can see, lie two figures, one an armed knight. Do examine the detail of his sword, as it is quite breathtaking.” He extended a hand toward the center of the carved figure. “And there beside him is his lady. Is she not beautiful?”
“Just look at their faces. So lifelike.” Indeed, the lord and his lady stared upward toward heaven, their faces forever preserved in placid contentment. Sophia could not help but notice the knight boasted a magnificent pair of cavernous nostrils. Above their heads were words etched in stone. Sophia read aloud. “Sir Thomas Longmead and his wife.”
One glance toward Claxton revealed the same relief she felt.
Sophia marveled over Sir Thomas and his bride long enough to avert any suspicion, then chose another point of interest to draw Mr. Burridge away. “Oh, look at that kneeling angel and the detail of its wings. What can you tell me about that sculpture?”
Sophia proceeded down the aisle, Mr. Burridge following close behind. Claxton, of course, lingered behind.
However, something made Mr. Burridge glance back. A lingering suspicion perhaps.
There, to Sophia’s abject mortification, Claxton sprawled atop Sir Thomas’s supine form, his fingers thrust inside his marble nose.
Chapter Fifteen
Is there some problem, my lord?” barked Mr. Burridge. His narrow physique bristled with outrage.
Claxton jumped, his Hessians instantly returned to the floor with a resounding
Sophia, for her part, considered a dash for the door.
But a look of calm came over Claxton’s features. “I—ah—was attempting to clean his nose. There’s a bothersome bit of dust floating about his nostrils.” From his coat pocket he produced a handkerchief. He reached again, re-creating the same awkward pose, and rubbed Sir Thomas’s nose free of the imaginary dust. “It is our duty, after all, to keep Sir Thomas dignified. There. All tidy.”
Sophia clapped a hand over her mouth, desperate to contain the bubble of laughter that crowded the back of her throat.
Just then, a young woman and a small boy entered the narthex, each carrying a wooden box.
Mr. Burridge glared at Claxton reprovingly. “If you will excuse me.”
Joining the visitor, Mr. Burridge positioned himself with obvious purpose so that he could still keep his eye on Claxton. Under this scrutiny, Claxton joined Sophia, looking every part the guilty scoundrel.
Despite their peril, Sophia experienced the sudden, overwhelming urge to grab Claxton by the lapels and kiss him, which would be quite improper given their ecclesiastical surroundings. It was easy here, in the golden light created by the church windows, to believe that they would always exist in this blissful state of happiness.
She whispered, “So? Was there a bee in Sir Thomas’s nose?”
A conspiratorial smile slanted his lips. “Indeed, something is there in the nostril on the farthest side, the one closest to his lady.” He leaned closer to murmur in her ear, “But my fingers are too large to pinch the object out.”
“Oh no. That means—”
“Yes!” Claxton’s eyes glowed with delight. Clearly he welcomed this new complication, the higher stakes. “Sophia, you must get the bee.”
“But how?” she asked desperately. “When Mr. Burridge refuses to leave my side? And yours because apparently you have a peculiar fetish for dusting and cannot be trusted unsupervised with the antiquities.”
Claxton grinned. “For a moment I thought he would box my ears, just as he did when I was a boy.”
“I don’t believe he can reach your ears now.”
Mr. Burridge approached, boxes stacked across his arms.
“Hurry,” warned Claxton. “We must think of some new diversion.”
“Pardon the interruption, my lord. My lady,” said Mr. Burridge, his expression brittle with mistrust. “It is that time of year when villagers often bring Christmas tithes and other gifts to celebrate the season.”
Tithes and gifts. It was, indeed, that time of year. Sophia knew from her review of the account books that Claxton paid tithes once a year through his accountants. Somehow, the villagers appearing in person bearing gifts of butter and jam and chickens—necessities very dear to them—seemed infinitely more personal. All at once, it came into Sophia’s mind that she’d not heard a church bell ring since arriving in Lacenfleet.
On instinct, she inquired, “Mr. Burridge, tell me about the church bell. On what occasions do you ring it?”
“Ah.” Mr. Burridge issued a little sigh. “Our bell cracked two winters ago, splitting quite nearly in half. No donor has stepped forward with the funds to replace it.”
The perfect opportunity had just presented itself. How could she nudge Claxton in the proper direction without being completely obvious?
“Your Grace,” she said with careful emphasis. “You and I were just pondering yesterday—”
“What could be done to honor my mother, yes,” he said suddenly with a long glance at her. He’d stolen the words right out of her mouth, and she couldn’t be more amazed.
He tilted his face upward, and his gaze moved over the arched beams above them. “She so loved this church. A new bell would be a perfect tribute.”
She knew in that moment his offering had nothing to do with the game and everything to do with the memory of his mother and his growing affection for Lacenfleet and its people.
“Yes,” she exclaimed softly, blinking away tears. “I agree.”
The rector’s eyes lit up like lanterns. “Your mother, a saint of a woman.”
Sophia said, “Mr. Burridge, perhaps you could show his lordship to the bell tower so that he might understand the contribution that would be required?”
All of the rector’s prior suspicion fell away. Indeed, he appeared on the verge of tears. “Why, a new bell would breathe new life into this old parish church.”
“Wonderful,” said Sophia. “I will wait for the both of you here. I would like to spend some time viewing the windows.”
She moved toward the nearest stained glass window, one which bore a brass placard at its base engraved with the familial name GARSWOOD. Beneath that, on the floor, she discovered a porcelain bowl full of roses.
Ones with yellow petals and pink edges.
A half hour later, she and Claxton made their way through the snow to the sledge, Sophia still smiling from everything that had occurred. Their breath gusted out before them with each breath.
“Do you have it?” he asked.
“I do.” She opened her hand. A tiny scroll, bound with a faded strip of fabric, lay on her gloved palm.
“You ought to be a spy in the service of England, goose.” Claxton’s arm came around her shoulder, the admiration in his gaze and in his words more warming than any fire. “You truly were quite exceptional in there. Mr. Burridge, I must say, is smitten. Let us go to the inn for a quick meal. We can read our next instruction there.”
Soon they were settled into a table near the hearth. Just as before, the room was crowded with villagers, today unabashedly impressed by the presence of the duke, who had just that morning dueled the inn’s most infamous resident on his snow-covered front lawn.
Several of the ladies smiled at Sophia. There were even a few satisfied nods and winks. She could only assume they believed her the victor for her husband’s affections over the determined trollop, Lady Meltenbourne. At that, she felt some degree of satisfaction. She’d enjoyed herself exceedingly this afternoon and purposefully forbade herself from pondering deeper thoughts about their future, or the implications of the night before, although memories of their lovemaking never drifted far from her thoughts. She just had to keep things in
