A Rogue of Her Own (Windham Brides #4)(93)
After a fifteen-minute eternity, Griffin departed for home, and Mrs. Caerdenwal had barely closed the door behind him before spearing Charlotte with a fierce blue-eyed gaze.
“We are very grateful, Mrs. Sherbourne, for all you’ve done for us, but you must not trouble yourself to come here again.”
Maureen had taken the baby into the other room, though of course she’d overhear every word.
“It’s no trouble, ma’am,” Charlotte said, rising and dodging around a sheaf of dried basil hanging from the rafter. “I’ll be on my way, having accomplished my aims. Lord Griffin predicts snow, and the day does seem to be getting chillier.”
She did not respond to the “no trespassing” ordinance flung at her feet, because she was too upset. What was wrong with wanting to see a child preserved from penury and starvation? What was wrong with aiding a victim of injustice?
“It’s not what you think,” Mrs. Caerdenwal said as she held the door for Charlotte.
“I beg your pardon?”
Mrs. Caerdenwal wedged through the door and closed it behind her, so she and Charlotte stood in the little yard, surrounded by hens clucking and pecking at the dirt.
“Himself sent money,” Mrs. Caerdenwal said, putting a bitter emphasis on the word money. “The baby’s father, that is. His note said running to our wealthy neighbor hadn’t been necessary, and a regular sum would come for the boy by post. It’s enough and then some. We’ll manage, if he keeps his word, and I suspect Mr. Sherbourne will see that he does.”
Relief seized Charlotte, despite the cold, despite her troubles. “Mr. Sherbourne had something to do with this?”
“The boy’s father referred to a wealthy neighbor, not a titled neighbor, and besides, His Grace isn’t that wealthy, not compared to many of his rank. We know that, but he’s our duke and he does right by us.”
“You don’t think Lord Radnor—?”
“Radnor is several miles distant and has never laid eyes on the child.”
The wind was bitter, and Mrs. Caerdenwal had only a shawl to protect her, and yet, Charlotte had more questions.
“Mr. Sherbourne has seen the baby?”
“Aye. He came here the one time, spoke with Maureen, and not two weeks later, Lord Griffin brings us a letter from the post with money. We’ll manage, Mrs. Sherbourne, and you have our thanks for everything.”
Charlotte took what she hoped was a polite leave and collected the gelding, who’d got loose from the fence post and stood cropping from a bush along the lane. Before she could climb into the gig, a figure turned off the road down the lane before the cottage.
He moved slowly, his great coat flapping, a scarf obscuring his features. An older man, Charlotte guessed from his gait and diminutive frame.
Hannibal Jones caught sight of Charlotte, paused, then resumed his progress.
Charlotte stepped into the gig, took up the reins, and got the vehicle turned on the verge.
Jones tipped his hat but said nothing. Charlotte nodded, though what on earth was he doing paying a call on this household, in this weather, when he had work to do at the colliery?
And how was she supposed to remain angry with Sherbourne, when he’d resolved the situation for the Caerdenwal family and never said a word about it to his own wife?
She steered the horse in the direction of the colliery, intent on taking advantage of Jones’s absence from the work site.
Also intent on confronting her husband.
*
The wind played tricks on Sherbourne’s hearing, so when wheels rattled outside the tent, he dismissed it as yet another auditory hallucination brought on by marital discord. A hundred times a day, he thought he heard Charlotte’s gig pulling up before the tent.
A hundred times an hour, he wished she’d bring him a parcel of sandwiches and a flask of hot tea.
And with an unrelenting ache, he wished he knew a way to meet her demand that Brantford be cast from their lives. His lordship had sent a note by post, inquiring as to when he could expect a revised repayment schedule from Sherbourne and remarking on the beautiful scenery in Monmouthshire.
Sherbourne had considered the budgets, the estimates, the available funds, and every way to rearrange them, but ousting Brantford could too easily create a cascade of nervous investors on other projects, as well as nervous creditors, and nervous employees.
“I was hoping I’d find you here,” Charlotte said.
She stood just inside the tent, looking windblown and chilled—also lovely, annoyed, and uncertain.
“Mrs. Sherbourne, come sit by the fire.”
She obliged, sitting in the least-battered chair. Sherbourne took the other seat and cast around for something to say that wasn’t too trite, too private, too honest, too—
Charlotte pulled off her gloves and held her hands above the little stove. “Hannibal Jones was paying a call on the Caerdenwal household when I left there not thirty minutes past.”
“I wasn’t aware he and the ladies were acquainted.”
“Neither was I, but I thought perhaps you’d sent him to keep an eye on them.”
Was that an accusation, a suggestion, or a mere question? “He passes that way when he travels to and from his lodgings in the village. I thought he was up on the hilltop securing the surveyor’s stakes in case we get snow.”
Charlotte untied her bonnet and set it amid the detritus on the nearest table. Loose papers and a pair of treatises were weighted down with an unlit lamp. A quill pen lay beside the lamp, along with a quizzing glass and a lump of hard, black coal.