Chapter Fifteen

She wanted to say no, wanted to tell him he had no right to ask anything about the children. But he’d been so gentle with them, so willing to share and teach and interact, that she couldn’t seem to find the strength to deny him.

Whereas he looked strong enough to demand an answer.

Oh, not physically. She had no fear for herself or anyone’s well-being, but he looked ready to follow her around, wear her down. And she didn’t really blame him. She’d been nothing but a mystery since they’d met, and now here he was in a house that couldn’t possibly make any sense to him.

Half the time it didn’t even make sense to her, and she was running the place.

She could leave. She could tear her gaze away from his golden-brown eyes and follow the children to wherever they’d gone. Usually after lessons she spent time on the household accounts, but those were in the desk in the corner and she wasn’t about to pull those out with Lord Wharton in the room.

Yes, she could leave.

In theory.

Her feet seemed sewn to the rug beneath her, though, and her eyes refused to shift away from his. Maybe if she gave him a little bit of information, it would be enough to convince him of the importance of keeping their secret once he returned to his normal life.

“Kit?” he asked, his voice rough from the amount of talking he’d just done.

“They’re children,” she murmured. “Children who needed to be forgotten.”

The truth was, she could have called them a lot of things and none of those would have been as accurate. The people—the women—whom Kit and Daphne had started Haven Manor to help needed the children to disappear from their lives as if they’d never been born. If anyone knew about them, if anyone ever found out, those women would be cast aside, dropped into a harsh world with no skills, no way to make a living, and no sense of what it took to survive.

They’d have resorted to trying to work in a poorhouse where likely one, if not both mother and child, wouldn’t survive more than a year or two.

Kit knew. She knew all too well. Because when she and Daphne had left London all those years ago, they’d been in those shoes. If it hadn’t been for the aid of people like Mrs. Lancaster and Nash Banfield and his wife Margaretta, she didn’t know what would have happened to them.

But they had survived, and Kit was now paying her penance by making sure other women didn’t have to suffer as Daphne had.

It was the least she could do. And even then it didn’t feel like enough because there were only so many women they could help at a time. While so many others . . . so many others had to find another way. And while Haven Manor was far from a perfect solution, it was the best they’d been able to come up with.

“Illegitimate?” Lord Wharton asked.

How much could Kit tell without telling him too much? How much was needed to satisfy his curiosity? She knew she had to give him answers before he left here or he’d seek them elsewhere and cause them more problems. But she was only going to give him the answers he sought. “Yes.”

“Aristocratic by-blows?”

Her eyes widened, likely confirming his guess. “Why would you guess such a thing?”

His eyes flicked around them at the lush furniture filling the library. “Call it intuition.”

Kit felt heat rising to her ears. She’d stopped viewing the house as a manor a long time ago, focusing more on the fact that the large building allowed them plenty of space to house the children. But to an outsider, the house probably seemed an extravagance for a group of illegitimates. “I told you the truth about the house. We’re simply taking care of it. The grounds had already been left to grow at will when we moved in here, so the agreement is only for the house and the immediate outbuildings.”

Lord Wharton shifted more of his weight onto the back of the sofa and extended his legs in front of him to cross his booted ankles. “And you do this, manage this by yourself?”

“Yes.” She had to put some distance between herself and the earnest glow in his eyes. Where had this serious man come from? When she’d met him in the ballroom, he’d been all jokes and smiles. Even when facing down thugs in the park, he’d done so with wit and charm. Telling stories to the children, he’d captivated everyone with his self-deprecating humor.

But now there was no levity in his tone, no crinkle to his eyes.

And it made it difficult for her to slough him off. She’d left carefree joviality so far behind her that she could barely remember living with it and could easily keep herself away from it now. But honest concern had been the one thing to seep through the cracks in her armor in the past few years, and his was hitting her harder than normal considering he was the last person she’d expected to extend it.

She dropped her gaze and picked at the rough, broken skin of a callus on the side of her thumb. “It was harder when the children were small. It was just me and Daphne then. Now we have Jess, and the children are old enough to help.”

“Until Benedict leaves you to learn woodworking.”

Did the man remember every little detail? “Yes. But then the others will be older and new young ones will be coming in. And Ben’s apprenticeship is local, so I’m sure he’ll be home to help when he can.”

“Is he Kettlewell’s?”

Kit’s gaze flew up to meet his. “Who?”

“Benedict. Is he Kettlewell’s son?”

Who was Kettlewell? It was probably a title, though Kit had no idea which one. It wasn’t one she remembered from her time in London, but names had never been her strongest talent. Especially names of people she hadn’t met. She did, however, clearly remember the names of every person who had parented one of her children.

Especially the man who’d fathered Benedict.

The man who’d tried to ruin Kit’s life, only to damage Daphne’s instead.

“No,” Kit said quietly, thankful that she could answer honestly and still keep the children’s identities as secret as possible. “No, Kettlewell isn’t his father. Or anyone else’s here.”

A wry smile touched Wharton’s mouth. “The boy looks just like him. I went to school with Kettlewell, and it was like looking back in time.”

“I’m sure your memory has faded.” At least Kit hoped it had. Here she’d been worried about Blake and John, thinking their appearances could cause them problems if their lives took them into serving aristocratic circles. She’d thought they had a few years before worrying about that, as the rest of them only bore a passing resemblance if one knew what he was looking for.

“It’s possible.” He pushed off the couch to cross the room and examine some of the other baubles scattered around the library. “The age would work. He would have been at Oxford at the time.”

The library was the only room they hadn’t emptied of its valuable treasures. Kit just hadn’t been able to do it. She loved books, adored stories, which was probably why she was so captivated by Lord Wharton right now. The library had been so beautiful and glorious that they’d chosen to leave it as it was.

“You know what I haven’t done in ages?” he asked as he fiddled with a wood-and-brass sextant from a shelf.

“What?” Kit tried to bring her mind around to the shift in atmosphere. Gone was the serious, dark gaze, and the lighthearted jokesmith had returned.

“A picnic.” He placed the sextant back on the shelf. “The grounds here are beautiful, even if they have been left to run amok. I’m only here for another day or two. Let’s have a picnic.”

“Um . . . I suppose . . .” Kit stuttered, still a bit off center.

“Excellent. I’ll go tell the children.”

Kit snapped her mouth shut as the man nearly ran from the room. He was going to tell the children. Which meant they were now having a picnic whether she wanted one or not.

Kit sat on the sofa, staring at the globe for a long time. Thoughts whirled through her head, but she wasn’t able to actually catch any of them. The same could be said for the emotions sliding through her veins. She wasn’t sure what to think or feel. Eventually she shook herself free from the trance and went to the kitchen to help with dinner. As was becoming all too commonplace since Lord Wharton came to the house, none of the children were where she expected them to be. Only Jess was in the kitchen.

“Where is everyone?”

“Outside.” Jess’s golden eyes speared Kit. “Riding a horse.”

“Riding a . . .” Kit snapped her mouth shut and swallowed. “He’s letting them ride his horse?”

“That man is dangerous, Kit.” Jess turned back to the food.

“I know,” Kit mumbled. And she did know. She knew Jess wasn’t talking about any sort of physical threat. Even knowing that every minute she spent with him made her more vulnerable, Kit pushed her way out the kitchen door and went to the lawn behind the house.

There was Wharton, and his horse, taking each child on a ride around the lawn.

Daphne stood to the side, lip between her teeth, fingers twined tightly together.

“Don’t worry,” Kit said as she came to stand beside Daphne. “He won’t let them get hurt.”

Her trust in him on this matter was solid, even if he terrified her in other ways. The way he’d been with Arthur in the garden, the careful way he’d answered questions in the library, those moments when he was more than a joke and a smile had shown her that he meant no harm to the children. Those same moments had been very dangerous to her, though, unearthing thoughts long buried, making her wonder if there were good men in the upper classes.

He kept one hand on the knee of the youngest children, holding them in the saddle as the horse ambled around the grass. The older ones were allowed to guide the reins themselves. All of them wore enormous smiles that pierced Kit’s heart.

It was possibly the first and last time some of them would have the memorable experience of riding a horse.

The children were destined for lives of work. Trades or household servant positions were the best they were likely to do. Kit put aside as much money as possible from each child’s support payments, but it wasn’t going to get them very far. Apprenticeships could be purchased, but what then? There wouldn’t be enough for them to go into business for themselves. The best they could hope for would be a modicum of comfort while they worked for a living, and that wasn’t likely to include rides on horses.

Dinner was loud once more, the way it usually was, although this time all of the chatter was about what it was like to sit so high off the ground on a moving animal. Kit sat silently while the children talked. She remembered riding, remembered loving the power of a horse as she rode across the countryside to her favorite reading spot on a hill overlooking the village.

She didn’t share those memories, though. She never talked to the children about her life before Haven Manor. Those memories belonged to the Honorable Katherine FitzGilbert, and she wasn’t that woman anymore. Now she was simply Kit.

“Where are we going on our picnic tomorrow?” Sarah asked.

Kit winced as Jess and Daphne swung questioning looks in her direction. She probably should have mentioned the newest Lord Wharton development to them.

“I don’t know,” Jess said slowly, one eyebrow lifting along with one side of her mouth. “Where would you like us to go?”

“The glen by the lake!”

“The bluebell patch in the forest!”

“Mama Kit’s secret tree!”

Kit let her eyes sink closed at the last suggestion. Mostly because she’d seen the brief look of triumph cross Lord Wharton’s face at the mention of yet another secret of hers.

“Mama Kit has a tree?” he asked.

The children were only too happy to tumble over themselves to tell their new friend about Kit’s hideaway, the tree she ran to on the few occasions when she took time for herself. It wasn’t often, but sometimes she simply had to step away. And when she did, she went to her tree. She hadn’t known that all the children knew about it, though. She leaned in toward young Geoffrey. “How did you know about my tree?”

“Mama Daphne told us, but no worry. We be shhh about it.”

Kit bit her lip to keep from laughing at Geoffrey’s stilted words. Looking at Lord Wharton was out of the question so she turned to Daphne instead. Her friend was finding her empty plate exceedingly interesting at the moment.

“If they don’t know about it, they can’t avoid it,” she mumbled.

“I think the glen is a good choice,” Kit said as she turned her attention to her own plate. “There’s a view of the lake, and it will have been in the sun all day so it might be dry.

“But,” she continued, looking from little face to little face, “if we’re taking a picnic in the afternoon, it will mean everyone has to work on boxes in the morning. Mr. Banfield will be coming to collect the market goods in two weeks.”

A few of the children grumbled, but most simply nodded since decorating boxes was one of the more enjoyable tasks at the manor. The paper filigree–covered boxes were one of the best sellers in the market stall Mrs. Lancaster put up on behalf of Haven Manor. They also sold goat cheese and blackberry jam, but the boxes made more for them than everything else combined.

“Evening chores and then it’s time for music,” Daphne announced as she rose from the table and collected her plate and one of the now-empty serving dishes. “Most helpful child gets first pick of instrument. I’m going to teach you something new tonight.”

Kit looked up from the dishes she’d been collecting. There was a hint of teasing in Daphne’s tone and a faraway look in her eyes. What was she up to?

“It’s time we learned one of my favorite songs.” Daphne smiled at Kit, then cut her eyes toward Lord Wharton. “It’s good for dancing.”

The children cheered and piled out of the room, rushing to take care of their evening duties. For once, Kit was wishing they hadn’t taught the children to be quite so self-sufficient. If she could claim the need to help more of them, she could put off the trip to the music room. Perhaps indefinitely.