Grant closed the door and walked to the sofa. Pushing aside the cushion, he picked up the breeches, socks, and shirt he’d hidden there earlier, and threw them on the floor beside his visitor.
The shivering man twisted his lips into a half-sneering smile. “Then it’s true. You really are the vicar.”
“Curate,” Grant corrected, while his visitor tore off his wet and ragged clothes. Before he could don the dry ones, Grant strode forward and turned him roughly toward the light. A suppurating wound splayed across his left shoulder.
“It’s healing.” He pulled the shirt over his head.
“No, it isn’t,” Grant said flatly. “Is the ball still in there?”
“No, Alban’s butcher dug it out of me.”
“It’s infected.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Grant regarded him with all the old, familiar frustration. “Cornelius, how the devil did you become a French prisoner of war?”
“Well, I couldn’t tell the French I was English, could I? They’d have strung me up. Even after the British captured us. My only hope was to escape once we landed in Britain.”
“Glad to oblige,” Grant said politely.
“Bit risky,” Cornelius allowed, looking around him for a coat. Grant took his off and threw it to him without a word. Cornelius caught it in his good arm and flung it loosely about his shoulders. “Did no one see you cut the rope?”
“At least one,” Grant admitted. “But so far at least, she hasn’t told.”
“One of your devoted flock?” Cornelius mocked. “What influence you must enjoy in this backwater.”
“You’d better hope so,” Grant retorted. “For both our sakes.”
“Oh, I do, I do.” Cornelius eased himself onto the sofa. “Are you hiding here, Tris? Does my father know where you are?”
Grant shrugged. “I doubt it.”
“Let’s hope not. He’s a vindictive old bastard.”
“Oh, I rather think your crime eclipses mine by now.”
“Unless I redeem myself damned quickly. Which you can’t. What on earth possessed you to take orders?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
“Probably not,” Cornelius agreed. “On the other hand, who was that ravishing woman with you on the beach?”
“None of your business.” Grant dragged one hand through his hair. “Look, you need to lie low here until I get a doctor to look at that wound. Fortunately, the vicar and his family aren’t here and they’ve taken the servants with them. But there is a woman who comes in to clean each day and cook a meal. From tomorrow, you’ll need to avoid her. For now, I’ll bring you some food, and park you in a bedchamber while I fetch the doctor.”
*
“His fever is growing severe,” Dr. Lampton said, “no doubt from the infected wound.”
“It’s not infected,” Cornelius said weakly.
“Of course it isn’t,” Lampton said peaceably. “Go to sleep.”
Grant followed the doctor from the bedchamber and closed the door, leading the way to the vicar’s drawing room where he poured them both a glass of brandy. “How bad is it?” he asked abruptly. “Should I be summoning his family?”
“Not yet. The infection is mild, as if some care was taken with the wound in the first instance, whatever happened later. I believe he has a chill on top of it.” Dr. Lampton accepted the brandy and sat on the nearest chair before he fixed Grant with his perceptive eyes. “Who the devil is he?”
“An old friend,” Grant said vaguely. “He can’t stop getting into trouble, but there’s no harm in him.” Too restless to sit, he paced to the window and downed his brandy. “I’m afraid I need your discretion.”
“You have it,” Lampton said at once. “But I’d love to know more. For my own curiosity, not the world’s.”
“And I’d tell you if the story were mine.”
“Ah well, it gives me something to look forward to learning in the future. Do you plan to keep his presence secret during tomorrow evening’s soiree?”
Grant blinked. “Tomorrow’s what?”
“Your fundraising, musical evening.”
Grant groaned, smacking his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Damnation, I forgot all about it! I gave Mrs. Winslow and Mrs. Fenton free rein to organize things, so it slipped my mind. But no, I will not be presenting Mr. Cornelius! Will you and Mrs. Lampton join us?”
“Lord no, my definition of hell,” Lampton said cheerfully.
“It’s in a good cause.”
“Then I’ll stump up now to be free of further harassment. Did you hear about the escaped prisoner at Blackhaven Harbor?”
“I was there and saw it,” Grant said, turning back toward the window.
“He had fair hair,” Lampton observed. “By coincidence,”
Grant’s gaze flew to the doctor’s. He should have known better than to try to fool him. “There is no treason here,” he said with difficulty. “I ask you to believe that.”
“Oh, I do,” Lampton said, placing his empty glass on the table and standing up. “I would not otherwise be drinking with you. Goodnight, Grant, and send for me if our patient worsens.”
Chapter Five
Kate wondered irreverently if she would burst into flames when she entered the holy precincts of a church for the first time in several years. All heads turned toward her, she might as well have been burning. Ignoring the stares, she took one of the last vacant places in the back pew and looked around her.
It was a pleasant little church, with beautiful stained glass and a little chapel to the side, dedicated, according to the notice on the wall, to sailors. And it was full, numbering local gentry, visitors, and ordinary townspeople among the congregation. Everyone chattered away cheerfully, even those who cast Kate baleful glances.
“She isn’t even wearing black gloves!” exclaimed one affronted woman.
There was a ripple of muffled laughter and yet more quick, surreptitious glances thrown Kate’s way. She paid them no attention, keeping her eyes fixed to the front of the church where Mr. Grant emerged, suitably robed in a plain black cassock. She didn’t know if he’d heard the remark, or if he observed her presence, for she felt a sudden panic. She hadn’t brought a prayer book and she’d forgotten the liturgy.
It turned out not to matter. Everything came back to her. Voices boomed in common prayer and soared in hymns, soothing with familiarity. But it was the sermon that made the greatest impression on her. Not just because of Grant’s deep, oddly beautiful voice, or even the simple goodness of his words, mixed with a leavening humor that kept her genuinely intrigued and attentive. It was the reaction of those around her that she found most staggering. Everyone seemed to hang on his words, men, women, rich and poor. One girl at the end of Kate’s pew even wept silently before raising her head proudly at the end as though determined to do better with her life. And yet his words were never judgmental or accusing, just thoughtful and curiously moving.
Kate swallowed as the final hymn began. She’d tried to blot it out, imagine the words of his sermon applied only to others, to those who cared. But it seemed she did care, for she felt suddenly overcome by shame at the hedonistic selfishness of her life. She hadn’t hurt Crowmore—the man could not have been hurt by less than the death that finally took him—but neither had she forgiven him. The man whom she’d promised to love, honor, and obey, forsaking all others…
If she’d been sitting on the end of a pew, she’d have slipped away at that point. She’d only come to see if he was a real priest. If he wasn’t, he’d certainly learned more than the basics. And here she was, trapped and vulnerable.
So she didn’t look at him as he walked down the aisle, to the door. Those local worthies with pews at the front of the church left first, and everyone piled out behind, waiting to have a word with Mr. Grant.
He helped these people, Kate realized, just by being among them. Just by listening to them, by treating the poor and damaged as human beings, not judging
them by their faults or failings. Was that why she’d felt so drawn to him? Because she was more damaged, more in need, than any of them?
I’m not. I’m strong, stronger than Crowmore, than any of his family or mine. I look after myself.
Determinedly, she raised her head, fighting the urge to confide, to confess, to beg him to make her a better person. This man who’d come from nowhere and could even be a French spy.
When she could, she tried to duck quickly past a lady with an enormous hat, but with cursed timing the lady moved on, and unless Kate was prepared to bolt in an undignified manner, she was bound to shake hands with the curate.
“My lady,” he greeted her with the same warmth he showed everyone. “I’m very glad to see you here.” And yet surely his eyes were warmer when they looked at her. She bet everyone thought that.
“Thank you,” she murmured. “I enjoyed your sermon. Goodbye.”
But he retained her hand when she would have withdrawn it. And God help her, she liked his touch.
“Do you know about our musical soiree this evening?” he asked. “We’re raising money for town charities, and you would be most welcome. Mrs. Winslow and Mrs. Fenton are acting as my hostesses for the evening. Perhaps you would even condescend to sing for us.”
“Any condescension would be in listening to me,” Kate said dryly. “Thank you for the invitation.” And withdrawing her hand, she passed on, nodding civilly to anyone who caught her eye as she walked along the church path and out of the gate.
Of course, she had no intention of attending the ridiculous event. Me? At a provincial church musical evening? It hardly fit with the character she’d built for herself over the years. And yet, didn’t she always do the unexpected? Didn’t she always want to? In this case, she wasn’t afraid of boredom, but of her unlikely attraction to the curate. She didn’t even know if her suspicions were based on common sense or on the need to “de-perfect” him for her own safety.
Yet after the church service, how could she doubt him? How could she doubt the man who had taken on four violent ruffians for her, before the prisoner incident?
Of course, in the cart conversation, he’d suggested he could have been part of the attack, setting himself up, perhaps as some sort of hero. And he had said he wanted to marry her, a most unequal marriage in the eyes of the world. She could have been expected to look more favorably on a hero than on an ordinary curate.
Only why would he want to marry her? There were wealthier and purer-hearted women in the world to ensnare. Besides, if it was true, why the devil would he point out the possibility to her?
So lost was she in speculation that it took her some time to notice the girl glaring at her as they approached each other from opposite ends of High Street. She was young, no older than seventeen, and very beautiful in demure sprig muslin. Although she looked vaguely familiar, Kate had no idea who she was.
She was escorted by a short, plump woman who might have been a governess, apart from her somewhat strident voice, and by a middle-aged gentleman with a gold topped cane. However, the girl’s attention was not on them but on Kate, so much so that the governess actually stopped in front of Kate, blocking her path.
“Is this one of your new friends, Jenny?” she asked, in a strong, local accent.
The gentleman with the cane ogled Kate, while the girl blushed a fiery red with mortification.
“Why, no, ma’am,” she almost whispered. “We are not acquainted,”
The woman blinked at her in surprise. “Then what’re you staring at her for?”
Clearly, the girl wished the ground to swallow her up. “Forgive my rudeness, your ladyship. We have a mutual acquaintance.”
“Did I behave shockingly to them?” Kate drawled.
“Bless you, my lady,” the older woman gushed. “She’s just a child gawping at beauty. I’m Mrs. Smallwood of Kendal. This is my daughter Janet. And Mr. Dollen who has two mills over by Newcastle. And you are…?”
Kate considered her. She was more than capable of depressing the pretensions of people who sought to scrape acquaintance with her for their own ends. And Mrs. Smallwood was clearly an encroacher, a social climber of lowly birth who wanted her daughter to be a lady. But the daughter, although obviously mortified by the mother’s impudent ill manners, had begun this whole encounter by glaring at Kate as though she’d stolen the child’s favorite toy. Inevitably, Kate was intrigued.
“Katherine Crowmore,” she said languidly. “And who is our mutual acquaintance, Miss Smallwood?”
The girl almost whispered, “Mr. Muir.”
Mrs. Smallwood scowled, casting a quick glance at Mr. Dollen as though to see how he took news of this male acquaintance. Kate began to understand. The girl, Janet, was in love with Bernard Muir—or at least imagined she was. But the mother preferred Mr. Dollen for her, no doubt because he had two mills near Newcastle and Bernard, although gently born, had little more than two pennies to rub together.
On the other hand, the speculative gleam in Mrs. Smallwood’s eye told her the woman was not above using Kate to introduce her daughter to prospective husbands who were both gently born and rich. If she knew of Kate’s scandalous reputation, it did not trouble her.
“Ah, yes. Bernard and his sister are practically family,” Kate said carelessly, which is when she noticed that Mr. Dollen, while still ogling Kate, placed his hand in the small of the girl’s back. It might have been a protective gesture, had Miss Smallwood not flinched.
That flinch unnerved Kate, transporting her back to her own girlhood when a very different, much older man had touched her and made her cringe, even while she’d let her parents bully her into marrying him. It was the way of the world. She’d given up a man she loved for one who made her flesh crawl. And the Smallwoods would make this child do the same.
“We should take tea together,” Kate said abruptly to the girl. “Do you stay in Blackhaven?”
“At the hotel,” Mrs. Smallwood replied. “For a few days. My health, you know—”
“Excellent,” Kate interrupted, although she looked at the daughter rather than the mother. “Then the matter is easily arranged. Until then, goodbye.”
*
Although Kate tried quite hard to talk herself out if, it was surely inevitable that she walked round to the vicarage that evening. Even then, she told herself it was to further investigate the mysterious curate, not because he excited and soothed her at once, not because she liked him. Though she might just ask him about Miss Smallwood if the opportunity arose.
A serving maid admitted her to the house with a curtsey, and took her pelisse before directing her to the drawing room. Kate followed the strains of indifferent music to an open door which revealed quite a large gathering for the size of the room.
She was inured to the sudden silence which greeted her arrival, even to the audible whisper, “Who invited her?” And the inevitable, “Not even black gloves. The woman has no decorum.”
A trio of musicians played in one corner of the room, beside a pianoforte. A few rows of chairs had been set out, with a couple of sofas against the wall. A large, silver bowl graced the table at the back, where Mr. Grant stood. In the silence, he glanced across to her and smiled, the same, spontaneous smile he’d given her at the harbor, the one that seemed to turn her insides to liquid.
He murmured, “Excuse me,” to his companions and walked straight toward her as though no one else were in the room. “Lady Crowmore. I’m so glad you could come after all.”
He shook her hand with perfect civility. She might have imagined the swift, unnecessary caress of his thumb, or it might have been an apology for his guests.
“I’m sure you already know Mrs. Winslow.”
The local squire’s wife, and leader of Blackhaven society in the absence of the Countess of Braithwaite, exchanged distant bows with her. They’d met during Kate’s previous stay at the castle.
“We were just about to begin,” Grant said cheerfully. “The rules are simple. A coin
in the bowl by way of entry, and from then on, another coin for each performance you like. Denominations of your own choice.”
“I’m sure I can manage that,” Kate said, going at once to the bowl.
By the time she turned back to the room, the music had ceased, the rows of seats were filled, and Miss Winslow stood nervously in front of the piano, ready to sing. An elderly lady sat down at the instrument and began to play. Kate seated herself on one of the sofas and prepared to be appalled.
Actually, it wasn’t too bad. Miss Winslow had a sweet voice, and the pianist provided a soft accompaniment. But the girl’s eyes followed Mr. Grant all the time she sang, as though desperately seeking his approval, or any signs of criticism.
Grant eased himself into the sofa beside her. “Worth a coin?” he murmured.
“Maybe even two. Will you sing?”
He grinned. “Lord, no. Bad enough they have to listen to me in church. Excuse me.” He stood and quietly left the room.
Miss Winslow’s face fell immediately, but her performance was greeted with much applause, and Kate duly added two more coins to the slowly filling bowl. This time, when she returned to her sofa, a gentleman sat beside her, making pleasant but innocuous conversation, as though they’d met before. Which they had, at Lady Braithwaite’s spring ball. Kate eventually placed him as Mr. Winslow, the squire. Since he had twinkling eyes, she responded accordingly until it was time to put another coin in the bowl.
“Perhaps you sing, Lady Crowmore?” Mrs. Winslow asked in frosty accents. Kate suspected she wished her to perform and be humiliated by receiving lackluster applause and earning no coins.
“Oh, I did as a debutante of course,” she replied. “But these days I leave the floor to younger and sweeter voices. What about you, Mrs. Winslow?”
Mrs. Winslow flushed. “Only for charity, of course.”
“Oh, of course,” Kate said at once. “Then if you think it will help the cause, I’m sure I can warble out some old tune or other.”
The squire had again taken up position on her sofa, so she wandered out of the room, ostensibly in search of the cloakroom, in reality to find out where Grant had disappeared to.
The Wicked Lady (Blackhaven Brides Book 2) Page 6