The Merchant and the Clergyman (4 page)

Hollister relaxed slightly and sighed. “My
dear boy, I appreciate your sign of respect but fear the matter is
out of our hands. The Darnleys are fixated on your participation,
and it wouldn’t do to cross the squire’s family now, would it? The
church requires a new roof as well as some masonry work, and tithes
don’t cover all our needs.”

James understood all too well the politics of
religion were the same as those of any other business. It seemed
the world revolved around money, even when God Himself was
involved. But he wondered if Hollister realized how very long it
had been since the squire had bestowed more than the bare minimum
tithe on the church. The chances he’d feel inspired to re-roof the
church were slim.

“Very well.” The vicar rose gracefully. “It’s
decided. You’ll perform the ceremony, and I will attend as a
guest.”

James shut his lips tight. He might yet find
a way out of this, but arguing wasn’t it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t
offer you refreshment. Would you like a cup of tea or perhaps a
sherry?”

“No, thank you. I’m invited to a pre-wedding
dinner at the hall. I must be on my way.” Hollister hurried out,
leaving James standing in the doorway, staring after him.

The whole situation was very strange, and
James was surprised the vicar, a stickler for convention, hadn’t
been more put out he wasn’t called on to perform such an important
wedding. They both knew he’d do a better job of it, and the vicar
enjoyed the social rigmarole of the festivities. That thought
reminded James that, as the officiator, shouldn’t he be invited to
this pre-wedding event? Not that he wanted to go, of course. God,
no. The last thing he wanted was to have any more interaction with
Kip Darnley than absolutely necessary. But a small and foolish part
of him whispered he wouldn’t mind seeing Declan Shaw again if the
occasion arose.

Such whispers, the familiar heat coursing
through him, had once created his terribly foolish infatuation with
Kip. Recalling one of the worst choices he’d made should clear his
head and rid his body of such nonsense.

Chapter Four

After he returned his aunt to her rooms,
Declan approached the unpleasant butler, whom his aunt called
Wenger. One usually handed over the largesse as one left a country
house, but Declan needed to buy favors now, not later. He slipped
the man some coins. “This is for the nuisance I’ve caused,
appearing without a valet. I hope you have some promising footman
who wouldn’t mind acting as my man during this visit?”

He had grown used to caring for himself, but
it might help to improve relations with the staff if he was a
little less eccentric. He needed as many people as possible on his
side if he would take any sort of action.

“Of course, sir.” The butler actually bowed
to him. One down, so many more to go, Declan thought.

After that, Declan cornered his uncle in the
library.

“Please have a seat.” Squire Darnley
indicated the chair next to his.

Declan remained standing. “I want to know
what is wrong with my aunt.”
And I’ll shake the information out
of you if you don’t talk to me.

“Nothing at all. She is easily overset, a
delicate woman. That formed much of her attraction. Such a ladylike
person.” That was a jab aimed at Declan’s mother, who enjoyed
working in a man’s world. She was the sort who would set about
cleaning a stable rather than bother searching for a stable
hand—and on one memorable occasion, Squire Darnley had caught her
grooming a horse.

“What is wrong with Mary?” Declan didn’t look
away. At last his uncle dropped his own gaze, took off his
pince-nez, and began to polish them.

“All right, you are family. I’ll admit her
mind is somewhat disordered.” He resettled his pince-nez and smiled
up at Declan. “She has many good days, but she’s gotten it into her
head that someone wishes to harm her. Such fantasies are often
exhibited by an ill mind. Dr. Tarkington has prescribed medicine to
help alleviate her anxiety. You must have spoken with her between
doses.”

After that, Squire Darnley said nothing more
of any consequence, but he remained polite. No doubt he didn’t want
to antagonize a wealthy relation.

Declan felt slightly comforted by the
knowledge his aunt was under a doctor’s care, yet he still felt
uneasy as he observed her later at dinner. She seemed befuddled yet
more cheerful. She smiled around the room, sometimes answering
remarks made to her but often not appearing to hear. The company
seemed used to her strange behavior.

The guest on Declan’s left, one Mrs. Parrot,
the wife of a nearby landowner, greatly resembled her name with the
brilliant plumage of her gown and her incessant chatter. She kept
Declan in a glazed stupor for most of the meal, but required little
response from him other than a “You don’t say” or a smile. This
gave him plenty of time to regard his aunt’s behavior and ponder
what might be at the root of it.

“Do you enjoy your trips abroad, sir?” Mrs.
Parrot asked.

He smiled. “I have done nothing but travel
for years, ma’am and look forward to settling down.”

“Here or in Ireland?”

“I’m not certain.”

Apparently, his vague answers weren’t to her
taste, because she soon turned to her neighbor on the other side,
and Declan could eat the roasted guinea fowl and resume his study
of his aunt

Was Mary under the influence of drink or some
sort of opiate the doctor had prescribed? Declan examined each of
the guests and wondered which could tell him more about his aunt’s
condition without covering up details as Darnley might do. The
trouble was finding someone who wouldn’t kowtow to the Darnley men.
It became very clear his uncle and Kip still held positions of
importance in this small village despite their seeming lack of
funds, and Declan knew enough about small-town life to know very
few people wanted to speak out against power—especially to a
stranger. And that included Dr. Tarkington, who sat at Darnley’s
left and hung on his every word.

The obvious choice of an informant came to
Declan after the ladies had withdrawn and the men settled down with
drink and cigars. Kip shifted in his chair and gave a small wince.
Of course—he had a bruise in a delicate place. Declan grinned as he
realized which local man would stand against the squire and his
son. A spiritual advisor his aunt may have confided in during her
better days. The curate had been hesitant to talk about Kip
earlier, but Declan held some power over the man with those
accusations he’d overheard. Declan hoped he wouldn’t have to
threaten James Fletcher, but he’d do what he must to find out the
truth of his aunt’s situation.

He put down his glass of excellent port so he
could withdraw his watch and check it surreptitiously under the
table. Eight p.m. was perhaps later than some country folk would
care to entertain visitors, but he didn’t think he could get away
as easily in the morning, and the curate might be too busy.
According to Vicar Hollister, some old farmer had died and the
family needed Fletcher’s help. Declan would have thought a curate’s
life would consist of gazing at flowers whilst composing sermons or
conducting Bible classes on Sundays. He’d never been much of a
churchgoer after the age of ten.

“I’m going for a walk,” he announced.

Kip rose at once. “I’ll accompany you,
cousin.”

Despite his annoyance, Declan managed to
paste a smile on his face. “Next time. Tonight I need some minutes
to myself.” That echoed many exchanges they’d had during Declan’s
previous visits, so Kip wouldn’t be alerted to anything odd.

“But still—” Kip the persistent nuisance
began.

“You will be missed, as this gathering is in
your honor. And your charming fiancée would wonder and worry.”
Declan walked out before Kip could say anything more.

He went to the pantry and found the butler,
who jumped to his feet and put out the cigar he was smoking. “No
need to worry, Wenger, I don’t require anything. I’m going for a
walk. Just don’t lock up, in case I’m gone when everyone else
retires. Oh, and tell the man you’ve assigned to take care of me he
has the rest of the night off from those duties.”

It was a very dark night with the moon hiding
behind some heavy clouds. Declan wished he’d brought a lantern as
he strolled down the dirt road in the direction of the
vicarage.

Though Hollister and his wife were at the
hall, enjoying the squire’s hospitality, a welcoming light glowed
in several of the vicarage’s windows. But the cottage behind was
dark. Perhaps the young curate had hied off to some forbidden
location while no one watched. That thought made Declan smile. The
proper young clergyman didn’t seem the sort inclined to drink and
dissipation. On the other hand, there had been Kip’s accusations,
and James Fletcher hadn’t denied the basic charge of sodomy.

He might appear angelic, but Mr. Fletcher had
secrets. Perhaps Declan could use them—for his aunt’s sake of
course. He didn’t love the plan of harming an outsider, but he
needed to use any tool he could find.

Declan didn’t mind the idea of rousing Mr.
Fletcher from bed, if that was where the man was. He thumped on the
door and waited.

James must have been closer to sleep than
he’d thought, because the banging at his door startled him from a
half dream in which he’d lain in bed next to a man who wasn’t Kip
but might have been. The automatic kick of guilt he felt at his
insidious and destructive attraction dissolved with the realization
that someone must be ailing.

Villagers didn’t mind waking the curate in
the middle of the night as if he were some sort of doctor to pray
over sick children or talk with the sick of heart. The first felt
like a sham, the second… He did better with those cases.

James lit a candle, and realized the hour was
hardly advanced. It might not be an emergency after all. His
heartbeat slowed.

“Just a minute,” he called out. He pulled on
his trousers, drew his robe on over his nightshirt, then ran his
hands through his hair a couple of times. It would have to do.

A large man stood in his doorway. James held
up a candle and nearly dropped it when he saw who had come to
call.

“Mr.…” He’d forgotten Declan’s last name even
as he realized this, not Kip, was the man he’d dozily dreamed of.
James’s face grew hot, as if he’d been caught in a lewd position.
Nonsense.

“Shaw,” the man reminded him.

“Mr. Shaw, how may I help you?”

“Invite me in.”

“As you can see, I’m not prepared for guests
and—”

“Invite me in,” he repeated as if patiently
explaining something to a child. “You might as well. I’m going to
come in, and your invitation will make the situation more
civilized.”

“Mr. Shaw. You seem to be the worse for
drink. I suggest you return to the hall and, tomorrow, if you still
want to visit, I’ll be home—”

Declan Shaw stepped inside the cottage and
pushed past James as easily as if he were displacing a cat.

Panic and anger warred inside James.
Indignation won. “Sir! You have no right to barge into my
home.”

“No,” Mr. Shaw agreed. “I wouldn’t be so
aggressive, but I must talk to you, and I’m not sure when else
we’ll be alone. It’s important.” He examined James and then gave a
sudden smile. “What could you be expecting? Only talk, I assure
you.”

Only talk. The tension in James’s muscles
eased slightly, though he still breathed hard.

“Oh, very well.” James led him into the main
room. He put the candle on the mantel and bent to throw small
sticks and wood onto the banked embers.

“Coal lasts longer and can burn hotter,” Shaw
said as James picked up the bellows and carefully coaxed the fire
back to life.

“Indeed,” James said and didn’t point out
that more trees and branches lay on the ground than bits of
coal.

His guest sat in the one good chair without
invitation.

James considered lighting the paraffin
lamps—the cottage didn’t have gas—but decided that he didn’t want
to give Shaw the impression they were settling in for a long
chat.

The man’s presence made him supremely
uncomfortable, and not only because of Shaw’s rude interruption or
his knowledge of James’s perversion. The echo of the dream kept
hitting James, and just the sight of Shaw’s body aroused the sort
of desire that crept over him when he wasn’t careful.

He could act the part of host without being
provoked in any way by this magnetic man. James could control
himself that much. After all, it had been years since he’d allowed
the lustful side of himself to emerge. The recent encounter with
Kip had reawakened the dormant yearning—accompanied by the tiresome
sensation that his soul was grubby.

“Go on. Tell me about your urgent matter.”
James wrapped the robe more tightly around his body and sat on the
horsehair divan to wait.

Shaw stretched out, his scuffed boots near
the fire, his ankles crossed, his hands with twined fingers behind
his head—a pose that made him appear relaxed, except for the scowl
he directed at the fire. “I assume you know my aunt, Mary Darnley,
has had some health concerns.”

Ah. James heaved a sigh and understood why he
wished to speak alone. “Yes,” he said. “She was taken ill last year
and never seemed to recover.”

Shaw’s eyes closed for a several long
seconds, and when he opened them again, the bleak expression had
deepened. “I need to know if her condition and her fears are based
on reality, or if she’s grown disordered in her mind.”

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know very much, but I
expect it’s the latter.” James waited, then asked, “Were you aware
of a problem before you arrived?”

“My mother, her sister, had grown alarmed by
the infrequency and the tone of my aunt’s letters. Since she
couldn’t attend Kip’s wedding, she sent me in her stead to
represent our family. Tell me. Do you truly believe my aunt’s
mutterings and ravings are based on an inflamed imagination?”