Page 149 of Oddity of the Ton
“We’ve had nobody by that name.”
“Are you sure?”
“I recall the names of every guest who’s stayed here, sir. There was a Mr. Howarth who stayed here with his sisters, on their way to a house party. Perhaps that’s who you mean?”
“No—this would have been a woman. Unmarried.”
“As I say,” she said, a hard edge to her voice, “we respect our guests’ privacy.”
“Of course—an admirable quality, Mrs. Ham. I didn’t mean to intend otherwise.”
“Do you have much to occupy yourself with today, sir?” she asked. “My husband tells me you weren’t certain how long your stay was going to be.”
“I fancied an impromptu vacation by the sea,” he replied. “Somewhere quieter than Southend or Cromer. I might undertake a little exploring.”
“If you wish to explore on horseback, we’ve a mount that should be suitable,” she said. “A gelding—sixteen hands, with an excellent temperament, who responds well to strangers. You only need ask and I’ll have Tom saddle him up.”
“That would do very well, Mrs. Ham, thank you.” Monty resumed eating, and, recognizing her cue for dismissal, the woman curtseyed and exited the parlor.
Devil’s toes—the last thing he wanted was to arouse suspicion. Unfortunately for him, Mrs. Ham seemed to be that rare beast—a woman averse to gossip, despite all the tales she must have picked up from travelers over the years. Perhaps he’d have more luck with the husband, who seemed ruled by his wife.
After finishing his breakfast, Monty returned to the main hallway, remembering this time to stoop on his way through the doorway. Older buildings had their charm, with their uneven floors and beams that stretched across the ceilings, but those ceilings were low enough to necessitate a man of his height having to duck to avoid smacking his forehead on a door lintel, as he’d done last night on entering his bedchamber.
He strode along the hallway, toward the doors leading outside. Several oval-framed portraits adorned the walls—likenesses of Mr. and Mrs. Ham flanked the candle sconce beside the parlor door, followed by a portrait of a fox terrier, the same yappy creature that had nipped at his ankles yesterday. He continued along the hallway, glancing at each painting, until he came upon the one at the end.
It was the likeness of a man. The subject had strong features—a high forehead, sharp cheekbones, and deep-set, wide eyes that looked out at the observer. Their clear expression showed a sharp intelligence, and the firm set to the jaw spoke of a strength of character that few men possessed.
Monty took a closer look, and caught his breath.
“Are ye all right, sir?” Mr. Ham said from behind. “It’s a fine likeness, isn’t it?”
“Is it an old drawing?”
“No, sir—it was drawn recently. Last month, I think.”
“Was it drawn by the same hand that painted all the seascapes?”
“That’s right, sir, though this one’s not for sale.”
Monty studied the portrait, taking in the pencil strokes that had been drawn with care and love.
A love he recognized.
No—it can’t be…
His heart somersaulted in his chest. “Wh-who’s the subject?”
“That’d be the vicar, Reverend Staines.”
“Thevicar?”
“As fine a gentleman as you’re ever likely to meet. He’s Earl Staines’s youngest, but he lacks the reckless arrogance seen in so many young folk these days.”
“A veritable paragon.”
If he recognized Monty’s facetious tone, Mr. Ham showed no sign. “That he is. The village is waiting to see who he’ll settle down with. A vicar needs a wife, don’t you agree?”
“A-and the artist?” Monty asked.
