Unfortunately, that was true. Puddledon Manor had once belonged to Jo’s husband, Freddie, Lord Havenridge. He’d wagered it and all his other unentailed property on the turn of a card—and lost. And then like the coward he was, he’d promptly put a bullet through his brain. When the winner—the previous duke—had come round the next morning to forgive Freddie’s debt, he was appalled to find Jo a new widow with no one to turn to.
He’d let her stay at Puddledon Manor and had contributed to her support for over a decade.
“The old duke must have made some provision in his will for you—for us,” Pen said.
“I don’t know.” Jo sighed again, making Freddie whine and bump his head against her leg. She stroked his ears. “He had no duty toward me. I think he just felt guilty about Freddie—”
The dog, recognizing his name, beat a tattoo on the floor with his tail.
Jo looked down at him. “My husband, not you, you silly creature.”
Freddie’s tail wagged faster and his brows rose. He put his paws on Jo’s knee and licked her face.
“Now don’t slobber all over me, sir,” she said, laughing. Then she looked back at Pen and Caro.
“I think the money was the old duke’s way of assuaging his conscience as much as helping me. He might not have made any formal arrangements.” She worried aloud as she’d been doing rather frequently of late. “The new duke is well regarded as far as I can tell from the newspapers. He’s a former solicitor, a widower with a young son. I’d hoped he’d be compassionate. The amount we get isn’t large. It’s only a few pence compared to the vast wealth he now commands. It can’t make much of a difference to him, but it’s vital to us.”
“Perhaps that’s the problem,” Pen said. “Sometimes people new to riches are the stingiest.”
“Yes.” Jo swallowed and then bit her lip. “He could even decide to make us vacate the house, and then what would we do?”
“Write to him.” Caro was always one to take the direct approach. “I told you to do that the moment we learned he would succeed to the title, if you’ll remember.”
Unfortunately, Caro could also be a bit of an I-told-you-so.
“Perhaps it’s just an oversight or a miscommunication that he’ll fix as soon as he’s aware of it,” Pen said.
“And if he did mean to stop his support,” Caro added, “writing him will give us a chance to argue our case. As you say, he was a solicitor. He should appreciate well-organized facts and figures. In any event, it’s better to find out where things stand now than to waste time guessing and worrying. The sooner we know, the sooner we can make plans.”
Jo nodded. “You’re right, of course. It would be good, though, if I could show him we aren’t just hanging on his sleeve. I can’t afford to buy Puddledon Manor from him, but if I can convince him that we have a plan to become financially independent—reduce and finally eliminate his charity, perhaps even pay him rent—he might let us continue here.”
Caro nodded, sitting up straighter and shaking her index finger at Jo to emphasize her point. “And that’s another reason I want to get Widow’s Brew into the London market. It will prove to the duke and everyone else that we have a successful business.” She grinned. “And, who knows? Some of his friends might take a liking to our beer and argue in our defense. The duke might even decide to increase his support.”
There Caro went spinning ambitious dreams again—
No, it was a good thing Caro had such big dreams. They might not always reach them—they definitely hadn’t the last two years with the poor harvests—but her dreams gave them all a goal.
“And it’s not as if he needs this little house,” Pen said. “He must have a number of large estates now.”
“Yes.” Jo sounded more determined. “I’ll write him”—she faltered—“soon.” She looked down at the ledger. “If only the last two years hadn’t been so dismal. I’ve been going over our books and have found a few places where we can economize, but . . .” She shook her head. “If we can increase brewery production, that would be wonderful.”
Then she looked up and grinned—well, her expression was more a grimace. “It’s not as if any of our other money-making attempts have been successful.”
True. They’d tried taking in mending, knitting shawls, baking cakes, and any number of other domestic activities all with equally disappointing results. Either the women who lived at the Home weren’t enthusiastic and produced inferior goods, or the villagers preferred to do such things for themselves. It wasn’t until they turned to the old brewhouse on the manor grounds that they hit upon an income-producing scheme that met with enthusiasm on all sides.
“There’s not much we can do until the harvest is in,” Pen cautioned once more. “It looks good now, yes, but that could change.”
“But don’t wait to write him,” Caro said. “Better to tell him now how good the harvest looks to be. If something dire does happen after his money is in our coffers . . .” She shrugged. “It’s not that much money. He’s not going to come down to Little Puddledon to snatch it back.”
Caro was by far the . . . bravest businesswoman of the three of them.
“Er, r-right.” Jo closed the ledger and stood, causing Freddie—and Pen and Caro—to get to their feet as well. “I can’t say I agree with that approach completely, but I do see that we can’t afford to wait until the hops are safely drying in the oast house to contact him. I’ll write him tonight.” She blew out a long breath. “I only hope the man will be persuaded.”
“I’m sure he will be,” Pen said. “What sort of gentleman would throw a houseful of women and children out into the street?”
“Yes.” Jo brushed an invisible speck off her desk. “I’ve followed reports of him in the newspapers, and I got the impression he was a kind man, intelligent and principled.”
Caro’s expression turned cynical. “Let’s hope you are correct. The fact that he’s new to the peerage does give me some hope, however . . .” She pulled a face. “It’s usually not a good policy to trust the nobility to do the right thing.”
And then she looked at Pen with what Pen would swear was sympathy. “As Pen must know all too well.”
Pen’s heart leaped into her throat, and then somehow managed to pound loudly in her ears. “Wh-what do you mean?”
Jo frowned and touched Pen lightly on her arm. “On the walk back from church, Rosamund told everyone that Harriet’s real father was the previous Earl of Darrow.”
Pen opened her mouth to protest—and stopped. Did she truly want to get into the whole tale now? She glanced at the clock on the mantel. She needed to leave soon if she was going to waylay Godfrey. And she had to waylay him today. Clearly, time was running out.
Caro was shaking her head. “I don’t know why it didn’t occur to me the moment I saw that silver streak in Harriet’s hair. It’s quite distinctive.” She frowned. “Well, yes, I do know why. It showed up so suddenly. And I believed your fever story—it seemed odd, but I suppose fevers can do odd things. Not to mention the fact you’d told us you were married to a farmer.” Caro waggled her brows at Pen. “I’d always thought you quite the prude. I still find it hard to believe you were an earl’s mistress.”
Pen sucked in her breath. Hearing Caro say it out loud like that . . . What she’d done with Harry sounded so sordid, but it hadn’t been.
“Not that we mean to be critical, of course,” Jo said quickly. “That’s what the Home is for, isn’t it? To serve as a refuge for women without any other support, especially women with children.” She frowned at Caro. “We don’t judge. Women all too often are at the mercy of predatory men. There’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
Pen wasn’t ashamed, and Harry hadn’t forced or tricked her. She’d chosen freely. She’d loved him—and she’d got her daughter, who was her life, from what they’d done together. She didn’t regret a single thing.
“Your past—anyone’s past—is none of our affair,” Jo said in a calm, soothing tone as she sent C
aro another speaking look.
Caro ignored her. “I say, Pen, you don’t suppose you could get some money from the earl, do you? I would think he owes you something as you’re his niece’s mother. That could help us with expenses in case the duke proves difficult.”
If Caro knew the truth, she’d not let me leave this room until I wrote a begging letter to Harry.
“I am not going to pick the Earl of Darrow’s pockets.” She stood and glared at Jo. “And you need to speak to Rosamund, Jo. I won’t have her spreading stories about my daughter.”
“Yes, I’ll—”
Pen didn’t let her finish. “And she needs to control Verity. The girl has turned everyone against Harriet. She—”
She caught sight of the clock on the mantel. Good Lord! She was going to miss Godfrey. “I have to go. I have an, er, appointment in the village.”
She had to get to Godfrey before the story did—though it might already be too late for that. She started for the door. “Talk to Rosamund, Jo. I won’t let her or Verity torture Harriet any longer.”
Pen jerked the door open and half ran out of Jo’s office. She didn’t slow down until she reached the big oak just before the bridge. Then she stopped and took several deep breaths. She needed to appear calm. Godfrey would notice if—
No, Godfrey probably wouldn’t notice if she was angry or upset. He was not the most observant individual. But someone else might. No need to give the gossips another bone to chew on.
She smoothed her skirt. Godfrey took his midday meal at noon each day and left the Dancing Duck at two after consuming a hearty plate of mutton and several glasses of Widow’s Brew.
It was now one fifty-eight.
She took another deep breath, adjusted her bonnet to what she hoped was a complementary angle, and, at precisely one fifty-nine, strode purposefully across the bridge toward the tavern.
She’d timed things perfectly. The door opened just as she was passing, and Godfrey emerged.
“Mrs. Barnes!”
“Mr. Wright.” He couldn’t hear the hollowness in her voice, could he?
Show some enthusiasm! Godfrey is the answer to your prayers.
She forced a bright smile. “How lovely to see you.”
Why is he inspecting my bodice so thoroughly?
She was used to him darting glances at it, but today he wasn’t even trying to mask his interest.
Perhaps that was good. It might mean he was having trouble controlling his male urges—weak as they may be—urges that would provoke him to offer for her if she played her cards right.
I never thought of Harry’s urges.
With Harry, she’d thought only of love—and, well, her own urges. However, since she had no love nor, to be brutally honest, even the faintest urge where Godfrey was concerned, she would have to hope his animal instincts carried the day.
My urges are all maternal now. The only thing—the only person I care about is Harriet.
He bowed. “I was planning to walk along the stream, Mrs. Barnes. Aids the digestion, don’t you know. Would you care to accompany me?”
Unease slithered down her back and she hesitated. Had he stressed the word Mrs? Why?
It must be my imagination.
Of course, it was her imagination. She was just a little off balance after her meeting with Jo and Caro. “Yes, thank you. That would be very pleasant.”
She rested her fingers on Godfrey’s sleeve, and his hand came up to cover them.
Well, more like trap them, pinning them to—
Stop. This is Godfrey, remember. Stuffy, boring, mild-mannered, God-fearing Reverend Wright.
She let him lead her down to the well-trodden path and along the stream toward the rectory. She had about ten minutes to charm him. That might not be enough time.
She slowed her steps.
Godfrey didn’t, and since he still held her hand against his arm, she could either pick up her pace or get dragged through the dirt.
She picked up her pace. “Do you have someone waiting for you at the rectory?” That would be unfortunate, but there was nothing to be done about it. She would have to make the most of what time she had.
“Oh, no.”
“So, then, er, what’s the hurry? I mean, can’t we enjoy the, ah, view?”
He smiled down at her. In another man, his expression might be considered wolfish, but this was Godfrey. Perhaps his mutton hadn’t quite agreed with him.
He waggled his brows. “I have a much more interesting view I wish to contemplate.”
“Oh?” How odd. She knew this path very well. It was pleasant enough, but the view was basically the same all along the way. One might encounter some wildlife—ducks or other waterfowl, a turtle perhaps, occasionally a snake—but otherwise one saw just water and fields and trees. “What do you mean?”
“I hope to see lovely, rose-tipped”—his brows waggled again!—“h-hills, a beautiful, er, field.” His tongue darted out to wet his plump lips. He was almost panting. “And then a tangled thicket and a dark, hot tunnel.”
He was definitely panting now, and his hand squeezed hers almost to the point of pain.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She sniffed as discreetly as she could. Had Godfrey imbibed too many Widow’s Brews with his meal? She couldn’t smell any alcohol, but he certainly seemed drunk. Perhaps it would be wiser to remember some pressing engagement—
No, engagement was precisely what she was looking for and she wasn’t going to find it by turning tail and running.
“You will. You will.” His voice was oddly husky.
The unease that had slithered down her back earlier fluttered into her chest.
I shouldn’t go with—
Don’t be silly. This is Godfrey, the vicar. He’s harmless.
She let him pull her along, past the turnoff for the rectory, past the old rickety footbridge that Farmer Smith had built to get to church, past the bench someone else had put on the bank—
Her heart sank as they passed the bench and she realized she’d been hoping that that had been Godfrey’s destination.
Then they reached a point where the main path moved away from the stream. Godfrey veered off on a narrow, overgrown trail Pen had never noticed before, not that she’d spent any time exploring this area. There was no room to walk two abreast, so Godfrey towed her along behind him.
“Where are we going?” Pen put up her free hand to keep from being smacked in the face by a branch Godfrey had just pushed by and hadn’t had the courtesy to hold for her. “Besides toward the stream.” At least there were no hills, rose-tipped or otherwise, between them and the water.
“You’ll see.” He leered—well, that was the best she could describe his expression—back at her. “It’s a place where no one will disturb us.”
She laughed nervously. “I hope it doesn’t involve a thicket or a tunnel.”
Godfrey sniggered. “Don’t play coy, Penelope. You want this as much as I do.”
“W-want wh-what?” She considered taking issue with his use of her Christian name, but decided to let it go this time. The fluttering had moved from her chest to her throat, making it difficult to keep her voice steady.
He must have overimbibed at the Duck.
The narrow path opened up into a small clearing with a large willow tree. Godfrey pulled her under the willow branches and then backed her up against the trunk.
“Want this,” he said, and his lips—his wet, slobbery, flaccid lips—came down on hers.
Thank God she’d had the presence of mind to close her gaping mouth before they landed. Her hands shot up to brace themselves against his chest, ready to shove—
Remember Harriet!
Right, Harriet. She would endure anything for Harriet, even this.
Though thinking of Harriet in this particular situation made her think of Harry and how different she’d felt whenever he’d kissed her.
Could she pretend Godfrey was Harry?
No. Harry had ne
ver smelled of onions and garlic, and, more to the point, he’d never attacked her this way. He’d have noticed if she’d been at all reluctant and would have stopped at once.
Not that she’d ever been reluctant. More times than not, she’d kissed him first.
At least Godfrey’s paunch seemed to be shielding her from his—
Ugh! He’s trying to force his tongue into my mouth!
She locked her teeth together. Time for some shocked protest. She couldn’t risk saying anything—if she opened her mouth, his tongue would strangle her—so she shoved on his chest.
Nothing happened. He might not even have felt the push.
She shoved harder. Still nothing.
She kicked his shin.
At last! He lifted his head—and chuckled.
“No need to pretend, my dear.”
The fluttering in her throat froze and dropped like a shot bird to land with a heavy thud in her stomach. “Pretend?”
He tugged her bonnet’s ribbons free, and then sent her hat sailing away.
“Hey!” She turned her face to follow its trajectory. It landed, at a rakish angle, on a bush.
His clammy hand turned her face back to his. “You’re as eager for it as I am.”
It? This sounds like a proposal, but not one of marriage.
“Eager?” She might be misunderstanding. Godfrey was a man of the cloth, after all. One would think he’d wait to engage in anything of a carnal nature until he had God’s blessing.
Apparently, one would be wrong.
“You’re like a bitch in heat.”
“Mr. Wright!”
His other hand planted itself on her hindquarters. “And I’m here to satisfy your needs—and mine.” He pulled her hard against him in such a way that his paunch no longer hid his, er, firm resolve.
His doesn’t feel as big as Harry’s—
She forced that thought from her head. She had to focus. Why would Godfrey think she’d welcome illicit relations? He must mean marriage....
He certainly had an odd way of courting her. But he was a vicar. What else could he mean?
She would find out. She certainly wasn’t going to let him maul her unless he intended to make her his wife.
“Godfrey, you’re frightening me. I don’t—”
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