Despite the robberies, the intrigue surrounding the Harmsworth Jewel, and the looming scandal over her authorship, Genevieve refused to alter her routine. That would assign the forces massing against her too much power. On the morning after the break-in, she set out on parish duties. The villagers were accustomed to the vicar’s daughter catering to their daily needs while Dr. Barrett remained in scholarly isolation.
It took her nearly an hour to realize that she had a shadow. As usual, Sirius gave the game away. She emerged from discussing church flowers at Miss Brown’s cottage to a greeting from the dog.
“Hello, Sirius.” She stepped into the street and patted him. She wasn’t sure what she thought about the nefarious Mr. Evans, but she couldn’t argue that he had a very nice dog. She grabbed Sirius’s collar. Taking him home wouldn’t disrupt her morning. “You shouldn’t be wandering the village.”
Sirius focused upon her, as if questioning her decision to haul him away. The cause for his bewilderment was soon clear. Glancing over his head, she saw a tall, lean man sauntering toward her.
Dear Lord, could she never escape Mr. Evans? She knew how the local foxes felt in hunting season. Irritation pricked her skin as she unwillingly noted the swing in his stride and the glinting eyes below his stylish beaver hat. He was dressed for Mayfair, not Little Derrick.
Releasing Sirius, she straightened without smiling. “Aren’t you engaged with my father? Something about Edward IV?”
His lips twitched. “There are so many blasted Edwards. Almost as bad as the Henrys. How is a fellow to keep track of these deuced dead chaps?”
His appearance of intellectual laziness didn’t gull her. “What are you doing here?” she asked in an uncompromising tone.
She’d never encountered him in the village before. Usually she could count on some peace when he worked with her father each morning. Apparently not this particular morning, curse him. Her grip
tightened on the basket of provisions for the parish poor.
He shrugged. “I wanted some fresh air.”
“Of course you did,” she responded sarcastically, marching toward the next parishioner on her list, Mrs. Meacham with her arthritis and poor eyesight.
He fell into step beside her. “Let me take that.”
She considered objecting, then decided that if he wanted to lug the heavy basket, it was the least he could do in return for hounding her. “Here.”
Another twitch of those lips. To think yesterday she’d extolled his sense of humor. He had no right to mock her. At least she wasn’t a thief. “Shouldn’t you be hobnobbing with the duke instead of slumming it in Little Derrick?”
He cast her a thoughtful glance. “You know, Miss Barrett, this is a public road and I’m perfectly free to use it without your permission.”
“Except you’re following me.”
He laughed softly. “A chance meeting.”
“And I’m a Dutchman.” Now she’d reached Mrs. Meacham’s house, she extended her hand for the basket. “I’ll see you at the vicarage.”
He looked up at the half-timbered façade. “Ah, dear Mrs. Meacham. I believe she received a letter from her son in the navy yesterday. She’ll need someone to read it for her.”
Genevieve gaped in astonishment. She had no idea that he’d infiltrated the village. Just what was he up to now? “How do you know that?”
“My crystal ball?”
“Don’t be absurd. And please go away.”
He still looked cheerful. Of course he was cheerful. She’d long ago realized that needling her was his favorite pastime. When he wasn’t climbing through ladies’ windows. “I promised I’d visit this morning.”
She glared at him, ignoring the way that Miss Smith simpered at handsome Mr. Evans from across the road. Charlotte Smith was welcome to him. Lying weasel he was. “When did you meet Mrs. Meacham? She never leaves her house.”
He shrugged again. “The vicar and I called the other day.” He paused. “She didn’t seem to mind.”
“I’m sure she didn’t.” Arthritis hadn’t affected Mrs. Meacham’s appreciation for a fine-looking man.
The affectionate understanding in Mr. Evans’s smile was almost as irritating as his teasing. She had a horrible feeling that he saw beyond her frosty exterior to the confused girl within. The girl who had relished kissing him. The girl who wondered if she could lure him into kissing her again.
The girl she didn’t want to acknowledge, even in the quiet reaches of the night when she lay awake, restless and longing for sin.
She made a low sound of displeasure and just managed not to stamp her foot. Nobody but Mr. Evans set her temper flaring like this. “Oh, you might as well come in.”