The Deceptive Lady Darby (Lost Ladies of London 2)

The reverend gulped, and his face grew pale.

Christian glanced at the stained-glass window, at the rainbow of tiny pieces depicting the crucifixion. “I’ll not discuss a matter of indelicacy in a house of God. I would ask you to step outside.”

The reverend clasped the lapels of his black coat and raised his chin. “The Lord hears everything. There is nothing a man can hide from him.”

Christian snorted. Contempt for the reverend oozed from his pores. “Then the Lord must know you’re a hypocrite, the biggest sinner in the parish. Now, follow me outside else I shall drag you out.”

Wilmslow’s bottom lip trembled. He raised his hands to the heavens. “Let your gentle spirit be known to all men. Is that not the way of God? Is there any need for violence?” Wilmslow spoke in the principled tone he used to convey his superiority. “If I have wronged you, my lord, speak of it now.”

Christian stepped closer. “Outside!”

“Very well. Very well.” Wilmslow clapped his hands to together in prayer. One last attempt to persuade the Lord to intervene. “I shall do as you ask.”

Christian turned, stormed out into the grounds and came to an abrupt halt on the grass amid the weathered headstones.

Wilmslow scurried behind. “Wh-what is this about?”

“It’s about the letters you wrote to my wife.” Christian swung around to face him. “The letters you’ve spent two years trying to locate in

case the whole village should discover the depths of your depravity.”

“Letters?”

“I have proof you sent them. I know you committed adultery. What I don’t know is how you stand there and preach to the masses every Sunday.”

Wilmslow withdrew a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the beads of perspiration on his brow. “You’ve made a mistake. Everyone knows Mr Watson is the one guilty of the sin you mention.”

How fortunate for the reverend that Mr Watson had not lived to defend himself.

“Perhaps I should take the letters to your wife, Wilmslow, see what she makes of my theory.”

“My wife is in London, gone to visit her sister.”

London? The woman rarely left the village.

“I’ll have the truth from you one way or another.” Christian shrugged out of his coat and placed it on the ground.

“What are you doing?”

“I am accusing you of adultery. Indeed, after you’ve fought for your honour, I intend to hire a solicitor to prosecute you for the crime.”

“It is not a crime to have relations with another man’s wife,” the reverend countered.

“No. It’s not.” Christian was glad he’d read the letters as he recalled the mention of a lewd act conducted in his orangery. “But I can prosecute you for trespass and misuse of my property. As such, I shall press for financial compensation.”

The reverend’s face turned ashen. A court case would ruin the man in more ways than one.

Christian held up his fists as taught in the boxing salons in his youth. “I seek the truth, nothing more.”

Wilmslow swallowed deeply. He glanced back over his shoulder and then once to the heavens. “The lord tests the righteous and the wicked. How can a man preach forgiveness if he has never sinned?”

“Is that a confession?” If Wilmslow expected sympathy, he’d get none. Christian lurched forward and grabbed the preacher by his high-cut waistcoat. “Let’s hear it all.”

“It-it started when I attended Cassandra at Morton Manor.” Wilmslow’s face turned berry red, and his brown eyes flashed with fear. “She complained of hearing the voices of demons in her head.”

Christian shook him. “And what, you thought to ride the devil out of her?” He didn’t care for his crude comment. He’d not lower himself to Wilmslow’s standards. “I think it’s time you moved to pastures new.”

“But I have repented every day for what I did.”