Page 25 of The Lady’s No Angel

Reverend Honeywell regarded the building site with interest. Workers had cut a scraped platform into the slope above the shore, and spoil-heaps and piles of stone and rubble formed rough embankments. A post and rail fence had been erected around the site to mark the boundaries and keep the locals from wandering about to indulge their curiosity. Off to one side, a temporary building had been built to serve as an office, where the clerk and the architect in charge could work out of the weather.

Little Valentine had never been so busy as it had been in recent weeks. Out at sea, brigs and cutters rode anchor as the local fishermen made a deal of extra coin by sailing back and forth, loaded up with building materials, which carts and drays then laboriously drew on to the site.

Guards patrolled day and night, for the goods were expensive and, as everyone knew, Mr Jasper King was overseeing the project with his wife, so no one would risk losing so much as a solitary nail. Mr King was not the kind of man from whom a fellow stole.

The reverend was keen to meet someone else today, however. A new arrival in the town was always a matter of curiosity and interest to everyone, but Honeywell had glimpsed the man some days earlier and thought he detected a lost soul. He had a nose for trouble, he thought with amusement, a God-given gift for ferreting out those in need of a friend, a confidant or a helping hand. It didn’t always make him popular, certainly not with those who thought he was poking his nose in where it was not welcome.

With a wry smile, the reverend suspected this was exactly what this particular lost sheep would think when he introduced himself.

“Good afternoon, sir!” he called, taking off his hat and waving it cheerily at the huddle of labourers and masons who were listening attentively to the man the Reverend hoped to speak with.

The architect was a handsome fellow, with close cropped dark hair and intelligent grey eyes, but he looked more than a little annoyed at the interruption. Upon seeing exactly who was hailing him, however, he excused himself, letting the men get back to work and striding over.

“Reverend? Can I help you?” he asked, briskly rolling up the plans he’d been discussing as he approached.

“Oh, no, not precisely. I simply wished to introduce myself. I’m Honeywell,” the reverend said, holding his hand out.

The fellow took it, more with resignation than pleasure.

“Bramwell. Gideon Bramwell,” he replied gruffly.

He had a good, firm handshake, but once the polite exchange was done, he looked pointedly at the reverend, a glint of impatience already in his eyes.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr Bramwell. I confess, I was hoping we might see you in church on Sunday. I expect you were too busy settling in last weekend, but—”

“I’m a very busy man, reverend, but I’ll see what I can do,” he replied tersely, cutting off the observation before it could be concluded. “Will that be all?”

The reverend reconsidered his options and tried again. “Well, I know coming to church can be a daunting prospect for a new arrival in town, what with everyone gawping at you. Perhaps you might like to come to tea with me instead? I confess, I’m fascinated to know about this project, and to know exactly what an architect does—besides designing the building, of course. We’ve never had such a large project here, as you can see. I’d love to hear about it.”

The fellow sighed and put his hands on his hips. “Reverend Honeywell, I can tell you are a decent fellow, and are likely extremely good at your job, but do us both a favour and don’t waste your time on me. I don’t need saving, and I’m too busy for God.”

“Understood, understood,” the reverend replied with a warm smile, quite undaunted. “Just remember, my son, God is never too busy for you.”

He did not see the fellow roll his eyes as he walked away, but he chuckled softly as he imagined it, quite certain that he had. As he had suspected, Mr Bramwell was going to be a challenge. How delightful.

The Frog in the Marsh, Sevenoaks, Kent, 8th April 1816

“Curse the bitch,” Mercy said, pushing her empty tankard aside as Bill and Stan explained what they’d seen.

The dingy alehouse in which they’d met made The Chequers look like a palace in comparison. Soot-blackened beams bristled overhead, and the air was thick with tobacco smoke and the all too easily identifiable stench of unwashed bodies.

“Trust the stuck-up cow to find herself a gentleman to keep company with. I thought he’d have his fill of her after Cranbrook and be on his way.” That, leastways, had been Mercy’s experience of fancy gentlemen, though she’d never been with one so fine as the fellow she’d seen in the yard of The Rose and Crown.

“Want us to deal with him?” Stan asked. He wrinkled his brow, staring down into his empty tankard with regret.

Mercy let out a huff of impatience. Stan was not the sharpest knife in the drawer and needed to have things spelled out to him when they were perfectly obvious. “’Course I want you to deal with him, you great lummox. Else, what am I paying you for?”

“You ain’t paid us—” Stan began but thought better of finishing the sentence as Mercy narrowed her eyes at him.

“I pay by results,” she said crisply. Though it was a pity there’d been no coin in the girl’s room as paying for this escapade was using up all Mercy’s funds. She’d managed to lift a wallet earlier this evening, which was paying for the next few days, but the realisation that Miss Everdene was a might sharper than Mercy had counted on was not a welcome one.

“It weren’t our fault there wasn’t a map or instructions or nowt in her room. There weren’t even any coin, when you said there would be,” Bill groused, shifting his heavy carcass so that the chair he sat on creaked in protest.

Mercy turned, meeting his malicious blue eyes. Little eyes, they were, full of spite. He was a deal more intelligent than Stan, which wasn’t saying much, but he needed handling with a degree more tact.

“Well, she must have kept it on her. Sewn it into her petticoats, perhaps. Think of the fun you’ll have finding out, eh?” she suggested, sliding a coin across the table to Stan. “Get us another round.”

Stan brightened and lumbered to his feet as she turned back to Bill.