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“Thank you, but no.” Benedict had no desire to prolong this visit. It would be difficult enough as it was. He waited until Mrs. Blyton took a seat before claiming the one next to her.

“We are seated, Anthony,” Mrs. Blyton said.

Mr. Blyton reached out an arm until his fingers touched the chair, and then he carefully lowered himself onto it. Schooling his features in an attempt to hide his shock, Benedict watched in silence as the gentleman fumbled to straighten his waistcoat, his eyes toward the wall. The reason for the wide spaces between the chairs and the absence of rugs or any other obstacles on the floor was suddenly clear. Mr. Blyton was blind.

“To what do we owe the pleasure of your company, Lord Benning?” Mr. Blyton asked.

Rallying his wits, Benedict cleared his throat. “I fear I am the bearer of unhappy news.”

“It is Phineas, isn’t it?” Mrs. Blyton said.

“It is.” Benedict paused. There was no easy way to break the news. “Your brother contracted smallpox the last time he was in Gloucester. He succumbed to the disease in the early hours of this morning.”

For three entire seconds, Mrs. Blyton stared at him, and then she lifted her apron and pressed it to her face to smother a sob.

“I am truly sorry for your loss,” Benedict said. “It was only today, when I asked his maid for your brother’s recent correspondence, that my father and I learned your full name and address. Had we known it sooner, we would have informed you earlier of Mr. Rowe’s ill health.”

“He had someone to take care of him, then?” Mr. Blyton’s hands were now gripping the armchair’s sides.

“He did. His maid, Rachel, was with him day and night.”

“Did she contract the disease?”

“Miraculously, no.”

“Phineas told me about her.” Mrs. Blyton spoke through her tears. “He said she took care of the house well. She . . . she was a milkmaid before she went to work for him.”

“That explains how she remained well,” Mr. Blyton said.

Benedict frowned. Was he truly the only man in Gloucestershire who had not heard of the milkmaids’ supposed immunity to smallpox before now? “The undertaker has been summoned, and as I’m sure you are aware, those who pass of smallpox must be buried immediately. Rachel remains at the house and will clean it thoroughly. When she has finished, you are welcome to come to the Farwell Estate to claim whatever personal items of Mr. Rowe’s you wish.”

“When will we ever be rid of this awful disease?” Mrs. Blyton sobbed. “It has taken my brother, my daughter, and my father-in-law. It’s left me and my oldest son disfigured and my husband blind.”

The Blytons’ loss was staggering, and not for the first time since he’d set off from Farwell Hall, Benedict wished Caroline were with him. She would know just what to say and how to comfort this grieving woman. “The Farwell family stands ready to do whatever we can to assist with your brother’s burial.”

“You have already done more than we ever thought possible,” Mr. Blyton said. “We can hardly ask for additional assistance.”

Benedict’s thoughts spun. What did the gentleman believe they had done before now? “Forgive me, but I hardly think bringing you this news in person warrants such praise.”

“It was very good of you,” he said, “but your willingness to pay for our services at the gristmill truly saved us.”

“Mr. Rowe told me very little about your situation.” Very little was a gross understatement, but Benedict was not above using it if it helped bring clarity to whatever scheme Rowe had masterminded here.

“It was the smallpox,” Mr. Blyton said. “It swept through us all like a raging fire. First, my father, then my brother, then me, and the rest of my family.

“We lost my father right before the wheat harvest two years ago. That was the year of the great shortage, so there was little wheat to grind. At the time, the lack of business seemed a blessing. My brother and I were in no fit state to work, and there were fewer people to turn away. But it meant that those customers who did have wheat to grind took it elsewhere. Last year, knowing that my brother was the only one able to run the mill, and likely fearing they’d have to wait longer than they’d like to sell their flour, our former customers chose to take their grain to the mills they used the year before.”

“Phineas came to visit.” Mrs. Blyton picked up the story. “A few weeks earlier, he’d given us enough money to get by for a month or so, but he didn’t have to ask to realize that our situation had not improved. The mill wheel was silent, and our cupboards were bare. He said he’d talk to you about sending wheat our way. When it arrived the very next week along with your payment for service, we could scarcely believe our good fortune.” She dabbed her eyes with her apron. “The Farwell Farm wheat saved us. Anthony’s brother, Amos, started training our oldest boy on the equipment, and between the two of them, they managed to get all the wheat ground in a timely manner.”

“Feeling useless doesn’t sit well with me, m’lord,” Mr. Blyton said. “Phineas told us to sell the flour and send the payments for Farwell Farm to him, which we did. I also took it upon myself to dictate letters to Agnes for our former customers, telling them that the mill is fully operational again. Many have written back, promising to bring their grain to us this year. We’re hopeful that this coming harvest will see us turning a profit again.”

A vision of the ledger book pages floated through Benedict’s mind. If Rowe had given the family a lump sum about a month before the wheat harvest, it had likely been the money Benedict’s father had given Rowe for the purchase of new apple trees. The outgoing money they had thought had gone to the Leyfield gristmill to pay for grinding their wheat had come here. The incoming payments listed in Rowe’s personal book had been for the flour sales the Blytons had made afterward.

Given that those figures had been significantly higher than those written in the estate ledgers, Benedict made a calculated guess and posed a leading question. “It seemed that you were able to ask a good price for the flour.”

“Yes, m’lord.” Mr. Blyton’s shoulders straightened a fraction. “I may not be able to run the mill’s equipment anymore, but as long as I have a buyer in front of me, I can negotiate the best possible price for our products. There wasn’t a single purchase that didn’t bring in more money for Farwell Farms than the price Phineas had requested.”

There it was. The discrepancy in the wheat flour’s sale price was explained. What Benedict had yet to discover, however, was where all the money had gone. The Blytons gave no indication that any of it had returned to them.