Sweet Rogue of Mine (The Survivors #9) - Shana Galen Page 0,47

then Pru was not really a lady and did not need a formal chaperone.

Mrs. Blimkin looked at the vicar, who looked at Pru and then back at Mrs. Blimkin. He might be an old bachelor, but he knew enough not to involve himself in household matters. “I leave the decision to you, Mrs. Blimkin,” he said, rising. “I have work to attend to. Miss Howard, if Mrs. Blimkin cannot accompany you then I will expect you to come straight home after your visit with Mrs. Northgate.”

“Yes, sir.”

He rose and retreated to his library, closing the door. Pru looked at Mrs. Blimkin, who looked back at her.

“Now you’re trying to get me shot as well?”

Pru rolled her eyes. “He won’t shoot you.”

She sniffed. “He shot that Scotsman, and he liked that man, by all accounts.”

“If he so much as looks in your direction, Mrs. Blimkin, I will jump in front of you.”

“Why?”

“To save you, of course.”

The housekeeper waved her hand. “No, I mean, why do you want to go to Wentmore so much? Do you see Mr. Pope as some sort of romantic hero? One of those brooding lords from those gothic novels you read?”

Pru started to deny it, but there was a grain of truth in Mrs. Blimkin’s supposition.

“Just as I thought. I want no part of it.”

Pru jumped to her feet and caught Mrs. Blimkin’s arm before she could return to the kitchen. “That’s not all there is, Mrs. Blimkin. Mr. Pope needs us.”

“Us?”

She made a circling motion. “All of us—the town, the people. I know I can help him.”

“From what I hear, he is beyond help.”

“Oh, Mrs. Blimkin. Please. I want to help and what else is there for me? Sitting in the vicarage every night reading sermons?”

“Pretending to read sermons.”

Pru pretended she hadn’t heard that. “Sweeping clean floors? Writing letters to my parents when it’s unlikely they will ever write me back?”

Mrs. Blimkin sighed. “I told him not to take you in.” Her gaze flicked to the closed library door where the vicar had secluded himself, as usual. Pru was startled at this admission.

“You told Mr. Higginbotham not to take me?”

“Young girl like her, I said, girl who has seen the world, I said. She will wither and die in a place like Milcroft. It might be different if you had people here, but you have no place.”

Pru raised her head. “I like to think I am making my own place, carving it out for myself.”

Mrs. Blinkin raised her brows. “So then who am I really helping? Have you thought about that? Perhaps it’s not Mr. Pope who needs help. Perhaps it’s you.”

And with that, she passed into the kitchen, leaving the door swinging in her wake.

Ten

Due largely to what he considered harassment on Clopdon’s part, Nash found himself washed, dressed, fed, and upright before the noon meal. Nash tried to eat the food Mrs. Brown put before him. It was not too vile if he doused it liberally with salt. The pounding coming from the workmen still made him flinch, but he was determined not to hide under his bed or in his dressing room.

Instead, he wandered the house. Upon hearing voices from below stairs, he went to investigate and learned Clopdon was interviewing footmen. Nash rather wished he would interview cooks, but he thought it unwise to give the valet any more ideas. Instead, Nash left Clopdon to his interviews—there seemed little other choice—and made his way back upstairs. He could hear Mrs. Brown speaking to someone at the door. His heart sped up even though he knew it was far too early in the day for Miss Howard to call.

“I understand that, Mr. Forester, but you will have to call another time.”

Forester. Why did that name sound familiar? Forester...

“You’ll have to allow me to speak with him sometime, Mrs. Brown. I get no reply from the earl and something must be done before winter or Mr. and Mrs. Smith will starve.”

“What is the problem?” Nash asked, moving into the vestibule so he could be seen.

“Mr. Pope!” Mrs. Brown said. “I thought you would be...” She didn’t finish, but he knew what she thought. He would be cowering from the noise. Indeed, it was all he could do not to flinch visibly at the hammering.

“I am feeling better today, Mrs. Brown. Mr. Forester, I believe?” He nodded at the shape in the door. “You are my father’s land steward, is that right?”

“Yes, sir. If I might come in, I wanted to discuss one of the