Page 7

Devin leveled a glance at Otis that had turned the current Lord Mayor of London into an incoherent apologist.

“No use looking at me like that,” his cousin said, grinning. “You’ve known me from the cradle and there’s no point in trying to shame me. It won’t take. If you don’t mind me pointing out the obvious, that should have been a sign that the clergy was never the place for me.”

“Seven years of studying theology at Cambridge en route to becoming a priest, and you’re throwing it away two weeks after ordination. Without trying to make a success of it. Even for you, that’s remarkable.”

Otis leveled a finger at him. “Careful, Dev. You’re cold-blooded by nature, and if you don’t watch yourself, you’re going to become as prickly and mean-spirited as your father.”

“St. Wilfrid’s is an excellent post. With two curates in residence, you scarcely have anything to do other than marry the occasional parishioner and baptize a baby or two. You can’t have given it a proper try.”

Otis grimaced. “I did! I was going along merrily, ready to hand out wise advice to all those who asked, when Gerdsby—that’s the curate who resembles a goat—hauled me along to someone’s house yesterday morning. I’d had too much ale the night before and I wasn’t paying much attention, but when I got there, it turned out I was supposed to give Last Rites.”

“Didn’t they teach you how?”

“There was a lecture that pointed out the right prayer. My tutor made me read it through twice. But it’s not the same when a man is looking at you fearfully and his wife is crying. Even the kitchen maid was crying. I almost joined in.”

“You’d get used to it,” Devin suggested.

“That’s easy for a duke to say,” his cousin retorted. “If you stand around in silk holding a snuffbox, you’ve done the job. But if a man stands around looking like a vicar, people expect him to save souls!”

Otis had a point.

Even if Otis hadn’t been wearing a canary-yellow waistcoat, Devin could see that his cousin would be unbelievable in the role.

“I can’t do it. I won’t disgrace myself by trying again either. Spare sons shouldn’t be shunted into the church with the idea that it’s suitable employment for a gentleman. I don’t know how the rest of them get around the soul-saving part, but I’m not fitted for the role, and that’s that.”

Devin couldn’t disagree.

“Your father will be very disappointed,” he observed. His uncle, Sir Reginald Murgatroyd, had his heart set on his younger son entering the church.

“He made that point repeatedly last night, but as I told him, he’s not the one who is supposed to be clearing the way for people to line up at the Pearly Gates. I don’t know how you can stand it in here,” Otis added, looking about Devin’s study. “I haven’t been in this study for years, and it’s even more ghastly than I remembered.”

The room was gloomy. It was a cavernous space, mostly populated by Greek gods, thanks to his father’s mania for collecting ancient statues—as well as wheelbarrows, Italian pottery, and wicker chairs, among other things.

When Devin inherited the estate, he had ordered his father’s collections confined by room, and divided between the townhouse and the ducal estates. The pantheon thronged in the townhouse study, where he had long ago learned the trick of ignoring them. Forty-four chiming clocks stayed in an extremely noisy bedchamber in Wales, while the wheelbarrows had their own outbuilding in Northamptonshire.

“All those blank eyes,” Otis said with a shiver. “Just look at that one.”

Devin glanced over his shoulder. “Perseus holding up the head of Medusa. The triumph of good over evil. It ought to be in your vein.”

“Revolting,” Otis declared. “If you don’t mind my saying the obvious, your father was as potty as a cracked vase. You should clear these out. Give them to a museum or something. Is that chamber upstairs still crammed with dead birds?”

Devin shrugged. “Unless they flew away. I haven’t opened the door in years, but Binsey told me recently that the housemaids are complaining about dusting. He wants to bring in some glass cabinets.”

“Hazel and I used to goad each other into creeping into that room at Christmas,” Otis said.

“What do you mean to do next?” Devin asked, having no interest in household arrangements.

“As I said, marry an heiress,” Otis replied promptly.

“Do you have one in mind?”

“Not yet. I thought I might find one somewhere in Europe. Your solicitor paid out the living a year ahead—you might want to reconsider that with your next vicar—so I’ve got money to take passage.”

Devin frowned. “Where in Europe?”

“Perhaps Spain,” Otis said. “Actually, anywhere but here, because Father bellowed at me last night, pretending he counted on me to save his soul, which is absurd. He apparently thought that a cassock gave me magic powers, but damn it, he’s known me my entire life. That would be like expecting you to empty the coal scuttle. It just ain’t going to happen.”

Definitely not, as regards the coal scuttle.