“With the house in this state, who can tell?” Mrs. Warren said.
“But they didn’t touch the library?”
“They did. Oh, they did. My poor books,” the vicar quavered. “They tied me to a chair, the savages, and went through everything. Word of my discoveries must have spread. Once I make my findings about the princes public, the cat will be among the pigeons, never you doubt it.”
Richard did doubt it. These thieves searched for something of more tangible value than academic glory. Had they found it? Genevieve still hadn’t addressed him and something in her tense, pale features stopped him asking.
Mrs. Warren stood, her hands fluttering at her waist as if she was unsure what to do with them. “We can’t leave the house like this.” She glanced out the window. “Goodness me, what do they want?”
Richard stepped to her side, taking her arm. A crowd of villagers marched up the back lane. He leaned out the window. “Mrs. Garson, the vicar’s in no condition for visitors.”
“We’re not visiting, Mr. Evans,” the widow called up. “We hear everything’s a right old mess. And that silly girl Dorcas isn’t up to much beyond pushing a duster. We’ll have the house shipshape and Bristol fashion before you can say boo to a goose.”
By God, Richard liked these people. With a few exceptions like Cam or Jonas, he couldn’t imagine any of his so-called friends rallying to his assistance if he was in trouble.
“Mr. Evans, you should go home,” Fairbrother said coldly behind him. “With the vicarage in disarray and violence brewing, the Barretts need some peace.”
“No, no, not Mr. Evans,” the vicar wavered, clutching the shawl to his throat despite the fire burning in the grate. “Thieves wouldn’t dare threaten me with a strong young man in the house.”
Richard waited for a sign of approval from Genevieve, but she turned to stoke the fire. He frowned. What was wrong?
“They attacked today.” Impatiently Fairbrother slapped his gloves against his beefy thigh. “Evans wasn’t much use.”
“He wasn’t here,” the vicar retorted with unexpected energy. He looked past Genevieve to where Richard leaned against the window. “Please say you’ll stay. Surely it’s not presumptuous to call upon our friendship.”
For one burning moment, Genevieve’s glance fell on him. But when he tried to catch her eye, she fussed with refilling the posset cup.
“Of course I’ll stay,” he said, disregarding Fairbrother’s huff of disgust.
Curse his preternatural awareness of Genevieve. Her back was turned, but he saw her shoulders stiffen. Why wouldn’t she look at him? It seemed deuced queer when not long ago she’d begged him to touch her. Was it shame? Or had something else upset her?
What a fool he was. Of course she was distraught. Her home had been pillaged. Her quietness wasn’t aimed at him.
“Capital,” the vicar said, and Richard’s conscience twinged at the relief flooding the old man’s face. After all, while he’d never intended injury, his purposes were murky.
“I’ll let the ladies in.” Mrs. Warren looked less bereft now that she had a task.
“No, I will,” Richard said. When he reached the door, he turned briefly to find Genevieve at last watching him. Her face was stark with hatred.
Chapter Twenty
Lord Neville is right. We need to send Mr. Evans away.” Genevieve linked her hands at her waist to hide their shaking.
It was the afternoon following the burglary and she stood in the center of the parlor, at last mercifully free of predatory males. Lord Neville pursued his own investigations. Christopher, after shadowing her without encouragement since yesterday, had taken Palamon for a gallop. With just her father and aunt present, Genevieve snatched the opportunity to denounce the man she blamed for their trouble.
“Why on earth should we do that, dear?” Her aunt laid her knitting on her lap. She was still edgy, but calmer since restoring the house to order. “I feel safer with him here.”
“No, no, Mr. Evans must stay,” her father said urgently. “What flummery is this, Genevieve?”
Her father still started at the slightest sound and he’d taken to locking his library door. Right now he huddled near the blazing hearth, wrapped in the ubiquitous shawl.
Genevieve forced out the accusation she should have made after Christopher kissed her in the moonlight. Identifying him as a villain shouldn’t be so difficult. She knew his every word was a lie, but still her recalcitrant heart grieved at his duplicity.
Self-hatred rose like bile. How could she have kissed the swine without tasting his corruption?
Until now she’d been willing to consider Christopher’s suspicions of Lord Neville, but she now recognized the allegations as a clever way to distract her from his vile intentions. The evidence against the man who made her stupid with kisses was overwhelming. He’d broken in once already. And yesterday he’d delayed her in Oxford while his henchmen brutalized a helpless old man and a defenseless woman.
Most mortifying of all, Christopher’s hands had touched her body while the burglary took place. Her cheeks stung with shame. She was so gullible. Any fool could see that a sophisticated man like Christopher Evans would never desire an awkward bluestocking like her. There had to be an ulterior motive for his seduction.