Page 89 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
“Iknewit. A weak man will commit any sin if there’s the prospect of a bloody good fuck at the end of it.”
Andrew winced at the man’s profanity. “Did you come with the express purpose of insulting me, Sir John?”
“I came to ask you to do the honorable thing and leave,” came the reply. “I’ve already written to the bishop with my recommendation that you be defrocked. But, if you have a shred of honor, you would relinquish your living voluntarily. If not, you’ll regret it.”
“Oh,willI?” Andrew said, meeting Sir John’s gaze. The man’s expression faltered, as if he believed it impossible that another living soul would stand up to him.
“You do not want me for an enemy,Mr. Staines.”
“Then I shall bear the misfortune as best I can,” Andrew replied.
Sir John’s eyes widened, and his body shook with another coughing spasm. “I could have you thrown out of here in an instant!”
“I believe that power lies only with the bishop,” Andrew said, “and until I hear it from his lips, I shall consider myself the incumbent of this parish. And now, given that you have not come for a social call, I must ask you to leave.”
Sir John shook his head. “Would you risk your vocation—your living—for a whore?”
“Etty is not a whore!”
“Etty, eh? Such a telling lack of propriety. Is that the name you cry when you rut her?”
“Why, you…” Andrew balled his hands into fists and took a step forward.
“Do it!” Sir John snarled. “Go ahead. Show the world the savage you really are—the base beast willing to gratify his lust at the expense of his duty. It will only strengthen the case against you.”
“And what aboutyou?” Andrew said, shaking with the effort to restrain his fury. “Do you think I don’t know why you hate Mrs. Ward so much? It’s not because you believe her to be evil. It’s because she’s the one living soul in this cursed village who had the courage to reveal the extent of your sins and speak that which the rest of us know to be true!”
Sir John’s eyes widened and he stepped back.
“Now, get out,” Andrew said. “And know this—if I receive an edict from the bishop, I shall tell him the full truth of the matter.”
“He’ll not believe you,” Sir John said. “We were at Eton together.”
“I shall tell him nonetheless. Can you guarantee that he’ll not at least wonder if there’s a shred of truth in what I say? The truth always reveals itself eventually.”
A flicker of doubt shimmered in Sir John’s eyes.
“Do you know what I also believe?” Andrew continued. “I believe that a man will always receive retribution for his sins at the end, whether in life or beyond it. You may relish the retribution that you believe I am owed, but I would counsel you to look at your own ledger before commenting on that of others.”
Sir John curled his hand around the top of his cane.
“Mrs. Clegg!” Andrew called out.
The door opened—a little too quickly—to reveal the housekeeper.
“My guest is leaving,” Andrew said. “Please be so kind as to show him out.”
“Very good, sir,” the housekeeper replied, but Sir John pushed her aside.
“I can see myself out.” He hobbled toward the front door and pushed it open. In the road was a barouche in which Lady Fulford sat. She turned toward them, a scowl on her face, and as Andrew raised his hand in greeting, she tilted her nose in the air and looked away.
Beyond the barouche, a figure was running toward the vicarage, and Andrew recognized Jimmy Gadd. He approached the doorway, and Sir John raised his cane and struck the boy in the chest.
“Out of my way, peasant!” he snarled.
“Jimmy, what’s wrong?” Andrew asked.
The boy cringed, clutching his chest, his face twisted in pain. “It’s Frannie!” he cried. “She’s run away!”
