Opening the door slightly, the Reverend peered into the hall. Luckily, the coast was clear. Turning back into the room he ordered Freddy to ‘stay’ in a firm whisper. The hound’s wagging tail drooped slightly but he obediently lay back down by the fire.
Ten minutes later the Reverend arrived without incident at their arranged meeting place where he waited impatiently behind a hedge for Percy to bring the cart round. He would have preferred to take the curricle but was mindful that any alteration to the curate’s customary routine may well prove to be their downfall.
The next half an hour would be of crucial importance to his daughter’s future happiness.
It would also decide whether or not he would have another opportunity to consume an excellent Sunday roast the likes of which he’d partaken in not two hours before…
∞∞∞
Nicholas Sinclair waited impatiently in the Blackmore family chapel with only Malcolm for company. As soon as the service was over, he would be leaving again for his estate in Scotland. He told himself it was time to set his most northerly estate in order.
His Scottish seat bordered the banks of Loch Long and the house was sorely in need of repairs. It was Nicholas’ intention to do much of the work himself wherever possible, mainly because he feared it was the only way he’d ever get some sleep. Fortunately, the land was far too wild for anyone of breeding to chance spying him dressed as a common labourer.
Looking down at his fob watch, Nicholas frowned. The curate was late. At this rate his coach wouldn’t leave Blackmore before dark. He was just about to call the whole service off when there was a slight commotion at the entrance to the chapel.
Percy Noon, looking more flustered than the Duke had ever seen him, hurried towards the small pulpit while behind him shuffled a truly revolting looking individual. The only indication that the creature was female, was the fact she was wearing a skirt and bonnet. Indeed, she resembled a trollop the like of which commonly frequented the London docks.
Recoiling, the Duke stepped forward, halting the woman before she reached the front of the chapel which appeared to be her destination. Behind him the curate was launching into the service with the general confession of sins which for some obscure reason he was shouting at the top of his voice.
Doing his best to shut out the bellowing behind, the Duke attempted to address the woman. At the same moment the curate reached a crescendo with an ear-splitting, “AMEN.”
“QUIET,” Nicholas yelled, completely losing his temper. Sudden silence descended. “What the deuce is going on?” the Duke snapped, glancing between the curate and the strange creature standing before him.
The doxy lifted her hand, and Nicholas instinctively stepped back, mistrustful of her intentions, just as a whirlwind of fur came charging into the chapel, crashing into the woman and knocking her straight into his arms. With a grunted humph, Nicholas fell backwards, ending up on the floor with the peculiar female lying on top of him. Stunned for a second, they remained motionless staring wordlessly at one another.
“DOWN FREDDY,” the doxy yelled abruptly
“What the devil…?” Nicholas bit out, watching incredulously as the woman removed her bonnet, leaving him staring into the uneasy eyes of Blackmore’s vicar. Without moving, the Duke simply raised his eyebrows in question.
“Your grace, I’ve come to beg your indulgence of my daughter.”
∞∞∞
After finally managing to disentangle themselves, the Reverend and Percy were unceremoniously instructed to wait in the drawing room until the Duke saw fit to attend them.
Grace’s father was quite cheered by the fact that his son-in-law had not simply thrown them out on their ears. Percy on the other hand looked as if he was about to have an apoplexy. Reverend Shackleford glanced irritably at his curate. It was clear he was going to have to give Percy a few pointers on how to conduct himself when rubbing shoulders with England’s finest.
Naturally, the Reverend was completely unmindful of his own impropriety in sitting in the Duke of Blackmore’s drawing room dressed as Haymarket ware.
Freddy of course, was completely unconcerned about the mayhem he’d contributed to and was now warming his bones happily by the fire.
Half an hour later, the Duke strode in, his face like thunder. Any confidence the Reverend might have possessed flew south in response to the murderous look in his grace’s eyes. Without speaking, Nicholas Sinclair strode over to pour himself a large brandy before finally turning towards them.
“You have exactly two minutes to explain yourselves.” The Duke’s voice was icy, prompting Percy to let slip a small involuntary moan. Ignoring his scatter witted curate, the Reverend coughed. “Your grace,” he began warily.”
“One minute thirty seconds,” interrupted the Duke.
Hastily the Reverend abandoned all caution. “Your grace, I have no doubt that my daughter is mindful of the disgrace she has brought to your name, but it was all a complete misunderstanding…”
“So, you are telling me that my wife did not do the things she was accused of?”
“Err, well no, not exactly…”
“Then pray enlighten me as to exactly why she elected to jump out of a hay barrel, despite being a duchess of the realm?”
“Well the thing is…”
“And exactly why, if it was all, as you insist, a misunderstanding,” the Duke interrupted coldly, “you thought to abduct your own daughter to prevent any further misunderstandings being deposited at my door.”
The Reverend opened his mouth, but nothing came out. For the first time he could remember, he was at a loss for words. All his carefully crafted arguments simply vanished into the ether.
“She assumed you didn’t love her,” Percy suddenly blurted out, adding, “your grace,” when both men turned to look at him.
The Duke refrained from speaking, merely raising his eyebrows ominously, but somehow Percy found the courage to continue.
“Your wife lo… loves you your grace,” he stammered, glancing frantically towards the Reverend who was silently regarding his curate open mouthed.
Swallowing, the small man continued, warming
