again. More than just the reading and writing that Maggie had taught him as a boy. He’d had to re-learn how to walk and talk. How to think. Most importantly of all, he’d had to prove that he had the aptitude to change. The raw material, as his grandfather had called it.
“No use wasting my time if you haven’t the capacity for it,” he’d often said. “You can go straight back to where you came from. I’ve no patience with a lad who won’t put in the effort.”
St. Clare had put in the effort and more.
He’d studied ceaselessly, his hours in the schoolroom broken only by hours spent with his fencing instructor or practicing his shooting. In time, he’d mastered pistols and swordplay. Even more difficult, he’d learned how to master his own unruly temper.
None of it had been easy. Every day had ended in physical and mental exhaustion. And then he’d gone to sleep, only to start over again the next day and the next. Training and studying and learning, until he didn’t only look and act different, he was different. Until Nicholas Seaton was dead and a new man had risen in his place. A gentleman. A nobleman.
It had taken ten years to effect the transformation. A complete one by outward appearances. But one small part of Nicholas Seaton had resisted the change. A piece of his heart had remained, beating as strongly as ever, pure and true and steadfast for Maggie Honeywell.
No matter how long it takes, I will come back for you.
“I never forgot her,” he said. “She’s the only person on this earth I’ve ever loved.”
“Love. You bandy that word about a good deal in relation to your Miss Honeywell.” Lord Allendale reached for his glass of wine. “Perhaps it’s time she and I made each other’s acquaintance.”
Beasley Park
Somerset, England
Summer 1817
“You’ve been vicar here for some time, it seems.” Lionel Beresford’s tone was deceptively lazy, but there was no mistaking the glint of alertness in his gaze. Seated beside his mother on the scrolled-arm silk sofa in the Beasley Park drawing room, he’d long given up any pretense of casual conversation.
“Going on four decades,” Mr. Applewhite replied from his place near the dwindling fire. “Isn’t that right, Miss Honeywell?”
Maggie glanced up from her embroidery. She’d been attempting to sew ever since they’d removed from the dining room. A fruitless occupation. She had no skill with a needle. “It is. Mr. Applewhite was vicar here before I was born.”
Aunt Harriet snored softly from her chair across from the vicar. She’d drifted to sleep almost as soon as she’d sat down. Across the room, Jane tinkled quietly on the keys of the pianoforte, mindful not to wake her.
Fred stood nearby, flipping through a stack of sheet music. He was incredibly proud of his singing voice and had threatened to entertain them after dinner.
“Four decades?” Mrs. Beresford tittered. “Such a long while! I daresay you know the people here better than anyone.”
“I expect I do,” Mr. Applewhite conceded. “Though not as well as my wife did, God rest her soul. She could recite chapter and verse on everyone in the county.”
Maggie never thought she’d live to see the day when she regretted the passing of Mrs. Applewhite. The vicar’s wife had been a font of local knowledge. She’d also been the bane of Nicholas Seaton’s existence, and a great critic of Maggie’s behavior, too.
In his wife’s absence, the vicar had seemed like the next best person to question about the mysterious Father Tuck.
Maggie had wanted to call on him at the vicarage, but after returning from Mr. Entwhistle’s, and finding that Fred and the others had come back early from their visit to town, there had been no possibility of getting away. Not alone. She’d had to settle for inviting Mr. Applewhite to dinner the following evening.
Unfortunately, between Fred and the Beresfords, she’d scarcely managed to get a word in edgewise, let alone a moment for private conversation.
“I wonder if she ever knew my cousin?” Lionel asked. “John Beresford, Viscount St. Clare. A strapping blond fellow. Quite tall.”
Maggie’s muscles tensed. The past week had been one long fishing expedition on the Beresfords’ part. Abetted by their sneaking servants, the two of them wheedled and probed, casting about for any scraps of information that might reveal some connection between St. Clare and Somerset.
“Was he a resident here?” Mr. Applewhite asked, frowning. “I don’t seem to recall the name.”
“Indeed not,” Maggie replied. “Lord St. Clare has never been to Beasley