Sheri Cobb South by A Dead Bore

beg your pardon,” he said. “When you mentioned stopping by the church, I assumed the trip to the village was a ruse for my benefit.”
    “And so it is, for the most part. But we must go to the village first.”
    “Oh?” He returned to the road, and they set out in the direction of the village once more. “Why is that?”
    “My dear John, it would be very odd for a lady to go shopping and not make a single purchase!”
    “You would know best about that,” he acknowledged, bowing to her superior wisdom.
    “But now that we are alone, you must tell me: what did you find at the vicarage?”
    “Nothing conclusive, I’m afraid.”
    “I feared as much.”
    He regarded her quizzically. “Was I so obvious?”
    “Not to anyone else. But I know from experience that you get a certain light in your eyes when you are on the verge of making a discovery. When I saw you at breakfast, I knew that only a man whose efforts were unproductive could assume so wooden an expression.”
    “Hmm,” said Pickett, pondering this statement, “I wonder if I have just been offered a compliment, or an insult?”
    “Oh, a compliment, I assure you! I daresay it was a good thing for the sake of your incognito that you found nothing, for otherwise your expression must surely have given you away.”
    The ground grew softer as they approached the temporary bridge, and Pickett took her ladyship’s arm to assist her across a muddy patch. When she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow, Pickett’s cup overflowed. Granted, it seemed a bit macabre to woo his lady while discussing a corpse, but then (as he was sure Mr. Colquhoun would not have hesitated to point out, had he been present), she was not his lady, and there could be no wooing on his part, macabre or otherwise.
    And then, without warning, Pickett’s belly betrayed him by loudly protesting his neglect.
    Lady Fieldhurst regarded him quizzically. “You must have breakfasted very early indeed, if you are already impatient for luncheon.”
    “I haven’t had anything to eat,” Pickett confessed. “The despised hair powder took longer than expected, with the result that I missed eating the morning meal with the rest of the staff.”
    “Poor John! You must be quite famished. Surely the housekeeper might have given you a slice of toast, or a cup of coffee!”
    “No, Mrs. Holland feels that having to go hungry until luncheon will teach me to be more prompt in the future.” Pickett’s efforts to eliminate any trace of bitterness from his voice were not entirely successful.
    Lady Fieldhurst’s bosom swelled with righteous indignation. “Oh, does she, indeed? I should like to know where she came by the idea that she might order my servants about and discipline them willy-nilly!”
    “She has a point, really.” Pickett was not quite certain which sounded the most jarring: hearing Lady Fieldhurst refer to him as her servant, or hearing himself come to the housekeeper’s defense. “House rules, and all that, you know—”
    “House rules be hanged! You must be famished.” She dug into her reticule and withdrew a few coins. “Here, take this and buy yourself something to eat at the Pig and Whistle. You will want to keep up your strength if you are to examine the body upon our return. That is why you wished to stop at the church, is it not?”
    “It is, my lady, but I have money of my own. I won’t take yours.”
    She would have insisted, but something in his voice and in the set of his jaw made her reconsider. She had not realized until that moment how much of his independence he had been obliged to give up in order to accommodate her request for anonymity. She suspected his pride was still stinging from whatever tongue-lashing the housekeeper had given him, and resolved not to add to his burden any more than she must.
    “Very well.” She dropped the coins back into her reticule, where they landed with a soft clink. “I shall meet you at the Pig and Whistle when I’ve done