An unsettling panic gripped her as she took notice of the horsemen’s satchels and straining saddlebags.
They were already packed. The decision was made.
William Walstead, who had been silently observing, stepped closer. His reputation truly preceded him. Dashing. Daring. He was not a tall man, and yet the intensity of his russet eyes made up for his lack of stature. His voice was surprisingly deep and soothing. “You can rest assured, Mrs. Prior, my men are very astute and discreet. These men would both give their lives to protect your son. Surely that would give you a measure of peace.”
He motioned to one of the men on horseback to dismount, and she eyed him skeptically as he did.
But as the man stepped forward and the dawn’s faint light illuminated his face, her eyes beheld the familiar shape of the face. No introduction was needed.
No. For she knew this face with its straight nose and square jaw as well as she knew her own.
Anthony Welbourne.
Chapter 8
Anthony tightened his grip on his horse’s rein as he stepped forward, as Mr. Walstead had bid.
He was about to see Charlotte Grey again. Face-to-face.
He had no idea how she’d react to seeing him, but he did know one thing for certain: two people did not share a romance like theirs and forget a single detail of it, despite what they had moved on to be.
Since arriving at Wolden House almost a quarter of an hour earlier, he’d overheard bits and pieces of the conversation between Mr. Silas Prior and Mr. Walstead. It was not his place—or his business—to get involved. Mostly their words were hushed, but even so, unmasked anger tinged Prior’s tone, and he paced like a man with much on his mind. Yet his reputation was hardly one of emotional sentimentality. In all likelihood, his ire had more to do with what was occurring at Roland Prior’s mill. The reports of arson and workers leaving their posts were increasing. Several watchmen had already been sent to the mill to keep the peace.
But in this single instance, Anthony did not care about Prior Mill. He did not care about the workers abandoning their posts or whether Silas Prior was upset or not. He only cared how Charlotte would react to seeing him again.
And she now stood before him.
He’d recognize her anywhere—the charming slope of her nose. The slender angles of her face. They were all so familiar, so beautiful, and in an instant, every other thought faded. The unnerving realization that she had been in such proximity for all these years shocked his senses, and the sight of her, and memories he had buried, were released in vibrant detail.
But they were worse than strangers—they were two people who’d shared an affection that had been severed.
Now she was his client—a woman whose son he’d sworn to protect. He had to remain master of his thoughts. He could only assume that after all this time she was not the same person she’d been, and he certainly was not the same man. As she stepped farther into the morning’s light, snippets of her conversation with Prior rose above the stomping horse and the gusting wind.
Something was wrong. She did not want them here.
Mr. Walstead had said Mr. Prior had engaged them on her behalf, and Anthony had assumed she would be apprised of the arrangement. It was one thing to be here if she desired assistance. It was quite another to be here if she did not.
As he took another step forward, he removed his hat as casually as possible to not draw the attention of the other men. He deemed it only fair to her that he divulge his identity, even if it was not spoken aloud. He owed that to her, at the very least, and she could respond how she saw fit.
At first she did not notice.
But then she jerked her gaze back to him. Her eyes widened.
Recognition flashed in her topaz eyes.
Yes, she knew exactly who he was.
And now he had to wait for her response.
* * *
The breath fled from Charlotte’s chest, and in that moment, all thoughts vacated her mind.
She forgot what she was saying. Forgot what they were doing.
Anthony Welbourne.
Surely this apparition was merely the shock of Roland’s death playing tricks on her exhausted mind. Or perhaps the prospect of returning to Blight Moor was resurrecting memories and wreaking havoc on her thoughts.
But no.
It was him.
Cobalt-blue eyes fringed with black lashes. Wild, dark hair. A new scar on an otherwise familiar jawline.
It was a glimpse into a past that was so far behind her and yet raring and large as life.
Anthony was not dressed as an immaculate soldier as he had been when she’d last seen him. Instead, a bulky caped greatcoat, slick with the morning rain, cloaked his broad shoulders and a beard’s shadow altered the angles of his face, but what altered him the most was the subtlety in his countenance, one of time and experience that now trumped the adventurous, boyish expression that used to reside there.
Mr. Walstead’s quick, matter-of-fact words snapped her back to the present. “This is Mr. Welbourne, lead watchman on this assignment. He’ll be in charge at Hollythorne House in my absence. You’ll not find a more capable watchman. You and your son will be in excellent care.”
Anthony bowed slightly, stoic and inscrutable, as if seeing her again had no effect on him. No casual grin lit his face as it did in her recollection of him. In fact, he barely met her gaze.
Conversely, she struggled to even speak as memory after memory beset her.
As she regained control, her defiant streak flared.
She did not know why or how he was here, but she did know that nothing good could come of his presence at Hollythorne House, regardless of how much time had passed.
She should demand he be sent away.
But on what grounds?
She’d seem a petty, foolish woman if she told Mr. Walstead about her girlhood heartbreak. And what had her experiences with the Prior family over the past three years taught her? Any sign of emotion would be interpreted as a hysterical response by men.
She had to keep her composure.
And she would keep her composure.
Mr. Walstead, seemingly unaware of Anthony’s effect on her, continued. “Welbourne here is from Blight Moor, and his particular knowledge of the area will be helpful. Mr. Timmons will also be at your disposal, should you need assistance. Both men were soldiers and are experienced watchmen. What’s more, with Mr. Prior’s approval I have engaged servants on your behalf, including a housekeeper, a manservant, and a nursemaid. I’m told there are none currently working at Hollythorne House, and if my men are to guard, I prefer to have staff that has been inspected.”
Charlotte could only stare at the man as his words tumbled forth.
Servants. Guards. Watchmen.
She dare not shift her gaze to look at Silas, for she knew what she would find there—a smug grin of satisfaction that, despite her decision to leave, he was still taking control.
It was all too much—the reappearance of a man she thought she never would see again. The racing emotions of the death of Roland mingled with her fears for her son. And now, all the men were staring at her, waiting for her to decide, and who, no doubt, expected her to succumb to womanly emotions and fanatics.
She would prove them wrong.
For they had no idea to what extent she would go to protect Henry.
All she had to do was survive this moment—keep her composure and determination—for a bit longer, and then she and Henry would be away from here. She could deal with the watchmen and Silas’s manipulation another time. But if she did not leave Wolden House now, the opportunity might not come again.