Wheatly? Good Lord!
The old man rose to his feet, cast a cautious eye at Will, and bowed. "Chadbourn. Of course. You were at the funeral."
Manners failed the earl. Who is this man? "Lord Arthur" would make him the younger son of a marquess at least—or a duke. Good Lord! Charles's estate might bear some responsibility for this family, but I'm damned if I know what it is.
"I—" The earl couldn't articulate a single question from the dozen in his head. He turned to Catherine.
"And you are?"
"She's m'daughter," Wheatly snapped. Of course she is.
"Miss Wheatly," the earl said, bowing, "We met before, but I missed your surname during our encounter with the pigs."
"Pigs, Catherine?" Wheatly sputtered. "What nonsense is that?"
Catherine colored deeply. Will followed the rosy glow from her cheek down her neck with his eyes, and imagined how far down that blush might go. He forced that unproductive line of thought from his mind. There was a mystery here, and he meant to solve it.
"The funeral, Wheatly? What do you mean?"
"Emery's, o'course. I saw you there with the boy and his mother."
"You went to the duke's funeral, Father?" Catherine looked astonished.
"Slipped in the back when everyone's attention was up front. Hadn't spoken to the bast—uh, the duke, in twenty years, but it seemed right."
Will's head spun. He called the duke by his given name. "I can't help but notice the family name. May I ask your relationship to the duke?"
"None I want to claim, and none you need to know," the old man growled. "Is there a purpose to this call?" The set of his jaw made it clear the subject was closed.
"The earl admired our fences, Father. I believe he came to pay his respects." Catherine's voice took on a soothing tone, while Will tried to recall his excuse for calling.
"Fences?" Lord Arthur waved his hand dismissively. "MacLeish takes care of that. Far too busy with my studies to be bothered by such nonsense."
"MacLeish?" Will asked.
"Our man-of-all-work," Catherine explained. She looked jittery. "Why don't you show your work to the earl, Father." She looked desperate to change the subject.
Wheatly launched easily into his obsession.
"Birds, Chadbourn. England is blessed with 'em." He held up a stack of drawings. The subject had been neatly changed, and good manners prevented Will from probing. "I'm finishing the text for my next work. Birds of the English Farm and Fields this time."
"This time?"
Catherine smiled and showed him a shelf next to the mantelpiece. Five well-bound volumes in brown leather, a foot high each, had pride of place. Will could see Birds of English Marsh and Wetlands and Birds of English Woods and Brush neatly lettered on two of them.
"Impressive, sir."
"Mr. Porter will be wanting this one soon enough," Wheatly said.
"You have until after Christmas, Father," Catherine put in. "At least six weeks."
The old man suddenly pulled one sketch from the pile Catherine had laid on his desk. "This one isn't right," he murmured.
Will looked at the watercolor of a black-and-white bird perched on a leafy branch. He didn't know birds, but the painting looked exquisite to his untrained eye. "It's lovely work," he said.
"Wagtail wing bars aren't so wide. And look. Catherine painted his head cocked downward. They don't sit that way. Point their beaks up like some snooty duchess. Has to be right for Porter."
Catherine took the painting with a sigh. "I'll redo it. Mr. Porter wouldn't know the difference or care, but you will. I'll get to it tonight after supper."
Chadbourn frowned. Miss Wheatley looks weary. Does nothing happen here without her competent touch? She is nervous, too. My presence makes her jumpy. I need to cut this strange visit short.
"If I may interrupt, Wheatly, the reason I came was to ask for advice."
Two pairs of wide eyes turned to him.
"Eversham Hall is without a steward. I fired the man for incompetence."
"Excellent!" Catherine exclaimed. "Barker about ruined the land."
"Nasty, too," Wheatly scowled. "Th'duke's creature."
Will wondered what dealings Songbird Cottage had with the rotten steward, but didn't voice the question. "However, that leaves my nephew's estate without a steward. I need someone trustworthy and skilled enough to oversee the restoration of the estate, someone whom I can trust. I can't stay here forever. I hoped you might know someone, Wheatly. It would be best if the man knew local conditions."
The old man looked baffled and confused. Will realized his mistake. He had asked the wrong Wheatly. He looked at Catherine, who appeared lost in thought.
"Have you spoken with Squire Archer?" she asked. "He owns a small estate several miles above Wheatton. His nephew, John Archer, manages it. He's young, and Eversham would be a challenge, but he has the skills. He understands the land. You would do well to speak to him. The Squire wouldn't stand in the way of John improving himself."
Her comments confirmed Will's suspicions about the source of Songbird Cottage's order and well-managed operation. His other suspicions about the estate's obligations toward this household would have to wait until he had more information. Clearly, that wouldn't come from Lord Arthur.
"Thank you, Miss Wheatly. I will call on Squire Archer as soon as I am able. Can you see me out?"
He took his leave of Lord Arthur Wheatly, convinced that he looked relieved to have him gone, and followed his hostess to the door.
"Your sketches and watercolors are superb."
His words must have startled her. When she stumbled on the carpet in the hall, Will reached out to steady her, with one hand to her waist and the other to her wrist. He could feel the rapid beat of her pulse under his hand. Ah, Miss Wheatly. Your heartbeat is as rapid as mine. He smiled down at her.
A man could get lost in Catherine Wheatly's eyes. Will realized he was grinning like a fool and tried to rein himself in.
"Does your John Archer have a passion for the land?" he asked. It occurred to him belatedly that she might have a sweetheart.
"Johnny? I would say so, yes. He took his uncle's fields in hand when he reached seventeen, and now they are among the most productive in the county. Soon, they may be almost as productive as mine."
Mine. Any doubt Will may have harbored about her farm management disappeared. She had recommended the second-best land steward in the county to him. What would she say if he offered her the position?
"What's so funny?" she asked, gesturing him to the open door.
"I was thinking about the boys," he lied. "Your brothers are a delight."
"Do you think so?" She sounded relieved, as if she had feared otherwise.
"High spirited, as boys ought to be, but respectful and disciplined. They are fine youngsters. I am hoping you will allow them to visit Charles."
"The duke? At Eversham Hall?" She said the words as speaking the name of Hell itself.
"Why not?"
"We're not welcome there."
"My dear Miss Wheatly, the old regime is gone. The less said about the former steward the better, and my brother-in-law. . ." He let his words trail off. Had she been afraid of Emery? The thought that the late duke may have forced himself on this woman brought bile to his throat.
"Surely you are aware by now that even the servants know to turn us off. Mrs. Cotter, the cook, even refused to buy my eggs when I approached her in the village. Everyone in the county buys my eggs, unless they have sufficient hens of their own."
He had no answer. Several steps later, she spoke again. "Besides, Papa wouldn't allow it. He calls it 'that vile place.'"
"Miss Wheatly, what—"
"I'm sorry, my lord. We don't talk about it." Her words were polite, but her tone squelched his questions.
"Thank you for your hospitality, Miss Wheatly. Perhaps I'll see you again soon," he said, taking her hand and bowing over it. Her blush when she pulled away warmed his heart. With a proper nod of his head, and a less proper grin, he mounted Mercury and left.