Page 82 of Gentleman Jim

“Eh?”

A footman opened the front doors for them, and Maggie and the old vicar passed out onto the wide stone steps. The night was cool, the evening sky dusted with stars. An old carriage pulled by two equally old chestnuts awaited the vicar in the drive.

There was little privacy to be had. Only the space of seconds between the top of the front steps and the bottom. Maggie took full advantage of them. “Have you ever encountered a clergyman in the district by the name of Father Tuck?”

“Who’s that?”

“Father Tuck. It would have been some thirty years ago, I suspect.”

“Don’t know of a Father Tuck.” Mr. Applewhite’s brow creased. “I’ve heard of a Friar Tuck, of course.”

She frowned. “Quite. But this man wasn’t a character in Robin Hood.”

“Certainly not. Though I daresay that’s why he was called such. Expelled from his order, I believe it was. Never met him myself but heard the tales, a long time past. Something to do with that hedge tavern in Market Barrow.”

“Market Barrow!” Maggie’s pulse skipped.

“Love of drink is at the heart of many of the world’s sorrows, Miss Honeywell,” Mr. Applewhite said. “I won’t say a man can’t enjoy it, but one mustn’t ever become a slave to the grape.”

At that, they reached the bottom of the steps. Maggie stood, unmoving, as a waiting footman helped the vicar into his carriage and shut the door after him. She raised her hand in a gesture of farewell. But her mind wasn’t on Mr. Applewhite’s departure. It was on Market Barrow. On Friar Tuck and Jenny Seaton.

It was on Gentleman Jim.

She was so distracted by her thoughts that she didn’t notice Fred coming down the steps to join her. She started in surprise when he appeared at her side. “Good lord, you gave me a fright.”

He was dressed in an evening ensemble, his coat tight across his shoulders and his silk neckcloth as lavishly arranged as ever. He’d long ceased wearing his sling. “I came to escort you back to the house.”

“That was unnecessary.”

“On the contrary.” He took her elbow. “You’ve been overexerting yourself.”

She shrugged out of his grasp. “By walking the vicar to his carriage? Hardly.”

Fred kept pace alongside her, up the stone steps and back through the marble entry hall. “I’m not talking about the vicar. I’m talking about your visit to Entwhistle yesterday. A visit you made when you were supposed to be confined to your room with a megrim.”

Her gaze jerked to his. “Who told you I’d been to see him?”

“His housekeeper, Mrs. Square, came to tea with our Mrs. Wilkins this afternoon. Their conversation was overheard.”

Our Mrs. Wilkins. As if the housekeeper at Beasley Park already belonged to him. Or, even worse, to the both of them. As if they were already a married couple.

“Overheard by whom?” she asked.

“Beresford’s valet. A canny fellow. He keeps his ears open.”

“I’ll bet he does,” Maggie said acidly.

“And a good thing, too,” Fred went on in the same officious tone. “I don’t like you walking off alone in your condition. If you wanted to go over estate matters, you should have told me. I’d have accompanied you in the carriage.”

Maggie stopped at the foot of the main staircase. Her voice sank to a whisper. “I’m never getting in a carriage with you alone again. Next time I might not be lucky enough to have a highwayman happen along to save me.”

Fred’s face reddened in the light of the crystal chandelier that hung overhead. “Must you make everything an argument? You force me to take you in hand.”

“Is that what you call it?”

He again grasped her arm. “If you’d exert yourself to be sweet to me on occasion—”

“I shall exert myself to slap your face if you don’t let go of me.”