the Jordans. But the young earl was said to be an intelligent man, among other things. How could he suppose that a vicar who got his living from the family would not instantly recognize his patron’s name? Didn’t Reverend Broome pray for St. Cloud’s reform and redemption every night?
“Ah, what might you want with the young lady, if I might ask?”
St. Cloud bit back a curse. He was not in the habit of explaining his actions to anyone, yet he knew he wasn’t going to hear a word until he reassured the old dodderer. “Nothing havey-cavey, I swear. I intend to marry the girl.”
Thank you, Lord. The vicar raised his head with a smile. “Do you, now?”
“As soon as I find her, damn it. Excuse me, vicar. You can perform the ceremony yourself to see it’s all on the square, if you just tell me where Miss Beaumont is.”
Positively beaming now, Mr. Broome rose and poured out a glass of the unwanted sherry. “I’ll just go speak with Mrs. Broome for a moment. She’s the one who saw the young lady off, you know. She wasn’t happy about such a sweet young thing out on her own, going to London, so she’ll be pleased as punch to make your acquaintance. I’ll just be a second, my lord.”
He was more than a second, and his wife was not pleased to be called out of her kitchen with her hair coming undone and her cheeks flushed from the oven fires. Red-faced, the vicar returned, while angry whispers sounded in the hall.
“I’m afraid my good wife is, ah, concerned. Not that I doubt your sincerity, mind, but, ah . . .”
“Get on with it, man. I don’t have a special license in my pocket to prove my intentions are honorable, blast it. Do you want me to swear on your Bible?”
“I think you have sworn enough, actually, my lord,” the vicar gently reproved, making the earl feel about six years old.
He apologized, then sipped the sherry to restore his patience. “What, then?”
“It has to do with a friend of Miss Beaumont’s. Pansy, I believe.”
Sherry spewed down St. Cloud’s new cravat. “Pansy? Your wife is worried about Pansy? Is everyone demented? Pansy is under my care, sleeping off a drunk right now.”
The vicar shook his head sadly. His wife was correct, poor Pansy’s ruin was complete, and his lordship showed no remorse. “I am sorry, my lord, in that case I cannot—”
“Wait. Let me get her. You’ll see for yourself, and Mrs. Broome, too.”
Mrs. Broome was wringing her hands when the earl returned and dumped a tipsy piglet on her polished wood floors. Pansy tried to gain her feet, scrabbling against the shiny surface. Then she gave up, collapsed in a heap, and passed wind.
“Meet Pansy,” St. Cloud announced. “You should have let sleeping hogs lie.”
Chapter Ten
“ W hat do you mean, I’ll have no trouble recognizing the Coglins’ coach because Miss Beaumont is riding on top with the driver?” No matter that he intended to take her up in his own open carriage, without footman or tiger. How dare anyone else treat Juneclaire so roughly! He jumped up and stalked to the fireplace.
“But, my lord,” the vicar’s wife tried to explain, fearing for her prized collection of china shepherdesses on the mantel, “Miss Beaumont had no maid or escort, and her clothes . . . Well, Mrs. Coglin did not see her for a lady.”
“Anyone with two eyes in their head can see she’s a lady! Hell and damnation, what kind of bobbing-block puts a female up on the box in the middle of winter?” He grabbed up a paperweight from Vicar Broome’s desk.
Mrs. Broome was wringing her hands again. She didn’t know whether to worry most about her bric-a-brac, the goose roasting in the kitchen, likely burning without her, or the lace curtains, which the pig was now tasting. She didn’t want to offend his lordship, of course, but he was not a comfortable guest. “Mr. Coglin is the wealthiest shopkeeper in town, so his wife tends to get a bit above herself.”
“Very charitably put, my love,”
“Ah, what might you want with the young lady, if I might ask?”
St. Cloud bit back a curse. He was not in the habit of explaining his actions to anyone, yet he knew he wasn’t going to hear a word until he reassured the old dodderer. “Nothing havey-cavey, I swear. I intend to marry the girl.”
Thank you, Lord. The vicar raised his head with a smile. “Do you, now?”
“As soon as I find her, damn it. Excuse me, vicar. You can perform the ceremony yourself to see it’s all on the square, if you just tell me where Miss Beaumont is.”
Positively beaming now, Mr. Broome rose and poured out a glass of the unwanted sherry. “I’ll just go speak with Mrs. Broome for a moment. She’s the one who saw the young lady off, you know. She wasn’t happy about such a sweet young thing out on her own, going to London, so she’ll be pleased as punch to make your acquaintance. I’ll just be a second, my lord.”
He was more than a second, and his wife was not pleased to be called out of her kitchen with her hair coming undone and her cheeks flushed from the oven fires. Red-faced, the vicar returned, while angry whispers sounded in the hall.
“I’m afraid my good wife is, ah, concerned. Not that I doubt your sincerity, mind, but, ah . . .”
“Get on with it, man. I don’t have a special license in my pocket to prove my intentions are honorable, blast it. Do you want me to swear on your Bible?”
“I think you have sworn enough, actually, my lord,” the vicar gently reproved, making the earl feel about six years old.
He apologized, then sipped the sherry to restore his patience. “What, then?”
“It has to do with a friend of Miss Beaumont’s. Pansy, I believe.”
Sherry spewed down St. Cloud’s new cravat. “Pansy? Your wife is worried about Pansy? Is everyone demented? Pansy is under my care, sleeping off a drunk right now.”
The vicar shook his head sadly. His wife was correct, poor Pansy’s ruin was complete, and his lordship showed no remorse. “I am sorry, my lord, in that case I cannot—”
“Wait. Let me get her. You’ll see for yourself, and Mrs. Broome, too.”
Mrs. Broome was wringing her hands when the earl returned and dumped a tipsy piglet on her polished wood floors. Pansy tried to gain her feet, scrabbling against the shiny surface. Then she gave up, collapsed in a heap, and passed wind.
“Meet Pansy,” St. Cloud announced. “You should have let sleeping hogs lie.”
Chapter Ten
“ W hat do you mean, I’ll have no trouble recognizing the Coglins’ coach because Miss Beaumont is riding on top with the driver?” No matter that he intended to take her up in his own open carriage, without footman or tiger. How dare anyone else treat Juneclaire so roughly! He jumped up and stalked to the fireplace.
“But, my lord,” the vicar’s wife tried to explain, fearing for her prized collection of china shepherdesses on the mantel, “Miss Beaumont had no maid or escort, and her clothes . . . Well, Mrs. Coglin did not see her for a lady.”
“Anyone with two eyes in their head can see she’s a lady! Hell and damnation, what kind of bobbing-block puts a female up on the box in the middle of winter?” He grabbed up a paperweight from Vicar Broome’s desk.
Mrs. Broome was wringing her hands again. She didn’t know whether to worry most about her bric-a-brac, the goose roasting in the kitchen, likely burning without her, or the lace curtains, which the pig was now tasting. She didn’t want to offend his lordship, of course, but he was not a comfortable guest. “Mr. Coglin is the wealthiest shopkeeper in town, so his wife tends to get a bit above herself.”
“Very charitably put, my love,”
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