“Two minutes.” Catherine stepped outside and drew in a cleansing breath. She was surprised to find Lord Somerton hadn’t moved.
“How does she fare?” he asked in a low voice.
“She had an accident, my lord.” She matched his quiet tone. “With such fine weather, we walked to church today, so I must request use of Mr. Foster’s carriage.”
“There’s no need.” He motioned to someone behind her. “Mine’s waiting.”
She peered over her shoulder and found his driver steering a well-matched team of horses. “Oh, no, my lord, we couldn’t.”
“Why not?”
Catherine lowered her voice. “She might soil your seats.”
“No need to worry.” He threw open the carriage door. To the coachman, he said, “Miggs, hand me one of the carriage blankets, then lay out another on the bench.”
“Yes, m’lord.”
Without another word, the earl accepted the proffered item and strode into the privy, eliciting a startled shriek from within. Everything happened so fast that Catherine barely had time to widen her eyes before the earl marched back outside with a blanket-covered bundle in his arms.
As he passed, Catherine caught a glimpse of her daughter’s watery blue eyes peering out, her small fingers wrapped around the warhorse she’d dropped on the church steps. Catherine’s throat closed, grateful for his thoughtful gesture. How long had it been since a man had carried her daughter in such a protective way? When an answer did not readily come to mind, Catherine fought back her tears.
He placed Sophie inside his carriage and then turned to offer his hand to Catherine. “Mrs. Ashcroft.”
She glanced from his hand to his strategically placed carriage to the church beyond. No one milling around outside could have seen past his conveyance and restless horses. Had the earl known before she had ever stepped foot inside the privy what she would find? Could he have arranged such a masterful escape in the short time she was inside? Better yet—would a murderous traitor go out of his way to protect the feelings of one small girl?
“Madam?” he said, with an encouraging flick of his fingers. “Shall we go?”
She glanced at her daughter, who sat bundled in his carriage, enduring a bout of embarrassment but oddly content inside her thick blanket. What if Cochran was telling the truth about the earl’s involvement with the French? Placing herself in danger was one thing, but allowing Sophie to come in contact with a potential murderer—possibly her father’s killer—smacked of foolhardy behavior.
Speaking of foolhardy, she searched the area near the butcher’s shop for the skeletal man. She wanted very much to avoid remembering how she’d charged across the churchyard, with her reticule aloft, determined to save her daughter from the scary stranger. All in front of a man she was supposed to somehow impress long enough to obtain his list. So much for her motherly instincts.
“He disappeared while we were trying to coax your daughter outside,” Lord Somerton said, his arm returning to his side.
Surprised, she shifted her attention back to the earl and immediately felt the effects of his probing gaze.
“Are you sure you don’t know him from somewhere?”
“Quite sure. One does not forget such a face.”
“True.” He held out his hand again. “Ready?”
“Mrs. Ashcroft,” a new voice called.
Turning, Catherine sent the vicar a welcoming smile and then glanced beyond his shoulder to see parishioners milling around the church. “Mr. Foster. I see services are over.” Behind her, she heard a muffled yelp and a scuffling noise and then a more masculine sigh.
“Indeed, they are, ma’am.” The vicar stopped a few feet away and bowed. “Lord Somerton.”
“Vicar.”
Catherine’s gaze slid to the earl, expecting to find an expression of annoyance, given his curt greeting. Instead, she found him looking as serious and sophisticated as ever. If not for the small cleft in his chin, one might liken him to one of the somber marble statues in the British Museum. But the cleft saved him from being too unapproachable.
“My apologies for missing the end of your sermon,” she said.
“I’m sure you had a good reason.” The vicar glanced at the earl’s carriage. “Are you off so soon?”
Nodding toward the now empty carriage window, Catherine said, “I’m afraid Sophie’s not feeling well.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” Mr. Foster said. “Shall we postpone our ride?”
“That won’t be necessary,” she said. “I’ll have Sophie back to rights in no time. Besides, I’m rather looking forward to our visit.”
“Vicar,” Lord Somerton said. “It is past time we get the child home.”
“Of course,” Mr. Foster said. “Forgive me for keeping you.