Chapter Two

Percy Noon shivered and frowned up at the unseasonal weather. While there was only the lightest smattering of snow in South Devon, he suspected the story was very different further up the country. Indeed, not half an hour earlier, he'd overheard Peter Sinclair, Viscount Holsworthy and heir to the Blackmore dukedom, claim that parts of Gloucestershire were underneath over a foot of snow.

Having finished his duties in the church, Percy had stopped off at the Red Lion for a swift tankard of ale before dinner. The Viscount had apparently thought to do the same, having just returned from a sennight's visit with his uncle in Bovey. When Percy walked in, his lordship had been busy entertaining the locals with humorous anecdotes about Anthony Shackleford's first experience of fatherhood - his wife Georgiana had recently delivered of a healthy baby boy they'd named Henry.

‘Have you heard from your grandfather, my lord?' Percy asked him.

‘Only that they left Caerlaverock five days ago and are expected at Cottesmore any day now.' The Viscount shook his head and took a sip of his ale. ‘Though if they're caught up in this filthy weather, they might well be stranded for days. Anthony had a new bed brought down from Exeter and the carpenter told us that all supplies coming from Bath had been held up due to the heavy snow. Over a foot in places the fellow claimed.'

Percy grimaced. ‘I do hope the coach driver doesn't think to do anything rash. Much better if they are held up in an inn somewhere until the weather allows safe passage. I can't imagine the snow will continue for very long.'

‘Likely you're right, Percy. I hope so anyway for Mercy's sake. Being snowbound with our grandparents for any length of time is not an experience I'd wish on anybody.' He chuckled and patted Percy on the back. ‘How's Finn? Still running Lizzy ragged?'

The curate grinned. ‘That he is, my lord. And talk – I vow the lad only stops to draw breath.'

Finn was one of the Scottish orphans rescued from slavery nearly a year earlier. On returning to Blackmore from Caerlaverock, the Reverend had unexpectedly brought the lad back with him.

Though Augustus Shackleford had staunchly denied having even the slightest inkling that Percy and Lizzy might consider adopting the foundling, Percy believed otherwise, and the curate would be forever in the Reverend's debt.

The truth was that Finn had made him and Lizzy complete. Though Lizzy had never said anything, Percy couldn't help but notice the shadow of sadness behind her eyes whenever she watched children playing. But since Finn's arrival, his wife had been a different woman. The lad was as bright as a button and twice as quick. He wanted to know everything about everything, and since starting the small school in Blackmore village, he'd come on in leaps and bounds. Though Percy was not sure exactly how old he was, he guessed the boy was around seven.

Though Finn loved to talk, the only slight problem was actually understanding exactly what he was talking about , since he still spoke in a very broad Scottish accent and the lad seemed to delight in confusing his adopted parents, causing all three of them much hilarity.

In truth, Percy had never been so happy. He was responsible for the day to day running of the parish of Blackmore and Reverend Shackleford appeared as though he was finally enjoying his newfound freedom – even taking Agnes to Scotland as soon as the opportunity arose – though, in fairness, the only way he'd managed to persuade his wife to abandon her beloved chaise longue in the vicarage parlour, was to ensure a replacement was ready and waiting for her in Caerlaverock.

Of course, Percy hadn't entirely abandoned his concerns for his superior – after all, old habits die hard, and the curate had to admit to missing the Reverend when he was absent – especially their usually impromptu visits to the Red Lion, and if he was being entirely honest, the old rascal's proclivity for nosing into things that were really none of his concern…

Percy sighed and finished his ale, then nodding farewell to the Viscount and his circle of enthralled listeners, he made his way to the door. Once outside, he looked up at the ominous sky and frowned.

In actual fact, he was concerned that the Reverend was somehow in trouble – which was patently ridiculous – but Percy couldn't shake the feeling off, nonetheless.

In truth, this wasn't the first time he'd had such a feeling – indeed he'd experienced it on numerous occasions. And every time, the foreboding had preceded a turn of events that convinced him the Almighty was simply warning him that things were about to go to hell in a handcart…

***

Mercedes sighed with relief when the Black Swan Inn finally appeared round a bend in the road. Agnes had succumbed to her salts nearly two miles back, and by the look on the Reverend's face, only the fact that he was a man of the cloth (and possibly the presence of a witness – two if she counted Flossy) had kept him from actually shoving his beloved out of the carriage.

As their carriage turned off the road, Mercedes caught sight of a lone man walking alongside a horse, head down against the driving snow. Just before he disappeared from view, she spotted a small russet coloured terrier, dancing beside him. She wondered where he was going and why he wasn't riding the horse, then as their carriage clattered into the inn's courtyard, she put him out of her mind.

Half an hour later, she was established in a small but clean bedchamber with a welcome fire roaring in the hearth. Shivering, she pulled off her gloves and unpinned her bonnet, then held out her hands towards the flames to warm them. She thought back to her time in Scotland. It had been wonderful, and a huge part of her wished she could have stayed there, hidden away forever. But life didn't work like that. With a sigh, she turned from the fire, and went to look out of the window. Thankfully, the snow appeared to have stopped.

Leaning her head against the pane, Mercy stared down at the large courtyard. The entrance to the stables was just visible if she cocked her head so. The cobbled area was bustling with several ostlers coming in and out of the stalls, and she hoped that meant the horses were being well cared for. As she watched, a man stepped out wearing a hat pulled low over his face. Moments later he was joined by a small dog. After a few seconds, she realised it was the same man she'd spied walking along the road earlier.

Curiously, she stared down at him. The hat was entirely shielding his face, and for some reason she found herself craning her neck, trying to catch a glimpse of his shadowed features. She watched as he bent down to fuss the small terrier. Clearly the animal was well cared for. But more than that – she could tell the dog was loved.

At length, he stood back up and stretched out his neck, lifting his hand to rub one shoulder in a patently weary gesture. She could finally see that he wore a scarf wrapped around his face and neck. Even from this distance she could tell that his great coat was worn and shabby. His hair was long and tied carelessly back with ... something. More than anything, the man looked like a vagrant. But clearly, he'd had enough coin to stable his horse.

She watched, intrigued as he looked round the courtyard. Most of the ostlers had disappeared. After a few seconds, he lifted his hands and untied the scarf, pushing its folds down onto the top of his shoulders. She gave a stifled gasp and took a half step back. There was no way he could have heard her, but nevertheless, he immediately looked up, and as he did so, the iron-grey clouds suddenly parted to uncover a watery sun, which in turn shone directly onto the man's face, fully revealing the hideous scar that stretched all the way from his left temple down to his chin.

Somehow rooted to the spot, Mercy watched as his eyes found hers, even through the thick mullioned glass. For a second, their gazes held, then his face twisted in a wry smile as he deliberately lifted the scarf and wound it back round his face. Then, with the barest nod, he turned and went back into the stable.

***

Reverend Shackleford uttered a heartfelt sigh of relief as he stepped into the bedchamber. During the last leg from Tewkesbury, he'd felt as though his arse was in grave danger of turning into a pancake. And waking up to the sight of snow – well, if it hadn't been so deuced cold, he might have come out in a cold sweat. Being stranded with Agnes anywhere would provide a challenge for even the bravest soul – but being snowed in with her in the middle of nowhere…

He shuddered and stood in front of the fire, turning his back to warm his tender nether regions. From this angle, the bed looked almost too inviting. Certainly, Flossy thought so since she was already stretched out and snoring. Mayhap he would forgo dinner in favour of an early night. But then, what if they had steak and kidney pudding on the menu? He looked over at the bell pull. A large brandy brought up to the bedchamber while he thought about it seemed an obvious answer.

He sighed in contentment. Fortunately, having so many titled sons-in-law had its advantages since one or the other of them usually stumped up the coin for any overnight stays – including the luxury of separate bedchambers - though, admittedly, on this occasion, Stanhope had done it a bit grudgingly. The Reverend had no idea why the Earl had been so Friday faced about the idea of him and Agnes accompanying Mercedes to Scotland. It wasn't as if the chit was straight out of the schoolroom. Oh, he liked Mercy well enough, but shy and retiring she was not. In truth, she was a Shackleford in all but blood - likely it was her early introduction to Prudence…

Pushing the thoughts of Mercedes out of his mind, he turned his attention back to his stomach. Come to think of it, he was feeling a little peckish. Perhaps he would venture downstairs and ask for some bread and cheese. With a bit of luck, Agnes would already be well into her afternoon nap. A nice ripe stilton would go very well with his brandy…

***

Seating herself at a small desk in her bedchamber, Mercedes endeavoured to put the image of the disfigured man out of her mind. Likely, she would never see him again. Indeed, given the horrific nature of his scar, why would she wish to?

Pulling a sheet of writing parchment to her, Mercy took up her quill. Minutes later, she sighed and put it down again. She'd been intending to pen a letter to her friend Victoria, but the words simply wouldn't come, despite having so much news to impart. Instead, her mind kept replaying the moment the mysterious man had realised she was watching him. The sardonic twist of his lips and the barest, almost contemptuous nod of his head. What was it about him? She imagined he might well have been handsome before his injury.

Leaning back in her chair, she pondered what could have caused such a terrible wound. He didn't look old enough to have fought in the Peninsular Wars.

Bizarrely, she found herself wondering what colour his eyes were, whether his lips were really as full as they appeared from a distance. Suddenly restless, she got to her feet and went back to the window, staring down into the now empty courtyard. Would he be at dinner this evening? Somehow, she didn't think so. Even in the short time she'd watched him, she could tell he wore his loneliness like a shroud.

She shook her head impatiently and stepped away from the window. Why the devil should she care whether some wanderer made an appearance? The man was nothing to her - she had much more pressing issues to consider. Resolutely, she went back to the desk, determined to finish her letter before dinner.

***

The Reverend took a sip of his brandy and followed it with the last piece of stilton, closing his eyes, better to enjoy the sharp tanginess of the cheese together with the sweetness of the brandy. As the Almighty in his wisdom understood so well, it was the little things that made life worthwhile.

When he'd come down to the bar earlier, he'd been the only patron, but now the room was more than half full. He glanced down at his pocket watch – there was still a good couple of hours before dinner. If he returned to his bedchamber now, there'd still be enough time for a bit of a nap. Finishing the last of his brandy, he began to push back his chair, only to stop as a large torso abruptly appeared in front of him.

Heart sinking, the Reverend's eyes travelled upwards until he was staring into the saturnine features of a stranger who looked as though he'd just walked out of a gambling den. ‘May I help you, my good man?' he queried, his heart undeniably sinking.

‘Would I be right in thinking you a pastor?' The man's voice was deep, and his accent suggested he came from the Americas.

‘Indeed, I am,' Reverend Shackleford responded, his interest piqued. ‘If I'm not mistaken, you're a long way from home, my friend.' He ignored Flossy's sudden stiffening on his lap, followed by a low growl.

‘And not likely to return anytime soon,' the man responded with a heavy sigh ‘May I join you for a moment? I have something that's been troubling me that I'm hoping a man of your persuasion might be able to help me with. It should not take long.'

The Reverend swallowed a grimace, instead plastering what he hoped was a welcoming smile on his face. Any chance of a nap was disappearing faster than he could say forty winks. But then, he was God's representative on earth and all that. The Almighty was just reminding him of that. Mayhap he'd enjoyed the cheese a little too much.

With an internal sigh, he waved at the vacant chair. ‘I am here to serve. May I be so bold as to ask your name?' He hurriedly stroked Flossy's head as her grumbles got louder.

‘Reinhardt,' the man responded as he sat down. ‘Oliver Reinhardt. With a hidden d .'

The Reverend raised his eyebrows slightly. ‘Reverend Augustus Shackleford at your service, Mr. Reinhardt. From your accent I'd taken you from the Americas, but perhaps I was mistaken.'

His companion gave a tight smile. ‘My parents emigrated to Boston when I was still a babe. They came originally from Alsace.'

‘Ah.' The Reverend nodded politely and waited.

‘Do you perform marriages perchance?'

Reverend Shackleford blinked. Truly the man's words were the last thing he'd expected. ‘You have a young lady you wish to wed?' he questioned. The man nodded without expounding.

‘I'm afraid I must ask. Do you have her parent's consent?' the Reverend probed.

Reinhardt's eyes narrowed a little, then he sighed and spread his hands. ‘I am from Boston. Naturally, her parents do not wish to see their daughter taken so far away. But my love is determined to become my wife if a pastor can be found to marry us. I have obtained the required special licence.'

The Reverend frowned. The whole business was beginning to sound extremely havey-cavey. ‘I'm afraid I cannot be a party, however small, to helping a young lady wed against her parent's wishes,' he finally responded carefully.

An uncomfortable silence ensued, until at length, Reinhardt gave a light laugh. ‘I was hoping that a man of the cloth might give at least the smallest consideration to true love. But I should have known better. In America, we don't have your stilted values. Back in Boston, it is common to marry for love.'

He pushed back his chair and stood up, inclining his head slightly. ‘Thank you for your time. I will leave you to your peaceful contemplation.'

And with that he strode away, leaving Reverend Shackleford staring after him in disquiet.