Melissa and The Vicar (The Seducers Book 1)

by S. M. LaViolette

  Mel slammed her teacup down so hard the saucer cracked. “Bloody fucking hell.”

  Daisy, who’d come into her dressing room uninvited to ransack her clothing, just laughed. “Hugo or Laura?”

  “Both,” Mel growled.

  I can hear your howls of rage all the way in London. I know it is not an inexpensive way of getting her out of the house, but it will allow the dust to settle. Besides, she was too ill to work and was only spending her time stirring the pot.

  Hugo, of course, is thrilled.

  “Naturally,” she muttered.

  Much to my eternal gratitude and delight I’ve discovered that a happy Hugo is a cooperative Hugo. He has taken up Laura’s part of the operations without complaint.

  “I just bet he has.”

  On another, more serious, note, I feel like you should know there has been a certain royal duke spending a lot of time here lately.

  Mel sat up straighter, clenching her jaw against whatever was coming.

  I know Hugo is responsible for his own, er, actions, but I did strongly caution him against this. Of course he did not listen. Nothing has happened—well, nothing out of the ordinary for such a situation—nor do I have any reason to suspect anything might, but it does seem to be a degree of danger you do not need to encourage.

  Mel was grateful Joss could discuss such an explosive topic so discretely. The truth was, allowing sodomy to occur beneath her roof was a danger to all. At the same time, a number of very powerful, wealthy, and influential people had become invested in the future of The White House for the very reason that she did allow the activity to take place.

  Personally, she did not care who fucked who. In fact, she believed there would be fewer wars if men would divert more of their energy to fucking rather than fighting. Sexual frustration and repression, she was certain, were a good part of all the trouble modern civilization faced.

  But her opinion was neither popular nor legal.

  The punishment for what went on in some of her rooms was death. But these were adults and they all knew the stakes. At the same time, toying with a royal duke was a good way to end up at the bottom of the Thames. Those in power made it their business to keep track of the royal brood. They also believed it was their business to rectify any . . . problems that might develop. Preferably before they developed. Mel knew that a royal duke engaging in homosexual activity would qualify as a problem that had already gotten out of control. If anyone was going to suffer, it would be Mel, her employees, her business, and—most certainly—Hugo. This was simply—

  “There, how does this look?” Daisy asked, pulling Mel from her thoughts. And standing in front of her, wearing Mel’s newest straw hat.

  “How does it look?” Mel repeated with a scowl. “It looks like it is mine, that’s how it looks.”

  “Pffft! Don’t be so stingy.” Daisy headed toward the door.

  “Where are you going?” Mel asked. Not that she couldn’t guess.

  “To town.”

  “You will be discrete, I trust?” It was no point asking her to hold off her activities entirely, but discretion . . .

  “I promise.” She wet her index finger and drew it in a pattern Mel supposed was meant to be a cross.

  “Have you taken care of all the garments we are to sell tomorrow?”

  “Yes, they are already crated and waiting in the inn’s assembly room—along with everyone else’s.”

  “And you will be there tomorrow morning to help set up and—”

  “Crikey, Mel! Yes, I’ll be there.”

  Her head throbbed. “You might want to start wrapping things up with your lover, Daisy. And tell Jenny and Sarah to do the same. We shall be leaving as scheduled—at the end of the month.”

  Daisy gave her an unreadable look and for a moment Mel thought she would argue. Instead she said, “And are you going to tell the curate that, or should I?”

  Mel clenched the letter in her hands. “Why do you ask?”

  Daisy rolled her eyes. “Because while you’ve been avoiding him he’s been stalking you. As if you didn’t know that already.”

  Mel did know he’d been looking for her ever since that day at the beach—almost a week ago. But she couldn’t face him—not because she was embarrassed, but because she simply wanted to touch him so badly it hurt. That scared her. It scared her more than Hugo and his royal-shenanigans, or the thought of Joss finally leaving, or anything else she could think of. She’d fallen for the first time in her life, and she had fallen hard. She realized Daisy was examining her like a surgeon with a patient who had a fatal disease.

  “I shall tell him tomorrow. No doubt I’ll see him at the fête.”

  Daisy gave her a hard look, but she left without another word, slamming the door behind her to make her point.

  Mel sighed with relief. She was in too much turmoil to be around anyone, especially anyone as smug as Daisy. She knew all of them—from Mrs. Bunch to the footmen—were enjoying the sight of their employer in an emotional turmoil. The notorious madam of The White House, a woman rumored to have turned Wellington away (a greatly exaggerated story she’d never bothered to correct). A woman who was infamous for her habit of only taking either two men or one woman, when she did take lovers to her bed. This latter rumor was true but had happened so infrequently in the past five years it might as well be a lie.

  Mel had to admit she found it amusing, as well. She was brought as low as a schoolroom miss. She—Hannah Baker—a woman who’d had so many lovers she could not count them even if she’d wanted to.

  “You fool.” She savagely folded Joss’s letter and then thought better of it. Instead, she held the corner to the nearest candle, holding the pages until they were mostly consumed before tossing them into the cold fireplace. No matter how carefully worded the letter was, it was still better to erase it from existence.

  ***

  Magnus did not see Miss Griffin for six—almost seven—days, and not for lack of trying. Indeed, he visited Mrs. Tisdale every day—triggering suspicion with his assiduous care. He would have liked to have said it was out of good Christian piety, but the truth was that he wanted to run into her.

  But he didn’t.

  Nor did he see her in town. He saw her aunt, who, after careful prodding, disclosed that her niece was not ill, just busy with something vague and London-related.

  It was probably best he didn’t see her because he’d likely make a fool of himself. As it was, he’d planned out his approach with the care of a general planning a campaign. He would be giving the sermon tomorrow and was going to find her today at the fête and ask if she wouldn’t mind waiting for him after the service. She would have to know what that meant. She could either put him out of his misery by flat-out rejecting him or she could leave him hanging in the breeze until tomorrow afternoon.

  That had been his plan a couple days ago, but he’d begun to question the wisdom of this approach by the morning of the church fête. Distance and absence had not calmed him; it had left him half-mad from thinking about her. It had also made him a danger to himself and others. He’d walked in front Mrs. Peevy’s gig, slammed his thumb in the lychgate, and allowed his attention to wander while Mrs. Tisdale was speaking to him—this last being the most dangerous to his health.

  His days had been desolate, but his nights? Well, those had been worse.

  When his body wouldn’t allow him to sleep, he’d light a candle and try to read. When his body wouldn’t allow him to read, he would take out his sketchbook.

  That led to dozens of sketches of one subject, many of which were, to say the least, imaginative. Which, in turn, led to his body being even less interested in sleep.

  He’d given up resisting the relentless demands of his body. He had two choices: masturbate or harm either himself or somebody else through sheer exhaustion.

  Unfortunately, masturbation didn’t seem to clear his thoughts. At least not longer than a few hours. By the sixth day after their interlude he’d worn himself raw an
d there was no relief in sight.

  He’d also almost filled up his sketchbook.

  Well, today it would all be over, one way or another. It was the morning of the fête and he’d woken extra early to pay a visit to Mrs. Tisdale. Today his visit was legitimately for the older woman’s good rather than other, more questionable, motives.

  He knew the day would be hectic and it would be impossible to see her later. He also wanted to check with Sarah to make sure she had somebody to watch the old lady when she went to the fête.

  He arrived to find Sarah washing up from breakfast.

  “Good morning, Reverend,” she called over her shoulder, shooting him one of her saucy smiles—a smile that reminded him very much of Miss Griffin’s aunt, come to think of it. Magnus shook the pointless thought from his head.

  “Good morning, Sarah. How is she this morning?”

  “Full of p—” she grimaced. “Ah, full of vinegar, sir.” She set aside a clean pan and brushed her damp hair from her forehead with the back of her wrist, the action drawing his gaze toward her low-cut neckline. He immediately jerked his eyes back up to find her grinning. Magnus thought it rather odd that Melissa’s servants were so earthy while she appeared—for the most part—rather proper.

  “You were saying, sir?” Sarah asked, jolting him from his musing.

  “When will you be leaving for the fête?”

  “Oh, I ain’t goin’.”

  “You aren’t?”

  “No, I’ll stay here with herself.”

  “Is something wrong? Is she not feeling well?’

  “Nah, she’s all right and tight. But she don’t like the other woman.” She jerked her chin in the general direction of the vicarage—ah, Mrs. Dennis, the charwoman.

  “Well, that may be so, but you can’t stay here days on end. You need time to enjoy yourself, too.”

  She shot him a cheeky grin. “Oh, I enjoy myself right enough.”

  Magnus’s face heated for reasons unknown to him. “Er, well, good, then,” he finished rather lamely.

  “Besides, I get enjoyment out o’ listening to the old bird’s stories.”

  Magnus winced. “I’m not sure I’d let her hear you call her that, Sarah.”

  She laughed and the action caused her tight bodice to jiggle.

  He forced his eyes up to hers. “Are you sure you don’t mind? I’ve already spoken to somebody about spelling you.”

  “No, I’m fine.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking, what kind of stories does Mrs. Tisdale tell?”

  “Oh, just this and that. You know, about her younger days.” An evasive look slid across her normally open features, but was just as quickly gone.

  “Well, I’m glad you are staying. I believe she likes you, too.”

  He’d left her to her cleaning and popped upstairs to confirm Mrs. Tisdale was doing well. She’d waved him off, her attention focused on a box of old letters, and Magnus headed to the village green, where he was to help set up for the fête.

  He’d hoped he might run into Miss Griffin, but he didn’t meet a soul until arriving in town. Once he got to the green the morning flew past in a maelstrom of last minute crises and it wasn’t until eleven that he saw her. She and Mrs. Trent were in their booth sorting clothing into different piles.

  Magnus was about to go say hello when Mrs. Pilkington pounced on him and dragged him away to help with the umbrella that shaded her daughters’ booth. The three girls were selling more dolls than he’d ever seen in one place.

  “These were all part of our collections,” Emily, the youngest, volunteered.

  He eyed a particularly vile-looking doll with curly blonde hair that was shockingly similar to his own. He squinted; it looked as if the hair had been—

  “Marie burnt her hair with curling tongs,” Susan, the middle girl, volunteered in an undertone.

  “Susan.” Marie’s homely face flushed the color of a poppy.

  “What? It’s the truth.”

  “You don’t mind selling them?” he asked, hoping to head off an argument.

  “Mama said we were too old for dolls,” said Emily.

  He didn’t know their exact ages, but he knew Marie and Susan were old enough that Mrs. Pilkington had made it clear to Magnus that it was his duty to choose one of them for his wife. Emily, he suspected, was close to sixteen.

  “Emily, hush.” It was Marie again, the self-appointed enforcer.

  Emily looked so chastened and forlorn it pulled at his heartstrings.

  “Which is your favorite?” Magnus asked.

  She looked at Marie and then shook her head, her eyes settling on a doll that was only a fraction the size of the rest. A cute little thing that wore a tiny tiara, like a princess.

  “How much is that one?” he asked, pointing to it.

  Susan scoffed. “Oh, Mr. Stanwyck, why would you want a doll?”

  “Shut up, Susan,” Marie said, mortified. “Perhaps he has a niece, or young cousin.”

  He ignored them. “How much, Emily?”

  She mumbled a price and Magnus took out his small leather coin pouch. “Here,” he said, handing her two small coins. “I don’t need any change back.”

  Her lip trembled as she handed him the doll and he smiled and shook his head. “I bought it for you, Emily.”

  “You can’t take that,” Marie chided, reaching for the doll, which Emily hid behind her. “Mama will be livid.”

  “Oh, Mister Stanwyyyyyyke!” Miss Agnes Philpot’s piercing voice was—for once—music to his ears.

  “I’m afraid duty calls,” he said, escaping before Emily either started crying or her sisters tattled.

  Miss Philpot needed him to level out the table where she and her sister had set up their house plants. Once he’d finished that he had to help the vicar settle a dispute about which group of musicians—two had shown up—would play at the dance and which would play during the fête. By the time he had a spare moment it was time to set up his own small booth, which really was no more than a table, two chairs, and an umbrella he could tilt to keep out the sun.

  He’d waited so long that his booth, such as it was, had ended up at the very last spot, which prevented him from being able to watch Melissa’s booth. Miss Gloria Philpot—his first customer—arrived before he’d had a chance to take out his pencils and sketchpad.

  “I’d like a portrait, Mr. Stanwyck.”

  Magnus recalled doing one of her last year but he did not think it politic to point that out. Instead he pulled out the chair for her and picked up his book. The first page he turned to was filled with a naked Miss Griffin. He slammed the book shut.

  “Ah, that one is full.” He moved to put it back in his bag but her voice stopped him.

  “Might I take a look at your sketches?”

  Horror slithered down his spine at the mental picture that conjured. He gave her a smile of regret. “I’m afraid these are just rough pieces not finished enough to share.” A lie, that. These were some of the best damned sketches he’d ever made—even though they were all from his imagination.

  After Miss Gloria, came the innkeeper’s son, Joe Biddle, a quiet man who’d said no more than three words in the time Magnus had been in New Bickford. When Magnus gently teased him about whom the portrait was for Joe had turned an alarming shade of red and the remainder of the sitting had been conducted in silence.

  Mrs. Heeley, surprisingly, was next. “I want to have one done for his birthday. It is to be a surprise.” The vicar’s birthday was in the middle of next month.

  “I haven’t had a chance to walk about—how is the turnout?” he asked her, smiling as she unwrapped something—a sweet of some kind, no doubt—and nibbled while he worked.

  “It is an excellent turnout—better than last year. Miss Griffin and Mrs. Trent are quite the most popular.” Her gaze slid sideways to where Lady Barclay’s booth sat. The squire’s wife had a pinched expression and was gazing jealously in the direction of Melissa’s booth.

 
; Magnus grimaced. “Perhaps I will go and give Lady Barclay some commerce when I’ve finished with your portrait.”

  “Excellent idea, Magnus.” She gave him an impish smile. “You have all the instincts of an excellent vicar.”

  After he’d finished her portrait, he told the two people who approached next that he’d be back in half an hour and made a sign for his table to that effect.

  There was a woman buying cut flowers when he went to Lady Barclay’s stall, but the squire’s wife all but shoved her aside when she saw Magnus waiting. Like her husband, she was both snobbish and unctuous. He tried not to judge her harshly; having such a husband could not be pleasant. But she did not make his good intentions easy.

  “Ah, Mister Stanwyck!” She said Mister in a way that indicated it was private jest the two them shared. Magnus knew people like Lady Barclay could not comprehend a person preferring the title of mister over lord. “I understand you paid us a call last week. Shame on you for not coming to see me.”

  “I do apologize. I’m afraid I was in a horrid rush that day,” he lied, his gaze slipping away from hers to the buckets she had filled with fresh-cut blooms. “I do believe I’d like some flowers.”

  “For somebody special?” She cooed suggestively.

  “Actually, for several somebodies. I’d like a few small arrangements as a thank you for some of the ladies who’ve done the lion’s share of work for the fête.”

  Her face fell and he felt almost guilty for depriving her of some new gossip.

  They chatted about general matters while she assembled four nosegays. She was just wrapping up the last of them when the squire arrived.

  “There you are, Stanwyck.” Sir Thomas cut an amused, slimy glance at the flowers. “Goin’ courtin’ are you? Who’s the lucky lass?” He snickered. “Or it looks like you have several.”

  His wife tittered and Magnus handed over the required coins. “Thank you, Lady Barclay.” He turned to her husband, to whom he had to say something. “Have you come to help with sales, Squire?”

  He snorted. “I’ve come to judge the livestock fair.”