Page 48 of The Case of the Curate

Kit Carver watched the slight, mud-spattered figure of Lady Ambrose ride away to the Chadleigh Road. There was something indomitable about her, something brave, that he admired.

And feared.

He turned away and walked briskly to the house, trying to force his mood back to one of pleasure in his guests’ company, and joyful anticipation of the future. Which meant sloughing off the heavy veil of guilt that had enveloped him for so long. Yet that veil only felt heavier and tighter, because Dinah was dead.

I should never have touched her. I ruined her life.

Dear God, he hadn’t even guessed at that other life growing inside her. His child…

Kit had told Lady Ambrose the truth. He had loved Dinah. Still did. He had never encountered a woman so alive, so full of laughter and fun and passion. But he knew he would not have given in to temptation and lain with her if she had been a lady. Since she was a mere maid, he had.

What in God’s name was I thinking? That I could have both of them without Elizabeth ever finding out? Dinah had been loyal enough that she would never have told, but in a small country community he had been lucky to get away with what he had done. All he had done.

Dinah is dead. The guilt of that would never go away.

And Lady Ambrose poking and prying for whatever reason… Surely she was put up to it by Lord Chadbon, all-powerful in Parliament and in Chadleigh. She was so pretty, so beguiling, so clever… What was she looking for? Who and what was she threatening?

Me.

Chapter Ten

The center of Chadleigh did not appear to be flooded, although the road got progressively muddier as Kate approached the town. When she dismounted, she looped the reins around the gatepost between the churchyard and the vicarage and made a half-hearted attempt to rid her riding habit of its mud spatters. Some was dry enough to brush off quite easily. Some merely smeared, so she gave up and walked through the gate to the vicarage.

It was a substantial house. She understood the vicar had no children, so there must have been plenty of room for a curate to lodge. Although it was hardly what the Marquis of Winster’s son was used to.

She walked up the garden path and knocked at the door. A middle-aged housekeeper in a black dress and starched white cap opened the door to her.

Kate presented her card. “I’m Lady Ambrose,” she said cheerfully. “I’m staying with Lady Chadbon at Chadbon Court. I wonder if the vicar could spare me a moment or two?”

“The vicar hasn’t been well, my lady,” the woman said. “But come in for a moment while I inquire.”

She vanished into the room on the left of the front door. But she wasn’t gone long. She emerged looking faintly surprised. “Mr. Bancroft will see you, but please will you keep your visit brief for his sake? This is the first day he’s been up for longer than an hour or two.”

“Oh, of course I will,” Kate assured her, wondering if she should have come in the first place. There were surely more useful things she could be doing with her time.

Mr. Bancroft made to rise as Kate walked past the housekeeper into the room, which appeared to be the vicar’s study.

“No, please don’t get up,” she said at once, for he had the frail look of the convalescent, almost as though any sudden movement might shatter him.

He smiled, a sweet, half-rueful smile, as he relaxed back into his comfortable wing chair. A shawl hung half over the back, as if he had shrugged it off. “Then you must sit, Lady Ambrose. Thank you for calling on me. It’s a long time since anyone has. I’m afraid I’ve been rather ill, and no one likes to bother me. I miss my visitors.”

Kate sat in the chair nearest to him. “That is surely a promising sign for your health and strength. Your parishioners will be missing you even more.”

“Well, we have my young friend the curate. I admit I fought against it at first. It’s hard to admit one’s own weakness, you know, let alone acknowledge that one cannot carry out the basic duties which are my life. But there you are. He has been a blessing.”

Kate felt an unexpected puff of pride in Rupert. And a breath of cold in her veins. “He has been a blessing.” Not “He is a blessing.”

“Actually, it is Mr. Grande I want to discuss with you.”

“It is?”

“He is not here, is he?”

“No, I’m told he has been called away on some family matter. But he has left all his things here, so my hope is he will return before Sunday at the latest.”

“Might I ask who brought you the news of his departure?”

“Lord Chadbon called in yesterday. In truth, I was disappointed not to see young Grande, for he had promised to come to tea. It was the first time I’d come downstairs since my illness.”