Guarding the Spoils (The Wild Randalls 3)

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 tha

n 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.

When he was done, he poured a glass of port and strolled about the room, considering each item on his list. Firstly, there might not be sufficient funds to even buy the boy’s freedom from his uncle’s plans. Two, to become involved would arouse suspicion of Elizabeth’s character and spark rumors of a relationship existing between them that might in turn give rise to a false expectation of marriage. Three, who was he to determine the course of another person’s life? He valued his freedom and should extend the same courtesy to others.