“By my faith, the fool hath feathered his nest well
Thomas Middleton, 1580—1627
After a hot bath, a change of clothes, and a light luncheon, Wren stopped by the nursery to help Ally tuck Kit into bed for his nap. Kit hugged her tightly as she kissed him and wished him sweet dreams.
“I love you, Mama.” He yawned widely as she pulled the covers up around him. “And Drew and Lancelot and Felicity and Jem and Ally and Mr. Riley and Papa.”
“I love you, too, angel.”
He fingered the fabric of her black dress. “And you love Drew and Lancelot and Felicity and Jem and Ally and Mr. Riley and Papa like me?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Just like you.” She frowned when she realized that Ally and George had fallen several rungs below a Shetland pony and a Thoroughbred filly.
Kit yawned once more, closed his eyes, and drifted off to sleep.
Wren tiptoed out of the nursery. She met Drew in the marble foyer at the bottom of the stairs. His hair was still damp from his bath and he had changed into dark, formal mourning clothes for his meeting with the rector and the undertaker. Newberry stood at his elbow with a snifter of brandy on a silver tray. She watched as Drew lifted the glass from the tray and tossed the contents down in a single swallow.
“Thank you for accompanying me, Kathryn,” he said. “You look very nice. Very pr—”
“Proper?” She wore black. From the top of her plumed hat and veil to the tip of her black kid shoes.
“I was going to say pretty.” Drew set the empty brandy snifter on the silver tray Newberry held and offered Wren his arm. “But perhaps prim and proper are more appropriate to the occasion. You look very prim and proper and regal and every inch the lady of the house.”
Newberry deposited the tray and the empty glass on a small Duncan Phyfe table in the foyer and crossed the marble floor to open the front door. “Your hat and stick, sir.” Newberry produced Drew’s hat and cane.
Drew took the proffered items in his left hand, then escorted Wren through the front door and down the steps. A coach with the Ramsey coat of arms emblazoned on the door waited on the circular drive.
“Shall we?” he asked before handing her up into the coach.
“If we must,” Wren muttered, perching on the edge of a deeply cushioned velvet seat in the darkened interior of the coach.
Drew climbed in the coach, took the opposite seat, rapped the end of his stick on the ceiling of the coach, and ordered the coachman to lay a path for the village rectory. “Is something wrong?” He stared at her, noting her discomfort.
“I thought you’d drive your curricle into the village.”
“I’m afraid not,” Drew told her. “This is an official visit—a state visit, if you will—by the new marquess of Templeston upon the local rector. I have to go in full livery in order to announce the orderly transition of power from the fifteenth marquess to the sixteenth one.” He peered into the darkness surrounding her. “Kathryn, are you all right?”
“Of course I am.” She managed a thin, hollow-sounding laugh. “Why do you ask?”
“Because you’re sitting on the edge of the seat with an expression on your face that says you may bolt at any minute and because you’ve gone as white as a sheet. Are you ill? Shall I take you home?”
“I don’t like being closed up in a coach.” Especially the marquess of Templeston’s state coach. It brought back too many unhappy memories. The sickening lurch and sway of the springs, the pressure in the middle of her back, the smell of dusty velvet cushions pressed against her face and nose, the feel of a cold, brass door handle against her arm and rib, the heavy panting and the grunts and groans.
The edge of barely controlled panic in her voice and the memory of another explanation alerted him. I don’t like being accosted. Her voice had sounded exactly the same and she’d worn the same look on her face. Maybe what she really meant to say was: I don’t like being accosted while I’m closed up in the marquess of Templeston‘s coach.
Drew edged closer to her until their knees were touching. He reached for her hand. It was ice-cold beneath the kid leather of her glove. He pressed it between his palms. “There’s no need to worry, Kathryn,” he spoke in a soothing tone of voice. “I won’t hurt you and I won’t let anyone else hurt you. I promise.”
She looked up at him and tried to pretend that nothing was out of the ordinary, but it was a very unconvincing performance. “We’re paying calls, Drew,” she said in a carefully steady voice. “I know I’m quite safe in your company. Reverend Pool and Mr. Smalley may be unpleasant, but you can rest assured that I’ve nothing to fear from them.”
“All right,” Drew suddenly agreed with her. “I’m reassured.” He gave her his most handsome smile as the coach pulled to a stop in front of the rectory.
The footman opened the door of the coach and unfolded the steps.
“Take a deep breath.” Drew unfolded the veil attached to her hat and dropped it into place over her face. “Now, blow it out.”
She did as he instructed.
“Better?”
Wren gave him a quick nod as he climbed out of the coach and reached up a hand to help her down.
“Good. Remember I’ll be right beside you.”
Seconds later, she was standing beside Drew at the door of the rectory. He rapped on the door with the head of his cane. A maid answered.
“Don’t announce me,” Wren whispered urgently.
Drew cast a sharp glance at her from the corner of his eye, but he did as she asked. “The marquess of Templeston to see the Reverend Mr. Pool,” he said.
The maid ushered them into the sitting room of the rectory.
Drew removed his hat and motioned Wren toward the settee. She sat down, pushed her veil up off her face, and folded her hands in her lap.
“Good afternoon, my lord,” the reverend declared as he entered the room. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, my lord. I’m honored to be the first in the county to offer you my heartiest of congratulations on the assumption of the marquessate. I’m delighted by the prospect of conducting the late marquess’s funeral and I’m quite certain that you’ll be relieved to know that I’ve already prepared much of the text.” Ignoring Wren, the minister extended his hand to Drew.
Drew disliked him on sight.
The Reverend Mr. Pool was a big, blustery fellow full of his own importance. He might be considered attractive in some circles, but with his weak chin, receding hairline, and pasty skin, Drew thought him a reptilian schemer oozing insincerity and oily charm. His deep booming voice was his greatest asset and although he had yet to attend a service, Drew already knew that it would be a long, drawn-out, incredibly boring pontification on the pious virtue of Reverend Pool and the damnable vices of everyone else.
Drew met the minister’s cold, unblinking gaze with a look of hauteur designed to remind the fellow of his place. He stared pointedly at the reverend’s outstretched hand, making no attempt to accept it. “I mourn my father, the late marquess, sir. I don’t consider your hearty congratulations appropriate for so solemn an occasion.”
Mr. Pool withdrew his hand without offering an apology. “Nevertheless,” he replied in a dismissive tone, “you’re here to conduct business. May I offer you refreshments in the library?”
“You may acknowledge the lady and offer her refreshments,” Drew responded in kind, although he fervently hoped Kathryn wouldn’t take the pompous ass up on his offer. He didn’t want to spend any more time in the man’s presence than necessary and Drew certainly didn’t intend to allow him to conduct his father’s funeral service.
Pool made a show of ignoring Kathryn while he glanced around the room as if searching for the lady in question. “I don’t see a lady,” he sniffed and then leveled his gaze at Drew. “I see your father’s whor—”
“Be very careful, Mr. Pool,” Drew warned.
“So, that’s how it is. Like father, like son.”
“I won’t warn you again.” Drew’s voice was a lo
w, rumbling growl. “You don’t own your benefice. You’re here to minister to the needs of the parish because the village needed a rector and because the late marquess allowed you to make use of the Swanslea glebe and tithes gratis.”
“I am not a charity case,” Mr. Pool retorted. “Your father refused to sell me the living because I would not allow his wh—concubine—to attend services or participate in the parish and I would not acknowledge his bastard, but as this parish had no spiritual guidance the bishop persuaded the late marquess to offer me use of the living.”
“Why any bishop worth his salt would institute a pompous ass like you to the rectory here at Swanslea is beyond me.” Drew didn’t bother to mince words. “And how my father could allow himself to be persuaded to grant you use of the house, two hundred acres, and the large and small times, after meeting you, is just as puzzling.”
“We never met,” Mr. Pool said. “The late marquess tended to be an absentee landlord.”
“That explains why my father allowed you to remain,” Drew commented. “He didn’t know you. It doesn’t explain why the bishop instituted you.”
“The bishop is my uncle.” His reply was smug. “He made an agreement with your father allowing me to hold this living until another of equal value becomes available. Until that happens, I’ll remain rector of this parish, whether you like it or not. You aren’t the only one with connections, Lord Templeston.”
Drew’s stare was unflinchingly direct. “So, we understand one another. Now all that remains to be seen is which of us is the better connected.”
“Am I to take that as a threat, Lord Templeston?”
“I don’t give a damn how you take it, Mr. Pool, as long as you understand that your days as rector of Swanslea are numbered,” Drew told him.
“In the meantime,” the reverend sneered, “the rectory is mine and I have work to do within it. I’ll thank you to remove yourself and your rather shopworn whore from my house so that I may finish preparing the text of your father’s funeral service. Finding the right passage has been rather a challenge—even for one as well versed in the Holy Scriptures as I.” He paused for effect. “Tell me, Lord Templeston, what admirable things does one find to say about a blatant whoremonger destined to suffer eternal damnation?”
“Drew, no!”
Wren’s warning came too late as Drew caught Mr. Pool on the jaw with a vicious uppercut.
The rector hit the floor hard.
“‘Many have fallen by the edge of the sword,’” Drew quoted. “‘But not so many as have fallen by the tongue.’”
“Y-y-you hit me,” the rector sputtered. “I’ll see that you live to regret that.”
“Consider yourself lucky that’s all I did.” Drew walked around the fallen clergyman and offered his arm to Wren. “I already regret my blow didn’t break your jaw.”
“It didn’t,” Mr. Pool spat. “And I can promise you that the text I preach at your father’s funeral will be your undoing! Yours and your whore’s!”
Drew kicked the other man’s foot aside to clear a path to the front door. “You pompous ass! You’re not going to offer a sermon over my father. I didn’t come here to conduct business with you. I came as a courtesy to inform you that someone else would be performing my father’s rites.”
“The bishop will hear about this! You cannot usurp my rights. I’m the rector of Swanslea. I’m entitled to conduct services for the peerage!”
“The bishop will most definitely hear about this,” Drew agreed. “Because my godfather, the archbishop of Canterbury, asked to perform my father’s rites and I granted him that favor. I chose to explain in person so that you would know my decision to grant His Grace’s favor was not meant to slight you.” He turned to look at the man still sprawled upon the floor. “Had I known of your character, I would not have done so. You, sir, are beneath contempt and when this sad business is over, your time here will be at an end. I will not provide a living to a man who offers me congratulations instead of condolences upon the death of my father or a man who casts aspersions on his name and reputation as well as the name and reputation of the lady to whom I was once, and am again, betrothed.”
Wren sucked in a breath.
The rector laughed. “You expect me to believe that you’re serious about marrying her? Why bother, when you can have her without benefit of vows?” He narrowed his gaze at Drew. “Or can you? Did she refuse you, too?”
“Good day to you.” Drew gave the rector another vicious kick in the leg as he stepped over him to open the front door. “And good riddance.”
“Remember me when he tires of you,” the rector shouted after Wren. “I have need of a whore and I’m not too proud to take a randy widow into my bed— especially a widow who’s been mistress to two marquesses!”
Chapter Twenty-two
Once a Mistress Page 25