When Magnus had approached Mr. Felix—a farmer for the squire and father of ten children, not including his daughter’s twins—and offered his assistance, the older man had gone half-mad telling him to mind his own business. The next time Magnus saw Mrs. Felix she had a swollen jaw and refused to meet his eyes, begging him to forget her ill-advised imaginings.
Without their word, he could hardly accuse the squire and put a stop to such behavior. So, here he was, answering the squire’s summons like a good, obedient curate.
Sir Thomas didn’t look up until Quarles cleared his throat.
Magnus found the affectation amusing rather than humiliating. They both knew Magnus was the son of a marquess and, therefore, several rungs higher on the social ladder than a mere baronet. Sir Thomas also knew Magnus was not financially dependent on this position—or any other—which made him more difficult to torment than an average, impoverished clergyman.
“Ah, Stanwyck.” He gestured to a chair across from his desk. “Have a seat.” He cut a glance at his butler and said, “Fetch Master William and bring him to the library.”
The door clicked shut behind the butler and Sir Thomas stood. “How about a drink, Mr. Stanwyck?”
It was not yet three o’clock. Besides, Magnus felt a visceral reaction at the thought of sharing a drink with this man. “No thank you, Sir Thomas.”
“Suit yourself.” The squire strode to a console table with several decanters. He was a barrel of a man who liked to dress in riding clothes, regardless of the fact that he was a dreadful equestrian and too heavy, clumsy, and unfit to ride to hounds. Magnus had only seen him astride once, his mount a magnificent stallion. The squire had ridden him hard, sawing at the horse’s mouth brutally enough to leave pink foam on his lips and bloody flanks from his spurs.
“Never trust a man who would inflict pain on an animal,” his father’s old stablemaster, Belkin, had said more than once. And Belkin was a man respected throughout West Yorkshire for his skill with both horses and hounds.
Sir Thomas lowered himself behind the desk, raising a half-full glass of amber liquid to his lips and draining at least a third of it.
“So,” he said, setting down the crystal with a loud thump. “How are things in New Bickford since I’ve last been here? I understand there is a new tenant at Halliburton Manor?”
“Yes, a young lady and her aunt.”
The squire gave him a leer that made him feel dirty. And hostile.
“Comely?”
Magnus forced a smile onto his stiff lips. “Miss Griffin has come to New Bickford to convalesce.”
“Ah, one of those—a malingerer.” Distaste and disinterest replaced lechery and he grunted, putting Miss Griffin from his mind, which was just as well because Magnus’s hands had already tensed and an anger he was unaccustomed to feeling had begun to surge through him.
“Still, I’ll wager any new female has put the rest of your flock into a flutter.” The squire gave a rude laugh and a doubly rude look. “When are you going to marry one of ‘em?” His smile widened, exposing yellowed, crooked teeth. “Or do you like havin’ ‘em all panting after you? Like so many bitches with—”
“Sir Thomas.”
The other man blinked, as if he were surprised that Magnus wouldn’t join in with his crude insinuations.
For a moment Magnus thought he might take issue with being the object of such a chiding tone from a mere curate—no matter his connections—but then he burst out laughing.
“Sorry to ruffle your feathers, Reverend. I’m not accustomed to men of God and I’m afraid I keep company that isn’t nearly so . . . er, pure.”
The library door opened and a boy of about eleven entered, his body as stout as his father’s, his expression sullen and unpleasant.
“Ah, here he is, the young savage.” The squire sounded proud to have produced such a son. “Come and greet the reverend like a proper gentleman.”
The boy came to stand before him, his gaze scathing as it flickered from Magnus’s collar up to his eyes. “Mister Stanwyck.”
He’d had run-ins with Master William on more than one occasion. Each and every time he’d seen the boy, he’d either been tormenting a younger child or breaking something or abusing an animal. Like father, like son.
Again, Magnus forced himself to smile. “Good afternoon, William.”
“Will is headed off to Eton come the end of the summer. You’re an Eton man, aren’t you, Mr. Stanwyck?”
He was, but it wasn’t something he took excessive pride in, nor was he interested in rehashing his school days with this man.
“Are you looking forward to school?” he asked William, instead of answering his father.
“Yes, Mister Stanwyck.” A sly expression entered the boy’s eyes and Magnus knew he was the type who would enjoy the brutish entertainments of boarding school.
“He’s looking forward to gettin’ up to trouble, is what he’s doing,” the squire said, his words an unpleasant echo of Magnus’s thoughts. “But he’s an ignorant clod when it comes to his letters and needs a few months of tutoring to whip him into shape.” Sir Thomas’s small piggy eyes turned mean. “Or it’ll be a real whip I’ll use on him.”
Magnus fought a wave of revulsion. If physical punishment of an animal was disgusting to him, physical punishment of a child was anathema. Even a repulsive child such as William.
“I’m afraid I have no time to offer any tuition, Sir Thomas. However, you know Mr. Dinkins in the village is a retired schoolteacher and takes pupils. I will enquire and—”
“I don’t want old Dinkins, I want you.”
Magnus met his belligerent stare with a cool look. “I’m afraid I don’t have the time. As I said—”
“You don’t have the time? Or is it the inclination you don’t have?”
Magnus frowned. “I beg your pardon?”
“Think you’re too fancy to tutor a mere squire’s boy, Lord Magnus?”
“I assure you, Sir Thomas, that is the farthest thing from the truth. But my schedule is—”
The squire came around the desk, his posture menacing. “Make time in your schedule.”
Magnus stood. The squire might outweigh him, but Magnus had no doubt he would be able to turn the other man inside out with his fists.
He flinched away from the unusual violence of his own thoughts; just standing near Sir Thomas was enough to poison a person. It was past time to end this encounter.
“I’m sorry, Squire, but I cannot.”
The room crackled with emotions and Magnus wondered for a moment if the other man would strike him. What shocked him was that he would welcome it; he would welcome the opportunity to respond in kind.
But the squire—a man who was essentially a bully and a coward—must have seen that in his eyes. He laughed and jerked his chin at his son. “We’ll not keep you, seein’ as how you’re so busy. Show the reverend out of my house, William.”
The journey from the library to the front door took place in silence. Magnus had just put on his hat and opened the door when the boy spoke.
“You’d better have a care, Mister Stanwyck,” he said with a tone more suited to a boy five years older. “People who cross my father don’t prosper.”
Magnus looked down into the boy’s sly, too-knowing eyes. “I wish you the best of luck at school, William.”
Chapter Six
Mel kept missing him.
She’d arrive at Mrs. Tisdale’s to learn he’d just left. Or he would call on Halliburton House while she was out wandering and exploring. Their second Sunday in New Bickford he’d not been in church because he’d been called to a sick parishioner’s house.
Even yesterday, when she’d had the ill chance to encounter Hector on the pathway—and the little brute had chased her halfway to town—Mr. Stanwyck didn’t appear to rescue her. Her valiant protector seemed to have abandoned her.
Mel felt as though fate was conspiring against her and then reminded herself that fate—or God, if you
leaned in that direction—was more likely to be protecting the curate by keeping them apart.
When Mel finally encountered him, it was at the vicarage. He was returning just as she was leaving, naturally. Mrs. Heeley had invited Mel and her “Aunt Daisy” to the weekly ladies’ tea. This week’s tea had been especially well attended as everyone was preparing for the upcoming fête.
In the spirit of being a better aunt, Daisy had dressed in her “aunt clothing” and accompanied Mel without complaint.
The hour had not been nearly as tedious as Melissa had feared, although she could see Daisy’s patience had worn thin with topics like whether Mr. Skiperson should be allowed to make the punch after last year, whether they should have an alternate, indoor location for the dance that would take place that evening because Jemmy Henderson—the village’s oldest resident at ninety-seven (Mrs. Tisdale was nipping at his heels, so to speak) had predicted rain and he’d only been wrong once, back in ’71.
And so forth.
Daisy’s thin veneer of civility was cracking by the end of the hour.
They’d just said their goodbyes and closed the lychgate when Mister Stanwyck came striding toward them, coming from the direction of town.
“What a delightful surprise.” His face lit up in a way that made Daisy nudge Mel in the ribs with her elbow.
“Stop it,” Mel hissed through a smile.
“Good afternoon, Mister Stanwyck.”
Mel wanted to roll her eyes at Daisy’s distinctly un-aunt-like tone of voice.
“You ladies must have been at the meeting Mrs. Heeley was hosting. Did you settle all the details for the fête?”
“Oh, was it a meeting?” Daisy asked with exaggerated innocence. “It seemed more like a riot with tea and biscuits.”
The curate grinned. “Patience, Mrs. Trent—the Devil is in the details.”
Daisy gave a sinful, throaty chuckle. “Oh, is that where he is? Because I’ve been—”
“Yes, we made the final arrangements for the fête, thanks to Mrs. Heeley’s patience,” Mel interjected, vowing to strangle Daisy at the first opportunity.
He smiled at what she’d left unsaid: that Mrs. Pilkington and Miss Agnes Philpot’s wrangling had taken its toll.
There was an awkward moment of silence as they all struggled for something to say.
Daisy finally broke it. “I’m going to take a walk into the village, Melissa,” Daisy said, giving the curate an insufferably gracious smile that warned Mel what was coming. “Perhaps you might walk my niece home, Mister Stanwyck.”
Mel’s face heated. “Really, that’s not nec—”
“I’d be delighted.” And he actually looked delighted.
Still, she hesitated. “I’m sure you must be terribly busy.”
“Actually, I was just going to pop in at home and fetch a book I was meant to deliver to Mrs. Felix.” He cocked his head charmingly. “Have you met the Felixes? They are your nearest neighbors to the east.”
“They must be the only people who haven’t paid a visit in the past two weeks,” Daisy said with heavy irony.
This time the curate’s laugh was a little uncertain.
Mel edged slightly in front of Daisy and looked into his perfect, clear blue eyes. “If you’re sure it wouldn’t be out of your way—”
“Of course not, I’ve loads of time to spare.”
Mel was pretty sure he was lying—people were constantly calling on him for something or other—but she wanted to spend time with him; she wanted it with an intensity that frightened her.
“It’ll take me only a half a jiffy,” he said, his teasing smile telling her he remembered very well the last time he’d used the phrase.
Mel watched him stride away, trying not to let her eyes wander all over his tall, muscular, loose-limbed body. And failing.
Daisy poked her in the ribs. “There, you owe me for that one, Mel.”
She turned to find Daisy smirking at her. “I thought you were going to town.”
“A more appropriate response would be, ‘Thank you, Aunt Daisy.’”
“Try to control yourself, Daisy—and remember you’re supposed to be the mature one.”
Daisy snorted. “Maybe you should have played the aunt.”
“Yes, well, I’ll know better next time.”
Daisy’s eyes widened. “Next time—”
“Now who can’t take a joke?” Mel made a sweeping motion with her hands. “Shoo, go away.”
She was grateful to have a few moments of peace to collect herself before the reverend returned. Mel knew she should be walking into town with Daisy right now. This attraction she felt for the glorious curate was nothing but a severe disappointment in the making. All she had to offer him were lies—or disgrace if he were ever to find out who she really was. And exposure, she knew, became more likely every day. Daisy wasn’t the only one misbehaving. One of the two footmen they’d brought with them was debauching a maid from the local squire’s house. Jenny had sneaked out twice that Mel knew of to meet with the innkeeper’s son. Her household was beyond her control.
Her dream of staying a little longer than the five weeks she’d originally planned was seeming less and less like a wise idea, and not just for her. She could see how Mister Stanwyck was coming to like her—to care for her. He wasn’t the kind of man to play games or hide his feelings. Everything he did was honest: she’d never met another person, male or female, with so little guile.
While everything she did—everything about her, down to her name—was nothing but a lie.
Just what would the handsome, kind, and honest Reverend Stanwyck say if he knew he was offering to walk home the most notorious madam in London? She already knew he thought her far younger than she was—not an uncommon mistake given her diminutive size.
As flattering as that was, she knew she should have corrected him when he made the passing reference to young ladies in the village and included her among their number. Lord, she was pretty sure she was actually older than him.
“Are you ready?”
She turned away from her misery to find him holding a small bundle of twine-wrapped books in his hands.
Yes, she was as ready as she’d ever be.
She didn’t wait for his arm because having contact with him right now would not be good for her state of mind. So, they walked side by side, not touching.
It was Mr. Stanwyck who broke the somewhat awkward silence. “How has Hector been treating you?”
Mel couldn’t help smiling. “I think we’ve reached an accommodation. I bring him stale bread and let him pretend that he was the one who actually brought it to his hens, and he lets me pass unmolested.”
He laughed, the sound warming her. “I’m pleased to hear you’ve taken his measure so quickly,” Mister Stanwyck said. “Tell me, you’ve been here coming on two weeks. How are you finding country life?”
“I’m enjoying myself.” Mel was surprised to realize that was true. She did enjoy the slower, quieter pace of life. She also enjoyed shucking off the burden of operating a business, but she could hardly tell him that. “At first I thought I’d never get used to the silence, but now I like it.”
“This is really the first time you’ve been out of London?”
“Yes, it really is.”
“And have you lived with your aunt long?”
“Most of my life—since my parents died in a carriage accident.” She’d made up this part of her story before coming.
“Oh, I say—I’m terribly sorry.”
Melissa felt bad for making him feel bad. “Please, do not apologize. I was too young to remember them.” Which was not entirely a lie. She certainly had no memory of her father.
“You are made of stern stuff if you can tolerate the London summers.”
“My uncle’s business kept him in town,” she said, making up this new chapter of her story on the spot.
He turned to her. “Oh, and what business was he in?”
Melissa was transfixed b
y his sweet, blue stare. “Um—”
His tanned cheeks flushed. “I don’t mean to pry. I was—”
“You aren’t prying—and his business is certainly no secret.” Except to Melissa, whose brain was spinning like a butter churn to come up with something. Joss’s face flashed into her mind and she said, “He was a butcher.”
“Ah.” He nodded, his forehead slightly furrowed.
Mel felt like a fool: just why would a butcher not be able to leave London during the summer?
“He owned several butcher shops,” she added, digging herself in deeper. “He always said he’d take a holiday but his employee problems were constant.” That was certainly true with a whorehouse—why would it be any different in any other business?
The curate nodded, seemingly convinced by her argument. “And does your aunt still have all those, er, shops?”
“Thankfully no—or we’d not be here.” Before he could pursue the subject of her life in London she gestured to the bundle of books. “What have you got there?”
He held them up so she could see the spines. “These are just a few novels my mother sent to me. She is a voracious reader.”
“How kind of her to share her books.”
“Yes, she is a very kind lady as well as being a wonderful mother.”
A vicious punch of yearning made her stumble, and he was quick to take her arm.
“All right?” he asked, glancing down at her with a look of concern.
She nodded and he released her.
Because she wasn’t suffering enough, she went back for more. “You sound very close to your mother.”
“Yes, we are.” He grinned at her. “My brothers tease me that I am her pet, but I think they are just jealous.”
What must it be like to have parents one loved and respected? Not that she hadn’t loved her own mother. Once.
“Where is your family?”
“I am from Yorkshire.”
That surprised her. “You don’t sound like any of the Yorkshiremen I’ve met.”
Melissa and The Vicar (The Seducers Book 1) Page 7