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They rounded the corner and discovered Lady Knowe striding back in their direction. She gave Viola a shrewd look that took in her kissed lips, deftly separated the two of them, and linked her arms in both of theirs.

“Duke,” she said, “you do realize that Viola and Joan are Wildes, don’t you?”

“I am aware of that fact,” Devin said.

“Kissing in public will result in prints being sent the length and breadth of the country,” Lady Knowe stated.

Devin heard a soft intake of breath on the other side of Lady Knowe; Viola had apparently forgotten about the rapacious printmakers.

They were both silent as Lady Knowe walked them briskly down the block to the vicarage, talking of the weather.

Chapter Sixteen

Viola was in shock.

She felt as if she were walking in a mass of cotton wool, even less able to pay attention than normally. When she was standing in Devin’s arms, she had felt safe.

It was absurd. Ridiculous. And yet . . .

Some small part of her would always be a terrified two-year-old, walking into the noisy nursery filled with Wilde children. And some other part of her was still a fifteen-year-old, reeling from her first experience of male rage.

The whole of her had smelled Devin, felt his arms around her, kissed him, breathed with him, and relaxed, saying: Yes. This.

She felt as if her stomach would never clench with fear again, at least not while he was within earshot. She took a deep breath as they walked through the door of the vicarage and handed over their outer garments to a maid.

In the sitting room they found Otis trying to convince Mrs. Pettigrew that velvet was a durable upholstery fabric; she preferred a good, sturdy twill. Viola sat down beside Joan.

“Where were you?” her stepsister whispered.

“Walking slowly,” Viola said, ignoring Joan’s smirk.

“Your lip salve is noticeably absent,” Joan said.

The vicarage sitting room was a pleasant room, with a bow window made from small triangles that sparkled with reflected light, casting violet shadows on the floor. Plump sofas and armchairs were strewn about the room, all of them upholstered in bright blue.

“I imagined dark blue,” Viola said.

“I call this cherubic blue,” Otis said from the other side of Joan. “Entirely appropriate for the building, as I’m sure you’ll agree.”

“You could call it celestial,” Joan suggested with a laugh. She squeezed his arm. “Have I mentioned how pleased I am to have met you?”

“Leaving the inadvisable upholstery to the side, the room is cluttered,” Mrs. Pettigrew announced shrilly. “There’s a weapon where any ruffian might use it to assault the vicar.” She pointed.

The walls were lined with shelves crowded with volumes of books, but all sorts of other things were stuck in among the volumes: a ceramic tub of mustard, for example, a dirty teacup, a crab made from clay, and a dagger thrust between two books of sonnets.

“The dagger is not mine,” Otis said, “and nor is the crab. I always felt as if I were an actor playing a part, and this room made a decent stage set, in my opinion.”

“The dagger must have belonged to my previous vicar,” Devin said. “Of course, Mr. Marlowe may alter the room as he wishes.”

“Not too much!” Caitlin said. “All the parishioners love coming here for tea and a cozy chat with the vicar. There’s history here. That crab was made by little Joey Avon, for example, and now he’s an apprentice in the silver trade.”

“Joey’s grown up,” Mr. Marlowe exclaimed, leaning forward, blue eyes shining. “I can’t imagine that, Lady Caitlin.”

Caitlin dimpled and assured him it was true, and launched into tales of all the children whom he might remember from his years as a curate.

Looking about, Viola realized that Miss Pettigrew’s afternoon was not proving a happy one. Clearly, Mr. Marlowe’s fiancée wanted him to accept the appointment to St. Wilfrid’s parish. She wanted to be near her mother. She wanted her husband to become a bishop, and a rich parish like this was an excellent means to that end.

But St. Wilfrid’s included Caitlin, whose family was as important to the parish as Devin’s—and Devin owned the living. Caitlin knew everything about the parish, and she was happily informing Mr. Marlowe of the health of all the parishioners whom he remembered.