Page 50 of A Treacherous Treasure

“You are very young, Benjamin,” Mother said with compassion in her voice.

“And I get the feeling that Rebecca is still mourning, still almost in shock from her husband getting killed and then getting shot at herself.” Caroline’s arms were crossed over her chest and she spoke as one who was giving counsel to someone younger, which she was, but their little brother was not one to like being talked down to, especially by his sister.

“You just don’t want me to take your friend away. That’s how selfish you are, Caroline.”

Caroline chuckled. “As if you could take her away. She’s more likely to fall in love with Thomas than with you—forgive me for saying so.”

“I will not forgive you.” Benjamin’s cheeks turned red. He turned to Thomas. “Is that how it is? You and Rebecca have formed an attachment? I suppose I should have known.” He turned and stomped toward the door.

“No, Benjamin. There is no attachment between us.” But was that the truth? He stopped himself from saying anything else. What was the usefulness of arguing about it? No one knew Rebecca’s feelings. Thomas wasn’t even sure of his own.

“There is no harm in liking her,” Mother said. “She is a good woman, and she may return your feelings, in time.”

“In time, yes. That is true,” Caroline said.

“I don’t need you to patronize me,” he said, addressing his sister. “And yes, I shall continue to admire her, and yes, she may return my feelings. Better someone like me, who understands her worth, than a bitter, cynical man who is still holding a grudge against all women.”

The latter statement was aimed, of course, at Thomas, who said nothing as Benjamin left the room.

Was he bitter? And cynical? Or was that only Benjamin’s anger talking? He wasn’t still holding a grudge, was he? And even if he was, none of that had anything to do with the fact that he just didn’t wish to marry a widow, and especially Arthur Heywood’s widow.

But there it was. Obviously, he was still holding a grudge, but against Arthur, not all women. He liked women. He intended to marry one someday.

Perhaps Benjamin was more right than Thomas wanted to admit. Perhaps he was cynical and bitter.

He sighed as he walked, the dawn casting an eerie light on the misty field in front of him.

This was the exact spot where he had come upon Rebecca as she fled the man who had shot at her. The poor woman. She’d been so frightened, and rightfully so, but she had not dissolved into hysterics as he imagined most women would have done.

Benjamin had said he admired Rebecca and saw her worth. But Thomas knew more about her worth and her admirable qualities than his little brother could. She was brave and intelligent, learning how to run a household and keep the ledgers and receipts with hardly any help. She’d also endured abuse from her mother-in-law that would have sent most young women running back to their homes.

And she was lovely and kind. She’d been tested and had proven herself charitable and good. How many women could he say that about?

He found himself heading toward the dig site without even planning to. He had come there often enough. So he kept walking, the fog so thick when he neared the trees that he could barely tell it was dawn. His rifle was slung over his shoulder, loaded and ready.

No one was there, but the hole was noticeably deeper, so deep Thomas had to lie down on his stomach and peer over the edge to see to the bottom. But nothing was there.

He stood up and, with a little niggling sensation at the back of his neck, he walked toward Heywood House.

If the men were certain they were digging in the wrong place, wouldn’t they resort to more desperate measures to find the treasure?

He was not far from Heywood House. He could already hear the grooms stirring outside the stables, no doubt fetching feed and water for the horses. But he stayed in the cover of the trees behind the carriage house as he moved toward the back of the house.

As he approached the garden that he knew would lead to the rocky area farther back, he saw a man lurking in the bushes at the other side. Was it one of the servants? A gardener, perhaps? Thomas watched from the shadows of the trees as the man stared hard at the back of the house. He stayed crouched behind a hedgerow, until finally he turned around and, bent low so as to be mostly hidden from the house, started creeping around the outer edge of the garden toward the back of the property.

Thomas followed him, keeping to the edge of the wood.

When they were out of sight of the house, the man stood up and began walking and looking around, examining certain rocks and trees.

The man was too thin to be Fogg, and he did not look like Strader or, indeed, anyone Thomas knew, although he couldn’t be certain, since he had yet to see him except from a distance of at least a hundred feet.

The man moved around, examining the area, even making notes on a piece of paper he took out of his pocket with a small pencil. Finally, when the man turned and started back the way he had come, Thomas stepped out of the trees, pulled his rifle off his shoulder, and pointed it slightly above the man’s head.

The man froze.

“Good morning,” Thomas said. “Misty morning, isn’t it? I would like you to tell me who you are and what you’re doing here.”

The man’s eyes narrowed and he held his hand palm out, as if to fend Thomas off.