“That old fart! I could say that explains her decisions but that would not do her the justice you see in the lady.”
Charlie nodded. His father and de Courcy had never agreed on politics. His father the more liberal, hers conservative to the core. “Willa. Lady Willa Sheffield. Tall, lovely Willa with eyes that change color from brown to green to teal in a heartbeat. Hair a cloud of black curls.”
The duke grinned at his sentiments. “I’m certain you have the persuasive tools to bring her to your cause.”
“My skills as a suitor are new. But my older talents as a clergyman are ineffective with her. I’ve tried to talk her out of her superstition and I haven’t been successful.”
“Has money to do with her objection?”
Charlie took another swig of his port. “It’s all that superstition business. Nothing to do with finances.”
“Are you sure? You have but five hundred a year from Courtland in your living. That buys you no glory. Grain, a few cuts of beef or lamb. And if I know you, you’ve let the tenants grow vegetables in your glebe. They’ve eaten it all and what do you have for yourself? Ba, I say, to charity!”
“I do admit that if she relented, money could be a problem for us.” His father lived on six thousand or more a year. Last time they had spoken of funds, his brother had an allowance of five from the household coffers. Charlie’s five hundred from Courtland was a pitiful comparison. And what did Willa live on? He could guess that her father and mother lived on a sum similar to his father’s.
“Right you are. Old De Courcy won’t want his girl to starve. And he’ll not open his purse farther than he would if you were my marquess. A royal pain in the arse, he is.” His father drained his glass, then held it out for a refill.
Charlie got up to do his bidding. But as he poured, he said, “I’ve a few ideas to improve my finances.”
“Oh? Like what?”
When he sat down again, he said, “I’ve had an offer to serve as a director of the Foundling Hospital outside of Marlborough. It’s fifty pounds a year.”
“And work! Work, my boy! Begging others to donate to the orphans. No, no, no. It’s more work than compensation. Plus where should you be? Home in your bed with your wife ensuring the endurance of the Compton family! Oliver’s not tending to the legitimate line, I tell you. No Foundling Hospital for you, sir. Out shaking hands with n’er do wells begging for a scrap while they throw most of their money away.”
“It is honorable work, Papa.”
The old man sighed. “True. And you are an honorable man, my boy. But what will fifty pounds bring you, eh?”
He chose not to answer that but took another tack. “Before I met Wills, I began another venture, dear to my heart. It pays nothing for my trouble, but it appeals to the best of me.”
“And that is…?”
“I have written two articles to date for the Edinburgh Review.”
The duke stared at him. Then as if the summer sun arrived in the old library, he beamed at Charlie. “That publication is a good one. Progressive. But not inclined to get you a promotion in the Church, Charles.”
“I know. But I am called to it. I see so much that is wrong, that must be changed. The Enclosure acts that rob the poor of their right to the green. Social order that restricts the rights of women. Children who work in rags. God, sir, is not changing this. And I have those in my flock who suffer from lack of food, lack of work, lack of hope. They drink. They carouse. They fight. They fornicate. My words cannot stop them. We must change the fundamentals of society.”
His father sat forward. “And if you fight for these things, you will be drummed out of the Church.”
“I must do it.”
“Charlie—” the old man pleaded and shook his head. “This will not gain you your wife. De Courcy would never approve.”
“He would not know.”
“Your name, sir, appears…does it not?” The duke narrowed his eyes and leaned toward him. “But then…Wait. I’ve read the latest issue and seen no author there named Compton.”
Charlie shook his head. “No one knows I write for them, save you and the publisher of the Review.”
“How’s that?”
“The author is a Reverend Peoples.”
The duke sat back in his chair, his mouth open.
“A false name. I confess I had not the courage to write under my own name. My fault. My grievous fault.”
“No fault, my boy. A courageous move.”
“And one, as you say, that will gain me no merit with the Earl de Courcy.”
“What of merit with his daughter?” the duke pressed.
“She does not know, either. But I have the feeling she would approve.”
His father sighed. “Yet what they pay you for those may never equal the hardship of the repercussions if the Archbishop learns of your politics.”
“I have thought of that.” He took another sip of his port. “Not much I can do about that now. I won’t give it up. Even if Wills disapproves and never agrees to marry me.”
“You were always one to choose the moral high road. I am not surprised at this. Not at all.” He put his empty glass to his desk and said, “But I have good news.”
Charlie had to laugh. “You always find a way out of troubles.”
“Do I? I hope so. Hope you are right now, too.”
“How so?”
“I need you to help me with Oliver.”
Unsurprised, he recoiled. If the duke wished him to drag Oliver from a sordid lair or his latest mistress, he resented the need for the task.
Charlie and his older brother Oliver did not get on. Never had. He didn’t approve of Oliver’s licentious behavior, nor of his dereliction of duty to assist their father in running the dukedom. Charlie was the one who did that. Crops had been bad last year and this, the weather cold and wet, and inflation was eating away at everyone in Britain. The war was resuming, troops amassing to fight Napoleon who had escaped Elba. Add to the financial problems, his brother gambled and lost on horses, boxers and cards.
Charlie took another drink. “What has he done now?”
“Nothing. The very problem.”
Nothing new there. “Where is he?”
“London. New rooms near the India docks.”
A squalid part of town. And a new low for his brother. “More debts?”
“Perhaps. Certainly less attention to our land.”
“Ah. And you would like me to go to London and persuade him to return to his duties.” This was not the first time his father had requested it.
“No. I want you to assume the roll of estate manager.”
What? Charlie had never taken over the tasks completely. “Here?”
“You know it best.”
“What of Mister Townsend?” That man, competent and talented for most part, served as the duke’s manager since before Charlie was born.
“He ages. His mind is not as quick and he wishes to retire. You and he together would be just the solution. He would send you letters, descriptions. Besides, you’ve done most of it before. And only until we can find a suitable candidate whom Townsend likes.”
Townsend didn’t like any candidates, ever. He favored only Charlie. “When I was at Cambridge I was not employed, sir. I don’t see how I can tend to my parish and this too.”
“Letters. The same as before.”
“And Oliver?” His wily brother could escape all work.
“I’ve cut his allowance. I’m sure to see him in this room soon. I notified the bankers, you see. So tomorrow, I would think he will arrive. It being his earliest convenience to yell and wail and beg for mercy.”
Oliver would set the world on fire at this cut to his dignity and his mode de vie. Charlie hated arguing with him. Willful, his older brother was also volatile—and that usually lit a fire under Charlie as well. Being combative was not among his finest traits. And now…
He considered the benefits of his father’s proposal. He could do the work. Had
done it. He’d put his father’s estate to rights, much as he could. He would earn needed money. And he’d fill his days and nights instead of brooding. Because he feared Wills might not be able to fend off her father and his quest to betroth her to another. He had to be smart and quick. This might be the means to a future he could truly enjoy. An added lure was the speculation dancing at the edges of his consciousness that perhaps the clergy did not truly call to him as it should. Such attentions to his father’s issues might give him a taste of life outside the Church.
“I will pay you,” the duke said. “Half wages of Townsend. Only fair. Townsend takes his pension from me and likes this plan. Now, I ask, do you like it?”
He would always help his father. Could he do that and serve himself, too? “I do, sir.”
.
Chapter 6
April 5, 1816
De Courcy Manor
Hampshire
Wills hastily thrust the letter she’d claimed inside the Horse and Dog into her reticule. She’d not chance that her groom would see it. The pub’s proprietor had handed it over, even though the woman heard Willa declare—twice, too—that she “carried” the letter for a friend, soon to visit her at the Manor. But Wills did not dwell on her little fib. The sun shone gaily on this cloudless day, but the chilly spring air she inhaled signaled the beginning of a new chapter in her life.
“We’ll be off home now, Sturgis,” she told the family groom who’d ridden as escort with her to the pub. She accepted the man’s assist up to her saddle.
Clicking her tongue to urge her horse on, she decided to wait until she got home to read the letter’s contents. Her curiosity vied with her need for privacy to discover if her latest attempt at escape from her fate might have come to fruition.
So she took the road south to home with a canter that belied her haste. But her servant was an older man who’d served her family for many years. If she appeared to be in too much of a hurry, he would question her haste. Word of such might find its way to her father. That she could not chance, as relations between her and her sire were not on the best terms. In fact, since she’d returned home last spring from the May Day Frolic, they’d been fraught with arguments about the gentlemen to whom the earl attempted to attach her.
At the turn of the De Courcy stone fence, she led the way down the circular drive when a different curiosity spurred her onward. A black and red lacquer carriage stood before the entrance. Four hefty Cleveland bays waited with a coachman in the box and a groom beside him. By the escutcheon on the door and the servants’ livery of ebony and scarlet, Wills realized at once who was calling.
Esme Harvey usually sent her a note whenever she planned to arrive for a visit. Alarm spread through Wills that something must be amiss—and only weeks before Esme’s wedding too. Wills climbed down quickly.
“Miss Harvey has arrived?” she asked the butler as she removed her riding hat and gloves.
“No, my lady.” He took her items in hand.
“Her parents?”
“This is the Reverend Charles Compton come to call, my lady.”
Delight and terror froze her. Charlie, here? Why? She’d not seen him since she left the Courtlands nearly a year ago. But he’d written the tenderest letters and when each one arrived, she prayed he was well and still wanted her. Yet he’d never intimated that was so but sent her news of his days—and revealed that he was writing articles as a reformist as a Reverent Peoples in the Edinburgh Review. That was shocking and oh, so delightful to read. And now, the latest shocking bit, that he was suddenly, surprisingly here! “Where is he?” With my father?
“I showed him to the yellow drawing room.” He eyed her oddly as if she were a silly goose, his mouth curving in a smile. Was he enjoying this rare melodrama of a man come to call on her? “Shall I announce you?”
“No. That’s…unnecessary.” She pressed her hands to her cheeks. Flustered, she questioned how she looked. Ragged from riding, she supposed, but there was nothing for it. What did he want? “Is my mother with him?” My father?
“No, my lady. Your mother is in Wickerly for the charity luncheon.”
“Of course.” She’d notified Wills of her appointment earlier this morning. “And my father?”
“He is upstairs in his study, my lady. Reverend Compton told me he wished to speak to you first.”
“First?”
The poor man shrugged in apology. “That is what he said.”
“I see.” She didn’t.
“I saw fit to give him tea and told him you would return soon.”
“You did well. Very well.” She could only hope to do as much. She pointed toward the upstairs yellow salon. “I’ll go.”
“A fine idea.” He was amused.
If she waited any longer, he’d be chuckling.
She all but ran up the staircase.
She whirled into the drawing room and fell back against the door. Her heart—foolish thing—pounded in a joyous tattoo.
Oh, he looked as appealing as he had the very first time she’d cast eyes upon him. So tall, so ruggedly dark and swarthy, so fit, he seemed somehow…larger than before. He met her gaze frankly with the severe intent of a male animal, an objective she saw at once to be intimate and yet, tempered by decades of social injunctions. His smile was slow and broad, a welcome of such heat and sexuality that she caught her breath. He wore his black, the well-tailored breeches and frock coat that denoted his profession. But the waistcoat beneath his coat was a blinding emerald brocade with a polish that matched the fires in his eyes.
He strode forward, his hands out, taking hers and drawing her straight into his bold embrace. “Good afternoon, my darling.” He put his lips to her cheek and spoke against her skin. “I have missed you so.”
She held him tightly and enjoyed each second. But she should not. He’d written letters, one every few weeks since last they met. His correspondence had been brief, filled with news of his parish doings and work he did for his father. While his tone had been friendly and sweet, he had not been ardent. No, his missives were not love letters. Hers matched his in tone and scope. They were merely…friends. Still in all, her heart beat like ten drums. She wanted him, welcomed him. And so she told him the truth of her joy to have him here. “I’m so pleased to see you again.”
He held her at arm’s length. “Are you? Good for you! I worried, you see. Thought you might even turn me out.”
She let her brows dance. “That I would do so? You told our butler not to notify my father you were here.”
“Your servant is a fine man. He did not bat an eyelash at my words. A friend of yours, I do believe. And why not!” He wrapped her close again, his hand to her nape as he spoke against her temple. “I could not blame him. I want to be your friend, too.”
She gave a laugh at that and leaned back to admire the winsome creature who thought enough to come to her like this. “Then as a friend,” she said that last word as if it were an impossibility, “do tell me why are you here?”
“To see you.”
“And you did not write first to learn if you were welcome?”
He lost his innocence. “Aren’t I?”
“Definitely. But you do know I mean to know why you wish to see me.”
He stepped backward then and took up a spot by the mantel. The fire behind the large screen crackled and spat, sending up odd warnings of what he was about. “I’ve things to tell you, Wills. Many changes in my life have occurred since last we talked.”
Her life had not changed. But rather—she fingered her letter in her pocket—she hoped that she was about to take control of her own destiny. A new life in Brighton beckoned…or she hoped it did. For many weeks, she thought it would. She liked Brighton. Had oft been there for seaside holidays with her parents. To live there would seem a new beginning. A way to live without a man—just any man—to be her husband.
He narrowed his focus on her. “What is it? I can’t believe you don’t want me here.”
“Oh,
I am happy to see you. But I—” She took one of the Queen Anne chairs near him. She flexed her fingers. She should not fidget. “Please do sit. I’m not very hospitable. Please tell me what you came for.”
“You.”
She drowned in his beguiling green gaze. A rush of excitement fell over her like a cascade. The thrill of his claim was welcome, but so unusual that she was temporarily without words. And then her old fear set in. Old refrains of death mixed with newer hopes that he must live…live well!
Confusion muddled her.
He came to stand before her. “Look at me. Wills, I told you I would come for you. I’d find a way to prove to you that you are wrong. You are not cursed.”
“Oh, Charlie. I’m happy you’re here but we’ve not seen each other in months and…”
He went to a knee before her and seized her hands. “I dared not call upon you until I had new elements in place. I’ve worked hard. Very hard. I can change my life. Yours, too, I believe. Please tell me you do not entertain a proposal from any other man. You wrote of none. And I read nothing in the papers. Heard of no announcements by way of gossip. So—”
“No. I am not engaged to anyone.”
He exhaled. “Thank God.”
She must send him away. “I have plans, Charlie.”
“What kind of plans?”
“Yes,” came the thundering bass from the doorway. “What kind of plans?”
“Papa!” Wills scrambled to her feet, her heart beating so hard to jump away. “Do come meet a friend of mine.”
Charlie rose, his countenance serene as she introduced him to her father. He was respectful, nodding and offering a smile and his hand.
“Compton.” Her father, drawing himself up into his dignity, caught the name, his lashes fluttering as they did when he sought equilibrium. Recovering, he nonetheless did the polite thing to welcome the son of his antagonist to his home. “How kind of you to visit.”
“Good of you to receive me, sir.” Charlie clasped his hands behind his back.
“Come,” said her father who took a position in one Queen Anne chair. Then he indicated the far settee for their guest. “Sit with us. I see our man has already served tea. Good of him, eh? Yes, so good. Then do tell us how you’ve come to visit in the country.”
Lady Willa’s Divinely Wicked Vicar: Four Weddings and a Frolic, Book 4 Page 5