Least Likely to Marry a Duke (Liberated Ladies)

Verity jerked round, her finger tightened on the trigger and the gun fired. There was a splintering crash, Thomas screamed and Will took the pistol out of her hand.

‘A pleasant enough Chinese bowl, but not of the best period,’ he remarked, gesturing towards the shattered remains in the hearth.

‘You could have killed me! I’ll have the law on you—’

‘And I shall tell the constable that I entered the room just as Miss Wingate was defending her virtue from your cowardly attack. Most fortunately I had this weapon on me, fired a warning shot—and so on and so forth. Mr Fitcham here was witness to the entire incident, weren’t you, Fitcham?’

‘Indeed, Your Grace. A most disgraceful affair.’ The secretary turned and faced the footman who was trying to push his way into the room. ‘Nothing to worry about, my man. All under control and nobody hurt. Is that not so, Vicar?’

‘Er... Yes. Yes, just an accident, Simon. You may go.’

Fitcham came into the room, closed the door behind him and sat at the table in the corner. Verity glanced at him, but he was calmly removing papers and a portable ink well from a small case.

‘My dear.’ Will took her hand, still trembling from recoil and shock, and kissed it. ‘My very dear Verity.’

‘When—when did you come in?’ He had heard her, of course. The door opening silently behind her was what had caused that draught. She pulled her hand away.

He looked very serious. ‘You were telling the Vicar all about hair triggers.’

Will had heard her confess that she loved him. So had Fitcham. There was nowhere to hide, the floor was not going to open up. She could feel the blood heating her cheeks, knew she could not meet his gaze.

At least he heard me acknowledge how unsuitable I am. At least they know I have no hopes, no expectations.

That was not particularly consoling.

‘Why not sit down over here?’ Will took her elbow and she went, unresisting, to the armchair at the side of the room. When he turned back she saw he was smiling, that false, dangerous social smile. ‘Now, Mr Harrington. There is absolutely no need for Miss Wingate to visit the Archbishop or to write to him.’ He must have heard her gasp of protest, because he glanced towards her, shook his head. ‘I have already been to Lambeth Palace and called on His Grace, my godfather, and secured an appointment for you, one he feels is most appropriate to your character and talents.’

‘Thank God someone has some sense.’ Thomas shot her a look of hatred mingled with triumph.

‘Indeed. You will be setting sail within the week to take up the post of Assistant Chaplain to the head of the Anglican Mission to Seamen based in English Harbour on the island of Antigua. Regrettably the previous incumbent died of yellow fever, but that does open up this fascinating opportunity for service to you. It is the main anchorage for His Majesty’s Navy in the Caribbean, as you doubtless know. The scope for doing good and bringing lost souls to redemption is enormous, so the Archbishop says, and the head of the Mission is a most rigorously devout man.’

‘It is a fever pit, a notorious fever pit!’ Thomas gabbled. ‘You promised me preferment. You promised me—’

‘I promised I would speak to my godfather and secure you a position. I did not promise not to tell him that you were blackmailing me and a young lady whose only fault was to fall victim to a plausible seducer, a wolf in clerical robes. The Archbishop has placed you where he feels you would benefit most.’

‘It will kill me. I won’t go.’

‘Now that is a pity, because your berth is all arranged.’ Will studied the weapon in his hand for a moment, then looked back at the white-faced Vicar, who was clutching at the mantelpiece. ‘My cousin, Vice-Commodore Lord Anstruther, is sailing tomorrow and he has sent two of his larger seamen along to help you pack and find your way to the ship. He will also ensure that, should you start slandering Miss Wingate, or anyone else for that matter, you will find an ocean voyage even less healthy than English Harbour. Unhealthy, short and very wet.’

Through the fog of her own embarrassment and relief Verity saw the realisation come over Thomas that he had nowhere to escape. She wondered if he had ever failed to get what he wanted before. When she had pushed him into the river, of course... Otherwise he must have thought himself invincible, his rise unstoppable. ‘But—my parish, my possessions...’

‘A most excellent young clergyman has kindly agreed to step in at short notice,’ Fitcham said, looking up from his notes. ‘If you will give me written authorisation to your solicitor and banker, I will see your possessions safely stored and your affairs taken care of. Your will is up to date, I trust? Always wise before a sea voyage, I feel.’

Thomas subsided into a chair, his hands to his face. Verity felt a twinge of pity, then recalled the young lady he had been courting, Lady Florence Wakefield. Plain, not at all intelligent, doubtless being pressed by her relatives to marry this rising young cleric. She must think he loved her. Perhaps, after all, he did.

‘Do you want to write to Lady Florence?’ she asked.

Thomas lifted his head from his hands and stared at her. ‘What for? The silly chit can’t help me now.’

I must seek her out and tell her that she has had a narrow escape.

It was bad enough breaking your heart over a man who merited it. To be cast into despair by the loss of an unscrupulous climber was a waste of tears, Verity thought bleakly. She removed her handkerchief from her reticule, discovered that she had no tears to shed into it and sat twisting it into a knot.

She had been brooding, she realised when she came back to herself and found Thomas gone, the sound of deep voices in the hallway, the footman protesting that he had received no notice and Mr Fitcham assuring him that he, and the other staff, would be no worse off.

The room was empty. She could slip out through the kitchen area if necessary, hail a hackney. Escape. She stuffed her handkerchief away, sto

od up.