Page 99 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
“When do you not, Mrs. Clegg?”
She rolled her eyes. “Very well. I just wanted to say that you were wrong.”
“Wrong?”
“When you said you were better off without her.”
He winced. “Eavesdropping at my door, were you?”
“When one’s employer makes a declaration at the top of his voice, one cannot help but hear it,” she said. “You may have believed the liquor to assist you in securing your conviction when your heart speaks to the contrary, but I’ll wager all it has given you is a sore head. Perhaps the time has come to take heed of your own sermons. The trust of another soul is a gift—a precious gift to treasure.”
“I don’t know what—”
“Now, you’re not going to disappoint me again, are you?” She folded her arms. “Have you never stopped to consider the amount of courage it takes to defy convention and stand up for what is right? A woman—with little power over her fate—must choose her battles wisely. You may view her as an incomer who disturbed the peace of the village, but that peace came at a price. That price was innocent souls such as Freda Gadd and Loveday Smith. And Mrs. Ward was the only one of us brave enough to stand up and put a stop to the payments. Yes, it’s come at a cost to those who believed in the perfection of village life. But that cost is better borne than the suffering of innocents.”
He stared at her—the prim housekeeper always ready to maintain convention and order. Where had that impassioned speech come from? Did every woman conceal a warrioress beneath her subservient exterior?
He swallowed another mouthful of coffee.
“Good,” she said. “Now, drink it all up, and I’ll be back with your infusion.”
He drained the cup, and she gave a satisfied nod.
“Men!” she huffed. “They never know what’s best for them.”
“I don’t know how I’d manage without you, Mrs. Clegg,” he said.
“Perfectly fine, I assure you,” she replied. “When faced with adversity, the finest of characters will always find the resources to survive.”
“And you think me a fine character?” he said. “You’ve never said as much.”
“I’m not a flatterer, vicar. But perhaps what you should ask yourself is if another exists without whom your life is incomplete.”
“Is that—”
“From one of your sermons?” She shook her head. “No. But it’s the best advice I can think of to give to a man in love.”
He opened his mouth to deny it, then closed it again. Mrs. Clegg was the kind of woman who had the ability to sniff out an untruth as a pig sniffed out a prize truffle—though doubtless she’d clip his ear at the analogy.
She smiled, then nodded and exited the study.
*
By the timeAndrew approached the parlor, his headache had lessened a little, though whether that was due to the restorative properties of feverfew or the distraction brought about by its bitter taste, which still lingered at the back of his throat, he knew not.
He pushed open the door. A small, neat, balding man sat in an armchair beside a round table laden with tea things. As Andrew entered, he rose, clicked his heels together, then issued a stiff bow.
“Mr. Turnbull,” Andrew said. “A pleasure. Forgive me for not waiting on you when you arrived.”
He extended his hand, but the man merely stared at it. Then he bowed again. “Viscount Radham.”
Andrew froze. “Wh-what?”
“Forgive me, your lordship. May I be the first to—”
“No,” Andrew whispered. He stumbled forward, and the lawyer grasped his hand. The strength of the man’s grip belied his diminutive appearance. Perhaps he was in the habit of propping up clients at risk of swooning, given that much of his occupation would necessitate the imparting of bad news.
Viscount Radham.
