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The answer was obvious. “I need to write a letter.”

“Good.” With a smile, he released her hand. “I shall delay you no longer.”

Chapter 26

Benedict stepped out of the carriage and stretched his back. Four hours was a long time to sit, particularly on uneven roads, but the long journey had granted him a great deal of time to think. His deliberations had jumped from worrying over the desperate state of the Farwell Estate’s finances to the management of Rowe’s burial to the need for Rachel to scrub the steward’s cottage from top to bottom to the task that lay ahead when he reached Agnes Blyton’s house. And interwoven between all other considerations, thoughts of Caroline remained ever present.

Pushing aside the vision of Caroline sitting beneath the tree beside the river, he focused on his current location. His driver had stopped the carriage not far from a different river. Several yards farther up the road, a large stone building stood perched on the riverbank. A large wheel up against one wall was slowly turning, the water pouring over the wooden slats before continuing downstream. At the front of the building, the graveled yard was larger than the one outside the gristmill in Leyfield, indicating, perhaps, that the facility enjoyed more business.

A short distance from the mill, two houses built of the same gray stone sat side by side. Benedict studied them curiously. The return address on Agnes Blyton’s letters had been 2 Mill Race Road.

“Any idea which of those houses is number two, Roger?” he called up to his driver.

“Th’ one with th’ blue door, m’lord,” he said, pointing at the farthest one with his whip. “I noticed the number painted on th’ door as we drove up.”

“Excellent. Thank you. I shouldn’t be long.” That was his hope, at least.

He started toward the far house, pondering the information he and his father had managed to extract from the two letters they’d read from Agnes Blyton as he walked. Her missives had been filled with news about her three children. There had been one brief mention of a payment made to Rowe and another informing Rowe of a new customer who had brought over 200 pounds of oats to the mill. But there had been no mention whatsoever of the Farwell Farm wheat. From her letters, it was impossible to know how much—if anything—Agnes knew about her brother’s business dealings, but before day’s end, Benedict intended to find out.

The paint on the blue door was peeling, and weeds grew at the base of the ragged broom bush growing beneath the front window. He lifted the brass knocker and rapped on the door. A child’s voice called out, followed by another. Moments later, the door opened, and a short woman wearing an apron over her white blouse and faded green skirt appeared. Her fair hair—very similar in color to Rowe’s—was topped with a mobcap, and her complexion showed the telltale scars of a battle with smallpox.

“Good day to you,” Benedict said. “My name is Lord Benning.”

The woman gasped and dropped into a hurried curtsy. “Forgive me, m’lord. I did not know you.”

It stood to reason; they’d never met. “Think nothing of it,” he said. “I am looking for Mrs. Agnes Blyton.”

“I am Agnes Blyton.” She paused, her pocked face paling. “Is it Phineas? Has he injured himself?”

“I wonder if I might come inside to speak with you,” Benedict said.

“Of course.” She stepped back to allow him entry.

He walked into a narrow passage, and she gestured to a room on the right. “The parlor is that way, m’lord.”

The room was small. Four armchairs in various degrees of shabbiness surrounded the fireplace in a semicircle, with wide gaps between each one. A table filled one corner of the room, covered with an assortment of books, papers, and a couple of wooden spinning tops. No rugs lay on the wooden floor, and the mirror hanging over the fireplace reflected faded floral wallpaper.

“Anthony.” Mrs. Blyton had followed Benedict into the room. “Lord Benning from Farwell Hall has come to pay us a call.” At the sound of her voice, a gentleman rose from the chair closest to the fireplace. “This is my husband, Anthony Blyton, m’lord.”

Like his wife, the gentleman’s face and hands were scarred. His brown hair was flecked with gray. He turned toward Benedict but did not meet his eyes. “You are most welcome, m’lord.”

It was not the greeting Benedict had expected from someone who had been participating in underhanded business dealings with the Farwell steward. Indeed, for someone who had stood to made a significant amount of money on their wheat, Mr. Blyton’s home and its furnishings were surprisingly modest.

A young boy, who looked to be about ten years of age, sidled up to the gentleman’s side. Mr. Blyton set his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “This is our son George, m’lord.”

“Good day to you, George,” Benedict said. “And to you, sir.”

The boy stared openly at Benedict, but when his father raised a finger to tap his shoulder, he hurriedly bowed his head.

“Please take a seat, m’lord.” Mrs. Blyton hovered anxiously beside the nearest chair. “And, George, I need you to go upstairs with your brother for a bit.”

“But, Ma—”

“Right away, son,” his father said.

George gave Benedict an apprehensive look and scurried out of the room.

“May I make you a cup of tea, Lord Benning?” Mrs. Blyton asked.