Of course, they might not always see it that way, but Reverend Shackleford’s main concern was the hereafter, and on occasion that called for sacrifices in the here and now that were not always entirely appreciated.
Well it did for anyone other than himself.
Resting his head in his hands he strived to recall the events of the last evening. The house was suspiciously quiet and looking at his pocket watch he was aghast to discover it was nearly eleven o’clock. Why had no one woken him? And where the devil was Percy? Frowning he realised it was Thursday and Percy would be working on the sermon for the upcoming Sunday.
The Reverend sighed. He could expect the piece to largely comprise dire warnings of the fire and brimstone awaiting those who strayed from the path of righteousness. Unfortunately, it had to be said that most of the sermons his curate drafted tended to be directed towards the person giving the address.
Climbing to his feet he paused for a moment as the room began to spin slightly. God’s teeth he could be dead in his bed with no one the wiser. Groaning, he made his way out of his bedchamber and down the stairs.
A situation such as this called for a stiff brandy if he was to feel anything like himself before the day was over. Mayhap Mrs Tomlinson would put him together a small repast of bread and butter to accompany it. He felt positively bilious at the thought of eating any of the cook’s porridge which had likely been standing since seven and could now doubtless be sliced and placed in the middle of a sandwich.
The Reverend was on his second brandy and just congratulating himself on his swift action in putting an end to what could have been a very sticky situation, when he heard a loud wailing coming from the hall. Frowning he determined to remain closeted in the study in the hope that whatever disaster was underway would simply take itself elsewhere. Unfortunately, the next word shrieked ensured that was unlikely. “AUGUSTUS.”
His study door was promptly thrown open to reveal Agnes Shackleford, hair wild, bonnet askew and a kerchief clutched in both hands which she was in the middle of shredding. His wife was clearly up in the boughs about something and the Reverend felt himself go cold all over.
Clearing his throat, he rose hurriedly to his feet and crossed the room to Agnes who now looked to be on the verge of swooning. “Dearest,” he muttered, reluctantly patting her on the shoulder before glancing wildly at four of his daughters who were gathered white faced at the door.
“What on earth has you so agitated my dove,” he continued in his most placatory tone, trying to ignore the sick sense of foreboding causing the second glass of brandy to curdle ominously in his stomach.
“Don’t you ‘my dove’ me you… you… you bounder,” Agnes sobbed. She turned to her husband, drew back her hand and gave him a resounding slap. “Anthony will never grace the drawing rooms of London. Thanks to you, he will be lucky to have a roof over his head. We are all surely destined for the workhouse.”
Blinking, the Reverend held his hand to his face, completely nonplussed. In all their years together, he had never glimpsed her so animated. If the situation weren’t so dire, he would be tempted to call her magnificent with her heaving bosom and her hair appealingly dishevelled. Unfortunately, her next words were akin to a bucket of water being tossed directly at his face.
“What on earth were you thinking Augustus?” she wailed, “Abducting your own daughter…”
Chapter Sixteen
Felicity Beaumont was looking forward immensely to the Marquis of Blanchford’s Ball. She had managed to ascertain with a few discreet enquiries that the general consensus within the ton was that both Nicholas Sinclair and his wife were both at best plain as pikestaffs and at worst, entirely hideous. This was clearly the reason they had been eschewed by society up until this evening.
If any of the female gossip mongers had thought to share their opinions with their spouses, the on-dits circulating may not have become so lurid. The Duke of Blackmore had attended White’s on two occasions and had been observed by several high-ranking members of the ton. However, given the fact that the majority of aristocratic marriages included very little contact between husband and wife, it had to be said that nearly every female under the age of ninety was anticipating the forthcoming evening with a delicious shiver of expectation.
Felicity was very much looking forward to their collective open-mouthed astonishment when they finally got their first glimpse of the Duke and Duchess of Blackmore. In fact, she couldn’t recall the last time she had awaited an event with quite so much enthusiasm…
∞∞∞
Grace hardly recognised the woman in the mirror - it couldn’t possibly be her. The gown had a low décolletage and clung to her curves almost indecently. Wonderingly she twirled around, delighting as the gold fabric shimmered in the candlelight. Dorcus had worked wonders with her hair, piling it high upon her head and securing it with what must have been at least a hundred glittering pins which shone and sparkled in turn.
With a grateful smile she turned towards her maid who was looking on in satisfaction. “Thank you Dorcas,” she offered sincerely. “You’ve worked wonders, truly you have.” Her maid reddened in embarrassed delight. “In truth my lady, it is you I should thank. Seldom have I had the pleasure in dressing someone as lovely as your grace.” It was Grace’s turn to colour and impulsively she leaned forward to give Dorcas a quick hug before stepping back and taking a deep breath. Time to join her husband. She picked up her
