but she never came by the inn that I saw. You might try the church.”
St. Cloud didn’t know if the suggestion was for the sake of his immortal soul, his manhood, or his quest for Juneclaire, but he had nowhere else to try.
He gathered up a sleeping pig, a sack of potato peelings and yesterday’s muffins, and proceeded to the church.
The second Christmas service was in progress; maybe Juneclaire was inside praying. He eagerly stepped over the threshold, then halted. Not even the Earl of St. Cloud would bring a pig to church. Pansy barely roused when he tied her to the hitching rail outside, between a dappled mare drowsing over a feed bag and a fat, shaggy pony harnessed to a cart decorated with greenery and red ribbons. St. Cloud scattered a few muffins near the piglet just in case she woke up hungry—she always woke up hungry; in case she woke up, period—and fed one to the pony. Then he went into the little church and took a seat near the rear.
Now Merritt Jordan was not one for practicing religion on a regular basis, but never since his school days had he sat on bare wooden pews with the reprobates and recalcitrants avoiding the preacher’s eye. He scowled, and his neighbors on the bench scooted over. That was one benefit of two days in the same clothes, he told himself, and sharing them half that time with a pig. Now he was free to stare at the backs of the worshipers ahead of him, those too well bred to turn around to look at the latecomer.
There was Cantwell in the first pew, the one with the carved aisle piece. St. Cloud wagered old Hebert’s fat behind wasn’t on any hard bench. He’d have soft cushions for himself and his family while the rest of the congregation, his people, wriggled and writhed in discomfort. Cantwell’s wife was the broad-beamed lady beside him with the stuffed white bird mounted on her bonnet. What kind of hypocrite killed a dove for Christmas? he thought maliciously, flicking his gaze over the rest of Cantwell’s party: two washed-out blond misses, a sandy-haired youth.
The earl studied each rear view in the church. There were five ladies with gray mantles, but two had gray hair, one had black, another was suckling an infant under the cloak, and the last one’s head barely reached over the pew in front. Of the brunets, in case Junco had removed her cloak, only one was of the right height and slimness, with erect posture and neatly coiled braids. He stared at the woman’s back, willing her to turn around. She did and gave him a wink from one of her crossed eyes.
The minister was stumbling over “the Lord coming among us this day,” and the choir was singing the final hymn. St. Cloud turned his back to study the stained-glass windows as the parishioners filed out after the recessional. When the foot shuffling and whispers had passed, the earl turned and approached the doorway, where the vicar was shaking the last hands.
“A word with you, Reverend, if you don’t mind? I’ll only take a minute of your time.”
Mr. Broome nodded, pushing the spectacles back up his nose. He led the way back down the church aisle and out a side door to a covered walk leading to the manse.
When they were seated in the vicar’s office, the earl declined a politely offered sherry, knowing the reverend must be wishing him to the Devil, with his Christmas dinner growing cold.
“To be brief, sir, I was told you might have information about a young woman passing through here this morning.”
Mr. Broome polished his glasses. The earl ground his teeth. When the spectacles were wiped to the gray-haired man’s satisfaction, he looked up at his caller and asked, “And who might you be?”
The earl was trying his damnedest to hold his temper in check. “Merritt Jordan,” he replied, thinking to keep his unsavory St. Cloud reputation as far away from Juneclaire as possible.
The vicar blinked, then blinked again. Yes, he had that look of his father and uncle before him. Broome had grown up with
St. Cloud didn’t know if the suggestion was for the sake of his immortal soul, his manhood, or his quest for Juneclaire, but he had nowhere else to try.
He gathered up a sleeping pig, a sack of potato peelings and yesterday’s muffins, and proceeded to the church.
The second Christmas service was in progress; maybe Juneclaire was inside praying. He eagerly stepped over the threshold, then halted. Not even the Earl of St. Cloud would bring a pig to church. Pansy barely roused when he tied her to the hitching rail outside, between a dappled mare drowsing over a feed bag and a fat, shaggy pony harnessed to a cart decorated with greenery and red ribbons. St. Cloud scattered a few muffins near the piglet just in case she woke up hungry—she always woke up hungry; in case she woke up, period—and fed one to the pony. Then he went into the little church and took a seat near the rear.
Now Merritt Jordan was not one for practicing religion on a regular basis, but never since his school days had he sat on bare wooden pews with the reprobates and recalcitrants avoiding the preacher’s eye. He scowled, and his neighbors on the bench scooted over. That was one benefit of two days in the same clothes, he told himself, and sharing them half that time with a pig. Now he was free to stare at the backs of the worshipers ahead of him, those too well bred to turn around to look at the latecomer.
There was Cantwell in the first pew, the one with the carved aisle piece. St. Cloud wagered old Hebert’s fat behind wasn’t on any hard bench. He’d have soft cushions for himself and his family while the rest of the congregation, his people, wriggled and writhed in discomfort. Cantwell’s wife was the broad-beamed lady beside him with the stuffed white bird mounted on her bonnet. What kind of hypocrite killed a dove for Christmas? he thought maliciously, flicking his gaze over the rest of Cantwell’s party: two washed-out blond misses, a sandy-haired youth.
The earl studied each rear view in the church. There were five ladies with gray mantles, but two had gray hair, one had black, another was suckling an infant under the cloak, and the last one’s head barely reached over the pew in front. Of the brunets, in case Junco had removed her cloak, only one was of the right height and slimness, with erect posture and neatly coiled braids. He stared at the woman’s back, willing her to turn around. She did and gave him a wink from one of her crossed eyes.
The minister was stumbling over “the Lord coming among us this day,” and the choir was singing the final hymn. St. Cloud turned his back to study the stained-glass windows as the parishioners filed out after the recessional. When the foot shuffling and whispers had passed, the earl turned and approached the doorway, where the vicar was shaking the last hands.
“A word with you, Reverend, if you don’t mind? I’ll only take a minute of your time.”
Mr. Broome nodded, pushing the spectacles back up his nose. He led the way back down the church aisle and out a side door to a covered walk leading to the manse.
When they were seated in the vicar’s office, the earl declined a politely offered sherry, knowing the reverend must be wishing him to the Devil, with his Christmas dinner growing cold.
“To be brief, sir, I was told you might have information about a young woman passing through here this morning.”
Mr. Broome polished his glasses. The earl ground his teeth. When the spectacles were wiped to the gray-haired man’s satisfaction, he looked up at his caller and asked, “And who might you be?”
The earl was trying his damnedest to hold his temper in check. “Merritt Jordan,” he replied, thinking to keep his unsavory St. Cloud reputation as far away from Juneclaire as possible.
The vicar blinked, then blinked again. Yes, he had that look of his father and uncle before him. Broome had grown up with
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