Darien frowned at Freddie. “I’ve not the slightest interest in her,” he said sternly. “Anyone who says I do is quite mistaken.”
“Not me,” Freddie said, throwing up his hands. “I’ve only heard it. Lady Southbridge told me at tea just yesterday.”
“Good morning!” Mr. Anglesey called out as he passed them with his aging mother.
“Morning,” Darien and Freddie echoed, and as he passed, Freddie nudged Darien. “There’s another one,” he said low.
“Another what?”
“Another bachelor who has called on the vicar’s widow of late. Had that at tea, too, you know. Seems rather a string of them have been calling, hoping to find the same success as Connery.”
Darien glared at Freddie. “The same success?”
Freddie chuckled. “You’re intent on slaying the messenger, are you, my lord? Just another bit of gossip from Lady Southbridge. It would seem the widow has removed her widow’s weeds and embraced life,” he said with a wink.
“I shan’t allow you to speak of Mrs. Becket thus, Frederick,” Darien said icily. “Hasn’t the lady suffered enough without the entire ton speaking ill of her?”
Freddie’s eyes rounded wide. “My, my, Lord Montgomery. I had no idea you were the defender of widows and the suitor of young girls. And here I believed I knew you well.”
“You know me well enough,” Darien snapped as the church bells began to toll for the final call to services. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I should join my sister and her family.”
Freddie very sarcastically extended one leg and bowed long over it as Darien passed by on his way inside. He didn’t care in the least; his mind was churning with what Freddie had said.
He took his customary seat next to his sister and glanced to the left, to the place Kate always sat, her eyes keen on the vicar, her sweet voice rising above the others in song. She was not there. For the first time since he could remember, save the Sunday following her husband’s death, Kate had not come to church services.
That was when the panic sank its tentacles firmly in him, twining around his heart and all but squeezing the very life from him. Something was horribly, terribly wrong.
The Southbridge Charity Auction Ball was to be held Friday evening, and it was the last place Darien hoped to speak with Kate before resorting to more drastic measures, of which he had not yet divined—so unaccustomed was he to this particular game of the heart—but that he would divine before he let her slip through his fingers.
In fact, it was the more drastic measures he was mulling over a very cold and wet afternoon, not unlike the afternoon that reminded him of the one he’d spent with Kate. That day was indelibly scored in his mind, a day he could not stop thinking about, could not stop reliving, every moment, every snippet of conversation, looking for a clue.
He was sitting before the fire in his study, a glass of whiskey dangling between two fingers, his legs stretched negligently before him when Kiefer entered to announce a caller. “Mr. John Forsythe,” he said as he presented the man’s card.
Bloody hell. Darien didn’t bother to pick it up—he imagined the man’s wife had put him up to it, if not the girl. “Show him in, will you, Kiefer?”
Kiefer returned a moment later with Mr. Forsythe in tow.
Darien managed, in his lethargy, to come to his feet and extend his hand in greeting. “Mr. Forsythe,” he intoned. “Frightful weather to be out and about.”
“Indeed it is, my lord. But I felt it imperative that I speak with you.”
“Imperative?” Darien asked, cocking a brow as he gestured for Forsythe to sit. “We’ve no business that I am aware.”
Forsythe laughed nervously, and flipping the tails of his coat, sat where Darien had indicated. Darien sat, too, picked up his whiskey. “A bit of whiskey to warm you, Forsythe?”
“Please, my lord.”
Darien nodded at Kiefer, who poured the man a generous amount before leaving the study and pulling the door shut quietly behind him. Darien waited for Forsythe to taste the whiskey, then lazily lifted his glass to him before downing the rest of his. “Very well, then, Forsythe. What business have we?”
Forsythe laughed again and cleared his throat. “I recognize that this might be a bit premature, my lord, but what with all the rumors going about, I thought it was prudent of me to have a chat, man to man, about . . . about what the future may hold.”
“And are you privy to what the future holds, sir? If you are, I’d very much like to know.”
That seemed to rattle Forsythe a bit; he cleared his throat again, put the whiskey glass down, and fidgeted nervously with his neckcloth. “Surely, my lord, you are aware that rumors continue to circulate about the ton as to your intentions.”
Darien chuckled. “Rumors of my intentions have been the rule rather than the exception for years now, Mr. Forsythe. I rarely pay them any heed at all.”
“Ah, well,” the man said, looking a bit ill at ease, “as these particular rumors involve my daughter Emily . . . I hope you can see the need for a bit of a chat.”