Chapter Four
Kate was not easily wrong-footed, but at those words, she stumbled, all but losing her balance in the shifting sand. His hand shot out and caught her elbow, steadying her. The warmth of his fingers burned through the fabric of her light, silk pelisse, reminding her there was more than one reason for her panic. But attraction to the very odd curate was the least of them.
“I’m happy to trust body and soul to God,” she said tartly. “But marriage is strictly my own business now, and you may trust me when I tell you I am quite finished with it. I plan to enjoy being a widow.”
“I hope you do,” he murmured.
“Do what?” she asked suspiciously.
“Enjoy it. Come, let’s sit in the cove and make ourselves respectable once more.”
“No,” she said perversely, although she’d once planned to suggest the same thing. His mention of marriage had rattled her. “I’m going to walk back along the beach to the town. Come, Little. Goodbye, Mr. Grant.”
He paused, frowning. “At least let me walk back with you.”
“No. I have an assignation at twelve,” she lied.
Without waiting to see the effect of that, she tripped away from him, Little scampering along at her heels. She didn’t put it past him to follow her anyway, but when she glanced back at last, he was climbing up the path to the road. Pique was an unusual sensation, and she wasn’t sure she liked it.
Scowling, she tramped across the beach in silence for several minutes, before turning on Little. “Why would any reputable gentleman want to marry me?”
Little cast her a glance of disbelief. “Do you not look in your mirror?”
She waved that aside. “Gentlemen don’t marry beauty, real or imagined. They marry land, fortunes, portions.” And pure reputations.
“There you are, then. You have all of those.”
That didn’t make her happy either. She didn’t want to think such worldly matters weighed with her charming curate. Any more than she wanted to believe he was some traitor serving the French. And yet, both could be true. For two days, she’d had to fight against the instinct to trust him. And today, despite the escaped prisoner, she’d told him some of her troubles. He hadn’t doubted her. Yet now she doubted the reasons behind his desire to help.
If he’d only wanted her body, she might have given it, and gladly. He already had a powerful effect on her that she couldn’t account for beyond his good looks and lean, highly desirable person. If only he hadn’t mentioned marriage.
She’d never conducted a flirtation with a clergyman before, real or rumored. With Tristram Grant, it would have to be completely secret so that it didn’t damage his position here, and… Dash it, why was she even considering such a thing? He wanted marriage, which she’d never give.
Or he said he wanted marriage. Why would he lie? Was it just a throw away joke? Her stomach gave a sickening lurch. Or was he trying to buy and keep her silence about the French prisoner?
The unpleasant thought stayed with her all the way back to the hotel, where the receptionist informed her a gentleman waited for her in the coffee room. He’d even left a card so that she could decide whether or not to see him. Her heart in her mouth, she took the card and glanced at it.
Bernard Muir, Esq.
She didn’t know if she was more relieved or disappointed. Not Mr. Grant. Not even one of the Crowmore clan, thank God.
On impulse, she sent Little ahead to their rooms and turned and walked into the coffee room. A couple of gentlemen looked up from a distant table but she ignored them as young Bernard Muir leapt to his feet in front of her.
“My lady!” he greeted her enthusiastically.
She gave him one languid hand, which he bowed over punctiliously.
“Will you join me in a cup of coffee?” he asked eagerly, although with something of the air of a puppy who expects to be kicked.
“With pleasure,” Kate replied, seating herself while a waiter emerged from behind a plant pot and poured coffee into the waiting empty cup.
“I tried to speak to you further at the ball on Thursday,” Bernard said. “But you didn’t see me, and then you vanished!”
In fact, she’d seen him perfectly clearly. She simply hadn’t felt able to cope with the youthful adoration at that point. “I never stay long anywhere,” she said carelessly.
“I wanted to express my condolences,” he murmured, in the hushed voice one reserves for speaking of the dead.
“For Crowmore? Don’t waste them on me,” Kate said brutally. “I shan’t miss him.”
But instead of repelling him, her lack of proper feeling inspired a look of awe in his handsome young face. “Your honesty is enchanting.”
“No, it’s generally embarrassing, but I regard you almost as family, so you must put up with it. How are Lord and Lady Wickenden?”
The new Lady Wickenden was Bernard’s sister, someone who might have been a friend had it not been for Kate’s rumored past with her husband.
“Very well, I believe,” Bernard replied. “They spent a month in Scotland, and another at Wickenden, but we expect them in Blackhaven next week.”
“I look forward to that,” Kate murmured.
“How long do you stay in Blackhaven?” Bernard asked eagerly.
“Until I get bored.”
“I don’t suppose…”
“You don’t suppose what?” Kate prompted, tapping her toe on the floor.
“That you’d consider dining with me this evening?”
Kate considered him. “Are you inviting me to your home?”
He shifted uncomfortably. “I have a stepmother these days and a tiny brother to consider. I was thinking here in the hotel dining room.”
“You have a stepmother to consider,” Kate repeated sardonically.
“My house is my stepmother’s,” Bernard said. “My friends are my own choice.”
“Then…” She paused, tapping one gloved finger against her teeth. Aside from relieving her boredom, it struck her she could pick Bernard’s brain about the curate. “Then I accept your gracious invitation.”
Bernard grinned with clearly surprised delight, and Kate finished her coffee before leaving him to his.
*
As a rule, Kate never encouraged the very young gentlemen who threw themselves at her feet. She found their clinging adulation irritating as well as boring—and besides, unless they were insolent, she could never quite shake off a sneaking pity for them. Therefore, she was generally dismissive, or even downright rude when they refused to take the hint.
When she’d stayed at Braithwaite Castle in the spring, Bernard Muir had been one of those starry-eyed devotees, and as usual, she’d discouraged him. A pang of guilt smote her as she walked down to the dining room that evening. She would just have to maintain a cool distance and constantly emphasize her connection to the Keiths of Wickenden, his sister’s new family. After all, Julia Keith was her greatest friend … or had been before the scandal.
When she entered the dining room, Bernard was already waiting for her, his shirt points so fashionably high that he could barely turn his head, and the intricate folds of his cravat showing obvious signs of help. Her heart sank a little, for she didn’t want him to make so much of the encounter. She even wondered if, for his own sake, she should retreat to her rooms and send him word she was unwell.
But at that moment, he caught sight of her and leapt to his feet. She didn’t have the heart to humiliate him by walking away. Ignoring the stares of the other diners, she strolled between the tables and allowed him to take her hand for the briefest moment.
“So,” she said, seating herself as he held her chair, “your stepmother has turned out not to be so wicked? Or at least actually to be your stepmother!”
Bernard grinned, “She’s not so bad. Gillie made friends with her before the baby was born, and we all rub along pretty well. You must meet my little brother. He’s a most superior infant.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Kate said hastily. “I am no judge of babies.”
Bernard ordered dinner and wine and while they waited, Kate made civil conversation about mutual acquaintances and town gossip. By the time they began to eat, it was perfectly natural to say, “And you have a new vicar, I believe?”
“Oh no. He’s Mr. Hoag’s curate, really. Mr. Hoag is on an extended visit to London, so Mr. Grant has had to step up to the mark.”
“Do you like him?” she asked carelessly.
“Grant? Yes, he’s a great fellow. Never po-faced or disapproving. Mind you, I’m not a great one for church. But even Isabella—my stepmother—approves of him. He’s already organized a hostel for the sailors, a charitable meal kitchen, and a sanctuary for poor women to stay while they get back on their feet.”
“How very energetic! Where did this paragon come from? Who is he?”
Bernard shrugged. “No idea. Seems like a gentleman to me.” He frowned. “More like Lord Braithwaite than Mr. Hoag, if you understand me.”
“You mean he comes from a great family rather than merely respectable birth?”
“It’s just an impression,” Bernard said apologetically. “And not because he gives himself airs, because he doesn’t.”
“I wonder where he was before he came here? Presumably he’s been in holy orders for some years.”
Bernard frowned. “Don’t know that he has. I’m sure Hoag said something before he came about him being inexperienced but well thought of. But he must be nearly thirty. Expect he did something else first.”
Or was somewhere else first. Could he have come from France and somehow inveigled himself into the Church? Surely such a thing would be impossible. Taking on a curate was hardly like hiring a footman! Though even footmen came with references. In any case, why would he? What could a French spy possibly achieve in Blackhaven? The fortress ten miles along the road had only recently been made into a prison. And Alban’s prisoners were the first ever to be landed in Blackhaven.
Grant had claimed the one he helped wasn’t French. Kate wanted to believe that. And yet… If Grant was a danger, she couldn’t keep this information to herself.
*
As it grew dark, Grant was torn between waiting in the vicarage and going out to make sure Lady Crowmore was safe. In the end, he lit the fire in the back-book room on the ground floor, and left the window slightly open before seizing his hat and striding round to High Street.
A new coffee house had opened across from the hotel, so he took up a seat in the window and ordered coffee. From here, he could see the front door and the gentleman at the window table of the dining room.
“Spare a coin, sir,” urged a voice beside him. A dirty-faced boy of about nine-years-old had sidled up to him, grinning expectantly.
“I’ve already spared you two,” Grant said mildly. “You need to earn them first.”
The boy leaned closer, bringing with him an unpleasant aroma of fish. “She’s not gone out. Having dinner with a gentleman.”
For a moment, Grant couldn’t understand the raw emotion twisting through his stomach. He even wondered if he were taking ill before he recognized the cause as rare and quite unreasonable jealousy. He didn’t know whether to chastise himself or just laugh.
Grant flipped the boy a penny. “Now, go home before your mother has to come looking for you.” And before the proprietor, drawn by the smell of fish, noticed him and threw him out.
The hotel was busier now, with the arrival of several gentlemen he knew—mostly of the young and wild set, with a scattering of the older and not very much wiser. Grant suspected a private party in one of the hotel’s back rooms, especially considering the women who entered either alone or on the arm of some young gallant.
They were not ladies of quality but at least one actress from the new theatre, and a few he didn’t know but of a type he recognized, ladies of the demi-monde. A few years ago, Grant would have thoroughly enjoyed such a party. Now his only concern was that it provided possible opportunity for unsavory people to get to Kate Crowmore. Uneasily, he watched and waited.
Grant’s patience, uncharacteristically brooding though it might have been, was soon rewarded by a glimpse of Lady Crowmore, walking past the table in the dining room window. Behind her came an eager young man he recognized as Bernard Muir.
Grant never judged people. But he couldn’t prevent the tightening claw around his heart. There was a reason people called her wicked Kate. But taking a little comfort didn’t make her wicked; it made her lonely. If that was what she was doing when she passed out of his sight.
The presence of the discreetly disreputable party in the hotel bothered him. He stood abruptly, dropping a couple of coins on the table for his coffee.
As he made his way out, he paused consideringly beside a pair of retired soldiers who greeted him in friendly fashion. “Evening, Mr. Grant.”
“Evening, gentlemen,” Grant replied. “Tell me, have you noticed any ruffians hanging around the town in the last couple of days?”
“No more ’n usual,” one replied.
“A few threatening fellows were hanging around the hotel the other night. Perhaps you’d keep your eyes peeled? I know you wouldn’t let anyone get hurt if you could avoid it.”
The men grinned. “Not unless we was doing the hurting.”
Grant laughed as he was meant to, and sauntered outside and across the road to the hotel.
“Evening, Mr. Grant,” Sparrow, the doorman, greeted him.
Grant nodded and crossed the foyer to the reception desk where a young man was directing a gentleman to the double doors at the back of the hall.
The young man turned at once to him. “Evening, Mr. Grant.”
“I’m looking for Mr. Muir,” Grant said, not entirely untruthfully.
“Through the double doors, sir, and straight across the hall.”
“Thank you.”
Grant found more or less what he expected. A large room fragrant with cigar smoke and brandy, and a lot of not entirely sober men playing cards and making witty conversation with the beautiful women who draped themselves around the tables, or over their arms.
Kate stood out at once. Seated at one of the tables, surrounded by admirers, she seemed to be playing hazard with a group of gleaming-eyed gentlemen—and winning, judging by the little pile of money at her elbow. The banker, flushed with drink or loss, scratched his head and gazed at her, bemused. Ladies did not play hazard.
Bernard Muir, at another table, kept casting slightly anxious glances at her. No wonder. She looked incredibly beautiful, sparkling with life and vitality, and utter decadence.
She took Grant’s breath away all over again.
Kate let out a peel of delighted laughter at the fall of her dice, and received another pile of sovereigns and bank notes.
“Mercy, Lady C!” someone exclaimed. “You’re going to clean us all out.”
“Come and let me drink champagne with you instead,” said a gentleman at her shoulder.
“Oh, I have some here,” Kate said. “Your health, gentlemen!” And raising her glass, she at last saw Grant watching her from between the tables.
For the tiniest instant, her dazzling smile froze, as if his presence disoriented her. Then she laughed and tilted her glass to him before taking a sip.
“Hit him again, Lady C,” someone urged, clapping the banker on the shoulder.
“No, I’m finished with hazard,” Kate pronounced. “I shall try something else.” She stood, amidst the protests of all, even the banker, and swept her winnings so carelessly into her reticule, that she left a portion of them behind.
Forcing himself to be still, Grant made no move toward her. It was she who made her way to him, via several stops to greet men she seemed to know.
“Mr. Grant,” she said at last. “Have you come to save my soul again?”
“In truth, I was more worried about your body. Your enemies could gain admittance to such an event all too easily.”
“Then I shall snap my fingers in their faces. Champagne, Mr. Grant?”
“No, I thank you. I won’t stay. Will you?”
“Of course,” she said, patting her reticule. “I’m winning.”
“Are you always so lucky?”
“No,” she admitted. “Which is why I don’t sit too long at the same table.”
Grant blinked. “You believe you’re being set up to be fleeced, and still you play with them?”
“It amuses me. Gaming is quite dull otherwise, don’t you find?” She sipped her champagne and smiled at him over the rim of her glass. “Or is that also too satanic a pleasure for the curate?”
“Too expensive a one,” he returned. “Is there somewhere we can talk?”
Her eyes darkened alluringly. “Of course. I always find the private alcoves, nooks, and crannies immediately.”
“For use or avoidance?” Grant enquired shrewdly.
She laughed, accepting his proffered arm and strolling with him toward the curtained windows. “Both,” she admitted. “But the latter more often than most would believe. If you must know, I fight my own reputation more frequently than is perfectly comfortable.”
“Then why come to a party like this?”
She shrugged. “Mr. Muir invited me.”
“You didn’t need to accept.”
“Why wouldn’t I? He knows all the best card parties.”
“Are you so bored?”
“Of course, I am,” she drawled. “The ladies of the town take it upon themselves to cut me rather than fawn upon my title and position as they did before. What else can I do but socialize with their husbands and sons? And fathers.”
She twitched back a curtain to reveal a deep bay with a curved window seat and walked through without a backward glance, leaving Grant to close the curtain behind them.
“And card-sharps,” he pointed out.
“They’re the fun part.”
“Poor Bernard.”
“Are you going to tell me off for leading him on and dropping him?”
Grant shook his head. “No. I came to make sure you were safe. You must be careful.”
She spread her arms, her eyes challenging and confident. “And yet here I am, alone with a man in a private alcove.”
“A man whom you know perfectly well is no threat to you.”
“Of course, the threat is from me,” she mocked. “What will your devoted female flock make of this assignation? And don’t be modest. I know you have one.”
“An assignation or a flock?” he asked with a quirk of his lips.
“Both,” she replied. She sighed. “But I’m teasing you. I’ve seen no sign of our ruffian friends. I believe they must have fled before your mighty fists. How are they, by the way?”
Quite naturally, she took his hand, examining the healing abrasions on his knuckles. She wore no gloves, and her touch burned him.
“Well,” he replied and deftly twisted his wrist, so that it was he who held her hand, hiding the ugly injuries.
Her gaze flew to his, in clear surprise, but she didn’t withdraw her hand.
“Think of your flock,” she said with light mockery. “And your reputation.”
She really thought it would be enough to scare him off. It made him smile. “I’d rather think about you,” he said.
Without taking his eyes from hers, he raised her hand, then slowly dropped his gaze to her slightly parted lips and then her shapely, slender fingers. She shivered, but still made no effort to withdraw. He turned her hand, brushing her palm with his thumb and then lowered his head, kissing the delicate veins of her wrist.
Her pulse raced under his mouth. She wasn’t indifferent. But more than that, he’d wriggled under the veil of her act. He’d surprised her, and for once she didn’t know what to do. He wanted to snatch her in his arms, devour her with kisses.
Her eyes widened, but still she didn’t pull back. He left her wrist and dropped another kiss in her trembling palm before straightening.
“I mean it, you know. I want to marry you.”
She tugged her hand free at last, a ragged, almost jerky movement, quite unlike her usual grace. “I would not be so unkind. To either of us.” She turned away, reaching for the curtain.
“Be careful,” he said urgently.
She let out a breath of laughter. Acting again. “My dear Mr. Grant,” she said huskily. “It is you who must be careful.”
The curtain fell behind her, leaving him alone. He breathed deeply, calming himself and his urgent body. More than ever, she intrigued him, for although she might be an accomplished flirt, her response to his mild advances was not that of woman experienced in dalliance.
A few moments later, he left the alcove. He was just in time to see Kate sweeping from the room, alone. He didn’t know if he was relieved or disappointed.
*
Grant knew before he opened the book room door. Perhaps it was the distinctive smell of the sea or of wet clothes steaming before a fire.
Taking a deep breath, he walked in.
The fair French prisoner sat shivering before the fire with his knees under his chin and his arms wrapped around his legs. His face was bruised, with a healing cut on his lip. He looked up and their eyes locked.
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.”