The Merchant and the Clergyman (2 page)

What would he do now that he’d ruined his
future here? Perhaps go to London. He’d have to talk to his bishop,
of course, give an accounting of why he’d struck the son of the
richest man for miles around, and now there was this tiresome added
accusation of sodomy. Would it get back to his parents? Could he
explain it away without lying right to their faces? He couldn’t
bear that. Avoidance of the subject was one thing, but outright
lying wasn’t in his nature.

Kip could sit up now, though he still hunched
over his lap. He seemed to be fighting tears. “Curse you, James
Fletcher. I’m going to talk to Hollister. I’m going to summon the
constable.”

The stranger bent and offered a hand to Kip,
who refused his help with a shake of his head. “It’s your own
business, Kip. But with your wedding so soon, you’d probably be
better off not raising a stink about the crooked curate. Stick to
looking after Emma.”

“Emily,” James corrected.

From the floor, Kip protested. “Christ
almighty, Declan! The sodomite attacked me.”

The stranger absently tapped his chin with
two fingers, drumming a face so similar to one James had once
longed to kiss but never had. He looked at James and then back at
Kip, who had gotten to his feet but still wobbled. “That’s a strong
accusation and a serious one. But I believe people will wonder—he’s
about four inches and three stone smaller than you. Do you really
want to stir up a scandal that might bring your own proclivities
into question?”

Kip straightened and growled. “Never mind,
then. Goddamn you, Jimmy.”

“Perhaps He will,” James agreed. “Go find
your fiancée.”

Kip rubbed his face and apparently decided to
ignore James’s existence. Still pale, he cleared his throat. “It’s
about time you got here, cousin. I’ve told Miss Parker all about
you, and she’s longing to meet you. Of course, the mater and pater
will be delighted you’re here.” Kip was starting to regain his
usual aplomb, that easy, pleasant manner with a touch of amused
dominance. Soon his sharp wit would reappear. Once upon a time,
James had regarded him as the epitome of sophisticated charm, even
when he’d been sliced by Kip’s rapier tongue in front of the other
youths.

Declan shifted from foot to foot. “Yes, I’ll
be along soon.” He sounded impatient.

“How have you arrived? By train? You may ride
back to the house in my carriage, if you like. We’ll send someone
to fetch your luggage.”

A slight frown suggested the visiting cousin
was in no hurry to reach his destination. “I’ve been sitting all
day and would appreciate the chance to stretch my legs on a long
walk. No need to give me a ride. Go to your Emily, and I’ll follow
after,” he ordered.

Kip shot a worried look at Declan and a
threatening one at James. Perhaps he feared leaving them alone lest
James reveal Kip’s part in what had transpired. “Don’t waste your
time on Fletcher,” he said and stalked off, limping a little.

Declan put his fists on his hips and turned
toward James. “All right, man of the cloth, what was that
about?”

James’s pulse raced, and the high-pitched
ringing in his ears suggested he was on the verge of fainting. The
magnitude of what had transpired and the accusations this stranger
had heard suddenly hit him. The thing he’d feared his entire life
appeared to finally be coming true—his secret had been exposed.
James gripped the back of his office chair to steady himself and
forced his voice not to quaver. “It’s best that you talk to him
yourself.”

Declan sighed and moved to a table where a
dusty decanter of wine sat. A parishioner had given the bottle to
James, and he kept it for visitors and as a temptation for himself.
Drink had been a part of his problem at university. The stranger
poured himself a glass without asking for permission—most
definitely one of Kip’s relations.

“I was outside this house and heard some of
what Kip was shouting. Luckily, no one else was around to hear.” He
observed James shrewdly over the rim of his glass. “You needn’t
fear my spreading tales. Whatever you may have gotten up to with my
boor of a cousin is your concern.”

James blinked, too shocked to form words.
This tall, rugged stranger who’d strode into the room with the
confident manner of a man who knew his place in the world—master of
it—seemed the sort most likely to be utterly repelled by even the
suggestion of a dalliance between men. Yet Declan dismissed the
possibility with a mere shrug, as if it were of little
consequence.

“Whatever happened, no doubt my cousin
deserved a sharp kick in the balls,” the man drawled before taking
a long swallow of wine. He regarded the half-empty glass. “Not a
bad vintage. Paired with some sharp cheese and a crusty baguette,
it would make a fine snack. You wouldn’t happen to have such
refreshments at hand?” He glanced around the plainly decorated room
as if James might have a hidden pantry somewhere.

James’s hands shook, so he folded his arms
over his chest again. How could this Declan behave in such an
offhand manner? James certainly couldn’t. His calm had been broken.
“I—I believe Mr. Darnley and Miss Parker are waiting for you.”

Declan waved a hand, dismissing the idea.
“I’m in no hurry to be surrounded by relatives I haven’t seen in
years. But you want to be rid of me.”

“No, no,” James said politely.
Yes, yes,
please, go. Please. Now.

Declan examined the sleeve of his dusty coat.
“Such an interesting start to what I’d expected to be a dull
visit.”

James’s face went hot. He had no interest in
providing entertainment for this larger, drawling version of Kip.
“Mr. ah…”

“Shaw,” he supplied. “Declan Shaw, at your
service. Although one does wonder what your idea of service might
entail.”

James ground his teeth together and reminded
himself he abhorred violence. Driving his knee into the groins of
two of the squire’s relations in one day would be beyond the pale.
He stared down at Mr. Shaw’s boots.

James had wanted to atone for his sins and
had hoped the work he did for the village would be enough.
Apparently, fate had another sort of penance in mind, in the form
of coping with Kip Darnley again, and now the added burden of
Declan Shaw, another entitled, rich man with apparently no manners
and a far too appealing surface.

Chapter Two

Poor Mr. Fletcher turned pale and seemed to
shrink into himself. Rather a disappointment—Declan had expected a
firebrand of a man after overhearing the reverend’s attack on Kip.
But Declan couldn’t help pushing. Curiosity was his besetting sin,
after all.

He didn’t know any men of the cloth, and in
fact made it his business to avoid them. His childhood had fed him
quite enough of priests, clerics, and indigestible religious dogma
from competing faiths. Somehow, both Catholics and Protestants
uneasily coexisted in his big Irish family. Now that he was a man,
he’d chosen an agnostic path that suited him just fine. But he was
interested in Kip’s sodomite cleric.

The need to know more, to unravel mysteries,
pestered at Declan like a buzzing bluebottle fly. His mother had
always told him he was too curious by far and that he could never
leave well enough alone. He’d used this quality to help discover
problems in his family’s far-flung business concerns: uncovering a
manager who helped himself to profits, learning substandard
building supplies were being used in the construction of a new
factory, and other such troubles. Now he might put that
investigative mind to less vital purposes—like uncovering the
secret life of a country parson.

“Come, Reverend Fletcher. You are suddenly
timid. Don’t you wish to rail at me?”

“I am a man of God, sir.”

“Does that mean that if you tell me what
you’re thinking, the words you use will sully your sermon-reading
lips? I wonder, what could you be thinking?”

The curate raised his gaze from Declan’s
boots. His pale cheeks had spots of color on each sharp cheekbone
and his gray eyes burned with some sort of passion. He was quite a
beautiful man, Declan realized with a jolt of interest.

“Mr. Shaw, you are apparently cut from the
same cloth as your cousin. I have learned that, with men who toss
innuendoes and jibes, it is best to remain calm. I am having
trouble doing so at the moment, so I shall remain silent.” He spoke
low and quick. Clearly the passion he felt was anger.

“Fletcher. I apologize. You seem to think I
wanted to bait you.”

“Like a bear that’s been tied to a post,”
Fletcher muttered.

“I was teasing…I think. Granted, I don’t
often tease strangers, but I haven’t met many people under such odd
circumstances.”

Fletcher stared back at Declan. And in that
long, pregnant moment, something unexpected happened. Declan felt a
sort of rushing sensation, a pulsing radiance of something like
energy seething inside him. It reminded him of when he’d played
sports back in his school days, how he’d gathered all his strength
into a tight ball inside him, then let it explode as his legs
carried him in superhuman bounds over a playing field or along a
track. He’d been one of the best athletes in his form when he
unleashed that power. What would happen if he let it loose right
now? Where would that raw drive carry him?

The curate took several deep breaths, then
broke their shared gaze. He glanced at the slow-ticking clock over
the mantel. “Ah, well, look at the time,” he said, sounding jolly.
“I’m sure your relations will be wondering where you are.” He’d
regained his calm and clearly had no intention of allowing Declan
to push past it again. A pity, for the intense emotions Declan
spotted under the pleasant façade intrigued him.

He would go at the curate from another
direction.

“It would seem my cousin has been causing you
trouble and perhaps plans to cause you more,” Declan prodded.

The curate sighed. He pushed a finger under
his collar and rubbed his neck. “Mr. Darnley’s accusations were
exaggerated. I did not attack the man and have no inclination to do
so.”

“Kip always had a flare for the dramatic. But
clearly
something
happened between you. Some old slight or
hurt was aired?” Declan suggested.

“The past is best left in the past,” Fletcher
answered tersely.

“How distant is that past? Have you known him
long?”

Fletcher raised his chin. His eyes were
steady and no longer heated. “I would appreciate if you would
overlook anything you saw or heard today. I’m certain Mr. Darnley
would as soon forget the entire matter as well.”

“You don’t trust me.” That fact gave him an
odd twinge of disappointment.

“I don’t know you, Mr. Shaw. I beg your
pardon, sir.” The curate’s false smile might have been plastered to
his mouth. He was not much of an actor. “But you did say that the
matter between your cousin and myself was my own concern.”

What a pity Fletcher had control over himself
again. “I did indeed, but I’m intrigued by you.”

He wasn’t sure, but Fletcher might have
muttered something about rotten luck.

Declan moved toward the door. “I shall remain
with my Aunt Mary for at least a fortnight. I expect we shall meet
again. This is a small village. You’ll be invited to some of the
pre-wedding festivities, won’t you?”

“I am very busy with my duties. The vicar,
Mr. Hollister, frequently dines with Squire Darnley and the family.
It is more likely you’ll encounter him.”

“I shall have to call on you on my own,
then.” Declan turned and walked to the door before the curate could
protest.

Declan was used to getting his way and didn’t
like being blocked from his goal. But honestly, why was he working
himself into a lather over this? Something about this man inspired
rabid curiosity and a desire to push and prod. Since he was stuck
here for a time with nothing better to do, he would give in to that
desire and delve into the puzzle of the country curate with the
hidden depths.

Chapter Three

As he walked up the slope toward the Darnley
estate, the huge sprawling house dominating the hill and the
village below, Declan pondered the benevolent dictatorship of
country squiredom. A master and his serfs. An autocrat and his
minions. The sort of arrangement mired in history and bogged down
by thick steaming layers of crap Declan didn’t buy into.

His own family had emerged much more recently
from solid middle class to the lower edge of gentry. They’d sold
wool for generations, developing a market in England and then in
the rest of Europe. His grandfather had expanded their business
from wool to the machines that processed it. They had no storied
title or grand family history, but the Shaws had plenty of wealth.
Money and holdings his extended family had worked hard to possess.
These English nobles on their centuries-old estates despised work,
yet desired the comforts it brought. Thus the convenient marriage
between Declan’s Aunt Mary Hennessy, with her large dowry and
yearly income, and Squire Robert Darnley.

He’d elevated her in society, and she’d
brought money to pull his family back from the brink of bankruptcy.
An equitable arrangement for all. Except in Mary’s recent letters
to her sisters Beatrice and Helena, the subtext of unhappiness and
a certain confusion worried Declan’s mother. Unable to make the
trip all the way from Ireland due to precarious health, his mum had
asked Declan to attend the wedding in her stead and discover what
distressed his aunt.

If she is in any real trouble, you would
do better to help her than I could,
she’d pointed out in the
letter Declan had received in Brussels, where he was assessing the
possible acquisition of a textile factory.
Perhaps Mary merely
misses family. Please cheer her and remind her we all think of her
fondly and pray for her well-being.