The Vicar's Daughter

by Deborah Simmons

  Although he told himself it was not his concern, Maximilian wished he could ease her distress. This selfless desire struck him at the oddest moments. In the middle of business discussions, over a hand of cards, even when he was in the company of some beautiful woman, suddenly he would wonder how he could make Charlotte happy.

  He justified these strange thoughts by telling himself he was attached to Charlotte in the same manner that he was to her little sister Jenny. He had, in a sense, adopted the whole Trowbridge family and was receiving letters from nearly all of its members. The writings of James and Thomas were a hodgepodge of questions about horseflesh, boxing and driving, while Jane’s were very serious and well-informed. Carrie wrote silly, endearing messages, and Kit struggled valiantly with his name, but Maximilian’s favorite piece to date was a picture of himself drawn by Jenny.

  No one had ever seen fit to give him such a touching gift. His staff members were chosen for their quiet efficiency, not their friendship, and they endeavored to keep children from his path. His mistresses knew he did not care for affectionate displays or sentimental tokens, and they would have been hard-pressed to provide any. His tenants had always treated him with formality, out of deference to his rigid schedule, perhaps. In truth, everyone kept a certain distance from the Earl of Wycliffe—except the vicar and his family.

  Although the very uniqueness of Jenny’s present made it precious, it was the message implicit in the drawing that meant more. I am thinking of you. I miss you. Who had ever longed for his company as the Trowbridges did? Their sincere affection for him moved him in places he had not known existed.

  The picture itself was an outrageous thing that showed him with a huge, lumpy head and appendages that were no more than scribbles. Yet Maximilian treasured it. Still, he was embarrassed to place it in his study where it might readily be seen, so he stuck it in the edge of a frame that graced his bedroom, effectively covering up most of a priceless painting of Prometheus.

  Prometheus! Suddenly, Maximilian had the answer to Charlotte’s blue devils. He knew she had neglected her passion while in London for fear of being labeled a bluestocking. Although he could not blame her, Maximilian frowned at the thought of his brilliant beauty married to some barely literate squire.... He shook aside the idea. The vicar had given him carte blanche where Charlotte’s proposals were concerned, he reminded himself, and he would make sure she did not end up with such a man.

  Without pondering the difficult subject of exactly whom Charlotte would wed, Maximilian grinned as his plan took shape. He would send over a few books. No, he would take the classical texts to her himself and thereby enjoy the look of surprise on her lovely features. Still grinning foolishly, he abruptly excused himself right in the middle of a conversation with his head groom and, with a total disregard for his schedule, Maximilian headed for his library.

  He chose several volumes that he thought Charlotte might enjoy, keeping in mind her interest in Thebes. Then his fingers brushed against a book of sketches of Greece and lingered there. Naturally, he had visited the most famous sites on his tour of the Continent, but that was many years ago. Now he was struck with a vision of showing them to Charlotte, of viewing the world with someone who shared his enthusiasm.

  With uncanny clarity, Maximilian pictured Charlotte at his sides, climbing the ancient hills, seeing gods among the ruins and standing amid the soaring columns of Athena’s famous temple...before he discarded such thoughts as ridiculous. The only way he could travel to Greece with Charlotte was if he took the entire Trowbridge family, and knowing Carrie’s and the older boys’ disdain for such things, such a trip would be utter misery.

  Maximilian scowled at the book of sketches and moved on, but then he returned to pull it from the shelf and place it with the others. Suppressing the strange disquiet he felt at the thought that Charlotte would never see her favorite sights, he decided that at least she should be able to gaze at the drawings to her heart’s content.

  * * *

  “Miss Trowbridge is out, my lord.” It took a moment for the servant’s words to sink into Maximilian’s brain. Out? Maximilian frowned. Had he set aside his afternoon’s schedule only to find her out? “Where is she?” he asked.

  Miss Thurgoode’s servant gave him an assessing glance that made him want to box the man’s ears and then shrugged insolently. “Riding in the park with one of the gentlemen,” he answered. Then he prepared to shut the door.

  “One of the gentlemen?” Maximilian’s voice boomed out, forestalling any plans the servant had to escape his presence. “What gentleman?”

  “I am sure I do not know,” the servant answered slyly. “You would have to ask Miss Thurgoode.”

  “That I will,” Maximilian said. He tried to quell the anger that was seeping into his veins at the thought of Charlotte out alone with some unknown person. The memory of Stollings’s unconscionable behavior was still fresh in his mind, and he forced away an image of her in some cad’s embrace, unwilling—as responsive as a fence post.

  “I am sorry, my lord,” the servant said with a triumphant smile. “Miss Thurgoode is indisposed.” He ducked his head in a brief bow and shut the door.

  Maximilian stood on the doorstep, enraged. By God, he wanted Charlotte home when he came to call, not dallying with one of her ridiculous suitors. And by God, he would know with whom she was dallying! Did no one but himself give a damn about the vicar’s daughter?

  He released the hands that had tightened into fists at his side and drew a deep breath. He had never been the vengeful sort, never been prone to violence of any kind, but at this moment, he would gladly have tossed that audacious servant down the stairs and into the street without a qualm.

  All thoughts of leaving a message were abandoned in the face of the ignominy of knocking again on the door. With a scowl that frightened his driver, Maximilian turned on his heel and returned to his waiting carriage. He vowed that this was the last time he would be ill-treated by that household, its impertinent servant or the mistress who had all but abandoned her cousin to the perils of London.

  From now on, he wanted Charlotte where he could keep an eye on her. Deuce it all, where was his mother?

  * * *

  A pensive expression on his face, Peter Wilkes stepped out of the earl’s town house to avail himself of one of his lordship’s coaches.

  “Leaving a bit early, are you?” asked a voice, and Peter turned to see Wycliffe’s head groom, Harry, loping toward him. Harry was a grizzled old fellow with a slight limp acquired after a fall many years ago, but he was still an excellent man with horses.

  “Yes, it appears his lordship is...out for the afternoon,” Peter said. He was unable to hide the slight frown that indicated his opinion of the disruption in his routine. He had once thought Wycliffe and himself were kindred spirits, but the way the man was behaving lately...

  “Aye. I saw him take off,” Harry said. Something in his voice made Peter look closer at the head groom. He was clutching his cap before him and moving it from one hand to the other in a nervous gesture.

  “What is it, Harry?” Peter asked.

  “Well, if you must know,” Harry said, looking relieved to be asked, “it’s his lordship. I’m worried about him. Earlier today he was in the midst of talking with me, it being our usual time to look over the horses, and all of a sudden he gets this odd look on his face—”

  “What kind of look?” Peter asked, with no little alarm. He had an uncle who was struck down just as suddenly by a case of indigestion and who never lived to see the morning.

  “Well, now, it is kind of hard to describe,” Harry said. He lifted a gnarled hand to scratch the top of his head, where tufts of gray grew out in all directions. “It was kind of...wistful, like,” he said finally. “And then, as quick as you please, he took himself off right in the middle of our meeting, which is not at all like him, you see.”

  Peter felt relieved that his lordship’s expression had not been one of pain, but he agreed, with a sense o
f foreboding, that Wycliffe’s actions were highly unusual. Harry paused to shift the cap in his hands. He looked a bit uncomfortable, as well he should, for it was not the head groom’s place to question his master’s actions. However, knowing that the old man truly cared for his lordship, Peter nodded for him to continue.

  “Then, just a bit ago, his lordship came hurrying into the stable, yelling for his horse and rushing off as if the very devil were after him,” Harry said, his face creased with concern.

  “His lordship never rushes,” Peter said. He stated the fact dully, dazed by Harry’s information. Wycliffe never forgot his appointments, was always punctual and always moved at the same steady pace. The only time he ever wanted speed was when he drove his curricle in a race. “Surely you exaggerate.”

  Harry shook his head firmly. “I wish I did, Mr. Wilkes. Took off like a shot, he did,” he said, demonstrating with a swoop of his hand. “Why, in all my years with his lordship, I’ve never seen the like.”

  Peter stared off into the distance where the walls of the town house garden marched away in an even line. The grass had recently been trimmed and ran neatly up to the stones. Everything about Wycliffe’s life—his homes, his possessions, his business, his travel—were all arranged to the smallest detail. What the devil was throwing things awry?

  With a sinking feeling, Peter thought he knew the answer. He also knew he had no business gossiping with the earl’s servants as if he were a low-bred stable boy. With a sigh, he decided to dismiss Harry’s queries, but something in the old man’s eyes stopped him. Instead, he threw his usual closemouthed attitude to the winds. “You had better get used to it, Harry, for I suspect it will grow worse before better.”

  “Is he sick, sir?” Harry asked, his head bowed.

  “That is a matter of opinion,” Peter answered.

  “What is it then? Do you know?”

  “I am not sure, Harry,” Peter replied tiredly, “but I suspect it is a female.”

  Harry’s small black eyes widened in surprise and then he burst into low, garrulous laughter. “So that’s it!” he said, catching his breath.

  “I see no cause for amusement,” Peter said stiffly.

  “You don’t?” Harry chortled. “I do! That I do! Things will be changing around here, rightly enough. You wait and see! Nothing like a lady to change a man’s habits!”

  Although Peter gave Harry a frosty glance, it did little to stifle the man’s mirth. With a few more mumbled prophetic announcements, Harry took off, limping to the stables, slapping his cap against his leg and laughing all the while.

  Peter watched him with a frown. Wait and see, indeed! He drew himself up and walked toward the waiting carriage. If things got much worse, he would no longer be around to see it. He had received other offers of employment that he had never considered before, but now might be the time to rethink his career—before the female totally ruined his lordship.

  * * *

  Maximilian was well aware that by the time he got his mount and reached Hyde Park, he might miss Charlotte entirely, but he had no desire to go gawking after her in his carriage like an old woman. As he spurred his horse on, he realized that he had not even been aware Charlotte could ride. The knowledge that some idiot suitor was more cognizant of her skills than he was irked him somehow. Where had she learned? Maximilian could swear that the vicarage boasted no horseflesh.

  He had the foresight to send a boy round to her lodgings with instructions to inform him at once of her arrival, so that he might not waste hours searching for her after she had gone. With any luck, Maximilian told himself, this fool’s errand would be over before it had begun.

  If it was a fool’s errand, Maximilian counted himself the fool. He hated traveling in anything other than a sedate manner. He detested feeling harried. And he despised throwing his schedule to the winds to run off after the vicar’s daughter.

  He had half a mind to ignore the whole situation, but every time he considered turning around, he pictured Charlotte hounded by some blackguard anxious for a taste of the season’s reigning Toast. Whom was she with? Although Roddy Black and Stollings had vanished from the scene, their places had been eagerly taken by other young bucks, mostly smooth-faced lads who made Maximilian feel ancient. Cavely and Merton immediately sprang to mind. Worthless pups, both of them, and fully capable of trying to steal a maid’s virtue in the course of their flirtations.

  There was still Raleigh, of course, but Maximilian thought his friend was simply amusing himself. And Raleigh, at least, could be trusted. Maximilian did not feel the same about all the members of Charlotte’s entourage. She had been seeing a lot of a squire in from the country, Bottom by name, and Clemson’s youngest boy, who was destined for a clerical career. Although they seemed harmless enough, Maximilian knew that Charlotte could tempt a saint to indecorous behavior. Lord knows, she had tempted him often enough....

  Maximilian pushed aside memories of his own folly and tried to concentrate on Charlotte’s admirers. That fellow Burgess, who had doted on her from the first, was still pursuing her. Maximilian did not care for the man, although he could not quite put his finger on what it was about the baron that bothered him. He grimaced. And those were only her most serious suitors. Others, including older, more hardened rakes, flitted about her like bees to honey. Maximilian spurred his horse.

  Although it was past the fashionable hour of five o’clock, Hyde Park was still crowded with the pink of the ton ogling one another. Maximilian thought the ritual ridiculous, but he condescended to participate once a week on Thursdays, per his calendar. Since today was Tuesday, his appearance produced sufficient comment to hinder his search.

  Unfortunately, it seemed as if everyone of his acquaintance felt compelled to stop and exchange words with him, and he was forced to abandon his most polished style. A smile and a nod were the best he could do, if he were to find Charlotte among the throng.

  “I say, Wycliffe! Have you changed your schedule?” The sight of Raleigh, perched atop a phaeton with a woman beside him, made Maximilian urge his mount closer. Although he had been told Charlotte was riding, that insolent manservant of Miss Thurgoode’s might be wrong.

  Maximilian tilted his head to the side to get a better view of the lady beside Raleigh. She wore a large hat that shaded her face, but brown hair peeped from below the brim, and Maximilian easily recognized Raleigh’s sister. He nodded a swift greeting to her, then glanced back to Raleigh. “Have you seen Charlotte?”

  Raleigh grinned widely. “Why, no. Are you looking for her?” Maximilian nodded and rode away without so much as a farewell. “I shall tell her if I see her,” Raleigh called to his back.

  “Mercy! What is the matter with Wycliffe?” a decidedly annoyed feminine voice asked. Raleigh turned to his sister, who was fanning herself furiously, an outraged expression on her face. “I thought he was the only one of your friends possessed of good manners, but I see that I was wrong.”

  “Pay him no mind, Lisbeth,” Raleigh advised, chortling. “Wycliffe’s in love, and it has rattled his brain.”

  “Wycliffe in love? You are humming me,” his sister accused, making a face.

  “No! It is true, I swear it! But Wycliffe doesn’t know it yet, so you must not tell him.”

  Lisbeth sat back in her seat, her prim mouth set with disapproval at his foolishness. “What drivel! I should have known better than to try to talk to you! Why I ever consented to drive with you, I will never know.”

  * * *

  When Maximilian finally found Charlotte, sweet relief banished the specters that had been pushing him on, and he halted to stare at her. Although some distance from her, he knew at once the unmistakable curves of the lush figure in the carmine riding habit was Charlotte.

  From the looks of her docile mount, Maximilian suspected that she was a middling rider, but she did not seem uncomfortable. Nor did she appear to be in any imminent danger from her companion. In fact, as far as Maximilian could judge, she was enjoying herself immen
sely, laughing brightly at some quip from the man beside her. He maneuvered himself so as to get a better look at the fellow and nearly groaned aloud.

  Wroth! Maximilian had thought the marquis out of town, and now here he was—returned and at Charlotte’s side. Maximilian’s grip tightened on the reins as he felt unreasoning, hot anger at the sight of the man bending his head near to Charlotte’s. With an effort, he relaxed his fingers, for he had the sense to realize his response was not at all in keeping with the innocuous situation.

  Still, he had been in seemingly innocuous situations with Charlotte several times, and things had happened that he could not control. With a grimace, Maximilian suspected he had far more reason for controlling himself than Wroth did. Would Charlotte kiss the good marquis like a fence post—or melt in his arms? Maximilian urged his horse closer.

  “Good day, Miss Trowbridge. Wroth,” he said, finding it absurdly difficult to speak the man’s name.

  “M—my lord!” Charlotte said, blushing delightfully. Was it with pleasure at the sight of him? Or had she been testing her amorous talents again? Maximilian felt his fingers clench at the thought of her honing her skills with such an experienced partner.

  “Wycliffe.” Wroth raised one dark brow in amused question at Maximilian’s barely restrained displeasure, and Maximilian tried to regain his composure.

  “Miss Trowbridge, I am so glad that I happened across you here.” Although Maximilian spoke as smoothly as he could, the words sounded forced, even to himself. “I have a package for you. May I call this evening?”

  “Well, I...” Charlotte appeared momentarily at a loss, and Maximilian cocked his head. Surely, she did not intend to refuse him? She glanced swiftly to her companion and then back at Maximilian. “I am not normally receiving callers because of my cousin’s indisposition. However, I am sure, since you are such a good friend of the family, it would be permissible.”

  She smiled a little nervously, and Maximilian struggled to interpret her odd mood. Well aware that he would discover nothing while Wroth looked on, Maximilian wished the marquis to perdition. The constraints of polite company exacerbated his already heated temper. He wanted Charlotte to himself, damn it!