backward or forward. A rising chorus of shouting and stamping hooves added to the usual din of the streets.
The driver looked down. “He’ll make it in a bit,” he said. “See how he backs his team? Won’t be too long.”
The turn looked impossible to Randolph, but he accepted the driver’s expert judgment. He pulled back into the carriage, and a self-conscious silence. “Wagonload of beer maneuvering,” he said.
“Ah.” Miss Sinclair held on to the strap and gazed out at a shop next to the hack. Its window displayed coal scuttles.
He had to talk. When he would so much rather have been…not talking. So, pick up where they’d left off then. Which was where? “How do you know about my brothers’ wives?”
She started but didn’t turn. “I’ve met two of them.”
“But you said ‘your brothers have such striking wives.’ As if you meant all of them.” Had she been asking about his family? He rather liked the idea.
“Olivia was telling me. She hears everything. Including a rumor that your brother James married a pirate. I liked that one.”
“Of course he didn’t—”
“I know. I don’t suppose Lord Alan dabbles in alchemy up at Oxford either.”
Randolph laughed. “He’d be livid at the very idea.”
Miss Sinclair nodded. “Olivia said his wife was an actress.”
“Her mother was.” He knew Ariel wasn’t ashamed of her lineage.
“Really?” Finally, she abandoned the coal scuttles to look at him.
“Yes.”
“And Flora studies some obscure ancient language. That’s what I meant.”
“By interesting?”
“Unusual. What other duchess would welcome such…individual females?”
“Mama looks beyond the surface.”
“I’ve seen that she does. She really listened to me.”
This was all well and good. Hopeful, even. But Randolph was ready to talk about something besides his mother. “I thought I might look into getting some instruments for the school,” he said. “They must have a pianoforte, I think. What else?”
They fell into a discussion of how best to begin musical instruction. Once again, their tastes and ideas jibed. They seemed to have a harmony of spirit in this area that matched the harmony they produced when they sang. If only it extended a bit farther, Randolph thought.
The hack jerked again and started moving. The way was clear at last, though they were moving slowly.
“I had the funniest letter from my father,” said Miss Sinclair then. “About you and the Archbishop of Canterbury.”
Randolph stifled an oath. It had been too much to hope that she wouldn’t hear the story that made him appear so ridiculous, when her father was a senior churchman. “Shouldn’t they, of all people, forgive and forget,” he muttered.
“Forget that you—”
“If His Grace had changed out of his vestments, it would never have happened.” Randolph had brooded over this a bit. The archbishop had been rushing. The ram wouldn’t have mistaken his normal clothing for…something else.
“His vestments,” said Miss Sinclair.
“He presented such a…considerable expanse of white cloth.”
The hack slowed to a stop. “Here we are,” called the driver. Thomas jumped down from the back and opened the door.
Miss Sinclair hesitated as if she wanted to say more. But the footman was offering his hand. She hopped down. “Do you go to Mrs. Trent’s soiree this evening?” she asked Randolph.
“I’m promised to Sebastian,” he replied regretfully.
“Ah. Goodbye then.”
“Goodbye.”
Verity took a breath, made certain her hat was straight, and walked away. If only she’d had more time, she’d have gotten the whole story out of him. Although her father had said the tale wasn’t for her supposedly delicate ears. So perhaps not. The archbishop had presented an expanse of white vestment to what? Or who? Walking up the stairs to her bedchamber, Verity tried to imagine an ending. But she didn’t have enough information. Would Mama know? She’d ask, but she doubted it. Her mother never remembered juicy stories. It was one of the most incomprehensible things about her.
She had to discover what came next, Verity thought, taking off her bonnet and pelisse. Because she needed to know all about the man whose merest touch made her dizzy with longing. She’d very nearly kissed him again when he kept her from falling forward in the carriage. Right in public, in front of the coal scuttles.
Verity paced her room. She looked out the window, but of course the hack was gone. One topic her estimable school, and her kindly parents, had utterly neglected was physical passion. It had never been mentioned, let alone explained. Why, oh why had it come to her in the person of a country parson?
Thirteen
“She was drunk as a wheelbarrow, and she threw a disgusting