Lucas raised his eyebrows and took her empty glass away. “I shall get the horse tacked and go over now. There is no time to waste.”
“For what?”
Rosalind swivelled in her seat at the voice, and then wished she hadn’t, realising that she was, for want of better words, slightly tipsy. Benedict was leaning on the doorframe, still looking rather awful; although impeccably dressed, his eyes were rimmed by black smudges and his skin looked ashen.
“Rosalind has just returned from the vicar’s, and his behaviour was very odd.”
“I’ll come if you need help,” Benedict offered. “I could do with the fresh air. You can tell me more on the way. I’ve always quite liked the chap. He seems…sorrowful to me.”
“I’d be grateful for the company.”
“Be careful, the both of you. I would come as well, but…I need a short rest.” And she headed to the door, keeping her eyes fixed on her feet so they went straight.
“Are you foxed? It’s not even luncheon.”
Gazing back from the doorway, she could see Benedict’s bemused countenance and Lucas smirking.
“That brandy does seem to have affected me somewhat. But I also had a wine with O’Carroll, and we had a lovely chit chat about ladders. Benedict, I owe you an apology as I berated you mistakenly at breakfast. Lucas…” She fixed him with a gimlet eye. “Those who tell clankers will have their wattles boxed.”
Their horses flew down the snow covered bridleway, both animals well used to the yearly hazard. Lucas swerved but was still hit by a clod of ice from an enthusiastic hoof. The weather made life slow in the winter, but church still had to be attended and souls had to be saved, hence the slightly clearer path to the vicarage.
“Do you think it’s possible?” Stone shouted over the sound of hooves.
“I went to see him yesterday, and he was acting strangely.”
“He’s been here a long time, without mishap, although I must admit, the last time he came to the house, he looked…unwell.”
Throwing the reins to the stableboy, they marched towards the vicarage. It looked most picturesque blanketed in snow and the housekeeper opened the door before they could knock.
“Is the vicar still in the library, Mrs Bantlock?” Stone enquired with impatience.
“Yes, my lord. He hasn’t stirred since Miss Trewent left.”
“Thank you. Perhaps you should go back to the kitchens. We’ll find our own way.” The housekeeper gave them a worried frown, but she didn’t look as though she was about to argue with an earl and a giant of a major, and instead scurried away.
Lucas gently opened the library door and both men peered in.
The vicar was seated at the desk, gently humming to himself whilst holding something to his chest. A knife lay on the table.
“Vicar. Are you well?” Lucas asked, entering the room.
“What?” He peered at them through bleary eyes. “Did you ever meet my wife?”
Lucas kept his face impassive despite the odd question. “No, sir. I did not have that honour.”
“Here. This is a painting. Done after we got married.” The vicar gently put the picture he’d been clasping onto the table, and the two men drew closer. Lucas noticed it had been cut out of the frame left lying on the desk, hence the knife.
The woman portrayed on the canvas was ravishing: dark black curls lovingly caressed an elegant face and alluring eyes laughed at the onlooker. Her form was curvaceous with full bosom and hip, clothed in a yellow day dress, primroses peeking from around her body.
“She is beautiful, Vicar, and it’s a fine painting.”
“I painted it.” Both men looked up in surprise.
Stone admired the small canvas anew, touching the delicately painted primroses. “Didn’t know you were an artist, Vicar.”
The man let out a choked laugh. “That’s why they chose me. Because I could paint…paint what I saw. But I can’t do it any more. Not now.” And with those words, he reached for an unlabelled bottle on the floor and poured the liquid into a glass.
The smell of juniper and pine assailed Lucas’s nostrils, and the vicar slung the gin back, without coughing, the only sign of a strong liquor passing his lips being the slight watering of his eyes.
