A Lady's Guide to Mischief and Mayhem - Manda Collins Page 0,88
there were few options.
“If Delia’s diary is anything to go by, her mother was just as persecuted by Hale as she was.”
Eversham’s chest squeezed at her degree of upset over these people she’d never even met before. For someone who hailed from the upper class, Katherine Bascomb had a depth of empathy for others that he’d rarely seen. It should have been clear to him from the moment he met her, but then he’d been too caught up in blaming her for his career troubles. Now that he’d had the opportunity to spend days in her company, he could see that it wasn’t an act. It was genuine.
And it made him want to wrap her in his arms and protect her from these strong feelings that made her grieve for the lost childhood of Delia Hale’s children.
They were walking in the direction of the church, but when the opportunity arose, he took her hand and led her into a narrow alley between two shops.
Once they were hidden from sight, he pulled her into his arms and kissed her.
Chapter Twenty-One
Eversham, we’ll be seen,” Katherine hissed once she was able to get her breath back.
“No one can see us here. And besides, in case you have forgotten, we’re married now.” Andrew’s eyes crinkled at the edges, giving him a youthful appearance.
“Mr. Eversham, this is highly shocking to my delicate sensibilities.”
He smiled, but there was something serious in his expression.
“What is it?” she asked.
“I just didn’t like seeing you so upset,” he confessed. “Especially not because of the man we’re on our way to see.”
Her eyes stung with tears. It had been a very long time since someone besides Caro had cared about her feelings.
“He’s not worth it.” Andrew wiped away a tear that had escaped. “I haven’t met him yet, but I know his type.”
“So do I,” she said emphatically. “Which is why he makes me so angry. It’s difficult enough to be a woman in this world without having one’s father deliberately set out to make you seem like a lunatic.”
“Or to be a child without one’s grandfather telling everyone that you’re illegitimate and shaming you in front of the only world you’ve ever known.”
He understood, she thought. This dear man, who might have told her to stop being such a sentimental fool, was just as angry as she was, and she loved him for it.
“I want to confront him,” she admitted. “I know you don’t want me to because we need him to talk. And I promise I won’t, but I so wish that I could.”
Andrew kissed her nose and pulled away from her. “Let’s see what happens when we get there. We may find he’s a broken man and you won’t want to bully him.”
As it happened, however, the man who greeted them in the parlor of the tidy cottage on the far side of the Crossmere churchyard was still robust-looking at sixty years or so.
Eversham had introduced himself in his official capacity, since he wagered that someone like Hale would respect authority more than the mere husband of his late daughter’s friend.
“What can I do for you, Inspector?” Reverend Hale asked once they’d seated themselves in his austere parlor.
He addressed Eversham and seemed ready to ignore Kate’s presence altogether. Except when they’d first introduced themselves and the man’s eyes had lingered on her bosom. Old goat.
“I’m looking into an incident in Lewiston, Mr. Hale,” Eversham said coolly. His demeanor was calm, and there was no trace of the anger he’d shown earlier regarding the man’s treatment of his daughter and grandchildren. To do his job effectively, Kate supposed, he would need to be able to hide his true feelings about the situations he investigated.
And that he’d trusted her enough to let that mask drop gave her a warm glow.
“I’d heard about that.” Hale frowned. “The stationer, wasn’t it? A bad business. There’s far too many out there who’ve lost their way and disobey God’s laws.”
He paused, as if waiting for Eversham to agree with him, but Andrew only watched the man with those piercing eyes that Kate knew from her own experience could be unsettling.
“It was the stationer, Mr. Green,” Eversham said, “and another man, Fenwick Jones, the steward at Thornfield Hall near Lewiston.”
“How would I know anything about it?” Hale finally demanded, a little pettishly.
“I believe your daughter, Delia, was married to the poet who once owned that estate. A man named Philbrick?”
At the mention of Delia, the vicar’s expression turned dark. “What about it?”