Chapter Eight

The meeting with the solicitor wasn’t going well.

Then again, any man of the law who was writing up a contract that sold a man a chess set piece by piece over the course of several years wasn’t likely to be a delicate sort of fellow.

“Mr. Banfield,” Oliver said, arms crossed over his chest, “let me be honest with you.”

Graham sat up a little straighter in his chair in the corner. Mr. Banfield was a man with thick, dark hair shot through with grey at the temples that stuck out in messy spikes, proving the little boy from the store the day before was definitely this man’s son. He and Oliver had been going back and forth about the chess set contract for nearly twenty minutes.

After listening to it all, Graham had to agree with the solicitor on one thing, ridiculous though it may be. The contract was solid. And legal. And signed by the man who actually controlled the purse strings. So there really wasn’t anything Oliver could do about it. Unless, of course, Oliver wanted to challenge his father’s mental capabilities and fight for control of the earldom and the estates.

The solicitor had even offered to help start the paperwork.

Oliver had obviously declined. Now, apparently, he was changing tactics.

The man sitting behind the desk strewn with books, papers, and other assorted office accoutrements leaned his elbow on the arm of his chair and dropped his forehead into his palm. “By all means, Lord Farnsworth. Please be honest.”

Oliver took a shaky breath and leaned forward in his own chair, propping his elbows on his knees. “I’m looking for my sister.”

The solicitor froze for a moment, and his whole demeanor shifted as he slowly lifted his head from his hand. “Your sister?”

All of the fight seemed to drain from Oliver’s body. “Yes. She’s disappeared, and I’m worried about her. My father isn’t, which means he knows something he isn’t telling me, and this strange chess purchase is the only abnormal thing I know of that he’s done since my sister disappeared.”

Mr. Banfield reached for a quill and began sliding the feather through his fingers. “And you think one had something to do with the other?”

Graham dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling. If the chess set had anything to do with Priscilla, this was, indeed, an extremely convoluted situation. Beyond comprehension. Did Oliver truly believe the two connected?

And if they were, would Mr. Banfield actually admit it?

“I was hoping you would tell me,” Oliver said in a quiet, steady voice.

“Lord Farnsworth, I’m afraid missing young ladies are outside my expertise. I’d be happy to recommend—”

“Whomever you send me to will just end up right back in this office if they’re worth their salt, because the only thing to go on is this chess set,” Oliver growled. “My sister is very important to me, Mr. Banfield, and she has always counted on me to be there for her.”

“I understand,” the solicitor said softly. “I’m sure a missing family member can be quite distressing, but there’s nothing I can tell you about your sister.”

Mr. Banfield leaned forward, his mouth drawn in what might have been sympathy. “If your father believes her to be safe, perhaps you should trust him. I consider my wife and daughter a treasure as well. But sometimes treasure needs to be hidden for a while in order to reach its full value. Perhaps he knows something about your sister that you don’t.”

Something about the way the solicitor phrased his advice niggled at Graham’s brain. It was a strange wording to have come from nowhere. It was almost as if the man had spoken something similar enough times that he’d really given thought to how best to view such a situation. But the phrasing . . .

Oliver stood, breaking into Graham’s ponderings. “I’m not leaving Marlborough, Mr. Banfield. And I will be watching you.”

All ease left the solicitor as he, too, rose to his feet. “Are you threatening me?”

Oliver blinked, and it was all Graham could do not to laugh at the incredulity on Oliver’s face. For all of his tough talk over the past few days, when actually challenged with whether or not he was going to do anything, he looked aghast. Oliver didn’t even care that much for the violence level of fencing. “Of course not!”

It was the solicitor’s turn to blink in surprise and pause for a moment. Truly, if Priscilla’s well-being hadn’t been a factor, the whole exchange would have been highly entertaining.

Mr. Banfield cleared his throat. “Well then, I hope you enjoy your stay in Marlborough. Be sure to visit the white horse.”

Oliver prowled straight out to the white horse, a depiction of a running animal carved into the chalk hill outside of town. “Do you think it was a clue?”

Graham looked from his friend to the carving. “A clue?”

“Yes.” Oliver nodded enthusiastically. “A direction of sorts for searching for Priscilla.”

“No,” Graham said slowly. “I rather think he just wanted us out of his office.”

On their way back into town, they made it a point to chat with any locals they passed. They didn’t learn anything except that the townspeople were all rather proud of their market.

Back at the Bear Inn, where they’d taken rooms, Oliver collapsed on his bed, staring at the ceiling. “I want to go to the market.”

Market day was only a few days away. It wouldn’t be too difficult to stay around that long.

“Twice,” Oliver added.

Oliver wanted to stay in Marlborough for more than a week? Doing what?

Graham didn’t say anything, though, just sat and let his mind churn. There was something he was missing, something that part of his mind was trying to latch on to. Something important.

“There are other white horses, you know.”

“What?” Graham blinked at Oliver.

“Like the one outside town. There are more of them. All around Wiltshire.”

Did Oliver mean to visit all of them? “I really don’t think Mr. Banfield was sending you a secret message.”

“Have you got a better idea?” Oliver sat up in the bed. “I want to be at the market. If she is in this town, that’s where she’s likely to show up. In the meantime, I’ve got to look somewhere.”

Graham didn’t have a good argument for that, but he didn’t relish sitting around the Bear Inn’s public rooms for a week and a half.

“We could split up,” Oliver said, “see what there is to be found around the carvings. Maybe even explore the area around Marlborough a bit more.” He fell back on the bed, his voice dropping to a hoarse whisper. “It’s better than doing nothing.”

There was no answer Graham could give, nothing he could say. He didn’t agree with Oliver, but he didn’t really know why. Until he managed to put a finger on what was bothering him in the solicitor’s office this afternoon, he might as well go along with the white horse theory.

Graham sat in silence, staring out the window. When soft snores indicated Oliver had given in to his emotional exhaustion, Graham couldn’t help but smile. Sometimes a person just had to hide away from the world.

The churning thought that had been dangling just out of reach suddenly slammed into place, nearly sending Graham out of his chair.

“Father says that if you visit hidden treasure too often it doesn’t stay hidden.”

Graham had been right. The solicitor had said those words before. Enough that his son had learned them as well.

What if the boy’s tree-living friend wasn’t imaginary?

It still didn’t tell them anything about where Priscilla was, but to be honest, it was more of a lead than chasing after horses carved into hillsides.

Oliver’s mention of Priscilla had at least made the solicitor think about hidden treasure, so perhaps there was something to be found on the north side of town.

It shouldn’t take him much time to ride out there and find out. He left a note in case Oliver woke before Graham returned.

Collecting Dogberry from the stables didn’t take long, and soon Graham was heading north. The redbrick buildings became smaller, plainer, until they gave way entirely to a narrow, tree-lined road. Eventually even the modern pavement turned into the packed pebbles and dirt of a common country lane. Occasionally he spotted a tile-covered house, surrounded by small gardens and clusters of chickens, but the hustle and bustle of the small market town fell behind him faster than he had anticipated.

He closed his eyes, trying to listen for the sounds of the town’s main area, the bark of the stage drivers, the rattle of deliveries. But there was nothing but the peace of the countryside. A bird chirp. A breeze flitting through the tree leaves. The rush of the nearby river.

Graham paused as he approached the river.

He’d seen bridges such as these before, had gone over them as a kid and remembered the way his steps echoed on the exposed stone arch.

Well, the stone arch that was probably exposed on a regular day. Today what was likely little more than a large stream had swollen far beyond its normal bounds. It gurgled against the side of the stone bridge, swelling over the edge and sending rivulets of water streaming across the top of the bridge, tracing grooves in the dusty path before tumbling over the far side of the bridge and joining the water gushing through the arched opening.

Farther upstream, the River Og swirled around tree bases and seeped into grassy patches, indicating that all the rain the little boy had mentioned hadn’t finished taking its toll on the land.

Even as his horse plodded forward, splashing through the water across the bridge, Graham reconsidered chasing this crazy notion. What was he doing? Riding off into the countryside because of a child’s imaginary friend?

Graham pulled Dogberry to a stop on the other side of the bridge and glanced up again. More rain might make this bridge impassable, and there hadn’t been a lot of other roads leading out to the north side of town. In fact, he’d seen none.

Would he be able to make it back? The sky wasn’t showing signs of imminent rain, but it wasn’t an exceptionally sunny day either.

If he didn’t investigate the trees, though, he’d always wonder.

And besides, it had to be more interesting than searching the countryside for white horses.

The solicitor knew more than he was sharing.

Graham knew it.

Oliver knew it.

The solicitor likely knew that they knew it.

But there was no way of making him talk unless they learned something more. At the very least, the fellow was guarding human treasure while making contracts no sane man would agree to. Was it blackmail? Was he threatening the earl to the point that the man had taken time to make sure his daughter was safely out of the way?

Unless Priscilla wasn’t safely out of the way. What if the solicitor stole people away and made their families pay for their return? Graham shook his head at the fanciful turn of his thoughts. If that had been the case, Priscilla would have been returned when Lord Trenting signed the contract, the longevity of which wouldn’t make a lick of sense.

Not that much about this situation made sense.

Graham had gotten to the point of chasing down imaginary little boys, after all.

Was he really so desperate to escape the boredom of London that it had come down to this?

Apparently. Graham nudged Dogberry forward. He couldn’t return without at least looking for Daniel’s strange friend. While it wouldn’t seem that a boy living in trees, a missing aristocrat’s daughter, and an obscenely expensive chess set had anything in common, it was obvious that something wasn’t quite as it should be in Marlborough, and Graham had a burning desire to find out what.

Past the bridge, the lane continued, meandering its way between hedges, beside pastures, and through shadowed areas caused by dense patches of trees. In one such area, another rutted and less traveled path, wide enough only for a single wagon to pass through, jutted off through the trees. It didn’t look at all appealing.

Which probably made it an excellent place for someone to hide.

Graham turned his horse and gave him free rein to pick his way along the road, avoiding the hoof-sucking mud on the darkened parts of the wooded lane.

The trees to his right gave way to fields and farms while the woods grew deeper and denser on his left, the scraggly trees from the main road turning into a thick, substantial wall of greenery. In some areas, the undergrowth thinned, revealing patches of bluebells and delicate moss draped from the sprawling limbs of mighty oaks.

Graham had never seen anything like it. In his vast travels he’d seen the grandeur of the mountains and the glory of the ocean. He’d even seen the beauty to be found in the barrenness of a desert, but never had he seen anything like the woods outside of Marlborough.

Entranced, he reined Dogberry in and nudged him closer. This part of the country had always just been a stopping point on his way to somewhere else. What else had he missed in life because he was too focused on where he was going?

Graham sent his horse off the path and into the woods, where he was swallowed up by breathtaking beauty. Scraggly pale green plants were crushed beneath Dogberry’s hooves as they wandered under tree branches that were as big around as Graham’s waist. Overhead, the limbs of the giant trees twined together, forming a roof that blocked out what little sun had managed to break through the clouds. Graham shivered at the drop in temperature and paused to pull his cloak from the saddlebag.

As he was wrapping it around himself, he heard voices.

“You’re going too high!”

“No, I’m not. You’re being a milksop. John said he climbed up here to see the bird nest last week, and I want to see it, too!”

“But what if you fall? I can’t carry you back to the manor. We’re already going to be in trouble because we were only supposed to go as far as the blackberries!”

There was a pause in which Graham could almost picture the owner of the young male voice making a face at the worried little girl he was with. It made Graham smile. He remembered taunting his cousins with his own daring exploits.

“Henry!”

The little girl’s shriek wiped the smile from Graham’s face. Yes, Henry was a common name, and there were probably hundreds in Wiltshire, possibly even a dozen or so in Marlborough alone. But a little boy named Henry in the depths of the woods? Stuck up in a tree? It was too much of a coincidence for Graham to leave alone.

He tied his horse to a tree branch and set off on foot, not wanting to scare the children away with his approach.

“Alice!”

Graham had to pause and contain his laughter at the boy’s mocking impression of the little girl. It was nice to know that some things never changed.

The voices stopped, but Graham could still easily follow the loud rustling of leaves. Apparently Henry wasn’t the smoothest of climbers. That, or Alice was frantically pacing beneath the tree and sending the rustling noise echoing through the woods. She seemed like the pacing type, most likely with her hands fretting about the entire time Henry was aloft.

A sharp crack followed by two screams spurred Graham to proceed with a bit more speed and a lot less caution.

“Henry! Henry!”

“Don’t worry, Alice.” The voice was tiny now. Young. And trembling. All of the confidence was gone, though it sounded like he was trying to be brave. It was the false bravery more than anything that sent Graham crashing into the small clearing. He’d seen a lot of idiots hurt themselves in the name of proving something.

The little girl shrieked again as Graham cleared the trees bordering the open area. He held up both hands in an attempt to show her he only wanted to help.

“Who are you?”

The girl was small, though Graham hadn’t spent nearly enough time around children to be able to guess her age. Dark brown hair rolled in long curls down her back, and her mouth was set in a firm, mutinous expression. Only the slight trembling of her chin showed that she wasn’t as brave as she wanted him to think.

“My name is Lord Wharton,” Graham said carefully, easing forward at a slower pace now that he’d found the children and knew Henry was still up in the tree somewhere and not broken on the forest floor. “I heard you scream and wanted to help.”

Why didn’t the child instantly accept his offer of help? Wasn’t that what children were supposed to do?

Instead, she bit her lip and looked at a break in the woods, probably the path the children had come down to get to the clearing. Then her eyes lifted to the tree. What type of life made a child consider running away instead of helping?

Perhaps the hidden treasure sort of life?

“Can you get Henry down?” she finally asked in a very small voice. “I think he’s stuck.”

“I’m not stuck,” the boy said with belligerence, obviously moving past the fear of whatever had caused the loud cracking noise earlier. “I just can’t go anywhere.”

Her two small fists found their way to the little girl’s hips as she glared into the tree. “And what exactly do you think stuck means, Henry Cotter? That you’re meeting the queen for tea?”

Graham lifted one gloved hand to his mouth until he managed to contain his smile. “Perhaps,” he said, clearing his throat to stop the laugh that threatened to emerge. “Perhaps I should go up and see what I can do? I was quite the tree climber myself in my boyhood.”

Without waiting for Alice’s agreement, Graham took off his cloak and jacket and folded them into a neat pile on the ground. Then he grasped one of the wide, low branches and hauled himself up. He could certainly see why little boys wanted to climb this tree. The lower branches were nearly begging for it, creating a perfect combination of ladder and staircase at least twelve feet into the air. Beyond that he could see that the limbs started stretching upward instead of out, creating a tangle of footholds and thinner limbs that made climbing to the top a treacherous challenge.

He climbed high enough to get a clearer view of Henry, and it made his heart pause and his stomach threaten to jump through his throat. One wrong move and the little boy would indeed be in a great deal of trouble.

The V of limbs he was currently nestled in looked secure enough, but the thick branch that had caused the loud cracking sound was perilously close to trapping his legs. Two skinny branches that were already bowing under the weight were all that kept the limb from crushing the boy and breaking his legs.

Or worse.

Graham had climbed trickier places before, though none were quickly coming to mind at the moment. Perhaps the mountains he’d scaled in Switzerland or the jungle tree he’d scaled on a dare from Aaron. Just because there was a scared little boy involved this time didn’t change the process. Place one foot carefully, test the hold before shifting weight, repeat.

“Good afternoon,” Graham said in his best society drawing-room voice once his face was even with Henry’s. Tears streaked the boy’s cheeks, and Graham made a point of not looking at them.

The long gash at his hairline slowly oozing blood was a bit more difficult to ignore.

“Who are you?” the boy asked with only a small hiccup.

These children were certainly concerned with knowing who he was. “Lord Wharton. What do you say we get you down out of this tree?”

“I can’t,” the little boy whispered. “My leg.”

Graham flattened himself against the branch composing one side of Henry’s impromptu chair and eased over to look at the boy’s leg. It was bent at an odd angle and hooked against his other skinny limb. It didn’t appear broken, thank goodness, but the boy certainly didn’t have the leverage to get his foot free, not without knocking into the larger limb hanging over him, waiting to crush him.

That threat needed to be taken care of first.

Bracing a foot against the other side of the V, Graham leaned out and gave the loose limb a shove. Another crack echoed through the woods as it broke the rest of the way and tumbled into the limbs below, but not onto the little boy.

Alice set to shrieking again. “Henry! Henry! Oh dear, Mama Jess is gonna scowl something fierce if I bring you home dead!”

Graham ducked his head to hide a smile. Whoever Mama Jess was, she must have some powerful facial expressions. “Everything is fine, Alice,” he called toward the ground. “We’re just moving some limbs around.”

He turned back to the boy. “Henry, isn’t it? What do you say we get down out of this tree?”

Wide blue eyes peered at Graham from a very pale face. Blood trickled down Henry’s temple, but Graham resolutely refused to frown. There’d be plenty of time for worry once they got on the ground.

One booted foot slipped as Graham tried to scoot around enough to ease his way in front of Henry. His arm shot out to wrap around a limb, but it made the whole tree shake, and the boy sucked in a great breath of air before catching his lower lip between two huge front teeth. Air whistled through the gap between the teeth, and the tears that had dried while the boy watched Graham started flowing again.

Maybe talking would distract him.

“You live around here, Henry?”

Graham leaned over, keeping one arm securely anchored, and worked to free Henry’s trapped leg. The branch gave way and the leg swung free, causing another sharp inhale from the boy. “I live in London,” Graham said, as if the boy had answered the initial question. “But I travel a lot. Have you ever traveled?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Graham saw Henry shake his head.

“Think you can hold on to my neck?” Graham leaned over and Henry’s little arms clamped around, nearly choking Graham with the strength of their grip. “I’ll take that as a yes.” Graham coughed as he eased one arm beneath the boy, lifting him toward his chest.

He was lighter than Graham had expected, but the responsibility of carrying him down the tree was weighty indeed. Right at the moment, the boy was almost completely dependent upon Graham. The idea turned him into a bit of a boggler.

He’d had more interaction with children in the past day than he’d had his entire adult life. Of course, he’d always assumed that one day he’d have children—he was the heir to an earldom, after all—but they had seemed vague, nebulous things. A duty. Much like having a social presence or being a member of a certain club to secure political advancement.

The shuddering chest pressed to his, though, was very, very real.

“Hang on tight,” Graham said, even though the boy was nearly choking him as it was. “This could be a bumpy ride.”

Normally Graham would have jumped and swung his way to the bottom, but scraggly blond hair impeded his vision and the weight clinging to the front of him encumbered his movements.

Feeling with his left foot, Graham blindly kicked around until he found a good foothold and then started making his way down the tree. Every time he brushed against the boy’s injured leg, a sharp hiss would puff against his throat.

Finally they’d gotten low enough that the little girl could see them clearly, and she accompanied their final descent with helpful phrases such as, “Please don’t drop him,” “Be careful with your footing,” and “Don’t fall.” Graham had to bite his tongue to keep from thanking her with enough sarcasm to knock the leaves off the tree.

He jumped the last five feet to the ground, wrapping his arms around the boy to keep from jarring him too much. With the security of solid earth under his feet, tension Graham hadn’t even realized he’d been holding unwound from his muscles.

Alice pranced around them, her little hands fluttering and occasionally reaching for Henry but not actually touching him.

Graham knelt so the boy’s feet could touch the ground. “How’s the leg, lad?”

Little arms slipped from Graham’s neck as the boy tested his ability to hold himself up. He immediately cried out and crumpled to the ground.

Alice’s hands fluttered faster before she fell on the ground next to the boy. “Oh, Henry, what are we going to do?”

Graham stood and straightened his waistcoat and cravat before retrieving his jacket. He wrapped the cloak around the duo of children. “Wait here. I’ve a horse just in the trees there. I’ll be glad to take you home.”

Two pairs of wide eyes looked up at him before their gazes locked with each other. Alice’s chin trembled again before she set her mouth in that mutinous line of strength once more. “Yes. We will let you take us home.”

“Alice, we can’t!” Henry snuck a quick glance at Graham before looking back at the little girl. “You go get help and I’ll wait here.”

She shook her head, sending her hair flying. “You’re hurt. And it might rain. Mama Kit says that rules are only useful when they solve a problem.”

Henry’s brows lowered. “She does not.”

“Does so. I heard her telling Mama Daphne that in the library a few weeks ago.”

“We’re not supposed to go in the library when they’re talking,” Henry whispered.

Alice frowned. “I didn’t go in the library. I was in the garden under the window. Now hush. We’re going to get to ride a horse.”

That notion seemed to perk the little boy up, and Graham set off to retrieve his horse. His mind whirled with the barrage of information and ideas. So many mamas. And when had women being called Kit become such a popular thing?

Whether or not these children had anything to do with Priscilla’s disappearance, one thing was certain. Whatever he had just stumbled his way into certainly wasn’t boring.