Christopher said nothing, but he, too, dismounted and followed Robert as he strode determinedly across the grass to where Aaron now stood, hands on his hips, directing the placement of the other wagons about the shallow dip.
Two yards behind Aaron, Gracella was sitting on a stool before the caravan she and Aaron shared.
Robert strode up and had sufficient nous to nod politely to Gracella before addressing Aaron. “I say,” Robert said, drawing and meeting Aaron’s gaze. “I apologize about that.” Robert waved toward the entrance to the meadow. “I didn’t understand, but now I do.” He held out his hand. “Welcome to Bigfield House.”
Aaron’s gaze flicked to Christopher, who had halted some yards behind Robert, then a grin split Aaron’s weathered face, and he gripped Robert’s hand. “Ah, well—we all have to learn. Best we put it behind us, eh?”
The readiness of Robert’s smile confirmed his relative youth. “Thank you.” He bobbed again to Gracella, then said, “I’ll leave you to get settled.”
With that, he turned and made for his horse, passing Christopher on the way.
Obviously approving and, Christopher suspected, mildly impressed, Aaron tipped a salute to Christopher.
He returned it with a nod. “I’ll call back later.”
He followed Robert and caught up as Robert mounted his horse. Christopher grabbed Storm’s reins and did the same. As he settled in the saddle, he met Robert’s eyes—a paler, less dramatic hazel than his sister’s. “Given this”—Christopher waved at the gypsy encampment—“was news to you, perhaps I should accompany you to Bigfield House, in case your sister has any questions about the arrangements with the gypsies.”
Robert’s expression lit. “Would you? I have to admit I wasn’t looking forward to explaining this to her—she’s a trifle tense at the moment, what with all the other things she’s having to deal with.”
Christopher waved Robert on; as he followed the younger man out of the meadow, he realized he was smiling in anticipation.
Ellen was seated behind the desk in the study, her elbows planted to either side of a lengthy report on the anticipated production from the estate’s orchards. She was struggling to make sense of the figures and had sunk both hands into the curls at her temples, ready to clutch. Her expression was one of sheer frustration when Robbie strolled in—followed by Christopher Cynster.
Abruptly lowering her hands and rearranging her features, she stared, then hurriedly rose. “Mr. Cynster. I wasn’t expecting you.”
He smiled and inclined his head in greeting. “I met your brother while out riding.”
She managed a vague nod in response, exceedingly glad that the desk sat squarely between them. That smile had set her senses skittering and her nerves flickering in an even worse fashion than the day before.
Damn. She’d hoped the effect he had on her would fade. Apparently not.
How irritating.
Mentally gritting her teeth, she waved her nemesis to a chair and, resuming her seat, glanced questioningly at Robbie.
Entirely at ease, her brother informed her, “I encountered a band of gypsies turning in to the lower meadow. I tried to stop them, but luckily, Mr. Cynster happened along and saved me from making a complete fool of myself.”
She blinked. “Oh?” She’d always understood gypsies to be troublemakers.
When Robbie simply slumped in a chair and said nothing further, she looked at their neighbor. “What do I need to know about these gypsies?”
The smile hadn’t left his lips, flirting about the ends in a distracting fashion. “What you need to appreciate is that the Bigfield House estate needs the services of this particular band of Romany in the same way we at Walkhurst Manor do, as well as the Huntlys at Moreton Manor, the Entwhistles at Grove Farm, and the Cummingses.”
She frowned. “Why do we need the services of gypsies?”
He told her, in detail—chapter and verse.
She had to admit that, in doing so, he managed to avoid sounding superior, which, in the circumstances, was no mean feat.
By the end of his lesson, she was sincerely grateful. “Thank you—for the information and for stepping in and ensuring Robbie didn’t succeed in sending the gypsies away.” That would have been a disaster; she was already well aware of the limited manpower available on the estate.
Christopher studied the fascinating Miss Martingale, today gowned in a frothy confection of white-spotted pink poplin adorned with yards of cherry-red ribbons, with a plethora of tiny ribbon rosettes affixed to the scalloped frills at neckline, sleeve, and presumably hem. He’d noted the widening of her eyes when he’d walked into the room and the telltale way her fingers had twined and gripped, until she’d focused on the matter of the gypsies and her skittishness had subsided.
He would wager she was as aware of the visceral connection that had sprung to life between them as he was. Yet while he was intrigued by it—he’d never felt its like, not in terms of intensity—she seemed determined to ignore the spark, to pretend it wasn’t there.
He suspected she would very much rather he stayed far away.
Too bad.
Now he’d met her brother—Sir Humphrey’s heir—a few pieces of the jigsaw of the true state of affairs at Bigfield House had shifted, revealing a problematic hole.
Christopher looked at Robert. “I wonder if I could trouble you to check on the goat pen? Just to make sure the goats haven’t escaped. Now the hops are coming into full flower, I find I’m a touch nervous over the whereabouts of your uncle’s herd.”
Robert grinned and all but sprang to his feet. “Nothing easier—I was intending to check on them later today.” He flung a smiling glance at his sister. “I’ll go now.” With a nod in her direction and another to Christopher, Robert strode from the room.
Hiding a satisfied smile, Christopher watched him go, then returned his gaze to Ellen Martingale.
She was watching him through flinty, narrowed eyes. “You haven’t a nervous bone in your body.”
He held her gaze for a second, then tipped his head in acknowledgment. “I do, however, have several questions that I would rather not ask in Robert’s presence.”
She stiffened.
Before she could summon every last possible defense, he continued, “Such as, when does Robert reach his majority? By that, I mean the age stipulated in Sir Humphrey’s will.”
Her eyes locked with his. She blinked, once, stared at him as the seconds ticked by, then pursed her lips as if holding back the answer.
When he didn’t shift his gaze or make any further comment, she huffed and rather grumpily admitted, “Twenty-five.”
“I believe you mentioned that he’s only just twenty.”
She nodded. “Five years to go.”
“So”—and here was the crux of it—“if Sir Humphrey is no longer able to make decisions—as you, I, and, I assume, Vickers know is the case—then who has the legal right to act for the estate?”
She stared at him. The fingers of her left hand restlessly picked at the papers on her desk. “Legally?”
He shot her an exasperated look. “To be clear, I agree that you and your brother—being Sir Humphrey’s closest blood relatives, with Robert being his legal heir—have a moral right to make decisions for the estate. I’m not questioning that. But it must have occurred to you that, over the next five years, it’s possible that your right to act in Sir Humphrey’s stead might be challenged.”