Chapter 5

CHAPTER 5

J acob rolled his shoulders to reduce tension and snapped the reins. The horses responded, and the curricle lurched, rolling along the dirt road toward the vicar's home.

Pleased to meet you, Christian. I'm your father.

Bah.

He'd run a thousand lines over in his head, but nothing conveyed that he'd searched for five years, took a job with the Home Office for their resources, and sent out teams of private investigators to find his son. Jacob slowly exhaled. He'd know the right thing to say when he saw Christian.

Their meeting was long overdue. He'd arrived in Sylvanwood expecting to search for his son immediately, but the renovation project was absorbing more of his time and energy than he liked. A fleet of workers had swarmed Brownstone Hall. Using his best persuasion techniques and negotiation tactics, he'd convinced his aunt the workers weren't there to hurt her but to help her. After a week of setting up the staff and another week for his aunt to relax and feel comfortable leaving her room, Jacob was finally able to leave her in the care of Maslow and Jacob's newly hired steward, Mr. Welsh.

Two weeks later than expected, Jacob resumed the long-awaited search for his son. He mentally willed the horses to drive faster.

Amid the renovation chaos, Jacob had received a missive from Lieutenant Scar, his handler. The letter hinted that Jacob's holiday could end due to a string of highway robberies targeting nobility in the area. If another occurred, he could get pulled into a mission to stop the band of miscreants. Lieutenant Scar reminded Jacob that duty to his country took precedence, and of course, Jacob didn't disagree. But he needed more time to locate his son. Not to mention that he couldn't leave his aunt to oversee the workers. If he were called to go undercover in a nearby town for this assignment, his time could be in short supply.

The horses' hooves clopped along the road. If all went well, the next hour or two would give direction to his life. Would he immediately step into the role of a father as he'd hoped, or would his son take some convincing to acknowledge and accept him? Despite the crisp air, a fine layer of sweat beaded on his forehead.

Jacob slowed the team of high steppers and curricle he'd purchased from a local baron who needed to pay down some debts. He'd inquired about the name his investigator had uncovered, Rebecca Nichols.

"There's no one in Sylvanwood by that name." The baron must have noticed Jacob's disappointment, for he added, "Unless you mean the vicar's wife, Rebecca? I don't recall her maiden name, but they moved here from Lincolnshire. She has two sons. One who's old enough to take over the parish and another who's about yea high." He'd held a hand to measure waist high.

Someone who'd seen five years would have been around that tall. Plus, the magistrate, also had vaguely remembered the vicar's wife's prior name having been Nichols. Two hazy recollections and the investigator's partial inquiry was a more solid lead than some of Jacob's past hunches.

"They live in the stone cottage set back toward the woods. Ride past the town center and follow the church road to the end."

The local vicar.

Had Aunt Louisa mentioned him? He didn't think so, yet a memory niggled.

It didn't matter. He'd meet the man and his wife soon enough.

Jacob passed the stone church with its looming tower, pulled up a narrow drive, and parked the team in front of the cottage. He patted the missive inside his coat pocket for reassurance. How many times in the past few weeks had he read it, in anguish, wondering whether his son would be happy to meet his father. Could he right his past wrongs? Was it too late? That was what he was here to discover.

For five years, he'd searched for clues and spent a small fortune to locate his child. It irked him that, after all this time, all he'd known was the child's age until recently. But he was about to find out more—and bring him home. Nothing was going to stop him.

He scanned the grounds. The early yellow blooms of winter aconite were interspersed with purple crocuses along the walk. A few sheep wandered in the far pasture, nibbling on the dead grass.

However, there was no child to be seen. Maybe his investigator had been wrong.

He recalled the letter's words.

I have discovered new information regarding your case. It has been confirmed that the mother, Sarah Nichols, now the Duchess of Winsted, did indeed have a cousin, Rebecca Nichols, residing in Lincolnshire. Her former coachman recalls driving Lady Charlton to the Nichols' residence, a home of reasonable means, five years prior. Unfortunately, Mr. Nichols died from illness prior to the birth of a child and Lady Charlton's departure. The vicar neglected to record the child's birth in the local parish's annals. According to neighbors, the widow Nichols relocated to Sylvanwood, where she remarried. I traveled to Sylvanwood to confirm the marriage in the parish registry and perform interviews but was summoned to investigate a matter for the crown shortly thereafter. My search will resume once my duty to his majesty is fulfilled. I do believe we are on the cusp of finding your son.

On the cusp . Close enough to raise his hopes, yet far enough from his reach for frustration to be his constant companion. This letter combined with what he'd learned from the local baron assured him he was on the right path. He lowered himself from his perch and passed the reins off to a groomsman who stepped out of the stable.

Jacob lifted the gate latch into the walled garden that led to the front entry. His boots clicked against the slate walkway. Neatly trimmed boxwood bushes lined the front of the house. Hung upon the front door, a dried sage and lavender wreath perfumed the air. Ivy climbed the stone exterior, and flower buds peeked over the window boxes. Rows of tiny sprouts labeled with wooden signs boasted of soon-to-be heads of cabbage, peas, carrots, and the like. Past the sheep grazing in the far meadow stood an orchard with trees perfect for climbing. The whole scene reminded him of an illustration in the Mother Goose book his mother read to him as a child.

This was a quaint house for his child to reside—if indeed he did.

Jacob removed his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the perspiration from his brow and hands. Tucking the cloth away, he sucked in a deep breath and released it before knocking on the oak-paneled door.

The door opened. A round woman with sagging jowls peeked at him from under a ruffled cap.

"Good day. Is the lady of the house at home?" He handed her his card, which she took and examined both sides.

"Do come in, milord. I must check if she's returned, but I know Miss Thompson is about somewhere. You may wait in the drawing room while I find them." She gestured to a door on the right, curtsied, and then wobbled down the hall in search of Mrs. Rebecca Nichols or whatever her new married name might be.

Jacob strode into the room and froze. A beautiful woman reclined on the sofa. Bathed in a sunbeam streaming from the picture window, her white gown glowed and her fingers hovered above a sketching pad.

She blinked at him.

Emily?

Er—Miss Thompson, though in his thoughts, calling her by her given name felt right. Well, they had shared an intimate near-death experience. It bonded them together in a way. Surely, formalities could be overlooked.

Emily's golden eyes widened. She jolted into a standing position.

"My lord!" Her sketchbook landed with a thud and slid halfway across the hardwood floor.

He bent and lifted it, glancing at the image. A charcoal rendering of his own likeness stared back at him. Though they'd only met one time, she'd drawn him with incredible accuracy. Either she was amazingly talented, or he'd made an impression. Perhaps both.

She swiped at the sketchbook, but he shifted, shielding his gain with his body. A combination of curiosity and prideful satisfaction swelled inside him. Had he invaded her thoughts as much as she had his? He wanted to linger over the drawing and question her about it, but he wouldn't further her embarrassment. Instead, he stifled a smile, his finger catching a previous page and easing it over before turning toward her.

Miss Thompson stared wide-eyed at him. A pinched expression blanched her face as if she waited for the horror of her humiliation to vanquish her.

He dragged his gaze from her doe-like eyes to the sketch of a horse drawn in fine detail from several angles.

"The likeness is incredible."

Miss Thompson stiffened.

He held the pad for her to see. "I can almost hear it munching the grass."

Her shoulders drooped, and a whoosh of breath expelled through her pink lips.

"You're quite good." He started to turn the page, but she snatched the pad from his hands.

"I enjoy drawing." She grasped the book to her chest, and a deep crimson blush stained her cheeks.

Witty, gifted, and lovely.

"I don't mean to pry." He pointed at the book. "It reminds me of George Stubbs. Have you seen any of his paintings?"

She shook her head. "Not unless he's traveled through Sylvanwood."

"Unlikely. I believe Stubbs passed away a couple of years ago, but he was part of the Royal Academy, and a few of his paintings were on display there."

Her brows lifted into a wishful arch at the mention of the academy.

"The 2nd Marquess of Rockingham commissioned him to paint a horse. The piece is titled Whistlejacket . It appears so lifelike, you expect it to gallop off."

He stared at her sketchpad, and her arms drew the pad tighter to her chest.

"Yours holds the same feel."

T he sound of horses' hooves cantering across sod had pounded in Emily's ears. Her gaze had flicked to the window, but there had been no carriage approaching. It was the thundering of her own heart.

Lord Warren's soft lips contrasted nicely with the chiseled angles of his chin. She'd lost herself while idly sketching those lips and had only heard murmurs in the foyer. She'd assumed the knock was a parishioner looking for her papa and Mrs. Hayes would send them to the church where Papa was working. She hadn't anticipated seeing Lord Warren in their drawing room, his teasing mouth spreading into a dazzling smile and turning her knees to water.

"You could be the next Stubbs." He tapped on her sketchbook, right over her heart. The vibration reverberated to her toes.

Emily shouldn't let a man affect her so.

The doorway still stood empty. What's taking Mrs. Hayes so long to find Mama?

"Or da Vinci, another realist artist. You've probably heard of him, Leonardo da Vinci?"

"Indeed. We have several books on him in our library."

Dancing eyes laughed at her. "A bluestocking, then?"

She raised her chin a notch. "There are worse pursuits than knowledge."

"Most certainly." His disarming smile widened to reveal two rows of even white teeth. "I've always enjoyed a woman with a mind."

"Well, you won't find that here—" Emily broke off. "I mean, enjoyment. Of course, I have a mind. It's merely that we are very serious here. My father is the vicar, and my brother Samuel will eventually take over the role."

Good heavens, stop rambling.

His eyes held hers, and friction grew between, as warm and tangible as the updrafts that allow hawks to soar.

"To what do I owe the surprise of your presence?" She tried to match his mocking tone. "Is there another bandit? Shall I get my bow?"

He chuckled, a rich sound emanating from deep inside his chest. "No, I prefer my drama in small doses."

Emily waited for him to explain the reason for his visit.

His gaze drifted to the window, and his smile wobbled. Silence filled the room, only disturbed by the mantel clock ticking.

Did he forget the reason for his visit?

"I…" He peered around. The direct sunlight changed his eye color to a brighter, iridescent blue. "I-I wanted to invite you…and your family, of course, to a dinner party in your honor."

Emily leaned away to the brink of toppling backward. "In my honor?"

"Rightly so, for saving my life."

She shook her head. "I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but there is no need. Do not burden yourself." Heavens above, she could imagine herself near the head of the table with Lady Dorsham frowning at her, ill at ease with someone of questionable birth sitting among them.

"It would be my pleasure." He pushed back the bottom of his tailored jacket, resting his hand on the top of his fawn-colored breeches, and hit her with a lopsided smile. "I won't take no for an answer." One of his eyebrows lifted as if daring her to try.

His aplomb was maddening.

Emily peeled a hand off her pad and shook her palm to decline. "I couldn't?—"

"You wouldn't want to disappoint my poor aunt. When she heard the story of your selflessness, she insisted. It may also be an excuse for her to show off the progress of the renovations to Brownstone Hall."

Lady Athol? The woman hadn't shown her face in the village in years. Emily had only glimpsed the woman through the window when she and Mama left jams and other goods on her doorstep as a gesture of goodwill.

Where were her manners? She should have inquired after his aunt earlier. "How fares Lady Athol?"

"Much improved now that she has my company."

Such an arrogant remark.

Her qualm must have shown on her face, for he said, "It's true. I fear she was rather lonely until I arrived. I'm a step up from talking to the wallpaper—" He broke off as if he'd lost concentration and stared over her head. His forehead tightened, creating a crease above the bridge of his nose.

The urge to turn and view what had captured his attention outside clawed at her, but she didn't give in.

The front door opened. Mama entered the hallway and untied her bonnet strings. Mama had taken Christian to visit Mrs. Dyer. Emily had forgotten. Why did Lord Warren addle her wits?

Once again, the man had landed her in an awkward situation. Ladies did not chat in a room with a man unchaperoned. Why hadn't she immediately excused herself? Perhaps she should do so now.

"There ye are." Mrs. Hayes's voice resounded in the hallway. "Ya have a visitor, Mrs. Thompson, waiting for ye in the drawing room."

"A visitor?" Mama turned their direction. Her face radiated sheer joy when she spied Lord Jacob Warren standing near the fireplace.

Emily inwardly groaned. The years as a vicar's wife had trained her mother to exude a countenance of serene peace no matter what dilemma came her way—except for matchmaking opportunities. Even though Mama approved of Mr. Mathis as a suitable husband for Emily, she bristled when others spoke of their engagement as a forgone conclusion. Mama would pick a thread off Emily's coat or scratch a paint splatter off her cheek and say, Don't settle for what the world wants. Always be sure the suitor is God's best for you.

Lord Warren bowed. "I do hope I'm not intruding."

Mama swept into the room. "I daresay, you must be the gentleman Emily encountered by the stream. My son Samuel relayed the entire story. How dreadful for you to have been attacked by a bandit." She put a gloved hand to her chest. "I assure you such things are unheard of in Sylvanwood."

Emily cleared her throat. "Mama, may I introduce Lord Jacob Warren. Lord Warren, please meet my mother, Mrs. Rebecca Thompson."

He dipped his head in a polite bow and hit her with one of his dashing smiles. "A pleasure to meet you."

Mama was not immune. "The pleasure is all mine." She dipped into a low curtsy.

"I was just informing Miss Thompson how I'd like to invite you and your family to a dinner party as a token of my sincerest gratitude toward your daughter for saving my life."

Mama clasped her hands to her breast. "How lovely. Did you hear that, Emily?"

"Indeed." Emily forced a smile. "But we might be otherwise engaged."

Mama placed a hand on Emily's arm. "We would certainly clear our calendar for such an honor."

"Wonderful. I was thinking three weeks hence." Lord Warren turned his attention to Emily, raising his eyebrows, adding smugness to his I've-got-you grin. "That gives me time to make the arrangements and finish preparing the house."

"And how do things fare at Brownstone Hall?" Mama asked.

An excellent question. Surely, Lord Warren couldn't host a dinner party with the house in its current condition. Emily hoped he wouldn't discern any challenge in her voice. "The inside must have been in good condition if you're able to hold a party."

He rubbed a finger along his bottom lip. "Well, there is that, but I believe I can get everything in working order, not perfect, mind you, but working. We shall only dine, so that narrows the scope a bit."

Had his bottom lip been that full when she'd pulled him from the creek? It held a pleasingly plump quality with the tiniest crease in the center. Her fingers itched to flip open her sketchpad.

The corners of his eyes crinkled as if they shared a secret. Had he caught her staring at his mouth? Emily's ears burned.

Why is he looking at me like that?

A blur outside the window caught her attention—Christian chasing the chickens back toward their coop.

"Emily?" Mama asked. "Have you rung for tea?"

"There hasn't been time. Mrs. Hayes was still searching for you." Emily scooted around their guest to the bellpull and tugged on the rope. "His lordship arrived mere minutes before you entered."

"I do hope you'll stay." Mama issued him one of her I-don't-take-no-for-an-answer looks. "Mrs. Hayes has a fresh batch of scones about to come out of the oven."

"We shouldn't detain his lordship." Emily folded her skirt and resumed her seat. "He's probably busy with meetings and such."

Lord Warren's gaze held hers a moment longer than necessary before he addressed her mother. "I make a point never to turn down a freshly baked scone."

Mama gestured for Lord Warren to be seated. "Our parsonage, I'm certain, is humble compared to your lodgings, but it is quite cozy for our needs." She lowered onto the sofa.

Lord Warren tested the seat cushion with his hand before reclining in the low-backed chair nearest Emily. The man must be particular about the cushiness underneath his backside.

His gaze locked on hers, and one side of his mouth curved. Merriment danced in his eyes as though he laughed at himself, but for the life of her, she couldn't discern why. Very odd.

"So tell me." Mama folded her hands in her lap and leaned forward as she did whenever she visited with parishioners. "How is Lady Athol handling the renovations to Brownstone Hall?"

His fingers tucked around the V of his jacket, and his elbows rested on the chair's arms. "Initially, all the commotion intimidated her, but she's getting along quite well now."

"Oh, I'm so pleased. The manor home was once such a grand estate. It was terrible to watch it fall into a state of disrepair. You do your family and our town a great honor in reviving the lovely home back to its former glory."

Mama's gaze honed in on him as if the rest of the room had vanished. "I'm delighted Lady Athol is allowing visitors. Emily and I have called upon her every week since we moved to Sylvanwood. Each time, we're turned away, but occasionally, she has spoken to me through the open window. God has put a great burden on my heart for that woman. Your visit is a blessing, indeed. And"—her gaze fell upon Emily—"to hold a party in Emily's honor. I cannot think of anything more splendid."

Mucking stables came to mind. As much as Emily would love to assuage her curiosity regarding the inside of Brownstone Hall and the secretive Lady Athol, she couldn't afford to be associated with a known libertine, especially now that she knew her birth mother's identity.

Lord Warren crossed one leg over the other, the epitome of casual elegance. His high-polished boots reflected the sun from the window. He hooked an arm over the backrest as though he reclined among male friends at White's club. Although Emily had never been to London or seen the club on St. James Street, from the gossip column descriptions Phoebe insisted on reading, Emily suspected that was exactly how men would lounge.

"Brilliant. It's settled, then." He eyed Emily in a way that made her stomach feel as though she'd swallowed a goldfish. "I shall send a formal invitation immediately. The hall will still be in a transitional state, but perhaps it will afford me—or rather, my aunt—an excuse for a party in a sennight so everyone can appreciate the changes. A before-and-after celebration."

"How lovely."

Emily didn't agree with her mother but maintained what she hoped was a demure smile.

The front door thrust open and banged against the wall. Christian dashed down the hallway, his hair flopping.

"Stop right there, young man!"

Christian returned to the doorway and peeked inside.

Mama's tone shifted to that of a commander in his majesty's navy. "There shall be no running, and you left the door wide open. After you're done closing it, please remember your manners and greet our guest."

Emily glanced at Lord Warren, certain she'd witness amusement in his expression. Even when he was being naughty, Christian was a delightful boy. But Lord Warren's confident smile faded, and the blood seemed to drain from his face, leaving him as pale as the white lilies that bloomed in the spring garden. He stood and faced the doorway. His hand grasped the chair's backrest, leaving an indentation when he let go.

Christian stepped out of the open doorway. A moment later, the front door closed, and then he trudged into the salon. His little form straightened, and he shoved a lock of blond hair out of his eyes.

Emily and her mother rose. Emily said, "Lord Jacob Warren, may I present my younger brother, Christian Thompson."

"Pleased to meet you." Christian's arm folded across his middle, and he bowed low.

Lord Warren returned the bow with equal emphasis. "The pleasure is all mine, Master Christian."

Christian giggled, his blue eyes dancing and his shoulders shaking. "Call me Christian if you like. Everybody does." He clasped his hands behind his back and shuffled his foot as if dragging something back and forth with his toe. "What I mean by everybody is mainly Mama, Papa, Samuel, and Emily."

"It would please me very much." Lord Warren stared at Christian as if he'd never seen a child before. "How many years are you, Christian?"

"I'm five." His face beamed. "I can read some and count to one hundred, and Samuel's going to show me how to use a bow."

"Not your sister? She's a good shot." Lord Warren sank onto his haunches to be eye level with Christian.

She'd never seen a man take such an interest in a child. Mr. Mathis acknowledged her brother, though it was clear he had no true interest in him. He usually sent him on his way after a few cursory words.

Christian's face wrinkled. "Em teach me? Nah, she's a girl."

"I noticed that."

"I don't like girls. Do you?"

Lord Warren harrumphed. "I daresay, I appreciate the fairer gender."

Christian pursed his lips and shifted them to one side before he shrugged. "I guess you're right. Some are fine." He glanced at Mama and Emily as if accepting them into his inner circle. "But girls are icky." He pushed the hair out of his eyes again. "Say, are you the fellow who was held at gunpoint the other day?"

Mama crossed her arms. "How did you hear about that, young man?"

Christian's eyes widened. "I wasn't eavesdropping."

"Lying is a sin." Mama's tone held an edge.

"I'm not lying. I promise." Christian drew an X over his heart with his index finger. "Samuel spoke so loudly my ears couldn't help but hear."

A broad grin broke over Lord Warren's face.

Mama's face remained stern. "You are not to go repeating the story. Do you understand me? That's how gossip spreads."

"Yes, Mama." Christian turned his attention back to Lord Warren. "Were you scared?"

"I have to admit, I was a bit frightened. My future looked bleak at that moment. Fortunately, your sister came along, or I wouldn't be standing here today."

"It's good for the highwaymen that I wasn't there. I would have given them a thrashing." Christian side-stepped with his hip thrust forward and mimed punching an invisible foe.

Lord Warren chuckled. "That rogue was fortunate, indeed."

Mrs. Hayes carried in the tea service and a plate of scones, and Christian, still demonstrating his fighting prowess, backed into her legs. The teapot teetered.

"Christian!" Emily reached for him, but Lord Warren caught the pot with his gloved hands, righting it.

"Thank you." Mama put a hand over her heart. "You averted disaster. Praise God."

Christian stilled, his chin drooping into his chest and his gaze on Mama, knowing he was in trouble.

But Mama just gestured toward the open door. "Run along and see to your chores."

"Yes, Mama." He turned toward the door but paused and peered over his shoulder. "I hope to see you again."

Lord Warren bowed his head. "I shall make certain of it."

A small smile quirked the corners of Christian's lips, and he dashed down the hall.

Lord Warren stared at the empty doorway long after Christian departed.

After Mrs. Hayes placed the tea service on the table, Emily poured three cups. "Would you care for one or two lumps of sugar in your tea?"

Lord Warren slid back into his chair, but his gaze grew distant.

She awaited his response.

He blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

"Would you like one lump or two?"

"One, please."

The man's unabashed self-confidence appeared to have dried like the morning mist. He seemed bewildered, as if lost in a vivid dream. Most curious.

He accepted the cup and saucer she passed to him.

Emily handed Mama her tea.

"I haven't been inside Brownstone Hall in an age," Mama said. "I'm certain there must be much work to do."

"Quite." He slid his cup onto the table. "Indeed, there is so much work that I'm afraid I must be going."

"But you haven't finished your tea." Emily wanted him to leave, or so she told herself. But her heart sank at the prospect.

"I beg your forgiveness, but I must join you at a later date." He rose and bowed. "Lovely meeting you, Mrs. Thompson." He inclined his head to Emily. "Splendid to see you again, Miss Thompson."

He stopped in the doorway, resting a hand on the frame. "Mrs. Thompson, I'm looking to employ more workers and servants for Brownstone Hall. I would ask that you send anyone seeking employment my way. I would be much obliged."

"Most certainly. I can already think of several. I shall notify them immediately."

He patted the frame and nodded before seeing himself out.

The door had barely shut before Mama stood and rang for Mrs. Hayes. The housekeeper poked her head around the doorway. "We've been invited to attend a dinner party at Brownstone Hall. Have a footman fetch the proper trunks from the attic. We'll want to wear our best attire. They must be aired out and altered immediately."

Emily forced her heartbeat to remain steady and picked up her sketchpad but didn't open it. She tried to resist but couldn't help stealing a glance out the window.

Lord Warren stood in the drive, staring off into the sky and idly slapping his leather gloves against his leg while the groomsman pulled his curricle around. He handed over the reins, and Lord Warren climbed into the driver's seat. He glanced back at the house. Her gaze locked with his through the window and held for a long moment before he tipped his hat with his finger.

Her pulse quickened.

He snapped the reins, and his carriage retreated down the lane.

Truly, what is that man about?