She laughed. It was rare that the church was not filled with eager females seeking a word alone with the handsome vicar.
“Yes, you do have a skill for earning the trust of others, especially if they happen to be the fairer sex,” she teased.
His expression never eased. “Then you will believe me when I tell you that the locals had few kind words for the previous countess.”
Her breath caught at his blunt confession. The sensible part of her knew she should gently turn the conversation in another direction. It was hardly polite to gossip about her mother-in-law with the local vicar. But a larger part of her was consumed with curiosity about the woman who had yet to acknowledge Talia as a member of her family.
“Why?”
“She is like far too many in society.” His voice was edged with disgust. “She cares for nothing beyond her own comforts and her social standing. In less than a month you have managed to spend more time among the tenants than she has in the past thirty years. Certainly she has never taken the effort to learn their names or to discover their needs.” He grimaced. “To be honest, I doubt she is even aware of them as more than additions to the barnyard animals.”
Talia frowned. She had always thought the Countess of Ashcombe a conceited, overly proud woman when she had seen her in London, but it was disturbing to think she had no concern for the poor and vulnerable.
“I do not believe she could be entirely oblivious to those who depend upon her.”
“No?” Jack pointed across the distant fields that provided a perfect view of Carrick Park. The sight was magnificent as the last rays of sunlight brushed the windows in pinks and violets, and the water cascading in the marble fountains sparkled like jewels. “Last winter she insisted that old Lucas be forced from the cottage that had been in his family for two hundred years because it spoiled her view of the church.”
“Surely she did not realize…”
“The poor man begged on his knees to have his home spared, but he was tossed like so much rubbish into his daughter’s care and his cottage was destroyed.” He deliberately held her troubled gaze. “He died less than a fortnight later.”
“I cannot accept she would be so cruel.”
“It was more indifference than cruelty,” he mused. “For aristocrats such as the countess, those without blue blood running through their veins are simply unworthy of their consideration.”
She tugged from his lingering grip, licking her dry lips. She barely noticed that his dark gaze seemed fascinated by the small gesture.
“And what of my…” She still struggled with what to call the man who had taken her as his bride, then stolen her innocence before shipping her off to the country. “Of the earl? The servants and tenants speak of him with great respect.”
“As if they have a choice,” he said dryly.
A sickness settled in the pit of her stomach. She could not explain why, but the thought of Gabriel as yet another worthless aristocrat living off the sweat of his tenants without offering them the assistance and appreciation they deserved made her heart ache with disappointment.
“Oh.”
There was a brief hesitation, then without warning Jack heaved a harsh sigh.
“Forgive me, Talia. I am not being entirely fair.”
She blinked in confusion. “I don’t understand.”
“From all I have heard your husband is a decent landlord who has done much to introduce the latest farming techniques to his tenants.”
“But?” she prompted, sensing he was not revealing the full truth.
“I beg your pardon?”
“What are you not telling me?”
He gave a lift of his hands. “The earl tends to be an intimidating figure to most in the neighborhood. Few would dare approach him without invitation. Which means many have continued to suffer.”
A portion of Talia’s distress faded upon hearing Gabriel was merely aloof and not a callous brute. Surely with a bit of encouragement he could earn the trust of those in his care? Not that she intended to be the unfortunate individual making the suggestion, she acknowledged with a tiny shiver.
Nor would her companion. Not if his barely hidden sneer was any indication.
“You disapprove of my husband?” she demanded, wondering if the two men had ever crossed paths.
“I have little use for those who treat their power as a God-given right rather than a duty to others.”
She narrowed her gaze at the intensity in his voice. “Are you a Jacobin?”
His charming smile returned in the blink of an eye. “I am a humble vicar who is devoted to his flock, not a revolutionary.”
“Hmm.” She tilted her head to the side. “Why do I sense there is much you keep hidden?”
Before she could realize his intent, Jack had reached to tug at a stray curl that rested against her cheek.
“I will admit that my estimation of the earl has risen considerably since your arrival at Carrick Park,” he murmured, his dark gaze regarding her with blatant admiration. “I would never have suspected that he possessed the good sense to wed a lady of such value, rather than a typical debutante.”
Talia blushed, vividly aware of the intimate touch of his hand against her cheek.
“You must know that I was not the bride of his choice,” she said in flustered tones.
His thumb brushed her lower lip. “Are you so certain?”
“Of course.” She regarded him in bewildered shock. He could not possibly mean that Gabriel was anything but horrified to be married to Silas Dobson’s daughter. “He barely noted my existence until my father bullied him into marrying me.”
“It is my experience that gentlemen such as Lord Ashcombe rarely allow themselves to be bullied into any situation, let alone into marriage.”
She wrinkled her nose. “You have not yet had the untoward pleasure of meeting my father.”
“I do not doubt he is a man of considerable…”
“Pigheaded stubbornness combined with a brute lack of morals?” she offered wryly.
“Whatever his power, he could never truly take on a wealthy peer of the realm,” he smoothly continued. “He might have given Lord Ashcombe an excuse to take you as his bride, but the earl would never have wed you unless that was what he desired to do.”
Talia’s heart gave a strange leap of excitement before she hastily quelled the ridiculous reaction.
Jack clearly underestimated Gabriel’s pride. He would have wed a savage from the colonies to avoid a nasty scandal. Now he hated her for the sacrifice he had been forced to make. And she did not blame him.
“You are quite mistaken.”
His lips twisted. “Perhaps.”
Giving a shake of her head, Talia parted her lips to continue her protests only to be distracted by the heavy tread of footsteps approaching from the cemetery behind the church.
With a frown she turned to watch two men dressed in rough woolen sailor coats and loose trousers come to an abrupt halt as they noticed her.
A strange chill inched down her spine at the sight of their heavily muscled bodies and their weathered faces that spoke of endless hours toiling in the sun. Still, it was not their rough appearances that made her consider the need to flee for safety, it was instead the unmistakable air of violence that hovered about them.
She took an instinctive step backward, not sure what to expect. Then surprisingly, she felt Jack move to stand protectively at her back, his hand circling her waist.
One of the two men glanced toward the vicar, and Talia tensed, terrified that they were about to be attacked.
Instead there was a taut moment of silence before they gave a respectful dip of their heads and turned to make their way into the church.
Talia gave a baffled shake of her head, not entirely certain what had just happened.
“Good heavens.” She turned to meet Jack’s wary gaze. “Who were those gentlemen?”
“No one who need concern you,” he assured her.
Talia was
far from comforted. “Are you certain? They look to be ruffians.”
Jack shrugged. “Ruffians have as much need of spiritual guidance as any other. Even more so.”
“But…”
“It grows late, Talia.” Without warning, Jack leaned down to brush a soft kiss over her cheek. “Return to your home.”
She ignored his forward manner, sensing that he was deliberately attempting to be rid of her. Why?
Did he fear the men might still be a danger to her? Or was there some other reason for his desire to send her on her way?
“You do not wish me to call for the constable?”
“No.” He gave her a small push down the narrow lane. “I will be fine. I will see you tomorrow.”
Talia obediently headed up the pathway, waiting until she turned the sweeping corner that hid her from Jack’s view before she darted into the nearby copse of trees and started to creep back toward the church.
There was something distinctly suspicious about the strangers. And while she admired Jack for his willingness to offer sanctuary to all who came to his church, she could not bear the thought that his kindness would leave him vulnerable to harm.
Or death.
Holding up her skirts to avoid becoming tangled in the thick undergrowth, Talia weaved her way through the trees, ignoring the odd sense of premonition that clutched at her heart. Who would not be unnerved at creeping through the gathering gloom?
Still, for the first time since she’d left London, she was conscious of the scurry of unseen animals among the bushes and the distant cry of an owl that filled the silence. And even more disturbing was the awareness of just how alone she was.
If something happened, who would hear her screams?
She gave a shake of her head. She would not allow Jack to be injured because she was frightened of shadows.
At last reaching the edge of the trees, Talia squared her shoulders and darted across the open yard to the back of the church. She pressed her back against the bricks, her heart lodged in her throat.
From inside the building she could hear the sound of voices, and before she lost her courage, she forced herself to inch toward the open window, sending up a silent prayer that no one would happen by.
How the devil would she explain the Countess of Ashcombe creeping through the dark and eavesdropping upon the local vicar?
She stopped at the edge of the window and tilted her head to peer into the room, easily recognizing the sacristy. How…odd. Why would the vicar take two strange men into a storage room for the church’s most sacred possessions?
The most reasonable explanation would be that the men had forced Jack to the room in the hopes of discovering something of value. The church might be small, but there were several items made of silver as well as a few rare artifacts that a collector would pay a goodly sum to acquire. Which meant she should be dashing toward the nearest cottage to seek assistance.
But as her gaze shifted toward the three men who filled the room, she hesitated.
Jack did not look as if he were being held against his will. In fact, he appeared to be in charge of his companions as one of the men reached beneath his coat to toss a leather satchel at the vicar.
Jack eagerly tugged open the satchel and pulled out a stack of papers.
“These are the most recent maps?” he demanded, unfolding one of the papers and studying it with deep concentration.
The larger of the two men gave a grunt of agreement. “They were copied directly by a clerk at the Home Office.”
Talia stilled. Dear lord. She might know very little of politics, but she was well aware that the Home Office was headquarters to the various leaders who plotted war against Napoleon.
Jack was nodding, his attention still on the map. “And this clerk is certain no one suspects that he duplicated them?”
“Aye.” The stranger made a sound of annoyance. “Cost me a bloody fortune.”
An icy sense of disbelief spread through Talia as she watched Jack shrug, vaguely recognizing this was not the kindly vicar she thought she knew.
The glimpse of ruthless authority she had so readily dismissed earlier was in full evidence as he carefully spread the papers across the narrow table in the center of the room. And his French accent was far more pronounced.
It was as if he had been playing in a masquerade, and now the true man beneath the disguise was exposed.
“Do not fear, you will be well rewarded once I can be certain these are genuine,” Jack muttered.
The smaller stranger leaned over the table with a frown on his ruddy face.
“That ain’t France, is it?”
“Very astute, Monsieur Henderson,” Jack drawled, his tone mocking. “It happens to be Portugal.”
“And why would the Frenchies be wanting a map of Portugal?”
A smile of satisfaction curved Jack’s lips. “Because this tells us precisely where and when Sir Arthur Wellesley intends to land his army. And the battle strategy that he hopes to employ.” He stroked a slender finger over the map. “Most informative.”
Traitor…
The word whispered through her mind as Talia pressed a hand to her mouth. It was all so unbelievable. More like a plot from one of the thrilling novels she kept hidden in the privacy of her bedchamber than reality.
Who could ever suspect that the charming vicar in a remote village in Devonshire was attempting to destroy the British Empire?
The larger of the men folded his arms over his chest as he glared at the various maps spread across the table.
“Looks to me like a bumbling mess, but if you are satisfied, then so be it.”
“I am.” Jack offered a dip of his head. “And the emperor thanks you for your service.”
The man snorted. “I ain’t wantin’ the thanks of bloody Napoleon. I want me money, nothing else.”
“Of course, I…”
Jack came to an abrupt halt, then without warning his head turned toward the window, almost as if he sensed Talia’s presence. It was too late for Talia to duck away, and their shocked gazes locked before something that might have been regret flashed through his dark eyes.
“Mon Dieu,” he breathed, shoving away from the table and heading toward the side door.
Talia gave a small shriek as she gathered her skirts and darted toward the nearby path. There was no thought to where she was headed, only a terrified need to escape.
Of course, it was a futile effort.
Even if she were not hampered by her layers of skirts and petticoats, she was no match for an athletic gentleman in his prime.
She was still in the churchyard when she felt strong arms circling her waist and hauling her squirming body against a hard chest. Then Jack leaned down his head to whisper directly in her ear.
“I truly wish you had heeded my advice, ma petite.”
CHAPTER SIX
THE GENTLEMEN’S CLUB on St. James’s Street was filled with solid English furnishings and well-worn carpets that extended from the dining room to the discreet gaming rooms. On the white plaster walls were a series of oil paintings dedicated to the aristocracy’s love for hunting, and overhead a heavy chandelier glistened in the early sunlight. The entire building smelled of mahogany, leather and tobacco smoke.
A familiar combination that usually soothed Gabriel.
This morning, however, he was on edge as he sat at a table near the front window of the morning room reading the Times. He was annoyingly aware of the servants in black knee-breeches as they scurried to and fro and the numerous gentlemen who were enjoying hushed conversations behind him.
He should have remained at the townhouse, a voice whispered in the back of his mind.
He had a perfectly lovely breakfast room that offered a view of his rose garden, rather than the narrow London street currently spread beneath him, and a cook eager to prepare whatever he desired. And of course, there was the decided benefit of being alone. The gawking gossips were currently studying him with an avid curiosity that made
his teeth clench.
Unfortunately, he had devoted the past month to avoiding society. Unless he wished others to suspect he was cowardly hiding from his supposed friends and acquaintances, he had no choice but to force himself to return to his previous routine.
Which included an hour at his club, followed by a trip to his tailor and then on to Tattersall’s to have a look at the horses to be auctioned.
Even if it meant he was to attract precisely the sort of sordid attention he detested.
He tossed aside the unread paper and smoothed his hand down the simply tied cravat that he had matched with a pale blue jacket and ivory waistcoat, his brooding gaze trained on the tip of his glossy boot.
Was it any wonder he was in a foul mood?
And he knew entirely where to lay the blame.
His aggravating wife.
His jaw tightened. Dammit. He had sent her to Devonshire to ensure she understood that she would never again be allowed to manipulate him. He would be the master of their relationship, and she would learn to be an obedient wife or she would suffer the consequences.
But after waiting day after day for a message from his suitably chastised bride, pleading to be allowed to return to London, he found his temper fraying at her stubborn lack of communication.
What the devil was the matter with the chit?
Surely she must be anxious to return to her precious society so she could flaunt her newfound position as the Countess of Ashcombe? For an ambitious female, being trapped in the country should be a fate worse than death.
And yet, his housekeeper had written several letters revealing that Talia had swiftly become a favorite among both his staff and tenants. Indeed, Mrs. Donaldson had gushed with monotonous enthusiasm for the newest Countess of Ashcombe, assuring him that Talia had settled nicely at the estate and revealed no desire whatsoever to return to London.
Or to her husband.
So the question was—what game was his bride playing now?
The more cynical side of him insisted that Talia was merely biding her time in an effort to lure him into complacency, and yet, he could not entirely believe such a simple explanation. His tenants might not be well educated, but they were keen judges of character. They would have sensed if Talia were merely pretending to care.
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