Holy Scoundrel (8 page)

Prout beamed.

Lacey thought she might be ill.

CHAPTER FIVE

At first Lace took the words at face value. Gabriel had sold himself in marriage for the price of a church? A slap could not have hurt more, though she knew she had no right to feel the sting.

But when she considered the full ramifications of Prout’s malicious disclosure, Lace realized that Gabe could lose his livelihood if he didn’t marry Olivia. Not only was it selfish of Prout t
o
sel
l
her daughter for more power, but to threaten to take over a man’s life, in a way, never mind his livelihood. But Lacey’s titled mother had been no different. Why blame Prout? Why not blame the aristocracy in its entirety?

What a waste of time to mourn the loss of what could never be. She’d known before coming home that she and Gabriel could never be. And now, well, facts were facts. They could not be changed. But Bridget’s happiness was another matter.

Nearby, Bridget had begun backing away from the dour look in her father’s eyes—instigated by Prout’s revelation—which made Lace set aside the pain in her own chest. She wished she and Cricket fit in Merry’s safe, little box, the two of them alone together, the lid on tight.

“The vicar should send that one away.”

Lace heard the loud whisper, turned toward the sound, and Prout gave her a you-heard-me nod. “Olivia can take the little one in hand.”

“We don’t nee
d
her kin
d
,” a matronly follower said.

“See here!” Julian snapped at the harpies. “Lacey Ashton is worth a dozen of the precious Olivia.” He ignored the women’s outrage. “She has more moral fiber than any woman I know and a kinder heart than most. It’s an affront to hear your vicious attack. I suggest you take yourself off to the rock beneath whic
h
you
r
kind gather.”

Lady Prout flushed, Olivia squeaked and fluttered, and Gabriel regarded Lacey with a look fit to turn her to stone.

Loathing, Lacey saw in his eyes, or was it her own for him she saw reflected there?

She removed his mackintosh, tossed it his way, and allowed Julian to lead her and Bridget toward the carriage house door, Gabriel yelling for her to take the coat against the weather, but she ignored him.

“Cricket,” she said, before rushing into the rain. “Let’s run between the raindrops.
”
And pretend the water on our faces isn’t tears.

The following morning, Bridget climbed into Lacey’s lap the minute Lace sat, last at table, but those assembled seemed no less anxious for her appearance than they had been the first day for Bridget’s.

Perhaps they expected her to appear in traveling clothes after the preponderance of “devil talk” the day before. “I can face Prout,” she declared. “Mercy, I can fac
e
anythin
g
for Bridget,” she added. Let Gabriel make of that what he wished. It would take more than a vicious old woman to chase her away. “Why is everyone so quiet,” she asked. “Goodness, you’d think—”

Gabriel produced a letter and held it out to her.

Lacey regarded it with furrowed brow. She looked at Mac, stoic, at Ivy, who nodded for her to go ahead and take it.

She grasped Bridget’s chin and turned her face so they were nose to nose. “Do you know what’s in this silly letter?”

Bridget nodded. “Somebody’s dead. Your distinct—”

“Distant,” MacKenzie corrected.

“Distant,” Bridget repeated. “Your distant cousin. He’s a man. NannyMac cried. Papa said a bad word.”

Lacey’s hands began to tremble. She stared at the letter in the center of the table in the same way Bridget had regarded her mother’s trunk, wishing she understood yesterday this feeling of fear mixed with dread. “Bridget,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Tell me his name.”

“Lace,” Gabriel said.

“I’ll do this my way, if you please.”

Gabriel sighed. “MacKenzie, can’t you do anything with her?”

“I am in the room, Gabriel,” Lacey said. “Bridget? His name?”

“Something . . . Davenwood.”

“Daventry?” Lace heard the panic in her own voice. “Not Nick.” The faces around the table blurred before her eyes.

Ivy grasped her hand. “It’s Victor, little one, not Nick. Knickerbocker’s all right. Had a letter from him just last week.”

Lacey released the sob she’d been holding. Mac tried to take Bridget, but Lace wouldn’t let her go. “No. Don’t. I’ll be fine.” She hugged Bridget close and looked up at Gabriel. “How did it happen?”

“You know what an adventurer he was. Got lost in some godforsaken stretch of Canada.”

“Then, they don’t— That is, they have no . . . proof?”

“He’s been missing for more than two months in a remote area, Lace. Proof enough.”

She nodded, saddened despite her dislike of Nick’s older brother. Then she realized who stood to inherit. “Ivy, this means Nick will inherit the title, the house, my old house. He might come home!”

Ivy’s smile was forced, probably because he too had seen Gabriel’s face turn to stone. What an idiot she was. Gabriel had always been terribly jealous of her friendship with her cousin Nick and it only got worse over time. Surely worse after she named Nick as the father of her stillborn babe.

No, Gabriel was the idiot. Nick was her dear friend. Gabriel, the love of her life. Which he should bloody well know.

“Cricket, my sweet,” Lacey said. “How would you like to have a dress-up tea party this afternoon and invite some of the little girls we met yesterday at the puppet show?” Lacey would allow no more sadness to mitigate Bridget’s joy. Victor had lived a long and wild life. She would mourn him privately.

Ivy cleared his throat. “Lace, as the closest member of Victor’s family here at home, it’s rather up to you to arrange for a memorial service.”

Lacey regarded the stern faces around the table, one in particular. “Gabriel, I would like a memorial service a week from today. Announce it in church on Sunday, would you?” She turned to Ivy and nodded firmly, putting period to his censure. “There, that’s done.”

“Nanny, tea party for . . . oh, ten at four o’clock.”

“Bridget, I’ll get the pony cart, you get your cape. We’re going calling.”

Gabriel stood in the library window and watched the pony cart wend its way toward the village until it slipped entirely from sight.

Nick Daventry. Nick Daventry. Nick Daventry. Even the cadence of the name dogged him as Gabe made his rounds about Rectory Farm to speak to his workers about the haying in one field and the flax in another.

A gentleman farmer, when vicariate duties allowed it, Gabriel liked his life, though his woolly flock didn’t impose nearly as great a challenge as his flock of churchgoers. God’s knew, he even enjoyed tossing down a mug or two with a few of his non-churchgoers on occasion.

Only one thing in his life had been missing. And now she was back. But was she his? For a day or so, he’d thought perhaps she was. Then old Lady Prout reminded him that for months he’d been treading water in a shallow pond, on rocks that could cut you and make you . . . him . . . mak
e
hi
m
bleed. He’d been pretending not to understand that the designing old crow would only hand over the funds he needed to build a new church if he married her puppet of a daughter.

He’d thought if he handled the woman just right, the church contribution could be made and Olivia could look elsewhere for matrimony. Lord
,
h
e
was as bad as Ivy with his puppets.

Gabriel hated that the bishop was forcing his hand. They didn’t need a new church. The existing one was fine, if not as grand as the old prelate would like.

Yesterday at the puppet show, when Prout insulted Lacey, Gabriel had wanted to give Prout a proper set-down, tell her what he really thought of her . . . till she mentioned the church. He’d shut his mouth then to consider his options, and there’d been Gorham, Lacey’s veritable knight in shoddy armor, charging her attacker with a bejeweled lance. It appeared that even fake jewels glistened with a light on them.

That namby-pamby popinjay of a pauper had more teeth than brains; couldn’t Lacey see that? Yes, Gorham had certainly shone bright agains
t
hi
s
poor performance in defending Lace, Gabe thought morosely. The truth was, he’d feared venting feelings that would open a Pandora’s box. To his mind, admitting passion was a great deal worse than Prout’s ire.

First Gorham to contend with, and, botheration, now Nick was coming home. Gabriel had never been more frustrated in his life. Well, yes, he had been—more broken, at any rate.

Just the name Daventry brought it all back. Lord, he detested the man.

Gabriel remembered how frightened he’d been after he and Lacey had made love for the first time. Frightened and elated at one and the same time and eager, as well, to love her again despite the possible ramifications of their fall from grace.

But no worry had marred the perfection of their love in Lacey’s bright, happy eyes, or so he’d thought. Lace had glowed. She’d smiled. She was happy, at least for a time.

Then he heard the gossip, whispered throughout the parish. The Lady Lacey Ashton was with child. Disgraced. Her mother was enraged. He’d heard the woman had ranted and demanded for days that Lacey name the father, swearing to break the man responsible for her daughter’s fall.

Despite those threats, Gabe had gone to the Towers, hat in hand, to face the furious and powerful harridan, knowing he stood to lose his living, his very heritage—his grandfather’s and his father’s parish—Lacey’s mother was that mad.

Six months ordained, and he’d become a worse shepherd and manager than his forebears, and that was some grand failure.

Oddly enough, Gabe hadn’t cared. All he’d ever wanted was Lacey. Just the thought of the child they’d created with their love and, Lord, he’d been as mindlessly happy as he was mindlessly frightened.

He scoffed now remembering what a fool he was.

Lacey had met him that morning in the blue salon, just before her mother came down.

If he lived to be a hundred and ten, he would never forget Lacey’s words to him on that crisp fall day. “It’s not yours, Gabriel. My baby’s not yours. Nick Daventry is my child’s father.”

The words hurt even now. In that first horrific moment, they might have been an axe blade between his shoulders for the pain he’d felt.

From that day to this, as far as Gabriel was concerned, Nicholas bloody Daventry could go straight to hell.

Later, around six, he returned to the Rectory still troubled and noticed that the best parlor looked as if squirrels had taken up residence.

In the doorway, he stepped on something that cracked and picked up the arm of an ugly French figurine that had once belonged to his grandmother.

MacKenzie, mumbling and sweeping up its remains by the hearth, hadn’t yet noticed his presence. Neither had anyone else.

For the first time that day, Gabe felt himself relax.

Lacey had her head tucked beneath the front of the camel-backed settee, her crinolines bobbing into the air, affording him a lovely and shocking view of her sweet bottom, clad in what he believed were calle
d
pantalette
s
.

Never before, Gabe realized, had lust and tenderness and the urge to chuckle or wring someone’s neck, come upon him all at the same time.

“Can you see it?” Lacey called, obviously searching for something. But whom did she address?

“I can, almost, but it’s wiggling a lot,” Cricket said, either from behind or beneath said piece of furniture, judging by her muffled response.

“You have it, then?”

“Ouch. Not anymore.”

“Where did it go?”

“Up. Inside.”

Lacey’s quivering petticoats gave Gabe the impression she had suffered a shock, and before they finished their flutter, she backed out and sat on her knees, hands on her hips. “Bridget Kendrick, are you telling me that your kitten has disappeared into the sofa stuffing!”

What kitten? Sofa stuffing?

Cricket came tottering into sight on shoes with heels thrice her size, trailing a god-awful green dress and a red boa for half a yard, and wearing a straw hat his mother had favored. From the hat’s brim dangled a clump of papier mâché cherries, topped by a molting bluebird.

Gabriel barked a laugh and clapped a hand over his mouth.

Bridget and Lacey looked up in unison, both regarding him with stunned surprise. MacKenzie grumbled the louder—for her share of attention Gabe would wager—so he confiscated her broom and sent her on her way. “Just see to dinner,” he said. “We’ll take care of everything.”

Her rusty old Scot’s laugh mocked him as MacKenzie walked away.

Gabe turned back to the two people he loved most in the world. One would rather step around him as look at him. The other was bound to break him for good one of these days, especially if she discovered the continued existence of his foolhardy love. Yet he wallowed in their regard, too beguiled to move from their proverbial paths.