Guarding the Spoils (The Wild Randalls - Book 3) (15 page)

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Oliver touched her shoulder, a fleeting brush against her skin that made her far too aware of him. “If you have no objection I should like to send a selection of books from Romsey with you to further his studies until he is settled. I’d also like to provide you with a list of books for later consideration, should you be able to afford them.”

“There is no need to exert yourself on our behalf.” She swiveled to face him. “Do you doubt Henry is as rich as he claims?”

Oliver raked his hand through his hair suddenly, a gesture that was quite unlike him. “No one is ever honest when it comes to money and he has a temper. Be wary of him, Elizabeth. I should not like any harm to befall you.”

Chapter Thirteen

OLIVER FROWNED IN frustration at the growing pile of discarded goods cluttering his room. Each time he checked his lists and assessed what he would take with him on the journey, the discarded pile grew higher. A spare pocket watch had seemed a useful addition. There was always the likelihood one might be dropped and the other that Eamon would carry stolen. Thievery among travelers was rife and it was a wise precaution to be prepared.

And why not pack one more journal to write his adventures into? He could miss recording an important event if he had to search high and low for paper in some far-flung little town that boasted no market or shops. He tossed the thick book onto the desk and slouched into his chair, disgusted by his procrastination. He’d planned this adventure in his mind a thousand times, but he was still plagued by the nagging feeling that he was missing something. Something vital.

With a growl, he got to his feet. Restlessness had sunk its claws into him since he’d awakened. He should have gone on his adventure the moment he was freed from Skepington. He should not have given way to his brother’s demands to stay at Romsey Abbey beyond a fortnight. But he had succumbed to curiosity about how his siblings might have changed during their separation and had spent many an hour studying them and the women they would marry. From what he could tell, they were smitten creatures with no will left to make decisions on their own.

He strode to the window and stared out at nothing. His mind and body craved excitement. Unfortunately, it was not the activity he’d wanted for the past dozen years. He should not have carried on with Elizabeth in the library or kissed her yesterday. The sense that he’d begun down a path he was unfamiliar with resurfaced, troubling him.

He did not normally importune unwilling women. They either responded to his advances or turned away. Elizabeth had frozen when he’d touched her but when they had kissed, she responded with satisfying enthusiasm. There could be more between them. She was a widow, not a virginal young girl. He could have her warm his bed until he left on his journey, but there were risks involved in that. She could lose favor with the duchess and be turned out. She could end up carrying his child.

He tapped the window frame with the tip of his finger. The risks Elizabeth could face alone if an affair was begun were not small burdens, easily forgotten. When they parted company, her to America, him to parts unknown, he would have no opportunity to learn if there had been consequences after sleeping together.

Perhaps that was the problem. Oliver did not like loose ends left behind.

Elizabeth remained at the edge of his mind, a reminder that once he might have chosen a different path for his life. A path that would likely have been short and abruptly ended given the old duke’s fiendish plans to disperse his family. He was lucky not to have married her when the idea had been voiced by his parents. But he’d stuck to his principles and ignored their rather unsubtle hints, quite possibly sparing Elizabeth from a dangerous connection.

There was no doubt he found Elizabeth attractive and certainly pleasing to touch. Her soft body stirred him beyond normal bounds. But even he knew not to become entangled with certain women. Women who preferred marriage over easy, uncomplicated pleasure should be avoided for their own good. When he looked into Elizabeth’s eyes he saw forever after, not the ruins of Pompeii, before him.

No, Oliver wanted adventure. He wanted to be free to choose his own path.

A timid knock sounded at the door and he swung around, grateful for the disturbance. “Come.”

The small head of George Turner appeared, followed by his fast-growing body. George, too, held a peculiar fascination. Oliver kept making plans for the boy and discarding them the next moment. He would never learn how the boy got on in his life once he left for the New World. And that emptiness stirred his restlessness yet again.

The boy fidgeted with the edge of his sleeve. “Am I disturbing you?”

Oliver shook his head. “Come in. The place is almost livable.”

George looked around curiously and mumbled something so softly that Oliver couldn’t hear. That would never do. “Always speak your mind, lad. I prefer it.”

A wash of color flooded the boy’s cheeks, but he squared his shoulders and looked Oliver in the eye. “This room is bigger than our entire cottage was before we came to live here.”

Oliver winced. He’d not considered overmuch the life Elizabeth and George had lived before. He should not have made his remark sound like a complaint when he had access to so much. Romsey Abbey, with its vast rooms and rich furnishings, must appear excessive when you were unused to such finery always lying within arm’s reach. Everything around him, although Oliver might use them temporarily, belonged to the boy duke playing down the hall, so blissfully ignorant of the hardships of life and the responsibilities that would soon be his.

Like young Edwin, Oliver never paid much attention to his surroundings so long as there were not small creatures sharing the space with him and he was warm and dry. The room was now free of vermin, and the drapes almost entirely replaced to keep out the most persistent of the cold drafts. He’d begun to think the room rather cozy, but a boy used to far less wouldn’t share that view.

“Your uncle might have a large house in America,” Oliver suggested, intending to light the fire of George’s curiosity about the faraway land.

The boy’s brow creased as he considered, adding another unsettling thought to Oliver’s mind. He might miss the boy when he was gone. Already he’d begun to delight in the moments of revelation as they appeared across George’s face. He was expressive and had an agile mind and thought rather than talked his way through a problem, which made for some fascinating viewing.

“How odd. Uncle George never mentioned a house, or any specifics that I remember.”

Oliver silently agreed. Henry Turner had been expansively vague in his description of his life in America. “Well, if he did not then you must ask him about his property and his life over there. I’m sure he’ll be happy to furnish you with the particulars since you are to live with him.”

Oliver turned away as a slight ache formed in his chest. He rubbed at it, puzzled by the odd sensation.

George tugged on his sleeve suddenly. “Can I help you with your packing, sir?”

Oliver smiled at George’s earnest expression, and the ache remained. “I suppose you might. Why don’t you move that pile to the far table? I shall not need those after all.”

George picked each object up one by one, his fingers flying over the items as he inspected them. “Will you or Mr. Murphy not need a compass on your travels, sir?”

“We have two already. The third is excessive.”

George moved across the room at a snail’s pace and lingered beside the table holding the discarded items longer than necessary to place them down. As Oliver studied him, he considered what the boy’s future might bring. He would be tall most likely and broad of shoulder, too. Already, his arms appeared to be growing out of his shirtsleeves and his trousers were a touch too short. But how would his character change under Henry Turner’s influence? The ache in his chest intensified and he sat down quickly in the hope it would pass soon.

Would George become as much a bully as his uncle or would he resist and suffer punishments for any rebellion? Oliver liked neither path and after a long moment’s contemplation he decided that George should not go to America with his uncle at all. George had unlimited possibilities for his life here in England. He could study every book in the young duke’s library—the duchess would likely not mind as long as he was careful. He could attend Harrow or some other worthy school on the duchess’s recommendation and live in greater comfort and security. Leopold, because of his friendship with the late William Turner, would keep the boy safe and pay for everything without complaint until he came of age.

And Elizabeth? Elizabeth would be happier here than anywhere else. He had detected a warmth of approval from Blythe and the Duchess of Romsey toward her in the past weeks, despite her temporary position of housekeeper. A deepening of friendship and affection evident in their concern about her leaving the abbey so soon. They would likely shelter her should she refuse to go to America with her brother-in-law.

She would also be here when Oliver returned from his travels and they could talk again sometimes. Or rather she could talk and Oliver could listen. Yes, that was a splendid plan. Much better than the one to go away.

He looked across the room. George still fiddled with his discarded possessions and the yearning on the boy’s face triggered the return of a memory, long faded from neglect. Even as a child, Oliver had enjoyed giving presents to others. It had been many years since he’d had occasion to do so, but seeing pleasure on the face of a recipient of his gift was something he longed to do now.

On an impulse he didn’t care to contemplate too deeply, he crossed the room and selected three of the best and most useful items from the pile: a pocket watch, a box containing more pencils than could be used in a year, and the empty journal. He held them out to the boy. “For you. An early Christmas gift, if you will. I imagine we will not see each other again for some time.”

The boy stared at his outstretched hand and didn’t move. Oliver leaned down so he could better see the expressions on the boy’s face. “Now you may write the thoughts swirling around inside your head and use the pocket watch to show you just how late you are for dinner because of them.”

The boy gulped, hands fisting at his sides. “Is that what you did? Ran late for dinner a lot?”

Oliver lifted one of George’s hands and placed the stack upon his palm. George captured the pocket watch with his free hand and he drew the bundle to his chest, hugging them tightly.

He rubbed his hand over the boy’s head, well pleased that his gift would be treasured and used as he’d intended. “Frequently, but my mother was a determined woman and refused to let me wallow in my thoughts for long. She accused me of driving her to distraction over my tardiness at mealtimes. I never meant any harm to her plans or the soufflé served at dinner. I never thought about the time. Try to be better for your own mother, lad.”

The next instant, George wrapped himself around Oliver’s waist, the book and pencil box squashed between them. The boy held on a long time and only released him at Oliver’s urging. When he caught sight of the boy’s face, he reached for his handkerchief and handed it over without a word.

“Thank you, sir.” George sniffed and turned away to wipe his eyes.

In truth, Oliver was rather glad he did because the sight of the boy’s emotions did strange things to him. He was not used to being ruled by feelings instead of facts. He’d rather discuss a topic rationally than be stirred to passion over it.

He returned to his packing, or rather repacking, for his trip, his thoughts whirling with arguments and contingency plans. He had to convince Henry Turner to leave the boy and his mother here at Romsey, and if he couldn’t be persuaded by rational argument, then he would consider what incentive would be sufficient to sway him.

He dug down to a small pouch at the bottom of the trunk and calculated the sum contained there and in the other cases strewn about the room. Likely not enough to convince Henry Turner to go away, but there was always the Duke’s Sanctuary below should he need additional funds quickly without raising eyebrows at his actions. People seldom went along with his plans until he explained them fully.

He returned his money to its resting place as he considered how to get into the sanctuary without being seen. That could prove a problem. There was a constant stream of servants traversing the corridor beyond and the long hall was in frequent use. But how to get back out without detection was the biggest worry. He’d likely need help. He’d need someone he could trust not to ask to see the room or covet the contents held there or speak of it to anyone else for the rest of their lives.

Even Eamon couldn’t be trusted to that extent. The lure of that much untended wealth would be too great a temptation to avoid speaking of.

Perhaps he could sneak there at night.

George eventually drifted into the room he liked best, leaving Oliver alone with his thoughts. But he wasn’t really alone, for now he had Elizabeth and George’s happiness foremost in his mind. Now there were two people whose futures he thought of beside his own. The discovery disturbed him.

He sat down at a table and drew paper toward him. His reaction to Elizabeth and George were far from rational and he didn’t trust his thinking to be clear. By recording his thoughts exactly as they occurred to him, he filled up a page with cramped script. The fors and againsts of interfering in Elizabeth’s life.