit?” he asked quietly, holding up his empty bowl. “May I have some stew before you take it upstairs?”

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Kit ladled him a bowl of stew and then poured the rest of the stew into a crockery pot that would be much easier to carry upstairs.

She glanced back at him before leaving the kitchen, but he was simply eating and staring at the fire, his feet stretched out toward the flames. He’d given her no reason to worry, no cause for suspicion. She would take the stew to the dining hall and then bring him the requested book right away. It was time to give in graciously to the fact that Haven Manor had its first-ever overnight visitor.