The Strange Visitation at Wolffe Hall (Sherbrooke Brides 11.50)

Grayson nodded, hoping it was so. “Grayson Sherbrooke, sir. And this is my son, Pip.”

The Great had a full head of wildly curling white hair, an equally white curly beard, sharp old eyes the color of pewter, and the look of a man who was on the edge. At the moment, though, he looked more obstinate than Grayson’s Uncle Douglas when he didn’t get his way. He knew he’d been ambushed by his great-granddaughter, and he wasn’t very happy about it. But he was a gentleman, and that meant he would be civil.

The Great nodded and smiled down at Pip. “You’re a great big boy, now, aren’t you?”

“Yes, sir, I’m nearly to my papa’s waist.”

“A great height for one so young. Do be seated, both of you.”

They sat on a green-and-white striped sofa opposite from a huge wing chair where the Great now sat.

Grayson said, “Sir, I understand you were an excellent leader and served throughout the Napoleonic wars.”

“Aye, that’s true enough. I was even at the signing of that blasted silly Treaty of Amiens back in ‘03.” The old man called out, “Suggs, where are Mrs. Crandle’s blessedly wonderful seed cakes? We have a little boy here who needs to grow up strong.” He beamed at Pip. “I had a son once too, you know. He was full of promise like you are, at least I think he was, but it’s hard to remember it was such a long time ago. But then he turned into a rotter, and that smashes a father’s heart. As for the son he managed to bring into this wonderful world, well, he was a crusader.”

“What’s a crusader, sir?”

“Well, I’ll tell you. Crusaders were a lot who should have died out a very long time ago, but didn’t. They changed from being brave soldiers into morons who get stabbed because they join all the good-for-nothings who are making Big Trouble in our factories.” The old man sighed and rested his bearded chin on his hand. He roused himself when he saw Pip. “I say, little fellow, best keep close to your papa else my valet—Bickle is his name—might try to nab you for me.”

Pip eyed the man who looked so old maybe he was God on High, or one of God’s friends, in which case, was he asking Pip if he wanted to come to heaven? Now? Pip knew heaven was a fine place, but not yet, he knew that too. Pip had to be careful. “Why would Mr. Bickle want to nab me for you, sir?”

“He frets, Bickle does, because I don’t have an heir. You see, my third cousin and my only heir died a year ago. The fool was a hunting man and got himself knocked off his horse by a tree branch—killed him on the spot. Since I don’t have an heir, my title will become extinct upon my death.”

“Couldn’t P.C. be your heir, sir? Or her mama?”

“Alas, no, Pip. In our country, only males can inherit titles. It’s called the law of primogeniture. Poor Bickle doesn’t want my title to go extinct. He’s very proud of it, you see. So he is always trying to find me an heir.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I can’t be your heir. I’m Papa’s heir.”

“And you speak well for such a little tyke,” the Great said. “You’re a smart young’un, aren’t you?”

Pip didn’t know what to say to that, so he smiled and nodded. He knew adults did this all the time and it got them by.

“Mind my word, Pip, keep an eye out for Bickle. He’s sly and he’s fast.” The Great turned piercing eyes on P.C. “Why did you invite Mr. Sherbrooke to visit me, Palonia Chiara?”

Palonia? Chiara? Why had P.C.’s parents bestowed these two curious Italian names on her? At least it was unique, bless her heart. Grayson cleared his throat. “Sir, Palonia and I have met before. Ah, in the village. She invited me to meet you and the family.”

The Great ruminated over this for a moment, then said, “She invited you to talk me out of sending her away. But you must listen, my child. I know you don’t want to leave, but it is for the best. You and your mama must trust me.”

P.C. said, “Why, sir?”

“Because you are my responsibility. I’ve told your mother this, but she continues to believe she can be of assistance. She cannot for there is simply nothing for her to do, and you’re a little girl. I want you both safe. Now, I don’t know what you’ve told Mr. Sherbrooke—”

“Sir, his name is Thomas Straithmore.”

“Hmm, very well, it isn’t all that important, now, is it? Ah, our seed cakes. Set ‘em down on the table, Suggs. Palonia Chiara can pour the tea. Go burrow in your cave, Suggs. I’ll call if I need you.”

Suggs was indeed bald. Grayson found himself mesmerized, watching sunlight from the wide front window stream down on the old man’s head, making it glisten.

“Is Bickle nearby, Suggs?”

“I have not seen him, my lord. It is likely he is beneath the stairs devising a strategy.” Suggs looked at Pip, turned on his heel, and walked slowly from the huge drafty drawing room. He turned back at the doorway. “My lord, no new medals have arrived as yet today.”

For an instant, there was stark fear on the old man’s face, and Grayson saw it. Medals? Then the baron waved a veiny hand. “Thank you, Suggs.”

Once Suggs was out of the drawing room, the Great said to Grayson, “Suggs has always wanted to be a Bedouin in the Bulgar and live in a cave with wizards, so he polishes the silver in the basement, keeps it nice and dark down there.

“Palonia Chiara, don’t forget, three spoonfuls of sugar for me, aye, that’s right, and don’t forget the milk. Same for the little lad here.”