Page 7 of Waiting for Love (The Taverstons of Iversley #3)

B enjamin watched Olivia from a third-story window of Chaumbers’ south wing. Where was she going today?

Since moving from the Danforths’ a fortnight prior, he’d developed a routine. He would rise, wash, dress, then retire to the sitting room to drink coffee while waiting for Miss Jamison to bring Hannah in for breakfast—breakfast that someone from kitchen had fetched up along with a bucket of piping hot water, another of the perquisites of living in the Taverston home.

Early on, he’d made the mistake of standing by the window while he planned his day. The first sunny morning, Olivia appeared. And now, every morning when the skies were not actively dripping, he made sure to take his coffee by the window. Were another man to do something so surreptitious and unnerving, Benjamin would treat him to a horsewhipping. Yet he’d formed the habit and could not stop.

She intrigued him. He’d discovered that while the dowager had been grieving her husband, Olivia had taken up the duty of care for the tenants: looking in on the ill, bringing food to the struggling, visiting the lonely. From the affectionate way they all spoke of her, he knew they recognized her goodness of heart. Evidently, she was not the same charmingly silly creature he remembered. And yet, she was. She had the same smile. The same laugh. And, no doubt, the same fierce, absurd desire to compete with her brothers.

This morning, she was wearing her brown riding habit. He favored the blue, but the brown was nice also. He couldn’t have helped noticing how both flattered her, even though she was lanky, and his preference had always skewed toward the voluptuous.

Who was she visiting today? She was carrying an enormous basket. Her long, slender arms must be stronger than they appeared. He envisioned equally strong, long, slender legs. The deuce . He should not be spying. It put all the wrong thoughts in his head.

She disappeared over the ridge, and Benjamin turned away. This must stop. In a few months, she would be gone to London and that would be that. But he could not spend the next few months watching her from windows.

He moved to the table. He had just chosen a sweet bun when Hannah charged into the room, hair half-combed, followed by a huffing Miss Jamison.

“Cake!” Hannah demanded.

“I am sorry, sir,” Miss Jamison said, corralling her. “She is being difficult this morning.”

“I would be too if I knew cake was awaiting me.” Benjamin held out his arms and Hannah ran to him.

A little guiltily, he ignored Miss Jamison’s frown. He wasn’t making her job easier. He had chosen the woman for her grandmotherly appearance and list of references as long as his arm. She was stuffy, but he thought that would be a good balance for his tendency to be indulgent. He shouldn’t keep overriding her discipline, but he did.

He lifted Hannah onto his lap, and she grabbed his breakfast with both hands.

“Tea, Miss Jamison?” he said, gesturing for her to sit across from him, knowing she would not.

“Thank you, sir, but I will go fill Hannah’s bath.”

He chuckled, surveying the damage the sticky coating had already caused. “She’ll need one. I may too.”

A faint crinkle appeared alongside the nanny’s eyes before she nodded and turned. She didn’t entirely disapprove of him.

He shared the bun with Hannah, poured the tiniest bit of tea into a saucer, sugared it well, and gave it to her to slurp. She babbled something he could not quite make out. He agreed with her, and she babbled some more. As the weather promised fine, he suspected Miss Jamison’s plans for the day would include another visit to the garden alongside the west wall. Being winter, everything was trimmed back and ugly, but it gave Hannah room to run about. And dig. The gardener was completely won over and had even gifted her with a trowel. When the weather turned nasty, Benjamin would have to find someplace within the house where she might roam. Perhaps the conservatory. Or the music room. They were generally empty.

But this was exactly what he had wished to avoid. Hannah was not a child of the house. She would not belong in the nursery with Jasper’s children or whatever young Taverstons came to visit. Nor should she run about with any of the servants’ children, wee ones who were taught from an early age to keep out of the way of the lords and ladies until they were old enough to perform tasks of their own. Benjamin hated that she would grow up on an estate where she would occupy some lonely in-between sphere, belonging neither with the masters nor with the servants. That was where he was. That lonely space.

Idiot. He was in an enviable position and moping over it was unbecoming.

For now, his daughter was sated and an absolute mess, so he scooped her up to deliver her to Miss Jamison, who had the washtub, soap, and towels at the ready. Rather than witness the battle ahead, he said, “I’ll be working in the house today.”

“Yes, Mr. Carroll.”

He hurried out. He always told the nanny where he intended to be. Thankfully, she had never had cause to bother him, but he wanted her to know that she could. He would return at teatime. Hannah’s supper. Afterward, with the little mite put to bed, he would work in his office and let Miss Jamison have a few hours to herself.

Benjamin trotted down the south stairs and over to the main part of the house. The place was an architectural disaster with a maze of corridors that did not connect with one another on all levels so one was always going up and down stairs, and four wings—north, south, east, and west—that corresponded poorly to the actual points of a compass and were not even at right angles to each other. Jasper, Crispin, and eventually even Reg mocked the “old pile.” But Benjamin loved every crooked stone.

His destination was Jasper’s study. Jasper had made an effort to sort out his dying father’s unattended-to business, as well as the work that the aging Bradwell had let slip. Reg had tackled the account books. Benjamin had learned this when he first put foot back in England and found a box of tidy ledgers awaiting him. He’d had no difficulty picking up the accounting where Reg had left off. The man was meticulous. His hand was so neat, Benjamin would almost call it feminine.

But the accounting was the least of it, as the mass of paper stuffed in Jasper’s cabinets proved. A few files were labeled “seen to” and the papers in them were scribbled with notes attesting to what Jasper had done. In addition to estate matters, there were folders containing personal correspondence that Benjamin did not touch. There were also a few boxes of material dealing with Jasper’s political interests: pamphlets, newspaper clippings, texts of speeches, notes, and letters. Benjamin thought this likely fascinating, but not within his purview, so he set those aside.

Jasper had told him to open anything that looked urgent. The only thing he’d opened was a letter from the Marquess of Ebersom. He didn’t recognize the name, but a marquess might well expect a response in a timely manner. The man sent regrets. He would not be able to come for a visit over Twelfth Night. They would have to discuss their collaboration when they both returned to London. Working on a bill over the holidays? Jasper? He stuck the letter in with the personal correspondence, though it might belong in the political file.

And that left the pile that Jasper had left specifically for Benjamin to “please look into.”

There were some things that needn’t take more than ten or twenty minutes if he didn’t first have to hunt down whos, whats, and wheres. There were also daylong and weeklong projects that needed to be checked upon, or started, or cancelled. God, Jasper. He couldn’t imagine the poor fellow’s pain, discovering the disarray of his father’s affairs.

Benjamin plodded his way through the pile on days when he did not have set chores on the property or in the village. Today’s first task was a simple one. A bill from a London jeweler. Past due. Benjamin tucked away his annoyance. No gentleman paid his bills on time, yet they all wondered why their accounts were always in a tangle.

The next… the deuce . Benjamin glanced at Jasper’s calendar, then flipped over the page. It was November, not October. And halfway through that.

Christmas party for the staff. Please see to this .

How long did it take to plan such a thing? Jasper’s staff was huge. Was there to be music? Spirits? Gifts for any little ones? Where on earth did one start?

He struggled to decipher Jasper’s scribble, then settled back with an irritated sigh. Jasper thought the staff deserved a special revel since the old earl’s death had meant there had been no celebration the previous year. A special revel? Benjamin had never thrown a damn party in his life.

Chest burning, he set that aside and turned instead to the record of the month’s rents, summarizing Wentworth’s report in his own account book. Bradwell had wisely hired an assistant to handle collections. It put a bit of distance between the steward and the tenants’ disgruntlement—no one liked rent collectors. Wentworth was a good man. His numbers always tallied. Benjamin tapped his pencil against the page. Jack Fowler had missed a payment.

He rubbed his chin, considering. Was it the first time or a pattern? He’d have to look into past reports and then pay Fowler a visit.

He shut the account book and returned to the problem of the Christmas party. He could not put this off. The hardworking staff deserved a decent celebration.

A potential solution occurred to him. No doubt Olivia was as cozy with the household as she was with the tenants. He groaned inwardly, mistrusting his own motives—their paths had not crossed in weeks. He pulled out his pocket watch. It was nearly 11:00. She was likely to be back from her morning ride.

He returned the pile of papers to the cabinet, then left the office to search the house.

Likely she could be found in the billiard room, but he would not approach her there. He hoped the parlor, but it was empty. He moved on to the ladies’ sitting room. There they all were: Olivia, Georgiana, and Alice. He squelched his disappointment. Of course, he hadn’t wanted to find her alone.

He was interrupting something. The ladies were all laughing the way men only did when foxed. While he hesitated in the doorway, Georgiana threw up her hands, letting knitting needles and some misshapen yarn thing slide from what little lap she had left onto the floor.

“It is a sock, not a cap!” she exclaimed, with exaggerated indignation.

“It can’t be!” Alice teased. “You’re having a baby, not a cow.”

Olivia snorted, then dissolved into giggles. They were, all of them, adorable.

“Mr. Carroll?” Alice said, noticing him first. “Is something amiss?”

“No. Well, yes.” Four heads were better than one. “Lord Iversley wishes me to…to plan a Christmas party for the staff.” He turned up his hands to communicate his helplessness. Georgiana and Alice regarded him expectantly, as though awaiting an explanation of the problem, but Olivia let out a huff.

“He didn’t give you a clue how to go about it, did he?” She pursed her mouth. “He probably has no clue himself.”

“Please say you do. I’m at a complete loss where to start.”

She rolled her eyes. “Your job is merely to loosen Jasper’s purse strings. Peters and Mrs. Hardy do the planning.”

The butler and housekeeper. He should have thought of them first, rather than envisioning a tête-à-tête with Olivia. “Good. I will speak with them. Thank you.”

She went on, “Bradwell’s role was always simply to stand between them and take the battering so they would not injure each other.” She gave him a conspiratorial smile. “I imagine you are to throw around the words ‘budget’ and ‘expense’ then accede to most of their wishes.”

“Most?”

“You’ll have to refuse a few things, or they will think you and Jasper are both daft.”

“I see.” Surprisingly, he did. He didn’t mention that it was to be a special revel, not wishing to remind them all of the sorrowful anniversary. He’d use his discretion when it came to granting requests. “Thank you. I’ll find them directly.”

He tore himself away from the cozy gathering and headed to the stairs. Going down, he met Reg coming up.

“Ah, there you are,” Reg said. “I’ve been looking for you.”

“I’m sorry, I—”

Reg cut him off. “No apology needed. I just wanted to ask if you’d heard from Jasper recently.”

“Iversley has not communicated with me. No. Why?”

“Then I just wanted to inform you that Jasper”—he put a slight emphasis on the name—“will be home in two days. Apparently, Crispin’s cottage is a little too rustic, and as Vanessa has forbidden him to fix anything, he is returning to his creature comforts posthaste.”

Benjamin tried to glean from Reg’s expression if there was an actual problem. He hoped the honeymooners had not fallen out. Thankfully, Reg appeared more amused than worried.

“That all sounds rather Taverstonian,” Benjamin said.

Reg grinned. “It is. The cottage was shamefully neglected. But Crispin wants to handle any renovations himself.”

“From Portugal? While fighting a war?”

Reg nodded. “Exactly. So if Jasper puts anything to you—”

“I’m not getting in the middle of that.” He pictured Jasper and Crispin in fighting mettle. Then he laughed out loud. In truth, no bond was ever tighter.

Reg chuckled along. Then, offhandedly, he asked, “Are you busy? Will you join us for luncheon?”

“I’m afraid I do have a rather pressing matter to attend to.”

“Tea, then.”

“I—” He shook his head. “That is my time to spend with Hannah.”

“Bring her.”

An ache spread throughout his whole body. He wanted to. That was the danger. How badly he wanted to. The earnestness of Reg’s expression made him ache more. He was the brother who should understand.

He set his jaw and ground out, “Mr. Taverston, don’t.”

Reg flushed and his eyes darkened, wounded. He answered quietly. “All right, Mr. Carroll. I won’t. But you can expect Iversley will.”