The Perfect Kiss (18 page)

“Lady Augusta Merridew. She has an interest in female orphans and has done some remarkable philanthropic work—”

“—But the way this girl talks to Miss Pettifer, you’d think she’d known her for years. She even calls her Melly half the time!
Melly!
Not Miss Pettifer! No respect at all.” Realizing he’d gone into something of a rant, Dominic sat down.

Podmore gave him a long, thoughtful look. “I gather she’s pretty.”

Dominic frowned. “Pretty? Of course she’s—who cares if she’s pretty? That’s got nothing to do with any of this.”

The lawyer smiled. “No, of course not.”

Chapter Ten

Telling one’s sorrows often brings comforts.

PIERRE CORNEILLE

 
 
 
 
BY LATE AFTERNOON, GRACE WAS FEELING THE STRAIN OF A LONG day of putting the house to rights. She was tired of answering questions and solving problems. The more she looked around her, the more there was to do. Her arms and legs ached. It was hot, she was dirty and dusty and weary. What she longed for was a good, long soak in a hot bath, but that would take organization and time to heat the water and there was only the small hip bath and she wanted to wallow. And she couldn’t face the raft of questions she knew she’d get about wanting a bath in the middle of the day, and not even on a Saturday.

No, a bath wasn’t practical. What she could have however, was a swim. She could swim. When her sister, Faith, had come back from France with her new husband, she’d told all the Merridew girls about the delights of swimming in the sea, and the next summer they’d all learned. It was glorious and twelve-year-old Grace had learned to swim like a little frog. She’d found opportunities to go swimming every summer since, even though it was regarded as a slightly scandalous activity for ladies.

If she slipped away now, nobody would notice. At this time of the afternoon, everyone was occupied. And Lord D’Acre had ridden into Ludlow on business and was safely out of the way.

She knocked on Sir John’s bedchamber door and bobbed a curtsy. “Sir John, Miss Pettifer. How are you getting on, Sir John?” Privately, Grace thought he looked even worse. He was thinner and paler than ever. She glanced at his luncheon tray, where a bowl of chicken soup and some thin slices of bread and butter remained untouched. Melly caught her eye and shook her head very slightly. Sir John still hadn’t been able to eat anything.

“Can’t complain, Greystoke.” He shifted and as he did, grimaced in pain. “Gettin’ old, that’s all. Have you come to play cards with us? I’m fleecing m’daughter of all her beans.”

“Thank you, no. I’m here to collect the tray, sir, and to remind Miss Pettifer that she wanted to go for a walk this afternoon.”

“Off you go then, Melly,” her father said instantly. “You don’t want to be hangin’ around in a gloomy sickroom with your old father, when you could be out and about on a lovely day like this.”

Melly shook her head vigorously. “Oh, no, it’s far too hot to be venturing outside at the moment, Papa. I shall go for a walk in the evening, when it is cool.”

Her father gave her an indulgent smile. “Worrying about your complexion, eh, puss? Well, such a delicate complexion is worth protecting, eh, Greystoke? Not many of the fine London ladies can beat my Melly in that department.” He gave Grace a concerned look. “You ought to be more careful of yours, young Greystoke. In fact, maybe Melly could give you a few hints.”

Melly smothered a giggle. She’d helped Grace touch up the freckles the previous evening.

“Yes, Sir John, thank you, Sir John.” Grace curtsied and took the tray.

If Melly didn’t want an excuse to escape for an hour or so, there was nothing she could do. She took the tray to the kitchen and left, her spirit lightening. She was free to do as she wished.

She could go to the pool in the woods that Granny Wigmore had told her about, the one that was supposed to have magical powers—magical freckle-clearing powers. Grace could have a quick swim and nobody would be any the wiser. And her freckles would be perfectly safe. She was getting quite fond of her freckles, quite protective of them.

She’d had no idea before how freckled girls must suffer. Everyone offered advice on how to remove them. Mrs. Parry sent buttermilk. Granny Wigmore said water from Gwydion’s Pool. Even Mrs. Tickel had sent lemons, with instructions that Grace was to bathe her skin in lemon juice twice a day.

And men with wicked golden eyes speculated aloud on where the freckles ended . . .

 
 
AN HOUR LATER DOMINIC RODE OUT OF LUDLOW. IT WAS A scorching afternoon, and by the time he rode into Lower Wolfestone, he’d developed a considerable thirst. He was so thirsty, in fact, that the idea of a long draught of the Wolfestone Arms bitter ale appealed. He would not admit, even to himself, that the blasted brew was growing on him.

Deep in thought, he wove his way between the people gathered in the taproom, vaguely noticing that there seemed to be rather a crowd, but not bothering to wonder why. A voice pierced his reverie.

“Wolfe! Dominic Wolfe! I say!” A hand thumped him between the shoulder blades, almost hard enough to make him stumble.

He turned and beheld a lanky young man dressed in neat dove-gray trousers, a pale gray-and-white-striped waistcoat, and an elegant black jacket, only slightly worn at the lapels.

Dominic’s jaw dropped. “Frey—is that you? Good God!” He seized the man’s hand and wrung it heartily. “Frey Netterton! Here of all places! Come outside and we’ll have a drink.”

His friend glanced around the taproom and wrinkled his long nose. “I quite agree. I gather soap has yet to be discovered by our companions.”

Dominic grinned. Some things never changed, thank God, and Frey was one of them. His friend might be as poor as the proverbial church mouse, but he was as fastidious as ever. “I can’t believe you’re really here, Frey. But what has dragged you to the wilds of Shropshire? I’d swear you didn’t know I was here. Very few people do.”

“Yes, you blasted hermit. When I think how old Jenkins used to wax lyrical about your penmanship, it’s a disgrace that you never put it to use in keeping in contact with your friends.” He ran a finger delicately around his collar to loosen it without disturbing the exquisite arrangement of his neckcloth. “Not to mention letting them perish of thirst in this blasted heat.”

Dominic laughed and arranged for drinks to be brought to the shady bench outside. “It’s only ale, I’m afraid. They don’t cater to toffs here.”

Frey seized a brimming pewter tankard and took a long draft of the brew. “Ahh, that’s better. Now, who are you calling a toff,
Lord
D’Acre, owner of all he surveys?” He looked around critically. “The village is part of the estate, ain’t it?”

Dominic surveyed his tankard of ale and pulled a face. “Yes, but I don’t actually own any of what you see, yet. I have yet to secure the estate.”

Frey frowned. “What do you mean, secure it? Your father’s dead, ain’t he? And you’re his only son.”

“Yes, but his will is rather . . . complicated.”

Frey snorted. “You mean he’s still trying to make you dance to his tune, even from the grave!”

Dominic relaxed. He should have known Frey was one of the few people who’d understand. “Yes, you have it in a nutshell. My father tries to pull my strings even from the grave and so I must earn my inheritance.”

Frey sipped his ale thoughtfully. “Dashed good ale, this. And how are you supposed to earn it?”

“By being the dutiful son and heir. By marrying the girl he so kindly picked out for me when I was sixteen.”

Frey’s jaw dropped. “You never told me that!”

“He never told me, either. I only found out a few weeks ago.” He grimaced. “He wants me to breed sons for Wolfestone, but I’ll not do it.”

“You’ll refuse to marry?” He shrugged. “Fair enough. Not as if you need the land or the extra income.

Dominic shook his head. “No, I’ll marry, damn him. I won’t let the bastard deprive me of my rights! But he won’t have it all his way!”

“So, it’s parson’s moustra—” Frey broke off with an unconvincing cough. “Er, holy wedlock for you! Who’s the lucky girl? Is she pretty? Does she love you already?”

“Not at all. She’s plain, dull, and doing it for the money.”

His friend stared. “Good grief! Why saddle yourself with a female of that sort? If I was going to saddle myself with a wife, I’d make sure she was dashed pretty. Not that I can—saddle myself with a wife, that is. Not till my blasted uncle turns up his toes.”

“Still hanging on to the purse strings, is he?”

“As tight as if they were a lifeline,” Frey said gloomily. “Keeps me—and thus my mother and sisters—on an absolute shoestring. How he expects the pittance he allows us to support myself, my mother and sisters,
and
scrape enough together for the girls’ coming-outs is more than I can fathom.”

Dominic nodded in sympathy. Frey’s uncle controlled the huge family fortune with miserly righteousness, as if poverty was a virtue. “Let’s not talk about such things here.” He jerked his head back toward the inn, where anyone could be listening. “Why don’t you come up to Wolfestone?” He frowned. “You never did tell me—if you didn’t know I was here, why have you come?”

Frey gave him a sheepish look. “The vicar of St. Stephen’s Church is old and ill and has retired to live with his daughter in Leeds.”

Dominic didn’t follow. “And how does this vicar concern you? Is he a relative of some sort?” Dominic drank deeply from his tankard. He was slowly developing a taste for this ale.

Frey flicked at a nonexistent spot on his jacket, “Ah, no. No relation at all.” Then with an air of faint embarrassment, he added, “Actually, I am the new vicar of St. Stephen’s Church—and didn’t your mother ever teach you not to spit ale on a vicar? It is uncouth and disrespectful. Luckily as your new spiritual shepherd, I can take you in hand.” He wiped off the drops of ale that Dominic, in his surprise, had splattered over him.

“You’re a vicar?
You?
You’re joking.”

Frey said with an air of great dignity, “Show some respect for a man of the cloth, heathen! I’ll have you know I was ordained by the archbishop of Canterbury himself several years ago.”

Dominic let out a sharp laugh. “Poor fellow was hoodwinked then! A rogue like you dressed in sheep’s clothing.”

“Sheep’s clothing?” Affronted, Frey adjusted the lapels of his coat. “It may not have been tailored especially for me, but this is very fine merino cloth, you ignorant clod! As for calling me a rogue, you were always the wolf in our pack.”

Dominic shook his head. “You—a parson? But why, Frey, why?”

His friend shrugged. “Got to earn the readies however I can. Never did have a head for business, can’t afford to get killed in the army—then Mama and the girls would be left utterly destitute after my uncle passes on—am too shatter-brained to be a diplomat, so the church it must be.”

Dominic laughed. “I can’t seem to take it in. You, the new vicar of—where?”

“St. Stephen’s. Just for a few months—I hope—until they find someone permanent. It’s reputed to be one of the poorest livings in Shropshire.”

“And where is this St. Stephen’s?”

Frey shook his head in mock reproof. “Right here in this village of yours, you heathen!”

“Good God!”

“Exactly. I am glad to hear you know that, at least!” his friend said severely. He put down the tankard and rose to his feet. “Thanks for the drink, Dom. Now, I must get on to the vicarage. I’ll be conducting my first service on Sunday. You’ll come, of course.”

Dominic rolled his eyes and heaved a long-suffering sigh.

“Excellent,” Frey clapped him on the shoulder. “I knew you wouldn’t let an old friend down.” He held out a hand to shake and said softly, “You know, it really is
dashed
good to see you, old friend. I’ve missed you.”

Wordlessly, Dominic wrung his old friend’s hand. He was damned pleased to see Frey, too. His eyes fell on a pile of baggage that had been loaded into a rustic handcart. Shabby, old-fashioned, yet stamped with the Netterton family crest, it could only belong to Frey.

“Didn’t you drive your curricle?” It was Frey’s pride and joy.

Frey shook his head and said in a stuffy ecclesiastical voice, “A village vicar can’t swan around in a vehicle more suited for sport than pastoral visits.” He resumed his normal voice. “Came by stage. I had to sell the curricle and the pair anyway. Beautiful steppers they were—you should have seen them, Dom. But—” He sighed. “Needed the money. And so the bishop is lending me his ancient gig.” He pronounced the word with some distaste, and pulled a face as his friend let out a shout of laughter. “It should arrive some time this week.”

“And in the meantime?”

“I walk,” said the Reverend Netterton with dignity. “And pay rustics to carry whatever I cannot manage. D’you know, a wretched urchin tried to wrest my baggage from me the moment I alighted from the stage! Wanted sixpence for it! As bad as London! I sent him off with a flea in his ear.”

“You came by
stage
!” Dominic was shocked. Things were worse than he thought.

Frey sighed. “Bishop’s orders. Privation is supposed to do my character good,” he admitted. “Though I don’t see how anyone becomes a better person by living in squalor. Seems to me people just get meaner and more desperate—but try telling the bishop that!”

Dominic laughed and strolled over to where his horse stood, hitched to a post in the shade. “Here, take my horse for today, at least.” He tossed his friend the reins.

“Won’t you need it?”

“No, I can take a shortcut through the woods. It’ll only take me fifteen minutes. You can use Hex to get around the district until your gig arrives.”

“I will then, and to hell with bishop’s orders. But . . . Hex?” Frey raised his brow. “Not delving into witchcraft, are you, Dom? That would really be pushing things with the bishop.”

Dominic smiled a slow smile. “No, but the horse is a stubborn brute. Good-looking, but not too bright. His full name is Hexton.”

Frey glanced more closely at the horse and grinned. “A gelding I see. The next time I see Hexton I’ll tell him you’ve named a horse after him.”