If it was possible, the young man turned even whiter. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, my lord. The Mr. Stewart you are searching for is off island at present.”
“Then who are you?” Whitecliff asked in his brusque fashion.
“I am Mr. Anketil Stewart. Mr. Stewart’s nephew.”
Andrew ran a hand over his face. “Are you in the holy orders?”
“Well . . . yes . . . yes, I am.” Stewart appeared about ready to lose his luncheon. “After a fashion, that is.”
Eugénie, who’d been next to Will, stepped forward. “Mr. Stewart, his lordship and I would like to wed, as would Miss Whitecliff and Mr. Grayson. Can you perform the service?”
Stewart took a breath, then let it out. “No. I am still only a deacon. Though I am able to perform most services, I cannot marry anyone.”
Will’s jaw began to ache from being clenched. He had a feeling he wasn’t going to like the answer to his next question. “When will your uncle return?”
A bead of sweat dripped down Stewart’s face. “You see, my lord, that’s just it. He was supposed to have been back a senight ago.” The man ran a finger around his cravat. “You are not the only couples waiting.”
Cicely turned to Eugénie, with tears in her eyes. “What shall we do now?”
“Mr. Stewart”—she lifted her chin—“is there another church or vicar on the island?”
Taking out his handkerchief, he mopped his face. “Uh, no, none at all. I’m terribly sorry, but I have members of the flock to attend to.”
With that he dashed off.
Will swore fluently under his breath. “Now what do we do?”
“I cannot believe there is only one church on this island.” Eugénie’s lips formed a thin line. “Let’s ask around. I think Mr. Stewart was hiding something.”
Will and his group were almost to the end of the path when a woman stepped out of the building they were passing.
“Excuse me.” The woman, the same one the deacon had been speaking to earlier, glanced over her shoulder toward the church, as if she was afraid of being seen.
Eugénie stopped. “Good afternoon, ma’am, can we help you?”
“Are you looking to be married?” the woman asked.
“We are.”
“You didn’t hear it from me, but thereisanother vicar on the island. He is a Mr. Petherick.”
Will closed his eyes and gave his head a shake. “Why would Mr. Stewart lie?”
She looked around again, and said in a low voice, “He’s at St. Michael’s. On the north side near Great Carot Bay. It’s up on the hill.”
“That still,” Will said with clenched teeth, “doesn’t answer my question.”
A door closed, and the woman moved away. “The older Mr. Stewart don’t like Mr. Petherick. He’s called the pirate priest. I must go.”
She lifted her skirts and ran to the small building to the left of the church.
“The pirate priest?”Cicely and Eugénie said in unison.
“I don’t know if this . . .” Whitecliff’s voice petered out as his daughter glared at him.
Cicely put her hands on her hips. “Andrew and I are marrying, Papa. As long as he is legally able to perform the service, I don’t care what he’s called.”
Andrew cleared his throat. “I must agree with Cicely, sir. To my mind, we’ve waited long enough.”
