Page 88 of Heartbreaker of the Ton
“I don’t want tea,” Sir John sneered.
“Nevertheless, it’s what I offer my guests—even those that come uninvited.”
Sir John’s face turned a deeper shade of red, and he let out a volley of coughs. Andrew’s stomach churned. Why couldn’t the man at least cover his mouth?
For a moment, an image violated Andrew’s mind—Sir John’s ungainly body overpowering a young maid while he sought his gratification, his smile broadening as his victim struggled in a futile attempt to escape.
Then a ball of nausea rose in his throat and he caught his breath and looked away.
“Take a seat,” he said, gesturing to a chair.
“I’m not here to discuss pleasantries,” Sir John said, his voice a hoarse wheeze. “I’m—”
He broke off in another round of coughing. Andrew approached him, but Sir John raised his cane and blocked his path.
“Do not touch me! I should have known you were wrong for this parish. From the moment you started to incite insurrection with those sermons of yours.”
“Insurrection?” Andrew let out a laugh. “Sir John, you cannot seriously—”
“Do not tell me what I can and cannot do!” Sir John spat. “Gossip has reached my ears. Vile, sordid gossip, the like of which I should never have to hear.”
“Then don’t listen to gossip, Sir John.”
Andrew’s guest let out an explosive noise of rage, and his face darkened until it was almost purple.
“Nor should my wife have to hear such evil words.”
“So, Lady Fulford has been spreading gossip.”
“Howdareyou!” Sir John said. “I…” He bent forward, his body racked with spasms as he coughed, his chest rattling.
“You should see a doctor,” Andrew said. “Shall I call for—”
“No!” Sir John said. “I’m in no need of a doctor! What I need is for evil to be cleaned from this place—starting with the principal agent of the devil. That”—he wrinkled his nose—“thatsluthas caused nothing but trouble since she came here—claiming to be a respectable widow when the meanest of souls could see that she’s merely some whore with a filthy bastard clinging to her skirts.”
Andrew’s chest tightened at the hatred in his patron’s voice, hatred directed at the sweetest, most innocent little boy—the little boy he had taken into his heart.
The boy who, only a few days ago, he’d resolved to call his own.
“If you mean Mrs. Ward—” Andrew began.
“Mrs. Ward, indeed!” Sir John yelled. “And you were fool enough to fall for it. But this time you’ve gone too far, letting her spread her poison, while you stand by and do nothing.”
“Sir John, I’m afraid I have no idea of what you are speaking.”
“Ralph Smith came banging on my door—at the front entrance, I’ll have you know!” Sir John replied. “Bloody peasants. He came looking for that little slut he married. It seems she’s run off—no doubt with some man—after your whore poisoned her mind with tales about me.” He stepped toward Andrew, thrusting his face forward. “Me! To think—such a creature deigns to speak about me, whenIrule this village.”
“Mrs. Ward is no whore,” Andrew said. “She’s—”
“Oh,spareme! I know a fallen woman when I see one. And I know the look of a man too weak to resist the temptation. Was it worth it?”
“Worth what?”
“She spread her legs for you—yes?”
Andrew opened his mouth to deny it, then closed it again.
A smile of triumph crossed Sir John’s lips.
