A Dangerous Nativity

Chapter 3, Scene 2

Wheatly? Good Lord!

The old man rose to his feet, cast a cautious eye at Will, and bowed. "Chadbourn. Of course. You were at the funeral."

Manners failed the earl. Who is this man? "Lord Arthur" would make him the younger son of a marquess at least—or a duke. Good Lord! Charles's estate might bear some responsibility for this family, but I'm damned if I know what it is.

"I—" The earl couldn't articulate a single question from the dozen in his head. He turned to Catherine.

"And you are?"

"She's m'daughter," Wheatly snapped. Of course she is.

"Miss Wheatly," the earl said, bowing, "We met before, but I missed your surname during our encounter with the pigs."

"Pigs, Catherine?" Wheatly sputtered. "What nonsense is that?"

Catherine colored deeply. Will followed the rosy glow from her cheek down her neck with his eyes, and imagined how far down that blush might go. He forced that unproductive line of thought from his mind. There was a mystery here, and he meant to solve it.

"The funeral, Wheatly? What do you mean?"

"Emery's, o'course. I saw you there with the boy and his mother."

"You went to the duke's funeral, Father?" Catherine looked astonished.

"Slipped in the back when everyone's attention was up front. Hadn't spoken to the bast—uh, the duke, in twenty years, but it seemed right."

Will's head spun. He called the duke by his given name. "I can't help but notice the family name. May I ask your relationship to the duke?"

"None I want to claim, and none you need to know," the old man growled. "Is there a purpose to this call?" The set of his jaw made it clear the subject was closed.

"The earl admired our fences, Father. I believe he came to pay his respects." Catherine's voice took on a soothing tone, while Will tried to recall his excuse for calling.

"Fences?" Lord Arthur waved his hand dismissively. "MacLeish takes care of that. Far too busy with my studies to be bothered by such nonsense."

"MacLeish?" Will asked.

"Our man-of-all-work," Catherine explained. She looked jittery. "Why don't you show your work to the earl, Father." She looked desperate to change the subject.

Wheatly launched easily into his obsession.

"Birds, Chadbourn. England is blessed with 'em." He held up a stack of drawings. The subject had been neatly changed, and good manners prevented Will from probing. "I'm finishing the text for my next work. Birds of the English Farm and Fields this time."

"This time?"

Catherine smiled and showed him a shelf next to the mantelpiece. Five well-bound volumes in brown leather, a foot high each, had pride of place. Will could see Birds of English Marsh and Wetlands and Birds of English Woods and Brush neatly lettered on two of them.

"Impressive, sir."

"Mr. Porter will be wanting this one soon enough," Wheatly said.

"You have until after Christmas, Father," Catherine put in. "At least six weeks."

The old man suddenly pulled one sketch from the pile Catherine had laid on his desk. "This one isn't right," he murmured.

Will looked at the watercolor of a black-and-white bird perched on a leafy branch. He didn't know birds, but the painting looked exquisite to his untrained eye. "It's lovely work," he said.