No, was the truthful answer. ‘Yes, surprisingly so,’ Will lied. ‘Perhaps if you’d not mind going outside for one moment while I get up?’
And get my overenthusiastic body under control.
‘Of course. I will put the kettle on while you are bathing.’
‘Excellent.’
Icy water. Perfect.
* * *
Will stripped off on the beach and waded in, gritting his teeth against the cold, then ducked right under. He came up streaming and was standing waist-deep, shaking the water out of his eyes, when he heard the hail.
‘Your Grace! Thank God!’
It was Truscott, his Steward, standing in the stern of a large rowing boat. Judging by the width of the shoulders of the man propelling it, he had brought one of the gamekeepers with him to do the hard work.
Will waved, splashed back to shore, rubbed himself more or less dry on his shirt and was in his breeches and pulling on his boots when the boat grounded on the shingle.
‘Well done, Truscott. And—Pratt, is it not? Strongly rowed. Thank you both. When did my brother admit what he had done with us?’
‘After breakfast, Your Grace.’ Truscott stood on the beach, a stolid figure in buckskins and good plain broadcloth, his jaw set pugnaciously. ‘And I have to say, begging your pardon, Your Grace, for referring to his young lordship in such a way, but the little devil is as pleased as punch with himself over the matter.’
‘I will wager he is,’ Will said grimly. ‘And the Bishop? I am most concerned that he has suffered a great deal of anxiety.’
‘He is not happy, as you might imagine, Your Grace. But he said firmly—through Mr Hoskins, you understand—that if Miss Wingate was with you, then she would be safe and he would say a few extra prayers for you both.’ His direct gaze shifted a little. ‘Having another clerical gentleman with him was a great support, I am sure.’ Truscott seemed positively uneasy now, Will thought, mystified. ‘And is Miss Wingate safe?’
‘She is perfectly well. There is a weatherproof, if very simple, cottage on the island, so she was sheltered and warm last night. If you will wait here, I will go and see if she is ready to leave. I had left her making tea.’ Hopefully that gave the impression that last night Verity was in the cottage and he was not. And tea was so very innocuous and reassuring, he told himself as he made his way up to the clearing, dragging on the damp shirt as he went.
‘Miss Wingate! Rescue has arrived.’
He saw that Verity had already folded the bedding and packed away everything except the makings of their breakfast. ‘Oh, good. I don’t suppose they want a cup of tea. No? I’ll just put all this away in the basket then, if you will douse the fire. Should we take the hampers and bedding back with us?’
‘No. Basil can row out and collect it,’ Will said. That would be the start of the penance he was intending to inflict.
He gave Verity—Miss Wingate, he reminded himself—his arm down to the waterside. ‘Mr Truscott, my Steward. Pratt, one of the gamekeepers and a fine rower.’
Verity greeted the men with no self-consciousness whatsoever and was helped into the boat, settled in the stern and smiled cheerfully at Will as he took the space next to her, leaving Truscott to wedge himself into the prow. ‘What a lovely morning, Mr Truscott,’ she remarked, setting her deplorable hat straight on her head. ‘The storm seems to have left the air as clear as crystal.’ She chatted on as they went, mentioning the charcoal burners, hoping that none of the staff had got wet searching for them and thanking Truscott for putting her mind at rest about her father.
‘The clerical gentlemen did a lot of praying, miss. That must have been a comfort to him, to have that support.’
‘Yes, Mr Hoskins is a great assistance and help to Papa.’ But she frowned at Will as though puzzled. It seemed a strange way of putting it, now he came to think of it. Gentlemen? What other clerical support would the Bishop have? He sincerely hoped the Vicar had not called to add yet another person who knew about this. Perhaps it was Truscott’s clumsy way of referring to the Almighty.
The shore was getting closer and he realised they had not had the opportunity for a calm, honest discussion about the future. He was honour-bound to offer for Miss Wingate, however little he wanted to marry her. She, it seemed, did not want to marry him. But their wishes were irrelevant if her reputation was at stake. The gossip and speculation that would swirl about a lady who had spent the night with a duke and then refused to marry him boggled the imagination. No one would believe the reason was as simple as straightforward dislike. The vulgar would be counting the months, the ton would cut her.
‘Truscott, when we land I want you to go straight up to the house to inform the Bishop that we have arrived safely. Miss Wingate and I will follow more slowly. She must take great care not to exert herself after such an exhausting time.’
Verity whispered, ‘What are you talking about?’
‘We need to discuss exactly what we are to say and do,’ he murmured.
‘I suppose so.’ She leaned sideways a little to get a clear view of the approaching boathouse round Pratt’s wide back. ‘Your Grace, there appears to be a welcoming party. I cannot see Papa or Mr Hoskins and who on earth is that? I cannot make it out against the dazzle on the water.’
Will squinted against the early morning sun. ‘That, I very much fear, is the Bishop.’
‘It cannot be. I would recognise my own father,’ she protested.
‘Not the retired Bishop of Elmham,’ Will said, with a sinking sense of doom. ‘The current incumbent.’ And all his staff by the look of the small flock of black coats and fluttering white clerical bands surrounding the tall figure.