Brushing off the stray bits of hay clinging stubbornly to her skirts, she couldn’t help wondering if she’d finally gone too far in her efforts. Luckily there were no other servants present and suddenly unaccountably ashamed, she quickly finished her drink and tried to make herself a little more presentable before Huntley caught site of her. She knew he would waste no time in reporting her scandalous behaviour to his master – if Nicholas ever deigned to come home. However, she genuinely liked the elderly butler and didn’t want him to think too badly of her. Although as she tiptoed past the butler’s pantry, she feared she may have already gone too far.
∞∞∞
“Sir, I’m not entirely sure this is a good idea.” Percy was struggling to cover his face with his necktie. “I mean, I think it very questionable that the Almighty would wholly approve of our plan.”
“The Lord helps those who help themselves,” panted the Reverend as he squeezed himself into an ominously itchy woollen jacket he’d ‘borrowed’ from their only stable hand.
“But Sir, what if she has an apoplexy? I’m certain the Almighty wouldn’t approve of that.”
“My daughter’s made of sterner stuff Percy, and mayhap a small fright will convince her to behave in the dignified manner befitting her station.”
“I hardly consider putting a sack over her head and dragging her from her bedroom to be a small fright,” protested Percy, much to the Reverend’s irritation.
While he had to admit they were indeed clutching at straws, word had today reached him of his daughters’ latest exploit and Reverend Shackleford knew it was time to take matters into his own hands.
They were currently closeted in the Reverend’s study, waiting for the sun to set. They would then endeavour to sneak out of the vicarage without anyone being the wiser, although judging by the noise upstairs, sneaking out unobserved was going to be a feat in itself. They were each partaking of a fortifying tot of brandy which the Reverend insisted was purely medicinal and not likely to see them both headed below stairs alongside Old Nick once they’d been put to bed with a shovel.
“At least no more than abducting one’s own daughter,” Percy could be heard muttering to himself darkly. Reverend Shackleford chose to ignore his curate’s sudden attack of the vapours, deciding to focus instead on the finer points of their plan. Or, as he thought privately, the bits that were most likely to put them in a hobble.
“Now don’t forget Percy, we are to take her by surprise when she retires to her bed chamber.”
“But how the devil are we going to get into her bedchamber?" Percy’s expletive showed the extent of his agitation and the Reverend was beginning to fear his curate was simply not up to the job.
“Leave that to me lad,” he replied soothingly, before knocking back the rest of his brandy. “You just follow my lead.
“Freddy, stay.” The Reverend took out a large ham bone he’d pilfered from the kitchen earlier, confident it would provide the necessary distraction to dissuade the hound from thinking to follow them.
Ten minutes later they were taking a short cut across the fields towards Blackmore. While nobody had actually spied their leaving, the apprehension of it had led the Reverend to tread in a large cow pat and a strong smell of manure accompanied them as they approached the shadowed mansion.
“We’ll go around the side,” the Reverend advised his curate in a loud stage whisper. “Grace informed me that the scullery maid usually leaves the basement door open in case of a rendezvous with her sweetheart.” Percy looked over at the Reverend with a scandalous expression. “Does the young woman have no morals?” he asked faintly, “And how is it that the Duchess allows such behaviour underneath her roof.”
The Reverend snorted. “Are we talking about the same duchess who was last seen bursting out of a hay cart?” He shook his head and sighed. “I think my daughter was hoping I’d see fit to speak with the cur in question and persuade him to make an honest woman of her maid. Grace’s heart is entirely too soft I fear.”
He pointed to a shadowed alcove and without any further words, the two men tiptoed towards a set of dark steps.
Luck was with them as they found their way above stairs. The hall was dim, with the only strategically placed candlelight casting fantastical shadows over the walls. Everywhere was silent and Percy began to feel himself sweating at the thought of them being caught in such a compromising position. Worse, there was a strong smell of manure from the Reverend’s boots and looking back Percy could see a trail of dark brown patches.
“Sir,” he whispered urgently, intending to beg his superior to abandon their mad scheme forthwith. The Reverend held up his hand for silence however and habit caused Percy’s words to die in his throat.
“I think Grace is likely to be in the family dining room,” the Reverend whispered excitedly.
“We don’t know where that it,” hissed Percy, the very opposite of excited. “And we don’t know where her deuced bedchamber is either.”
The Reverend glanced over at his curate with a frown. This was the second time in as many hours his curate had uttered an expletive. A previously unheard-of occurrence.
“Confound it Percy,” he whispered, “this is no time to be chuckleheaded. We’ll wait in the shadows under the stairs until she makes her way to her chamber, then we’ll follow her. Simple.”
Percy’s wild eyes inferred it was anything but simple and the Reverend knew if his curate decided to make a run for it, they’d both be in the suds. “Get a bit of pluck to your backbone,” he hissed, taking Percy’s arm and guiding him into an area of blackness. “No one will spy us here.”
Before Percy could repeat his concerns about the trail of manure
