Chapter Twenty

Reverend Shackleford did not usually have such trouble locating his curate, but it had to be said, Percy had been conspicuous by his absence of late. The Reverend hoped the reason for his old friend’s continued nonattendance was not due to his getting ideas above his station, bearing in mind he’d been tasked with delivering the Duke of Blackmore’s weekly private service. Indeed, that was what the Reverend wished to discuss with him.

Augustus Shackleford had come up with an incomparable plan to reunite his daughter with her husband and was certain Percy would be every bit as enthusiastic once he’d heard the details.

At length, however, after looking everywhere, he’d resorted to handing Freddy a pair of Percy’s unmentionables to sniff, with instructions to fetch. Forty minutes and two pairs of unmentionables later, the hound finally located the errant curate in the Red Lion. This was so unlike Percy who had never to the Reverend’s knowledge entered their favourite watering hole without his superior leading the way. Augustus Shackleford was most concerned. First a hair shirt and now the man was turning to drink. What the deuce could be troubling him? Even though they were both faithful servants of the Anglican Church, as a sensitive man of the cloth, the Reverend was not above listening to a confession should it make his oldest friend feel better.

But first things first. Determinedly, Reverend Shackleford hurried into the dim interior of the Red Lion, Freddy in tow, eager to share his exciting news.

∞∞∞

To say the Reverend was surprised at Percy’s lack of enthusiasm for his plan would be akin to saying the weather in hell can be a trifle warm. It took three tankards of ale and some stern words before the curate finally agreed to help, although his aversion to the whole enterprise was clearly evident in his abrupt refusal of a second helping of Mrs Tomlinson’s bread and butter pudding. Already on his third plateful, the Reverend couldn’t help lamenting the days when Percy would simply follow his lead without question.

Still, the following Sunday afternoon saw them closeted in the vicarage study whilst the rest of the household were recumbent after a particularly large Sunday roast. The Reverend had even written his own sermon for the service earlier that morning and had thus succeeded in escaping the church in record time.

“What the deuce am I supposed to do with these?” the Reverend said, holding up a set of Agnes’s stays.

“I think they’re supposed to go around your middle and tie at the back Sir,” responded Percy. He frowned before continuing, “I’m reliably informed they are supposed to draw in a lady’s waist, but only in the event we’re able to get you into them beforehand. Which I’m not sure is possible on this occasion.” The relief in the curate’s voice had the Reverend regarding him with narrowed eyes.

“Fustian nonsense man. Agnes is not exactly a diamond of the first water, and it’s a long time since she’s been able to spy her drawers while standing up, so let’s have no more prevaricating.”

Percy winced at the Reverend’s description of his wife but refrained from observing that Augustus Shackleford was hardly all the crack himself. Sighing, the curate stepped forward and taking the stays, held them close to the ground for the Reverend to step into. There followed a struggle of gargantuan magnitude as they gasped and wheezed in their efforts to pull the stays up until they sat round the Reverend’s middle.

“Zooks, I’ll be lucky if I can take two breaths in this deuced thing. How the devil does Agnes succeed in walking?” The Reverend took two experimental steps forward. “If I have to wear it for long, I’ll end up as queer as Dick’s hatband.”

“We have to tighten them yet, Sir.”

Percy’s observation as he took hold of the laces was surprisingly jovial, but before the Reverend had an opportunity to question his curate’s unexpected good humour, his wind completely left him as Percy yanked hard and, in the Reverend’s opinion, a trifle too eagerly.

“Enough,” he wheezed, “I’m certain I’ll have no difficulty getting the dress on now.”

However, despite their best efforts, it proved impossible to do up the laces at the back of the dress, so the Reverend had to content himself with covering the whole ensemble with a shawl. The bonnet unfortunately resulted in him resembling a drunken doxy, but as the Reverend pointed out, “We only require the disguise to hold until we’re in the chapel, then I’ll have the Duke’s ear.”

Opening the door slightly, the Reverend peered into the hall. Luckily, the coast was clear. Turning back into the room, he ordered Freddy to ‘stay’ in a firm whisper. The hound’s wagging tail drooped slightly, but he obediently lay back down by the fire.

Ten minutes later, the Reverend arrived without incident at their arranged meeting place where he waited impatiently behind a hedge for Percy to bring the cart round. He would have preferred to take the curricle but was mindful that any alteration to the curate’s customary routine may well prove to be their downfall.

The next half hour would be of crucial importance to his daughter’s future happiness.

It would also decide whether or not he would have another opportunity to consume an excellent Sunday roast the likes of which he’d partaken in not two hours before…

∞∞∞

Nicholas Sinclair waited impatiently in the Blackmore family chapel with only Malcolm for company. As soon as the service was over, he would be leaving for his estate in Scotland. He told himself it was time to set his most northerly estate in order. His Scottish seat bordered the banks of Loch Long, and the house was sorely in need of repairs. It was Nicholas’s intention to do much of the work himself wherever possible, mainly because he feared it was the only way he’d ever get some sleep. Fortunately, the land was far too wild for anyone of breeding to chance spying him dressed as a common labourer.

Looking down at his fob watch, Nicholas frowned. The curate was late. At this rate, his coach wouldn’t leave Blackmore before dark. He was just about to call the whole service off when there was a slight commotion at the entrance to the chapel. Percy Noon, looking more flustered than the Duke had ever seen him, hurried towards the small pulpit while behind him shuffled a truly revolting looking individual. The only indication that the creature was female, was the fact she was wearing a skirt and bonnet. Indeed, she resembled a trollop the like of which commonly frequented the London docks.

Recoiling, the Duke stepped forward, halting the woman before she reached the front of the chapel which appeared to be her destination. Behind him, the curate was launching into the service with the general confession of sins which for some obscure reason he was shouting at the top of his voice.

Doing his best to shut out the bellowing behind, the Duke attempted to address the woman. At the same moment the curate reached a crescendo with an ear-splitting, “AMEN.”

“QUIET,” Nicholas yelled, completely losing his temper. Sudden silence descended. “What the deuce is going on?” the Duke snapped, glancing between the curate and the strange creature standing before him. The doxy lifted her hand, and Nicholas instinctively stepped back, mistrustful of her intentions, just as a whirlwind of fur came charging into the chapel, crashing into the woman and knocking her straight into his arms. With a grunted humph, Nicholas fell backwards, ending up on the floor with the peculiar female lying on top of him. Stunned for a second, they remained motionless staring wordlessly at one another.

“DOWN FREDDY,” the doxy yelled abruptly.

“What the devil…?” Nicholas bit out, watching incredulously as the woman removed her bonnet, leaving him staring into the uneasy eyes of Blackmore’s vicar. Without moving the Duke simply raised his eyebrows in question.

“Your grace, I’ve come to beg your indulgence of my daughter.”

∞∞∞

After finally managing to disentangle themselves, the Reverend and Percy were unceremoniously instructed to wait in the drawing room until the Duke saw fit to attend them. Grace’s father was quite cheered by the fact that his son-in-law had not simply thrown them out on their ears. Percy on the other hand looked as if he was about to have an apoplexy. Reverend Shackleford glanced irritably at his curate. It was clear he was going to have to give Percy a few pointers on how to conduct himself when rubbing shoulders with England’s finest .

Naturally, the Reverend was completely unmindful of his own impropriety in sitting in the Duke of Blackmore’s drawing room dressed as Haymarket Ware.

Freddy of course, was completely unconcerned about the mayhem he’d contributed to and was now warming his bones happily by the fire.

Half an hour later, the Duke strode in, his face like thunder. Any confidence the Reverend might have possessed flew south in response to the murderous look in his grace’s eyes. Without speaking, Nicholas Sinclair strode over to pour himself a large brandy before finally turning towards them.

“You have exactly two minutes to explain yourselves.” The Duke’s voice was icy, prompting Percy to let slip a small involuntary moan. Ignoring his scatter-witted curate, the Reverend coughed. “Your grace,” he began warily.

“One minute thirty seconds,” interrupted the Duke.

Hastily the Reverend abandoned all caution. “Your grace, I have no doubt that my daughter is mindful of the disgrace she has brought to your name, but it was all a complete misunderstanding…”

“So, you are telling me that my wife did not do the things she was accused of?”

“Err, well no, not exactly…”

“Then pray enlighten me as to exactly why she elected to jump out of a hay barrel, despite being a duchess of the realm?”

“Well the thing is…”

“And exactly why, if it was all, as you insist, a misunderstanding,” the Duke interrupted coldly, “you thought to abduct your own daughter to prevent any further misunderstandings being deposited at my door.”

The Reverend opened his mouth, but nothing came out. For the first time he could remember, he was at a loss for words. All his carefully crafted arguments simply vanished into the ether.

“She assumed you didn’t love her,” Percy suddenly blurted out, adding, “your grace,” when both men turned to look at him. The Duke refrained from speaking, merely raising his eyebrows ominously, but somehow Percy found the courage to continue.

“Your wife lo-loves you, your grace,” he stammered, glancing frantically towards the Reverend who was silently regarding his curate open-mouthed. Swallowing, the small man continued, warming a little to his theme. “Sh-she could not bear to live in a loveless marriage, your grace. She feared you would turn to a mistress to … to slake your needs…”

The Reverend blinked, before interrupting vehemently, “Steady on Percy, my daughter would never say such a th…”

“She could not endure being near you without your grace’s heart being involved.” Percy’s impassioned speech got louder, and the Reverend subsided, regarding the stranger next to him in astonishment.

“Your grace … sir … please, I beg you … give Grace another chance,” the curate begged fervently. “She is truly miserable without you … as I am assured you are without her.”

Augustus Shackleford closed his eyes in horror at Percy’s final words. This was it; they were done for. Keeping his eyes determinedly shut, the Reverend waited with bated breath for the axe to fall, until at length the ongoing silence became too much.

Opening his eyes, the first thing he saw was Percy’s white face, rigid with shocked disbelief at his own presumption. Heart thudding, he reluctantly turned his attention towards the Duke, still ominously silent, dreading his grace’s wrath at the curate’s impertinence.

To his bewilderment, the look on Nicholas Sinclair’s face was far from furious. Instead, the Duke looked pensive as if he’d actually listened to Percy’s impassioned plea, and his posture almost appeared to have relaxed slightly.

All things considered, the Reverend thought he might possibly be hallucinating.

The fact of the matter was that Augustus Shackleford was entirely done to a cow’s thumb and now wanted nothing more than to take to his bed, but he feared to move lest he inadvertently rekindle the Duke of Blackmore’s ire.

All three men remained motionless. Only Freddy’s soft snoring permeated the silence. After what seemed like forever, the Duke tossed back the rest of his brandy and rang for the butler. While they were waiting, his grace eyed them both with weary exasperation, but his earlier anger seemed to have dissipated. When Huntley finally opened the door, Nicholas gave the elderly butler orders to escort their two visitors out and to have his horse brought round to the front.