The Wildest Rake

One cold afternoon she met Sir Rendell outside the house as she left, and, since he blocked her path, making a sardonically elaborate bow, was forced to pause and curtsy.

‘And what essential business takes you from home today?’ he asked ironically.

‘I have to go to church,’ she said stiffly.

‘On a Tuesday?’ His brows arched in mockery.

‘I am making new hassocks for our pew,’ she defended.

‘Your ingenuity is admirable,’ he drawled, nodding at this unlikely explanation. ‘Each time you have a new excuse to avoid my visits.’

She opened her eyes innocently at him. ‘But, sir, you only come to see my father, after all.’

‘Oh, do I?’ he retorted, watching with amusement as her cheeks turned bright pink.

She gave him an angry, resentful look. He could always make her blush. She must remember not to rise to his bait in future. Lately, she had managed to limit her replies to the flat responses of polite indifference. It had amused her to see him circling, trying to sting some other response from her.

When she looked back, he was frowning, his grey eyes dark with some new thought. ‘I am surprised, however, that your mother allows you to do so much sick visiting among the poor. You could easily take some contagion. Such matters are best left to those paid to do it.’

‘It is our Christian duty to visit the sick,’ she said, angrily determined not to budge from her position. It was the truth. Why, then, did she feel so silly in saying so?

His lip curled sarcastically. ‘Of course, it has no remote connection with the saintly doctor, whose precepts you follow with such ardour and devotion?’

‘Why do you dislike Andrew?’ she asked angrily. ‘I detest cynics. They are too petty-minded to be able to appreciate true heroism and sacrifice.’

His grey eyes sparked down at her. ‘How precious you become whenever you talk about him,’ he said in amused scorn. ‘I do not dislike the noble physician. I merely object to your constant adulation of him. I cannot help suspecting the motives of a saint who encourages a pretty girl to worship him.’

‘He does nothing of the sort,’ she flared.

His eyes narrowed, alert and watchful. ‘Oh? Do I take it, then, that he is not responsive to your adoring smiles?’

She turned and walked hurriedly away from him, cheeks burning.

He did not follow.

Nan hobbled to keep up with her, mumbling angrily until Cornelia slowed her pace.

‘That man is here too often,’ Nan said. ‘I don’t like him.’

‘Do you think I do?’ snapped Cornelia.

Nan gave her a hard look. ‘I don’t know,’ she said slowly. ‘I sometimes wonder.’

Cornelia tossed her head. ‘You need not. I hate and detest him. And he knows it.’

Nan was silent.

They spent an hour in the echoing church, shivering as the chill of the stone struck through their clothes, and then, with relief, made their way home.

They met Andrew on the road. Cornelia’s heart contracted. He looked grey and worn, but he smiled when he saw them, his blue eyes startlingly alive in his thin features.

‘How is your housekeeper?’ she asked.

‘She died in the night,’ he said heavily, the smile disappearing as though it had never been. ‘Another battle lost.’ His lids were blue with fatigue, she saw, the dark shadows beneath his eyes as thickly etched as if they had-been drawn in charcoal.

‘You have been up all night with her,’ she accused. ‘You should have some rest. How long can you go on like this?’

‘I am as tough as leather,’ he said lightly. ‘You must not judge by my appearance. One good night’s sleep and I shall be fighting fit. But I must engage a new housekeeper today. My house is a shambles. I had a maid while there was some hope of recovery, but she was a useless creature. Do you know of anyone who would be glad of a good place?’