Corey McFadden (3 page)

“Well, I suppose you’ve already heard—I know what a gossipy community you clerics have—that I’m bringing in a friend of mine to take over the Little Haver living,” Ambrose said, smiling broadly at Mr. Conway. Beside him, Joanna stiffened but allowed her face to register nothing. How dare the man be so unfeeling as to bring up the subject of her father’s replacement in such an insensitive way, not even speaking directly to her! Mr. Conway had obviously heard nothing of the sort and was sensitive enough to feel the slight to Joanna. He reddened as he stumbled through a polite denial.

“Well, you disappoint me, man. I had thought there was great commerce between our little villages. Indeed, I was counting on it.”

“Well, you see, sir, with my vicar doing so poorly this winter, and Mr. Carpenter being so ill, there hasn’t been...” the curate broke off, confused at the drift of the conversation.

“Exactly! Well, time for a change, eh, Conway? Life goes on and all that.” Ambrose paused as the door opened and the tea cart was wheeled in. Mr. Conway glanced gratefully over to the tray with its silver pots and delicate little cups.

“Well, sit down, sit down,” Ambrose gestured magnanimously at the two and took a seat himself on the small loveseat. Mr. Conway sat on a chair next to it. “Joanna, will you do the honors? Dainty little fingers and all that,” Ambrose said, smiling at her.

Joanna turned toward the tea cart, glad to face away from the squire for a moment. Honors, indeed! He couldn’t exert himself to pour. He’d have asked a servant to do it if he hadn’t had her there. Deliberately keeping her back to Ambrose, she poured the tea, waiting for him to return to the subject at hand. She was not disappointed.

“My friend, Cornelius Almquist, will be here in a few weeks. I’d hoped you could take over the pastoral duties of the area, such as they are, until he arrives. Not much to do really, it’s more of a sinecure actually, has been since Father insisted on creating it.” Ambrose tossed this off as if casually.

Joanna clutched at the teacup so tightly it could have snapped in her hand. She knew Ambrose well enough to know he was not merely too dense to recognize that he had just grossly insulted her father. No, it was deliberate cruelty that motivated this venomous man. Willing herself to be calm, she turned and offered the cup to Ambrose, who took it, giving her a merry smile. She handed Mr. Conway a cup, then took her own and sat down. There was room for her on the divan next to Ambrose, but she deliberately selected a small, carved, and highly uncomfortable chair, made for decoration no doubt, as it had no relationship to the contours of the human derriere. Better to be uncomfortable than sit down next to an adder, she thought to herself.

Mr. Conway kept his eyes on his teacup and looked as if he might go through the floor. He seemed a kindly young man with a real religious calling, and he looked unnerved by the conversation.

“Well, that’s settled, then,” Ambrose said broadly, draining his cup and setting it down on the small table next to him. He stood. Mr. Conway, too, scrambled to his feet, aware that the
tête-à-tête
was at an end, and set down his nearly full teacup with a wistful look at the steam rising invitingly from it. “If any matters arise that need some sort of spirit intervention, I’ll send them to you, and anyone who feels the need of attending a service can get himself to your village until Cornelius can get settled.” The squire smiled again at Mr. Conway, as if pleased that everything had been so simply arranged. Joanna noted through her anger that Ambrose had said absolutely nothing about recompense. Nor would he, she was sure. She stood as well, intending to get away. Now she knew what the beast’s plans were and she had no need to hear any more.

“No, you stay, Joanna,” Ambrose commanded over his shoulder as he walked Mr. Conway firmly to the door. “We have to talk about your future.” He handed the curate out to Benson as if the young man were a handful of dirty wash, forgotten within seconds. Joanna felt a fury rise again within her. Her future was none of his business if he had chosen to cut off her father’s pension and throw her out of the vicarage. She’d starve in a ditch before she discussed her private business with this crass man! She continued to stand. He turned back to face her. Was it her fancy or did his eyes glitter at her?

“Ah, my dear Joanna, I’m sure you are quite devastated by your father’s untimely demise.” He crossed the room in two long strides, his arms extended as if he meant to embrace her. With a quick step she moved behind the tea cart and set down her cup.

“Thank you for your concern, Squire,” she said as coolly as she dared.

“I wouldn’t want any hard feelings between us about the living, Joanna, but of course I must give it to someone with your father gone now.”

“Of course,” she answered simply, not choosing to remind him that he had taken the living away from her father before he died.

Ambrose sat himself rather elaborately on the small loveseat, flinging the tails of his brocaded frock coat up behind him. “Come and sit, my dear,” he said companionably, patting the small space beside him on the loveseat. Ignoring the gesture, Joanna sat again on the awkward chair near the tea cart. She fancied she saw the briefest flare of amusement in his eyes, as if he thought they were playing some game for his entertainment.

“Have you given any thought to what you will do now, Joanna?” he asked casually, sliding over toward her and reaching to pour himself another cup.

She felt the helpless anger flood through her again. Throughout the burial preparations she had flatly refused to let thoughts of her grim future surface. It was an issue that would have to be faced, but not until she had laid her precious father to rest. And now Ambrose, the cause of all her trouble, was lightly asking what she would do with no money and nowhere to live for the rest of her life. And her father not half an hour in the ground!

“I am making plans, Squire,” she said tightly. “May I ask how soon I must vacate the vicarage?” Again there was that glitter in his eyes, as if he were enjoying himself immensely.

“Well, I’m not sure that will be entirely necessary, my dear. You must leave the vicarage, to be sure—I doubt whether you’d appreciate sharing quarters with Conny, he’s a bit of a pig, do you know.” Ambrose smirked suggestively. “But there might be a pleasant alternative for you...” he paused, letting it sink in.

Joanna said nothing. She was angry and uncomfortable and not at all sure where this conversation was taking her. The sooner she could be away from this malicious man, the better. There was something about his manner that was setting her teeth on edge, and she would not play into his hands. No proposal he could make to her could be of any interest whatsoever, unless it involved never laying eyes on him again for the rest of her life.

“You see, I know that your circumstances are dire, Joanna.” His tone would have been kindly had there not been that glint in his eye, as if he were the cat and she the mouse. “Your poor father explained your financial difficulties to me the last time I saw him. I was much affected, I can assure you.” He glanced down, as if momentarily overcome with the poignant memory. Joanna would have broken the Wedgwood teapot over his head if she hadn’t thought he would retaliate.

Suddenly he reached for her, seizing her hand in both of his before she could pull away. With a gasp, she tried to pull free, but he only laughed and squeezed her hand more tightly. “Please relax, my dear,” he said smoothly, his fingers caressing hers. “You are so tense. I am sure you are most distraught at your situation and I simply wish to assure you that you have no reason for concern at all. Your future is secure here with me.”

“What?” she fairly shrieked, at the same time wrenching her hand away from his. She stared at him, aghast. What on earth did this mean?

“You will stay here, of course, Joanna. At the manor. With me.” Now his eyes glittered like an adder’s. The trap was sprung.

“You—you want me to marry you?” Joanna could barely croak out a whisper. This was some sort of a nightmare. Surely she would awaken soon.

“Marry?” Ambrose gave a great guffaw. “Good heavens, girl, when I am forced to marry I shall have to do it for money, nothing else. No, my dear.” He stood, then leaned forward, his bulk looming over her, and smiled deliberately, showing bad teeth. “I have in mind an arrangement much more pleasant than marriage, Joanna, comfortable for both of us, shall we say?”

Joanna was rigid with shock. There was no doubt in her mind now what he was driving at. He wanted her to live here as his mistress. She stared at him for a moment. Oh, he was enjoying himself, indeed! He was grinning hugely, his face too close to hers, his eyes gleaming. Abruptly, she pushed back her chair and stood, moving quickly behind the chair.

“I don’t believe there is anything further for us to discuss, Squire. I shall vacate the vicarage as soon as I can get a wagon for my things.”

Like lightning he stepped around the small cart and, reaching out, grabbed her by the shoulders. “Oh, the little parson’s daughter is offended, is she? Such high-and-mighty sentiments are all well and good for those who can afford them, aren’t they, my sweet? But you, on the other hand....” Swiftly he bent his face down to hers, his large, fleshy lips approaching her own.

The pointed toe of a short leather boot landed with great force on his white-stockinged shin. With a howl, he leaped back, releasing her from his grasp. Free, she ran to the door and opened it, then turned back to look at him. He was glaring daggers at her and rubbing his leg.

“Where is your father’s will, Squire?” she asked, her tone deliberate and cool. She could see Benson hovering with her cloak to the side of her vision a few feet away. Not even Ambrose would dare to pursue an attack on her in front of his retainer.

“There is no will, you silly bitch,” he snarled. “I told your old man that the last time I saw him.”

“But you are mistaken, Squire. I saw the will myself, and my father and I were mentioned in it.” It was a lie and a shot in the dark, but it was worth it to give him a bad turn. There was no mistaking that her shot went home. For the briefest instant he looked shaken.

“Well, you are wrong in what you think you saw. We turned the place upside down and we found no will. And that is that.” He smiled with triumph.

“There was a will and you and I both know it.” She was enraged beyond caution now. “You destroyed it,” she went on relentlessly. “You burned it here in this house while your father lay dead or dying, didn’t you?”

She watched as his face drained of color. He stared at her, mouth agape, and in that moment she knew to a certainty she was looking at a thief. A thief who would never be brought to justice.

“You can’t prove anything,” he managed to croak. “There is no will and you can’t prove otherwise.” With a visible effort he drew himself up. His face hardened. “And I’d be very careful how you throw around baseless accusations, my girl,” he said, his voice strengthening. “I could have you brought up on slander charges, you know.”

Joanna laughed outright. “I don’t think I have anything to fear on that score, Squire,” she said smoothly. “In addition to being a thief, sir, you are a coward and a fool.” And having delivered her last riposte, she turned on her heel and marched into the hallway, leaving him sputtering impotently behind. She snatched her cloak from a trembling Benson and hissed at the old man to get himself into the kitchen and out of sight immediately. No point in leaving him to catch the brunt of Squire’s wrath. With a slam of the massive door she was gone. And if she had a cold, wet walk home, her rage kept her from noticing.

Chapter Two

At Queen’s Hall, a large, dark manor house atop a rise overlooking Solway Firth in Cumberland, the sound of the furious sea breaking on the rocky beach matched the angry words that flew in Lady Eleanor’s bedchamber. It was just past dawn and the window draperies had been flung open by Sir Giles just after he had stormed into his stepsister’s room. He doubted the windows had been uncovered in years. It was unnatural how the woman craved the dark. All the better to make the caked, leaded cosmetics look smooth and flawless, he thought to himself in disgust. Now she sat up, sputtering, clutching the bedclothes to her chest, demanding in outraged tones to know the meaning of this intrusion. It was a fair enough question, after all. He hadn't been in this chamber even once in the last ten years. He’d had to use an old key borrowed from the housekeeper to unlock the door.

It was odd, looking at her in the morning light. He had been a mere seventeen, a green boy, when Henry Chapman, his father, had married the haughty Lady Margaret Holcombe, widow of an earl. Lady Margaret had one child of her own, Eleanor, an exotic, sophisticated twenty-one year-old beauty. Giles had been besotted by Eleanor’s much-touted loveliness, bewitched by those dark, slanting eyes and that white-skinned perfection. She had been much amused by his calf-eyed adoration, teasing him with a flash of leg from her night rail, a peek at a pink-tipped breast from a careless little gap in her dressing gown, a suggestive, scandalous remark. At seventeen, he had burned with helpless passion for her and with humiliation at her mocking laughter.

Now, as he gazed on Eleanor in the unforgiving light of morning, he could find little trace of the proud beauty that had haunted his adolescence. Her hair still fell in dark waves around her heart-shaped face, but now it hung lank and oily since she inevitably wore it pinned unseen and unwashed into an elaborate powdered wig. And the perfect white skin, still stretched taut over fine bones, looked pasty and unnatural, mocked by the light of the sun. No doubt she had not even bothered to scrub the leaded paint from her face before tumbling half drunk into bed a scant few hours ago. The deep, black paint smudges around her eyes had run onto the white satin pillowcase, and she reeked, even half the room away, of a cloying, stale perfume, mixed with brandy fumes. This afternoon, again, she would appear as a goddess, pale and perfect in the dim rooms where she and her chic houseguests would entertain each other with foul gossip and high-stakes card games.