Never Seduce A Scoundrel

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Never Seduce A Scoundrel Page 23

by Heather Grothaus


  Cecily swallowed. “I’m sorry. Of course.”

  “It’s all right,” Joan said lightly. “Your sister has given me a weighty purse for my humiliation. It’s something, I suppose.”

  Cecily frowned. “Are you to return to your family?”

  Joan shook her head. “I think not. Actually”—her eyes went to Cecily’s horse—“I was rather hoping I could accompany you, Lady Cecily.”

  “Ah, well ... ” Cecily licked her lips and looked over Joan’s shoulder to the darkened doorway. Where was Father Perry?

  “You’re going to Hallowshire, are you not?” Joan pressed, taking another step toward Cecily. “I don’t mean to pry, but I saw the vicar leave last night. He seemed to be ... in quite a rush. And, of course, everyone is talking.”

  She took a deep breath. It wasn’t as if she needed to keep her estrangement from John Grey a secret, only the why of it. “Yes. It appears you are not the only woman at Fallstowe whose plans of matrimony fell apart.”

  Joan Barleg pulled a sympathetic frown, and then she fished a purse from inside her cloak and held it up. “I thought mayhap this might buy me a small reprieve at the abbey. It seems a good place to ... think. I may even decide to take the veil myself.”

  “Hallowshire is a wonderful haven,” Cecily admitted. “But, Joan, have you any desire for the religious life?”

  “Not really,” Joan admitted with a wry smile. “But what else is there for me? My family is not wealthy or well connected. I’m not exactly eligible. Oliver was ... Oliver was my future, and now that future is gone.”

  Cecily winced. She did not want Oliver’s old lover as company on the way to Hallowshire Abbey.

  Joan continued as she tucked the purse away again. “It may be the only recourse left to me, unless I would go to a town somewhere and take a position in a household. But even then, I have not the skills to be of any use to a family of means. I could be little more than a scullery maid. At least at the abbey I would not feel that humiliation.”

  Cecily could see the logic behind the woman’s reasoning, and she had to admit that, were she in Joan Barleg’s slippers, the choice would hold some appeal. But even so, how could Cecily continue to keep her condition a secret should Joan decide to stay on at the abbey for any length of time?

  “Perhaps you should return to your family first, though,” Cecily began. “Discuss it with them. It is a weighty decision, and perhaps they have other plans for you.”

  Joan shook her head. “They don’t care where I am as long as they don’t have to feed me or pay my notes. Dare I return with coin, it would disappear into their coffers even before I could count it, and then they would likely only turn me out with nothing.”

  Cecily was dismayed. It seemed as though Joan Barleg’s familial circumstances left much to be desired. After all the poor girl had been through, didn’t she, too, deserve some peace?

  “I do hope you’ll grant me permission,” Joan said with another hesitant smile. “I’d wager there would be many people aggrieved at the thought of Saint Cecily making such a long journey on her own.”

  “Oh, no—Father Perry is accompanying me,” Cecily rushed to explain. “He should have been here a quarter hour ago, actually.”

  Joan’s eyes widened. “Didn’t you hear? There was an outbreak of sickness in one of the villages. Father Perry was summoned in the night. I would have thought that he’d sent word to you straightaway.”

  Cecily winced as she remembered the unanswered knock on her door. “I believe he did.”

  “Well,” Joan sighed. “I suppose you can wait for his return if it better suits you.” She looked at Cecily. “Or we can go now, just the two of us. You know the way, do you not?”

  “I do.” Cecily answered grudgingly, and looked at her horse and then the doorway again. She thought of facing Fallstowe in the light of another day, the empty places where Oliver had walked. The castle had turned into a sort of graveyard for Cecily, where she was haunted by the sham of her old life, her broken heart, her failures.

  She looked back to Joan, so hopeful, so desperate, so sincere.

  “Can you help me saddle a horse?”

  Oliver began the tedious tasks of familiarizing himself with Bellemont’s affairs straightaway after breakfast in the hall. Flanked by Argo and the head clerk at the lord’s table, reams of accounts and thick ledgers littered the table like fallen bodies on a battlefield. But Oliver was not intimidated by the chaos. In fact, with his sword strapped to his side, he felt as if he had been waiting his entire life for this challenge. And he thought for the first time that not only was he competent to rule Bellemont, but would likely excel at it.

  Already he had pointed out several instances where Bellemont had been overcharged for goods. Mostly ale and wine, but those were two products in which Oliver was well familiar with cost, and so he noticed right away the unwarranted inflation. Several landholders were in arrears in their dues, as well, and after careful consultation with the clerk, Oliver determined that addressing the overcharges and collecting the monies owed to Bellemont would not only increase the hold’s financial accounts, but preserve them until the next harvest season.

  Argo leaned back in his chair and stared openly at Oliver as if perplexed.

  “What is it, Argo?” Oliver demanded, his gaze flicking away from the ledger he was perusing long enough to convey his irritation. “Have I a bogey on my nose?”

  Argo shook his head. “No, my lord. Forgive me. It’s nothing.” He leaned toward the table once more and began gathering together a fallen tower of papers.

  Now Oliver leaned back. “Tell me.”

  The steward stilled in his busied actions, but kept his gaze on the table before him. “I believe Bellemont is in very good hands. Perhaps even better than Lord August’s, God receive his soul. I’m sure that means little to you, of course.” He resumed his shuffling.

  Oliver blinked and drew his head back. “Thank you for your confidence, Argo. I am rather surprised at some of the errors I’ve witnessed. I thought August more thorough. It’s as if some things were deliberately neglected. Had this continued, Bellemont’s coffers would have been emptied by Midsummer.”

  The clerk cleared his throat and Argo inclined his head slightly. “Lord August was preoccupied in the weeks prior to his death. I don’t believe he was overly concerned for a lack of coin.”

  “Well, he should have been,” Oliver said gruffly. “I’d like to know where he thought his funds would come from after everyone had robbed him blind and tarried on their dues.”

  The conversation was interrupted by a guard entering the hall. The man strode down the narrow side aisle and stopped in a bow before August.

  “Lord Bellecote, Bellemont has a visitor.”

  Oliver’s eyebrows raised and for one wild moment, he let himself fantasize that Cecily had come. “Oh? Who is it?”

  “Vicar John Grey of Hallowshire Abbey.”

  Oliver’s jaw tightened. That fucking vicar. “What does he want?”

  “He said it was of a personal nature, my lord. We dared not press him.”

  “What? Why? It’s your duty to find out the intentions of anyone seeking entry at the gates.”

  The man looked decidedly uncomfortable. “Well, because he’s a priest, my lord.”

  “It’s only a courtesy title!” Oliver shouted, and then flung up his hands. “Show him in. I’ll find out myself!” He threw himself against the back of his chair, drumming his fingers on the armrest. “We’ll continue this later, Argo.”

  “As you wish, my lord.”

  In only a moment, Oliver was alone in his hall, his eyes trained on the arched doorway set in the left wall.

  What in hell could John Grey want? The self-proclaimed pious man had snubbed Oliver yesterday. It seemed more than a bit odd for him to make the journey from Fallstowe—riding through the night, no less—to only harangue him further for his shortcomings.

  The vicar came through the doorway in a rush, but then sl
owed to a stop as his head turned and he seemed to see Oliver sitting alone at the table. The two men stared at each other for a moment. John Grey dropped his gaze to the floor, as if in prayer, and then made his way determinedly toward the table.

  “Lord Bellecote,” John Grey said as way of greeting. He did not bow.

  “Vicar,” Oliver said pointedly. “To what do I owe the honor of this unexpected visit? Have you brought the wrath of God with you? Am I to be excommunicated for my supposed transgressions? Or has Sybilla Foxe consulted with her crystal ball regarding the message I sent to the king only this morn?”

  “Unfortunately, I do not possess the authority for excommunication,” the man quipped. “Your business with the king is your own. But my conscience has moved me despite my sinful will. I must do the right thing.”

  “The right thing, eh?” Oliver said, and slouched down in his chair, as if the entire scenario was of absolutely no interest to him. What he wanted to do was ask of Cecily. Why would the vicar leave her side so soon? “What do you want, Grey?”

  “First, I must pose a question to you, and I do hope that you can put aside any animosity you feel toward me long enough to answer honestly, if indeed you are capable of honesty.”

  “You try my patience, Vicar,” Oliver growled. “I don’t owe you an answer to anything, honest or otherwise.”

  John Grey did not take the bait. “I must be certain.”

  “You can be certain that, should you not come out with whatever it is you want to say, I will honestly have you removed from my hall.” He folded his hands across his midsection and stared at the man expectantly.

  “Are you in love with Cecily Foxe?”

  Oliver blinked. Of all the things he could have imagined the man to ask, this was the very last.

  “What kind of a fucking question is that?” Oliver demanded quietly. “You come all the way from Fallstowe to mock me?”

  “I do not mock you. I need to know.”

  Oliver bolted to his feet and pointed toward the doorway. “Get out.”

  “Lord Bellecote—”

  “Argo!” Oliver bellowed.

  “Oliver, listen to me!” John Grey demanded. “I heard you admit as much the night Cecily and I became betrothed. I simply need to know if your profession of love was only a ruse stemming from your base desire of her, or in fact, sincere feeling.”

  “Why?” Oliver shouted. “So you can rub your triumph in my face? So that we can finish the brawl we started that night? Because, I assure you, I am not so surprised and dejected as I was when you struck me, and I will be happy to hand your arse to you.”

  “You deserved that blow, and well you know it. I had no fear of you then, and I have none now.”

  “Then you are a fool.”

  “Do you love her?”

  “Of course I do!” Oliver hissed, and then with a startling blasphemy, he swept his arm across the table before him, sending reams of parchment and his own cup sailing to the floor. The vicar didn’t flinch. “Have you come to humiliate me then? Foolish, drunken wastrel, Oliver Bellecote, pining for the aloof Saint Cecily, who, because she could not marry God outright, chose the next best thing to a fucking priest?”

  “It’s only a—”

  “A courtesy title, I know,” Oliver shouted. “For the love of your sweet God, John, what the hell do you want from me? You have the woman I love, already!”

  “Cecily loves you, Oliver,” John said.

  Oliver felt his teeth grind together. “You know, for a man of God, you are quite cruel. Cecily doesn’t want me.”

  “No,” John Grey said in a low voice, and shook his head. “No, it’s me she doesn’t want. She’s broken it off with me, and has only this morning left for Hallowshire Abbey.”

  Oliver stilled, and felt remarkably like he had when John Grey had bloodied his mouth. “What?”

  “It’s true.” John Grey had not moved from the spot he’d come to rest in upon arriving in the hall. It was as if his feet were rooted to the stones until he’d said what he had to say to Oliver. “Sybilla and I ... discussed it, and we felt you should know.”

  “Of course. Sybilla must stick her noble nose into everything.” Oliver fell back down in his chair, the thoughts in his head loud, disorganized. “Why would you tell me this? So that I could make a greater fool of myself by chasing her down? No, thank you. She doesn’t want me. I’m not good enough for her.”

  “Is that why you think she made the choices she did? Me over you? Because she was too good for you?”

  “Isn’t she? Everyone seems to think so.”

  “She was protecting herself! How could she be sure that she was nothing more than another conquest to you, a novelty? She is not some worldly trollop who knows how to handle a casual affair of the heart, Oliver. And now she is throwing her life away because she cannot bring herself to marry a man she does not love, and the man she does love runs off like the shameful reprobate he is rumored to be!”

  “She refused me. What makes you think she would have me now?” Oliver challenged him. “I am still the same man I was when I left Fallstowe. Why would she—this time—take my claims as sincere?”

  John stared at him, his jaw working as if he had something distasteful clenched between his teeth. “You must try.”

  “Nonsense. Perfect nonsense. Why are you here, telling me this?”

  John Grey seemed to swallow the unpalatable words he had been holding in. He lifted his chin. “Because Hallowshire is no place for her, especially in light of all that has transpired since you came to Fallstowe. I know it, and you know it. And because I do care for her. If you fail to change her mind, I still have hopes for my own suit. Regardless, she cannot stay at Hallowshire alone.”

  “Alone? Have the rest of the sisters deserted their station?” Oliver remarked snidely.

  “It is no secret that I think your actions and behavior have been the stuff of the basest gutter dweller,” John said calmly. “But if Cecily found the tiniest speck of value in your character, I can only pray that she was not blinded by loneliness and despair, and that you will sway her. Because if she stays, it is not only her life that will be ruined.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Go to Hallowshire, Bellecote. Pull yourself out of your sty of lecherous filth long enough to see that you have a rare second chance to grasp the kind of happiness mortal men only dream of. For once in your life, achieve something of value.”

  “Don’t dare speak to me in that manner again,” Oliver warned. “Not when it was you who was using Cecily in order to escape your own vows. I’m neither stupid nor blind. You don’t know me, Vicar. Don’t presume you know my interests.”

  “I don’t give a damn for your interests. Only Cecily’s. Go to Hallowshire.”

  “Get out of my hall.”

  “Go today, Bellecote.”

  Oliver had had enough. He reached across his body with his right hand and grasped the hilt of his sword, pulling it free with a sharp ringing gasp of metal and pointing it at John Grey.

  Two pieces of curled parchment—obviously severed from a whole by the drawing of the blade—fluttered down to land on the bare table before Oliver.

  Oliver frowned and immediately forgot about John Grey. What had been hidden away in the hilt? And how long had it been there? Oliver lowered the sword tip mindlessly to the floor as he reached out with his left hand and picked up one half of the page. He scanned it quickly, his heart tripping as the scrolled words seemed to jump out at him. He laid his sword on the table and then slid the two halves together on the wood, holding them flat with his palms and leaning over the split page, his eyes reading and rereading the decree.

  “August, you fool,” he whispered, and then looked up quickly, remembering the presence of the vicar.

  But John Grey had quietly gone.

  Oliver dropped his head, his thoughts wrestling with each other for order. He thought of the series of events that had played out since the night of the Candlemas feast. Eve
ry conversation with Sybilla, every plea from Joan Barleg. He thought of Argo’s dismay that Oliver would send a missive to the king, as well as the conversation with the steward only moments ago.

  Lord August was preoccupied in the weeks prior to his death. I don’t believe he was overly concerned for a lack of coin.

  He thought of the contents of the message he had sent to the king that very morning. Edward would have the letter in his hand by the morrow’s evening.

  Oliver’s chest hurt.

  Cecily had gone on to Hallowshire. She was not marrying John Grey, and according to the vicar himself, Cecily loved him. Loved him.

  Oliver looked at the parchment again and realized that Cecily did not know of this. The king didn’t know. No one knew, save Sybilla Foxe.

  And perhaps Joan Barleg.

  Oliver sheathed his sword with a rattling clang and then crumpled the parchments together in his hand before jumping down from the dais and striding quickly from the hall.

  If he hurried, he could be at Fallstowe before nightfall, Hallowshire by morn.

  Chapter 23

  The sky was just turning white and butter yellow at the horizon as the unlikely pair of Cecily Foxe and Joan Barleg made their way over the hills and away from Fallstowe. It crossed Cecily’s mind that perhaps the two women had more in common than either ever would have at one time guessed—they were both fleeing the memory of the same man.

  Only Cecily would be left with a physical reminder of him for the rest of her life.

  “Do you feel that it’s God calling you to Hallowshire, Lady Cecily?” Joan asked musingly over the crunch of horses’ hooves and the slip and jingle of tack.

  “I used to,” Cecily said.

  “But not now?”

  “No.”

  Joan was quiet for several moments. When she did speak, her words were hesitant, even if her tone conveyed extreme interest. “What happened between you and the vicar?”

  Cecily turned her head to look at the woman, shocked at such a brazen and prying question.

 

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