The Merchant and the Clergyman (6 page)

Before he left Bishop’s Hartfeld, he
would
get to the bottom of the story. And even if his uncle
held no blame, if being around her sister would make Mary feel
better or safer somehow, he would take her home to Ireland.

The next morning, Mary’s lady’s maid opened
the suite’s door at Declan’s knock and told him her mistress didn’t
want company.

When he asked the maid if he could ask her a
few questions, she shook her head. “Mr. Darnley has warned us we
mustn’t gossip.”

Before he could think of a good answer, she’d
gently closed the door in his face. Declan considered forcing it
open, but he needed more diplomacy. He liked the direct approach
and thought wistfully of the sort of confrontation he could use
whilst conducting business. But gathering answers about his aunt
wasn’t the same as collecting overdue payments from a company that
owed his family money. Instead, he went back downstairs and found
Kip sitting alone in the breakfast room, brooding over a plate of
eggs and kippers. Kip looked up. “Where did you get to last
night?”

Declan settled at the other end of the table
and accepted a cup of tea from a footman. “I went for a walk.”

The footman returned to his place by the
door. In a low voice, Kip asked, “And did you visit our local
sodomite?”

“Why would you ask me that?”

Kip put down his fork and pushed back his
chair. “I watched which direction you walked last night.”

Declan sipped his tea. “All these years
later, and you are still annoying.”

He’d almost forgotten the strange stifling
effect his cousin’s dogged pursuit had on him. Boy and man, Kip
stalked Declan, and now Declan grew uncomfortable recalling his own
resolution to hunt the curate. Would that poor man feel annoyed?
Because of his position in society, Fletcher would be far less
likely to complain or take action than Declan would in his shoes.
Besides, the man seemed to have a mild nature.

Kip rattled on. “What did he have to say for
himself? Or was any talking involved?” He made an obscene gesture
in the direction of his lap.

“Oh good Lord. I have a reputation for
unrefined conversation, but you, cousin, should win the prize for
boorishness.”

Kip opened his mouth, but Declan raised a
hand to stop him. At least he still wielded power over the lout.
“If you must know, I wished to discuss your mother with him.”

“My mother? What? Why? Why would he know
anything about her?” Kip sounded truly upset, so Declan stifled the
desire to be sarcastic. Although did Kip’s horror arise from the
notion that his mother was truly ill or that Declan would talk to
the man he’d falsely accused?

“I know you’ve been up in London with your
friends for a while. Upon your return, didn’t you see the
difference in her?”

“She became ill while I was away. M’father
told me about it. I even said I’d come home, but he wrote to say
she was growing better. I wasn’t
supposed
to come back.”

Kip sounded so aggrieved and defensive,
Declan knew he must feel some form of guilt, though he doubted Kip
would acknowledge that even to himself.

“Now that you’re here, you can see she’s
changed, and not for the better.”

“Some,” Kip admitted grudgingly. “She doesn’t
nag at me the way she used to, or act despairing and say I’ll never
change.”

“That’s all you see?” Declan forgot to be
diplomatic. “You only care that she’s no longer a nuisance to
you?”

“No, no. You’ve got the wrong end of that.”
Kip’s smile meant he was attempting to employ his charm, a trick
that worked with everyone but Declan—and perhaps the curate. “I can
tell my poor mother is not well. But my father is taking good care
of her. And Tarkington is as good as any doctor on Harley Street.
Everyone says so. Truly, Declan, I don’t know what you want me to
do
.” The wounded tone crept back into his voice.

“Nothing, I suppose.” And nothing was
probably what Kip would do. At least he’d gotten Kip off the topic
of his visit to Fletcher. Although he really shouldn’t care that
anyone had seen him go to the curate’s cottage…

“I don’t understand why you think you need to
talk to the curate.”

“I’m speaking to all sorts of people about my
aunt, including Dr. Tarkington.”

“Why?”

He didn’t want to come right out and say he
was worried for her safety. “No one has given me a satisfactory
answer about her ailment.”

“And you’re turning into a doctor now? What
are you trying to accomplish?”

“I want to understand.”

“I think you’re spying on us.”

“And reporting back to the royal ministry, no
doubt.”

Kip made a face but didn’t answer—perhaps he
realized how ridiculous he sounded.

“Kip, you are barking at nothing, like a dog
that hears threats every time the wind blows.” Declan decided he
wasn’t hungry and rose to his feet. “You should concentrate on
preparing for your wedding. Your bride is lovely, by the way.” He
hadn’t spoken to Emily Parker, but Fletcher had been enthusiastic
as he’d described her personality. Declan smiled now, realizing
that he had taken on the curate’s view of the matter without
question. That might make him a fool.

Kip scowled at him. “She’s a good girl, so
don’t you start courting her.”

“What?” Oh, right—Declan’s smile. “Once again
you’re barking at wind, cousin. She is entirely besotted with you
and wouldn’t look at another man.”

The grin on Kip’s face wasn’t simply smug.
Perhaps he was growing up a little. A pity he seemed too
self-absorbed to see his own mother’s suffering.

Declan bid him good morning with more charity
than he deserved, left the room, and went to the stable to ask for
a horse and directions. He’d ride to the doctor’s house next.

Chapter Six

James sat at Reverend Hollister’s
well-polished table, watching the man read over plans for a boys’
Bible study class outing. “This sounds exhausting,” Mr. Hollister
said at last.

“They’re full of high spirits and having
trouble staying still indoors this time of year.”

“I hope you don’t expect me to accompany
you?”

“No, sir.” The mind boggled at the image of
Mr. Hollister gamboling across a field.

James asked, “Now that you’ve dined with him,
has Mr. Darnley changed his mind about who should perform the
wedding?” Surely Kip didn’t want to exchange vows before the man
who’d driven a leg into his private parts.

Mr. Hollister glanced at him over the top of
his gold-rim spectacles. “Why are you so unhappy about performing
this wedding? You have conducted the service in the past.” He put
down the list. “Oh no. I know you have a deep regard for Miss
Parker. Is this the matter? Have you fallen in love with her?”

“No, of course not,” James said.

“You spoke too quickly, my boy.” Mr.
Hollister’s high forehead wrinkled. “I do hope you haven’t said
anything to her about this.”

James stifled a laugh. He knew that no matter
what he said about Miss Parker, Mr. Hollister wouldn’t believe him.
Ah well. It wouldn’t reflect badly on the young woman to have a
love-struck swain pining for her after all. And there was his own
selfish desire to keep his secrets. “No,” he said after a long
pause. “She is entirely faithful to Mr. Darnley, and besides, I
have never spoken to her about any untoward affection I might
hold.” Not a lie, after all.

“I think you must pray about this matter.”
Mr. Hollister folded his hands on his immaculate desk.

“I will.” James changed the subject. “I’d be
willing to perform the interment service for Jasper White today, if
you don’t have time in your schedule.”

“The parishioners expect their vicar to
participate in such events. You only need attend the funeral.”
Hollister steepled his fingers. “Why don’t you take time to
supervise the women in cleaning the church, top to bottom, before
the upcoming nuptials? I wouldn’t want a detail to be overlooked on
such an important day.”

James would have liked to give Jasper’s
eulogy, but he’d have to be content with offering his sympathy to
the White family. Hollister’s order to oversee the preparation of
the church was unnecessary. The ladies of the church never failed
to keep the building spotless. But James agreed to the vicar’s
directive before leaving his office.

There were several hours before Jasper’s
funeral. He would take the opportunity to talk to Dr. Tarkington
about Mary Darnley if the man was available. He could do that much
for poor Mrs. Darnley and her concerned nephew.

Declan Shaw.
The name repeated over
and over in time with James’s strides as he walked toward the
doctor’s house. It was a handsome name. The very sound of it sent a
pleasant little thrill through him. He recalled each moment of last
night from Declan’s unexpected knock to when he left. James sifted
through the details like a gold prospector and examined each shiny
nugget: the play of light and shadows on Declan’s face as he’d
looked into the fire, the angle of one leg cocked over the other,
the weight of the man’s tread in those dark brown boots, the curl
of hair over the edge of his collar, but mostly the deep, seductive
tenor of his voice.

James could imagine that voice saying many
things to him, murmuring dark commands and obligations he must
fulfill. He lost all sense of time and place as he fell deeper into
a fantasy of Declan directing him to prostrate himself over a
bench, then gripping the back of his neck hard as he pushed…and
pushed
…into James. His arse tightened at the thought.

An involuntary groan slipped from his lips,
and James jerked back to reality. He was passing Mrs. Moore
bustling up the street with a market basket over one arm. She gave
him a curious look. “Not feeling well, Mr. Fletcher?”

“Sour stomach,” he answered quickly, and that
wasn’t really a lie either, as his stomach was doing all sorts of
gymnastics due to fantasies of Declan Shaw. “Good day,” he added,
and waved rather than stopping, eager to reach his destination
without being waylaid. He realized he was already in front of the
doctor’s home and started up the pathway toward the door.

“You must have a sour stomach indeed, if you
need the doctor’s care,” Mrs. Moore called after him.

James didn’t reply, merely gave her another
cheery wave. Sometimes he grew tired of people’s nosiness. But he
smiled, knowing that by the time he appeared at Jasper White’s
graveside this afternoon, half the village would have heard James
was on death’s door himself. That was the power of gossip in a
small town.

No more thinking, dreaming, or dramatizing a
man who was a near stranger, James schooled himself as he used the
knocker. He would think of Shaw no more, except as Mrs. Darnley’s
concerned nephew. And that unfortunate meeting. He’d stop his
useless worries about Kip as well.

“Dr. Tarkington is unavailable,” the
maidservant explained after James requested an audience. From the
nearby parlor, James heard the distant rumbling voice which had
just invaded his dreams. Declan Shaw. Again. He seemed fated to
keep encountering this man.

“I believe Mr. Shaw is here on the same
errand,” James said. “If you would announce me, I think the
gentlemen will permit me to join them.” As soon as the maid
disappeared, he wondered why he thought he should join them. The
desire to see Declan Shaw again did not constitute a true
reason.

He waited in the hallway, and soon the woman
returned to usher James into the parlor. He was barely aware of the
fussy décor, designed by Mrs. Tarkington, who worried that she must
put up a front of good breeding but had once confessed to James she
wasn’t sure what that meant. He barely noticed the doctor sitting
in an armchair silhouetted by the window. His attention went
straight to Shaw, whose lids lowered and mouth curved at the sight
of him. James was both pleased and alarmed that Shaw seemed happy
to see him again. His mouth ached to return the smile. Instead, he
gave his attention to the doctor, praying the man hadn’t detected
their too intimate smiles.

Tarkington directed James to a seat on the
overstuffed sofa. “You’ve met Mr. Shaw? He tells me he has informed
you of his concerns about Mrs. Darnley.”

“Yes.” James perched on the edge of the sofa
and feared the slippery fabric might dump him on the floor. He was
glad they would get straight to the point. He was as good as anyone
at making meaningless conversation but wasn’t sure he wanted to
attempt that in Mr. Shaw’s presence. “I’ll admit, the lady’s
wandering mind and fretful fears have worried me too, but I didn’t
believe it was my place to inquire about her mental state. However,
Mr. Shaw asked for my opinion on his aunt’s behavior so…” He
splayed his hands, indicating the decision to become involved had
been removed from him.

He had trouble keeping his gaze away from
Shaw, and he prayed his agitation didn’t show on his face. Yes, it
would be best to leave quickly. “One never knows when one is
pushing. But now that Mr. Shaw himself has come to you, perhaps it
would be best if I took my leave and—”

“Stay,” Shaw commanded.

James, who’d allowed the sofa to slide him to
his feet in preparation of saying good-bye, sank back down. He
ignored the small shiver of awakening arousal Shaw’s direct order
sent through him, and protested, “I’m not sure how I can be of any
use to you or Dr. Tarkington.”

Dr. Tarkington nodded. “Quite right. Although
you are discreet, I am not sure my patient or her family would want
her situation discussed without their permission.”

“I am a member of her family, related by
blood. And Mr. Fletcher is a member of the clergy and an informed
and educated outsider. I think it best we have a witness to our
conversation, Doctor.” There was no threat in Shaw’s voice or his
pleasant smile, nor was there any compromise. This was a man used
to taking charge of any situation. He would be a fine addition to
an army or as a headmaster of a boys’ school.