A Sensible Lady: A Traditional Regency Romance (6 page)

Katherine was incapable of denying the pleading little girl. Sir Clive’s ruined glove, lying on the parlor floor, was just the beginning of the depredations the dog would wreak. But she would have to deal with them as they came. She looked down at the spaniel and received another lick on her chin.

“Of course, Lizzie.
I shall keep the dog.”

Lizzie rushed over and gave Katherine a resounding kiss on the cheek.

“Thank you, Miss Brampton! I knew you would love Princess! Don’t tell Papa a thing. It’s a surprise! I’ll tell Jimmy we found a good home for Princess.”

Lizzie departed in high spirits.

The black-and-white spaniel had curled up in Katherine’s lap. She patted it absentmindedly, and smiled wryly. Another of her randomly chosen souls, Sir Clive would say. Along with Sally, who had begged to come with her from Oak End, and motherless Lizzie
…

How would Katherine feel when Lord Dracott actually did find a new mama for Lizzie? Why had Katherine felt dismayed when her cousin reminded her of the inevitability of such an event? Surely it was because it would mean that she would see less of Lizzie, Katherine told herself.

And why did Sir Clive and Aunt Brampton insist that Mr. Wharton was not suitable as a priest? He certainly had behaved in a perfectly priestly manner with Katherine in the graveyard. She knew Anglican priests were permitted to marry, but she could not see Mr. Wharton as a romantic figure.
To be honest, though, better Mr. Wharton than Sir Clive,
Katherine admitted to herself.

She fought a wave of sickness at the idea of returning to Oak End as Clive’s wife. He had said that she was incapable of facing hard reality. But he was wrong. She had faced the death of her dear mother when she was twelve years old. She had faced the death of her father last January. She had not only faced the shock of Richard’s death just this past June, but she had worked out an escape from becoming Clive’s dependent, a condition she could not tolerate.

Sir Clive insisted she look into the distant future. Life had taught Katherine to treasure the present. And whatever the future held for her, she was determined it would not include returning to Oak End as Lady Brampton.

“Lord Dracott, what an honor to be presented to a genuine hero of the war against the Corsican monster.”

Miss Leticia Brampton shuddered delicately and gazed over her shoulder as if the monster’s legions might have crossed the channel to invade the
Drayford
Village Harvest Home Festival. She had just executed a curtsey fit for a monarch, all the while gazing up at Harry through half-shuttered lashes. He refrained from complimenting her on an art that he was certain had required a full London season to perfect.

“The true heroes are still on the field, fighting for their lives, Miss Brampton.”

Leticia Brampton looked wide-eyed at the scar on Harry’s jaw line.

“It would seem, Lord
Dracott, that
you
fought for
your
life, not all that long ago.”

Harry considered lying that his injury was the result of a childhood fall from a tree. But if she wanted war exploits, war exploits she would get.

“Indeed, Miss Brampton. And as you see, I won that particular fight. Happily for me, the
Frenchie
who gave me this little memento was off his aim. Not that he lived long enough to think about it. My aim, I assure you, was right on target.”

Harry smiled.

Leticia Brampton blanched and excused herself.

“I wonder what you said to arrest Miss Leticia Brampton’s blandishments.”

Mrs.
Sythe
-Burton. Harry braced himself for a social challenge of a different sort.
Hortense
Sythe
-Burton, the widow of the late Hubert
Sythe
-Burton, had been the arbiter of morals
and manners in the parish of St. John Chrysostom's
for as long as Harry could remember. Even his mother, the ranking lady of the parish, had deferred to and consulted Mrs.
Sythe
-Burton before pronouncing on any pressing matter of decorum.

The delicate widow continued to wear half mourning, although her husband had died before Harry was born. No one said, but everyone supposed that this was because shades of gray and lavender were so flattering to
Hortense
Sythe
-Burton’s white hair, pale complexion, and pansy-blue eyes.

“Dorothea Brampton’s children demonstrate the wisdom of treating one’s children as handsome. Both Sir Clive and Miss Leticia make the most of what, without great care, would be rather ordinary appearance. I saw their sister, Rosaline fleetingly. And she appeared to have the knack also.  She did marry quite advantageously.”

Mrs.
Sythe
-Burton had the ability to make such pronouncements in completely neutral tones, hinting at neither praise nor censure—an ability that had helped to maintain her position in local society.

She nodded toward Katherine Brampton, who was engrossed in conversation with the vicar. They made a striking couple. Katherine dressed in the black of mourning. Gus Wharton dressed in the black of his vocation. Harry noticed that Katherine’s titian curls topped Gus Wharton’s golden hair by a fraction of an inch. Harry remembered the perfection with which those soft curls had fit under his chin.
She is too tall for Wharton,
he thought.

“…
must
be stopped.”

Harry froze. Mrs.
Sythe
-Burton was looking at him expectantly. He had no idea of what she thought needed to be stopped.

“I know I can depend upon your assistance in the matter,” Harry temporized.

Harry prayed his response would make sense. He was rewarded by an approving nod from Mrs.
Sythe
-Burton.

“Your dear father, God rest his soul, was in full possession of his faculties, right up to the minute his generous heart stopped beating. And to imply otherwise is calumny of the most treacherous sort.”

Harry was grateful for Mrs.
Sythe
-Burton’s assurance of his father’s sanity. While he had resisted the urge to knock out Clive Brampton’s lights for hinting that his father’s mental faculties had slipped, Harry continued to wonder what had possessed Lord Cecil to lease the Dower House to Katherine Brampton and give Gus Wharton the living of St. Chrysostom’s.

“Of course, if Miss Katherine had not ended her betrothal to Clive Brampton—what was it—a year ago this past
spring,
she would now be the mistress of Oak End. Now
that
was a shock. Banns had already been read. Clive Brampton and all his family already arrived at Oak End for the wedding. And Miss Katherine firmly announced that she would
not
wed Clive. Mr.
Tramell
, God rest his soul, said that he would not read the ceremony over a reluctant bride.

Harry’s gorge rose at the thought of Katherine Brampton tied to Sir Clive for life.

Mrs.
Sythe
-Burton paused in her recitation to note the look on Harry’s face.

“Surely you knew…had heard? Of course…you have not been back all that long, and it is difficult to catch up on all of your estate matters, much less social happenings. But, I promise you; it was the talk of the parish for some time. Shy, quiet Miss Katherine Brampton standing up to her father, Sir Alfred, who was not pleased, much less the intended groom’s branch of the family! Who would have guessed she had such stiffness in her spine?”

Harry could have told Mrs.
Sythe
-Burton something of Katherine Brampton’s stiff spine.

“Why, do you suppose, my father gave Wharton the parish living?”

Harry did not wish to think or talk about Katherine Brampton, who, at last, was walking away from Wharton after a seemingly interminable conversation.

Mrs.
Sythe
-Burton smiled benevolently at the vicar, who was greeting parishioners as if he had been in the priest business for years.

“I know all the rumors,” she said, “as I am certain Lord Cecil had. But your father was truly fond of Augustus Wharton back when he visited on school holidays and ran wild with you and Charles Hamilton. I am sure Lord Cecil felt nothing but relief when the three of you decided that the greater possibilities of London were required for your pursuits. But he was always one to see the good in people. If Augustus Wharton changed his ways, Lord Cecil would have found that sufficient. Your father was a great reader and admirer of John Donne, you know. So the idea that a rake could become a priest would not have amazed him.

“And, perhaps Lord Cecil’s last whimsical decisions will prove to be to the further good of the beneficiaries. Did you notice the raptness with which Miss Brampton and Mr. Wharton were speaking?” she asked archly before curtseying, bidding Harry adieu, and floating away.

Had he noticed the raptness with which Katherine Brampton and Gus Wharton were speaking? Harry had been so acutely aware of their conversation, it had taken the greatest discipline he could muster to focus his attention on Mrs.
Sythe
-Burton while she spoke—even though what she had said had been of considerable interest to him.
Katherine and Clive Brampton.
Harry felt a glow of satisfaction that his sainted father had so neatly frustrated the arrogant baronet. By Jove, if it irritated Clive, Harry would insist Katherine Brampton and
Prunella
Summersville live at the Dower House till their last breaths.

But, evidently, Mrs.
Sythe
-Burton did not think that would be necessary. She thought Katherine Brampton and Wharton would make a match of it. And from what Harry had seen, there was reason to believe Mrs.
Sythe
-Burton might be right. Harry waited for a feeling of satisfaction that his own awkward situation involving Katherine Brampton might soon be over. It did not come. Instead he remembered just how subtle a seducer Wharton had always been. John Donne might have mended his ways, but that was a long time ago. Harry would not bet a
ha’penny
on Gus Wharton following
suit.Even
if Wharton married Katherine, he would stray. And Harry knew for a fact that Katherine Brampton would not accept such behavior in a husband. There would be a scandal. The parish would be in an uproar. Harry decided to speak with the new vicar immediately and give him fair warning to watch his step with the fair sex.

Five minutes later, seated across a rough plank table from Gus Wharton, Harry glared as his old friend choked on his ale, laughing.

“It is not a matter of amusement,” Harry said, stone-faced. “You are a
priest
, by Jove, and while you are in this parish, you must remember that you are a priest and behave accordingly. And singling out the most vulnerable and naïve of spinsters under your charge is, at the very least, acting without proper discretion.”

Wharton gasped for air and finally found his voice.

“I assume that you are referring to my conversation just now with Miss Katherine Brampton.”

Wharton gazed at Harry, one eyebrow lifted.

“I could not have missed the dagger-looks you were sending me,” Wharton chuckled.

Harry could not believe he had been that obvious.

Wharton rubbed his forehead.

“I understand that you hold the living of St. John Chrysostom’s in your power. And you could relieve me of my post today, if you chose.
Which puts me in a delicate position vis-à-vis the confidences of parishioners.
But, I do not believe it is a violation of any closely held secret to tell you that Katherine Brampton has sustained the loss of both her father and brother during this past year. And, difficult as it might be for you to comprehend, she is in need of some
spiritual
comfort and guidance.”

It was Harry’s turn to choke on his ale, laughing.

“Laugh all you wish.” Gus Wharton’s face twisted in a rueful smile.

“I assure you, Miss Brampton treats me very much the way I suspect she treated old
Tramell
.
Not a flicker of recognition that I am a single, and therefore eligible, gentleman.”
Wharton glanced balefully at the clear autumn sky. “The Divine Mind is apparently finely honed to extract penance in particularly frustrating ways.  I will readily admit that I have rarely met a lady whose charms recommend themselves more. But when conversation is restricted to the Last Judgment and prayers for the deceased, Don Juan himself would be challenged to introduce the slightest hint of romance. I hope you will not think that I am in danger of defecting to Rome if I tell you that I have come to believe in purgatory—-here in this life.”

Harry drank deeply from his tankard, enjoying a lightening of his spirits. He told himself he was relieved that his worries about a potential scandal had been for naught.

“So you can cease worrying that the delectable Miss Katherine will succumb to my wiles, Dracott.” Gus Wharton regarded Harry with the hint of a smile. “But, I suspect there is another matter that
will
concern you.”

Harry grunted a request for Wharton to continue.

“I believe that the brethren are busy again—if they ever ceased their activities.”

“I had
wondered,
when you served me such excellent brandy.” Harry’s spirits sank once more. “But I take it that you are not in league with them, or you would not be giving me warning.”

The vicar frowned.

“What sort of fool do you take me for? Whether you believe it or not, I accepted St. John Chrysostom’s with the intention of staying. Being arrested and carried off to jail by riding officers is not a part of the plan.”

“So tell me who is involved. I take a dim view of Englishmen making Frenchmen rich while our lads are being killed by the French.”

Harry could feel his anger rise. In their youth, he, Gus, and Charlie Hamilton, on occasion, had helped transport a few cases of untaxed imports. But after years fighting the French, Harry would not wink while others followed their example.

“I have my suspicions, but I am not certain. Something woke me up the other night. Decided it was the cellar door. But by the time I got on a coat and lit a lantern, whoever was there had gone—leaving a case of fine, untaxed French brandy. I am beginning to wonder if perhaps
Tramell
never paid all that much attention to the contents of his cellar. It might have been a drop-off. It would be amusing if all along the brethren were using it, leaving samples in payment, and old
Tramell
never the wiser. Heaven knows that Mrs.
Bloggins
, the housekeeper, is deaf as a post. She could be counted upon to hear nothing. And her rheumatism keeps her out of the cellar.”