Georgie wanted to argue the point—after all, she was his wife and ought to be told important news as soon as possible—but Mrs. Kilvington cleared her throat.
"Am I to understand from this exhibition that this man is telling the truth?"
Georgie’s stomach turned. If the Ladies' Auxiliary turned against her, she would never accomplish anything in the village again even if Peter was able to keep his position.
"I... he is telling a partial truth," she said at last.
Sensing a potential ally, Sir John turned to Mrs. Kilvington. "Of course I am telling the truth, ma'am. I gave my cousin a home after her father died, and she repaid me by stealing the animals that are rightfully mine and running away."
Mrs. Kilvington's long, gnarled fingers tapped rhythmically on the head of her cane. "The letter from Sir Anthony seems to have settled the matter of the otters."
"How do we know Lord Peter is telling the truth about that letter?" Sir John glared at Peter.
"You wound me, Sir John." Carefully, Peter folded the letter back up and tucked it into his jacket.
"Peter would not lie about such a thing," Georgie said stoutly, though she rather suspected at this moment that he had. Why else would he put the letter away?
Sir John seemed to have the same notion, for he immediately said, "Allow me to examine the letter, if you please, sir."
Peter looked at him for a long moment. "No."
A titter came from the back of the crowd, and soon became general laughter. Sir John glared at them and all but stamped his foot like a petulant child.
"Silence, please," Mrs. Kilvington said, and the crowd hushed immediately.
The older woman fixed Georgie with a gimlet eye, the force of which went right through Georgie’s spine.
“So this gentleman is, in fact, your cousin.”
“Yes,” Georgie said miserably.
“And you ran away and came here in disguise as Mr. Morley. And you lived at the rectory for several weeks whilst pretending to be a young man.”
“Yes.”
“And when Lord Peter discovered you were, in fact, a young woman, he married you.”
“Yes.”
“Well. At least someone in this recitation had some sense.”
Mrs. Kilvington’s fingernails rapped against the handle of her cane as she thought, creating a rhythm that mesmerized Georgie. It was the kind of drumming that led the condemned to their execution.
“And the Archbishop personally performed the ceremony knowing your true identity?”
“Yes.” Peter said when Georgie’s voice failed her. His hand gripped hers strongly, and would have been comforting had it not been so icy with nerves.
Mrs. Kilvington continued to frown, but her fingers ceased their tapping.
“I despise bullies,” she said, and Georgie’s heart skipped a beat as she began to hope again. She clung to Peter’s hand, and he squeezed back.
At last, Mrs. Kilvington turned to face Sir John, who flinched away from what he saw in her expression.
“You have aired Kilbythorpe’s dirty laundry for the whole county, sir. Now you may go.”
“But…” Sir John looked around the crowd for sympathy. If anyone was on his side, they were not willing to show it in front of their friends and family.
“This won’t be the last of this,” he snarled, and stalked away as the crowd parted for him.
