Guarding the Spoils (The Wild Randalls 3)

Elizabeth smoothed her son’s hair and the gesture reminded Oliver of her hands threading through his own locks while they kissed. He’d liked the sensation very much. He moved to the doorway to hear her answer.

“He says he is.”

The touch of doubt in her voice propelled him out the door and into the hall.

Elizabeth glanced at him. “Excuse us.”

She caught George’s hand and towed him toward the main staircase. Just before they reached the top of the stairs the boy dug his heels in and faced Oliver again. “Are you not coming to meet my uncle?”

Oliver considered and, seeing the expectation in the boy’s eyes, he closed the door to his new chamber and moved to join them. “It’s been many years, but I would be happy to.”

Beth appeared dubious of his company, but she was silent as they descended. She allowed him to open the door for them and he followed. The next instant, George stepped back onto his right foot. He winced and caught the boy by the shoulder. “Steady there,” he warned.

“My word, he’s grown,” a deep voice rasped. “I hardly recognize him.”

Oliver faced the sound and determined Henry Turner’s pockmarked face as the cause of his bruised toes. He forgave the boy immediately, squeezed his shoulder, and then stepped around him to thrust out his hand in greeting to the newcomer. “Turner.”

Henry Turner squinted at him and then began to chuckle. “Good Lord, Oliver Randall, as I live and breathe. Now, I would never have recognized you if we were not standing here inside Romsey Abbey itself. By the devil, you look positively decrepit.”

In Oliver’s opinion, Henry Turner lacked the intelligence to imagine very much of anything. He studied him as he would an unstable element. The meaty paw pumping his hand lacked any kindness, the eyes darting about the room only to return to stare at George set his teeth on edge. Oliver increased his grip, only satisfied when the man’s smile disappeared. “Some things change and some do not,” he murmured as he studied Turner. He let the man’s hand go and returned to his position behind George.

Beth nudged her son forward. “Are you not going to greet your uncle?”

“Of course. Sorry, sir. How do you do?”

When George stuck out his hand as Oliver had, Turner looked at it and then pulled the boy into a rough embrace. Elizabeth’s breath hitched and Oliver could see the boy struggling to get away from the man holding him. After a moment, George was released and Turner made a show of wiping at his eyes. “My own flesh and blood. I never thought it would take so long to see you again. You were just a wee babe when I left. I suspect you don’t remember me.”

Beth slid her hands over George’s shoulders and pulled him closer to her. The boy appeared to prefer it. “His father spoke of you often and George asked after you just the other day.”

Henry Turner beamed and there was suddenly no trace of tears in his eyes. Intrigued, Oliver moved away to stand at the sidelines to better view proceedings. His brother’s face was set in grim lines as he conversed with Turner. In the past, Leopold and Turner had been close acquaintances, but Oliver had a feeling that something bothered his brother about this visit.

Turner spoke of a grand house and the even grander society he moved in. Henry Turner professed himself a pillar of the community and that made Oliver doubt his stories. People did not change, no matter how fine the suit they wore. Turner had been a bully as a boy and he doubted he was any different now. His face and rough, scarred hands gave away his lifestyle.

When Turner took his leave with a promise to return tomorrow, Oliver followed him to the door, ensuring he heard every single word he spoke. George trailed after, his face eager for stories of how wonderful his uncle’s life was, and Turner was happy to embellish quite liberally.

When Henry Turner’s horse disappeared from view, George tugged his sleeve. “May I return upstairs again?”

Oliver took a moment to consider where the boy should be. If he knew anything about Elizabeth and her moods, she was upset again. If George was here she might not speak her mind. Perhaps the boy did not need to be present. “Off you go.”

George sprinted up the main staircase as if the devil chased him.

“He looks to you for advice,” Eamon murmured at his side.

Oliver shrugged. “Take the afternoon off, Eamon. I’m sure you deserve a pint or two at the tavern.”

His friend hesitated. “Won’t I be needed here?”

“No, Eamon,” Oliver said as he cast one final glance outside before the door closed. “Your gift for ferreting out the heart of important gossip will serve us better. Find out everything you can about Turner and particularly his business interests in America.”

“Do you believe he’s lying?”

Oliver shook his head as Elizabeth was led to a chair and comforted by Blythe and the duchess. His disquiet grew. “I cannot determine that until I have more than just his word. I need facts and you’re the man to furnish them.”

Chapter Ten

BETH STARED INTO the flames as panic clawed her throat. She’d done her best to hide her emotions while her brother-in-law had been present, but she had no desire to comply with his wishes and travel to America. How could she take her son away from everything he’d known?

A soft, comforting arm curled around her shoulders and drew her back to the chairs. She was pushed into a well-padded seat, fussed over, and then a teacup appeared before her. The tea was black, the way she liked it. “Drink this. I’m sure you’ll feel better soon,” the duchess murmured.