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A Bride for the Baron
Jo Ann Brown


A MAN BEYOND HER REACHVera Fenwick is everything a vicar’s sister should be—helpful, modest and sensible. She knows the perils of falling for a man above her station, but it does no harm to admire Edmund Herriott, Lord Meriweather—from afar. She’s perfectly content to help him restore the local rectory…and she's much too reasonable to risk her heart.Working alongside Vera to rebuild the church and foil a smuggling ring is restoring the confidence Edmund lost in battle. Vera may be sure she’s not suited to be an aristocrat’s wife, but Edmund is utterly confident of one thing: that this unexpected love was built to last.Sanctuary Bay: Where three war heroes find the healing power of love.







A Man Beyond Her Reach

Vera Fenwick is everything a vicar’s sister should be—helpful, modest and sensible. She knows the perils of falling for a man above her station, but it does no harm to admire Edmund Herriott, Lord Meriweather—from afar. She’s perfectly content to help him restore the local rectory…and she’s much too reasonable to risk her heart.

Working alongside Vera to rebuild the church and foil a smuggling ring is restoring the confidence Edmund lost in battle. Vera may be sure she’s not suited to be an aristocrat’s wife, but Edmund is utterly confident of one thing—that this unexpected love was built to last.

Sanctuary Bay: Where three war heroes find the healing power of love


“Sanctuary Bay is better for having you come here, my lord.”

Her quiet praise, praise he knew he did not deserve, eased a few of the bands around his heart. Those strictures had tightened each time he was faced with a decision and could not make it. He wanted to believe that she saw something in him that he had failed to see himself. Maybe he was fooling himself again, as he had when he had believed Lady Eloisa loved him, but he yearned to lose himself in the delusion while he stood beside Miss Fenwick.

“I don’t know how to respond to that,” he said with all honesty, “but I do know, as we are working together on this project to rebuild the church, it seems it might be simpler for you to call me Edmund.”

He had shocked her, he could tell, because her eyes widened as she said, “Simpler, but not proper.”

“Are you always the vicar’s proper sister?”


JO ANN BROWN

has published more than one hundred titles under a variety of pen names since selling her first book in 1987. A former military officer, she enjoys telling stories, taking pictures and traveling. She has taught creative writing for more than twenty years and is always excited when one of her students sells a project. She has been married for more than thirty years and has three children and two spoiled cats. Currently she lives in Nevada. Her books have been translated into almost a dozen languages and sold on every continent except Antarctica. She enjoys hearing from her readers. Drop her a note at www.joannbrownbooks.com (http://www.joannbrownbooks.com).


A Bride for the Baron

Jo Ann Brown




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


Trust in the Lord with all thine heart; and lean not unto thine own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge him, and he shall direct thy paths.

—Proverbs 3:5–6


For Tina James.

Thanks for sharing my enthusiasm for this series and your wonderful guidance, kindness and patience.


Contents

Chapter One (#u436970f2-2125-587a-9c2e-27b8bf2aa1a1)

Chapter Two (#ud0cf0017-3062-5457-aefd-92f0fa6c482c)

Chapter Three (#u1cf9b857-ff5e-53d3-82c8-be1dd21853ea)

Chapter Four (#ued32c485-b974-5bc1-b092-d730424745e8)

Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)

Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)

Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)

Dear Reader (#litres_trial_promo)

Questions for Discussion (#litres_trial_promo)

Excerpt (#litres_trial_promo)


Chapter One

Meriweather Hall, Sanctuary Bay, North Yorkshire

February 1817

“’Tis the church in Sanctuary Bay! It’s on fire!”

The words still resonated through Vera Fenwick’s mind as they had in the moments right after her bosom-bow’s wedding. The original plans to hold the ceremony in Sanctuary Bay had been changed after more than half of the church’s ancient roof had collapsed beneath the winter’s heavy snows. Even though her brother, who served as vicar of the Sanctuary Bay church, had not been able to officiate at the ceremony in Norwich, which was the groom’s home parish, Vera had been filled with joy for Catherine and her new husband, Jonathan Bradby. Then the messenger from Sanctuary Bay had raced through Norwich Cathedral’s gate.

After long days of traveling by carriage, Vera would soon see how much damage had been done to the church and the vicarage that had been her home for the past decade. Her composure had chipped away a little more with each passing mile that brought the carriage closer to Sanctuary Bay.

A gentle hand covered her clenched ones. She looked across the carriage to where Lady Meriweather, Catherine’s mother, leaned toward her. Forcing a smile, which she could not hold long, she knew she should thank the widowed baroness for her compassion. She feared if she opened her mouth that she would be sick.

“We are almost there,” Lord Meriweather, who had inherited the title from Catherine’s late father, said from where he sat beside Vera. They were riding facing backward so the baroness and Miss Lillian Kightly, who had come with them from the wedding in Norwich, could travel in more comfort.

She nodded. The messenger had been sent as soon as the fire was discovered, and he could tell them little other than that the church was engulfed in flames.

“Then we shall know the truth of what has happened,” the baron went on when she did not speak. “Let’s hope that our imaginations have painted a dreary picture of the truth, and the situation won’t be as dire as we fear.”

Vera glanced at him. He had come to claim Meriweather Hall in the autumn. Even sitting, he was a head taller than she was. His tawny hair blew into his brown eyes as an icy wind off the sea swirled through the carriage. His features were interesting rather than classically handsome.

She appreciated his attempt to put her at ease; yet nothing but seeing the damage with her own two eyes would do that now.

“Look!” Miss Kightly said in an attempt to be cheerful. “There’s the gate to Meriweather Hall.” The blonde was the most beautiful woman Vera had ever seen. During their journey north, she had noticed how men could not keep from staring at Miss Kightly while none of them had taken a second look at Vera.

Not that she had cared when every thought in her head was of getting back to Sanctuary Bay.

They came to a stop by Meriweather Hall’s gate, and Lord Meriweather opened the carriage door.

“Why are we stopping here?” asked Miss Kightly.

Instead of answering her, he said, “Lady Meriweather, I trust you will forgive me for asking you to walk into Meriweather Hall.”

The older woman nodded and motioned for Miss Kightly to precede her out of the carriage. Miss Kightly complied but frowned when Lady Meriweather said she believed they both should wait at the manor house while Lord Meriweather assessed the damage.

Vera drew in a deep breath to say she would not be kept a moment longer than necessary to see what was left in the aftermath of the fire, but a footman burst through the gate. He glanced at her, then away.

She had wished her brother would have left a message here to prepare her for what she would soon see. Hope leaped inside her. Maybe the damage was not bad. That hope faded with her next heartbeat. If it had been believed the fire could be doused, there would have been no need to send a messenger with the bad news.

God, give me strength to face what lies ahead. Help me hold up Gregory.

Vera raised her head as Lord Meriweather started to climb back in. He paused as Lady Meriweather murmured something too low for Vera to hear. The baron nodded and gave her a tight smile before he reentered the carriage.

“Miss Fenwick, you will enjoy a better view of the sea if you sit facing forward.” His voice held not a hint of emotion.

Relieved that he was not asking her to wait at Meriweather Hall, she edged past him to take the other seat. He sat and faced her as he slapped the side of the carriage. It lurched into motion, headed toward the village farther north along Sanctuary Bay.

Again Vera clasped her hands. She wanted to thank Lord Meriweather for accompanying her, but the words stuck in her throat. Her limbs felt heavy, then light, then a ripple of sensation like a million frantic insects. She tried to relax. She could not. She and Gregory had spent the past ten years serving the church set on the cliff above the village. She had grown up there, for she had been a girl when they had first arrived.

A foolish girl who nearly had ruined her brother’s career. Even though Gregory never spoke of it, neither of them would ever forget her stupid belief that the son of Lord Hedgcoe truly loved her. Her youthful foolishness, for she had been barely fifteen, had led to disaster and Gregory being removed in shame from the parish Lord Hedgcoe controlled. If the late Lord Meriweather had not offered Gregory the living at Sanctuary Bay, she was unsure what they would have done.

She looked toward the sea. How she had come to love this bay with its turbulent waves and its capricious winds! A sunny morn could end in a wild storm. She caught a view of the village where it clung to the cliffs, the gray-and-red roofs bright against the winter fields. The road turned before she could glimpse the church. Or what was left of it.

Lord Meriweather cleared his throat. “Lady Meriweather asked me to remind you that you and the vicar are welcome to stay at Meriweather Hall as long as necessary.” He stared out the window rather than meet her eyes. “Assuming it is necessary, of course.”

“Thank you. I appreciate you coming with me to th-th-he ch-ch-church.” Her voice broke on the last two words. In so many ways, Sanctuary Bay was her church as much as it was her brother’s. Since she had almost cost Gregory his career in the church, she had slipped into a life of helping in the background. More and more often, she had taken on the task of writing his Sunday sermons while Gregory kept himself busy with other parish duties. When he read her sermons from the pulpit, she could not keep from sneaking glances at other people in the pews, always wondering if her words had touched their hearts.

Lord Meriweather’s gaze focused on her. “Miss Fenwick, I am sure there are many pretty words that might offer you solace at this time, but I am sorry that I am not a man accustomed to speaking such words. Before I served the king, I spent my days working with rough men who are as skilled with crude cant as they are with tools.” He drew in a deep breath and sighed it out loudly enough that she could hear it over the breeze from the sea.

Vera tried to think of something to say but was afraid that if she opened her mouth sobs would come out. Again her emotions went up and down like a storm wave, crashing her hopes into many shattered pieces.

She continued to gaze at the sea until she heard Lord Meriweather pull in a sharp gasp. She sat straighter and realized, while she had been making an effort to think of nothing, they had reached the top of the village where the church and vicarage were. Shouts rang through the carriage, but she did not catch any of the words.

The tone was unmistakable, though. Anger. Fear. Regret. Pain. All those emotions and more were woven through the voices.

Odors of smoke and wet wood hung in the air, tainting every breath she took.

She remembered that smell from when a fire had burned through a side street in the village. The reek of soaked wood had lingered over the village for almost a month. Each new storm brought it forth again until the cottages were rebuilt.

Her stomach dropped as the last drops of hope evaporated. She turned to the other window, but Lord Meriweather’s hands clamped on her shoulders. Surprised, she looked at him. His mouth was drawn, and she saw lines on his brow and gouging into his cheeks that she had never noticed before.

“It is bad, isn’t it?” she whispered.

He nodded.

“Very bad?”

Again he nodded.

“All gone?” She had to force the words past her lips.

“Yes.” His jaw worked, then he said, “If you wish to return to Meriweather Hall now and come back here when you have had a chance to rest from our long journey, say so.”

It was tempting. To push aside the problem and pretend it did not exist, but that was not her way. “I appreciate your kindness, my lord. However, delaying will not make my first sight any easier.”

“I thought you would say that. You are fortunate to have a quiet courage, Miss Fenwick, that is admirable.”

Even though she guessed he intended to warn her to be prepared for what awaited her, his words sent a surge of warmth through her to ease the cold surrounding her fearful heart.

Lord Meriweather stepped out of the carriage and offered his hand to assist her. As she reached for his hand, the courage he had complimented deserted her. She still had not been able to look out the window toward what was left of the two buildings. The church and her home. Once she emerged from the carriage, she would come face-to-face with the disaster.

“It can only get better from this point,” he said quietly, as if she had spoken her thoughts aloud.

She clutched his hand as she climbed out of the carriage. When he winced, she realized she had a death grip on his fingers. She released his hand, but he took hers and placed it on his sleeve. Without saying a word, he led her around the carriage. The wind battered them. Ashes rose into the air in miniature cyclones before falling, turning the ground into a gray wasteland.

Vera’s knees threatened to collapse beneath her when she saw nothing remained of the church. The stone walls had fallen to the ground, scorched by the power of the fire. Upon first glance, the vicarage appeared as if it had survived with less damage. Smoke stains, like dark gray fingers clawing out of the windows and the doorway, warned that the fire had reigned inside the cottage, gutting the interior. The roof was gone, and she wondered if it had burned or fallen into the flint cottage.

“Say the word,” Lord Meriweather murmured, “and we can go back to Meriweather Hall at any time.”

She looked past him. “Where is Gregory?”

“Over by the church.” He continued to keep his hand over hers on the sleeve of his dark brown greatcoat as they walked to where her brother stared into the church’s cellar.

The few men who had been gathering up debris and piling it near the edge of the cliff stopped working as they watched her and Lord Meriweather come toward the church.

“Maybe you should wait here,” he said. “I don’t know how stable the foundation is.”

She shook her head, and they walked to where her brother had not moved. His shadow dipped over the edge of the cellar, and he seemed unaware of anything or anyone else.

“Gregory?” she called.

He was silent.

“Gregory?”

When her brother gave her no answer, she glanced at Lord Meriweather. Again his mouth was taut, and furrows had dug back into his face.

He drew his arm out from under her hand and strode to her brother. “Vicar!” His voice was as sharp as the crack of a whip.

Gregory flinched, then turned to look at them. Tears filled his eyes when he saw Vera. She ran, wending her way past the gravestones in the churchyard, and flung her arms around him.

“Do you know what happened?” she asked.

“All I can figure,” her brother said, “is that another section of roof fell in and struck the wood stove. Embers must have fallen out. That set the church on fire.”

Vera shook her head. “Gregory, that can’t be what happened. We didn’t use it anymore.”

“It is the only explanation I have.” His shoulders sagged, and Vera embraced him again.

* * *

Edmund Herriott, Lord Meriweather, stepped away to let Miss Fenwick and her brother comfort each other. He spoke to the men cleaning the site and was glad to see many were his tenants. He thanked them. Was he expected to do more? He had no idea. Now that his cousins Sophia and Catherine were both married and gone, he would need to turn to Lady Meriweather to help him make proper decisions.

Or any decisions at all.

He refrained from grimacing as he walked around the ruined church. How was Meriweather Hall going to function if its baron could not even decide which cravat to wear each morning? Now there was the matter of rebuilding the church and the vicarage. He did not want to burden Lady Meriweather, but he was unsure where else to turn.

His gaze settled on Miss Fenwick. He had suspected, since shortly after his first meeting with the vicar’s sister, that she handled many of the parish responsibilities. Mr. Fenwick was a learned man who made every effort to serve his congregation, but the vicar’s duties often kept him riding from one end of the parish to the other. Would Miss Fenwick help Edmund, too?

Miss Fenwick went with the vicar to examine the damage, and Edmund looked away. He did not want her to discover him staring at her. She was his cousin Catherine’s best friend, but Edmund had to own that he scarcely knew the vicar’s sister. Any time they had spent together prior to the journey back to Sanctuary Bay had included her brother or his cousins, and there had been no time to learn more about her during the days in the carriage because Miss Kightly’s prattle had monopolized the conversation from morn until they stopped at another coaching inn each night.

The sickening reek of wet ashes erupted with each step as Edmund walked around what was left of the church. The roof had burned. The joists supporting the floor had failed, and everything that had not been consumed by the flames had fallen into the cellar.

But there was another odor. Fainter, yet there nonetheless. He sniffed and frowned. Brandy. There must have been a lot of brandy to leave the scent after a fire. That could mean one thing and one thing only.

The rattle of carriage wheels resounded, startling him. He turned as a small carriage rolled to a stop beside his carriage, its wheels crunching on the filthy snow. Edmund recognized it, even before he saw the baronial crest on the door. It was from Meriweather Hall. Who had driven here after them?

When the door opened and Miss Kightly stepped out of the carriage with the help of a footman, Edmund was not surprised that she had been unwilling to remain at Meriweather Hall as he had requested. An astounding beauty with golden hair and perfect features, she was, as always, a pattern-card of style. The crimson pelisse she now wore was the lone bright spot among the ruins. She held on to her ermine-lined bonnet to make sure it was not twisted off by the wind as she hurried to them.

Tears blossomed in her eyes when she placed her fingers lightly on Miss Fenwick’s arm. “I had no idea there would be this much devastation. I know my great-uncle will be willing to help you rebuild.” She gave Edmund a swift smile because she must know that Edmund, like most of the people in North Yorkshire, considered her great-uncle, Sir Nigel Tresting, a very eccentric man. “He likes coming here for services.”

“That is very kind of both of you,” Miss Fenwick said.

“I am sorry this has happened to you.” The blonde flung her arms around Miss Fenwick, giving her and her brother a big hug.

Edmund looked away, feeling as he had too often, like an outsider in this close-knit seaside community. Before the war, his only worries had been how to keep his import and construction businesses profitable. That had changed when he had inherited the title of Lord Meriweather. Now, he had three vital duties. He needed to keep the estate running and make sure its residents saw to their responsibilities. He must attend sessions of Parliament. Last and most important, he had to find a woman to wed and give the baronage an heir, as well as a spare or two.

He had been somewhat successful with the first two, even though he still had much to learn. On the last, he had failed. Oh, he had thought he was on his way to success on the third when he had begun courting Lady Eloisa Parkington after the young woman had shown her interest in him. He had bought her items she admired, and he had escorted her to gatherings where the door might otherwise have been closed to her after her family’s reputation was sullied by her older siblings’ wild behavior. He even, to quiet her pleading, had introduced her to a man he had served with during the war, a man who had recently become a marquess. Edmund had regretted the decision when Lady Eloisa had quickly persuaded the marquess to propose to her.

Introducing them had been the last decision Edmund had made, and it had been as wrong as too many others had been when he had watched men die on the battlefield following his orders. The night he had heard of Lady Eloisa’s betrothal was the night he admitted that he would be a fool to attempt to decide anything else on his own.

He was not going to think about that now. He went back to the hole that once had been the church’s cellar. Kneeling on its edge, he scanned the dusky shadows. Again he sniffed. Again he caught a hint of brandy.

One of his tenants, a man who farmed land west of the manor house, came over. “Excuse me, m’lord, but could you use this?” He held out a lantern.

“Thank you, Sims,” he said as he took it and held it over the side.

A flash of white marked where the stone font had fallen. When he saw several reflections, he guessed the light might be hitting brass candlesticks or pieces of broken glass. Anything made of wood had been burned beyond recognition.

Almost everything.

Edmund held out the lantern at full arm’s length and squinted through the sunlight off the sea. He lowered the lantern into the cellar, hoping to get a better look at what was beneath the joists. He gasped when he saw a black area where the foundation’s stone wall had been broken. From what he could see, the opening looked big enough for a man to walk through. Someone had cut out a section of the wall and, with what he had smelled near the cellar, it was not hard to guess who or why.

The bane of Sanctuary Bay was a gang of smugglers who practiced their illegal trade brazenly. His predecessor had tried to halt them, but had failed. Both of his cousins had been threatened by the smugglers who, he had recently learned, were led by someone they spoke of as his qualityship. That must mean that the leader was of wealth or of the peerage or both. It explained how they had eluded capture for so long and also why they grew bolder with each passing month.

Getting to his feet, he brushed dirt off his buckskin breeches. He handed the lantern back to its owner, then shrugged off his greatcoat. “Sims, can you hold this up while I go down?”

“Go down?” The thin man gulped, his Adam’s apple bouncing like a ball as Edmund took off his coat and tossed it on top of his greatcoat. “Go down there?”

“Hold up the lantern so I can see when I get to the bottom.” He tugged the hem of his wrinkled waistcoat and looked into the cellar.

Sims hesitated, then nodded, “Aye, m’lord, but let me see if I can find a ladder. Someone in the village must have one.”

“No!” He held up his hand to halt Sims. His voice resonated, and everyone stared at him. He must look like a madman standing in the icy wind in his shirtsleeves. But if Sims alerted the villagers to what they were doing, the smugglers who lived among them would hear. He could not risk them coming to halt him now. “I don’t need a ladder. These beams offer me a good path to the bottom.”

Miss Fenwick rushed around the church’s perimeter. Strands of her black hair flapped on her shoulders, and she pushed them impatiently back under her bonnet. Her bright blue eyes were wide. “My lord, what are you doing?”

“I know why the church burned, and I think I know who burned it.” Maybe he should have phrased it differently, Edmund thought, as he saw the faces around him become as pale as milk.

Miss Fenwick stared at him, her eyes widening as understanding dawned. She whispered, “What did you see?”

“I don’t want to say until I am sure of my suspicions.”

“Smugglers?” Her voice remained hushed.

He nodded grimly. “Take a deep breath. What do you smell?”

She did and shivered. “Some sort of distilled spirits.”

“Brandy, I would guess. A lot of it if the odor lingers after the fire.” He let his breath sift past his clenched teeth. “Brandy burns fast and hot.”

“You think someone used it to start a fire in the church?”

“Possibly. I need to check the cellar to see if there is a clue there.” He put his foot on the closest beam. It cracked and tumbled into the cellar with a crash.

Mr. Fenwick stormed toward them and pushed between Edmund and his sister. “My lord, it may not be my place to tell you what you should do, but we lost your predecessor barely a year ago. To have you risk your neck now would be foolhardy.”

“Aye,” chimed the men who had gathered by the cellar.

Miss Kightly, who had followed the vicar, grasped Edmund’s arm with both hands. “My dear Lord Meriweather, there are others who can go down into the cellar in accordance with your directions.”

“You cannot believe,” Miss Fenwick said with a serenity that contrasted with the panic in the other voices, “that Lord Meriweather would ask someone else to do what he himself would not. He is not that sort of man.”

“But, Vera,” began her brother.

“Have you forgotten that Lord Meriweather fought heroically for our nation?” she fired back.

“Of course not,” Miss Kightly said, “but—”

“Then trust that he would not do something risky without having a good reason.” Miss Fenwick faced him. “But he also must see the good sense of taking one or two others with him in case the debris shifts.”

Edmund was pleased by Miss Fenwick’s defense of his plan. Suddenly the wind seemed less cold and the sunlight brighter because he had an ally. Her eyes glinted like the sapphire sky above them. A man could lose himself in eyes like hers. Maybe he already had, because he had no idea how long he had gazed into her eyes or how long he would have continued if one of the men had not sneezed.

Clearing his throat, he thanked her for her good idea. He asked for volunteers. Every man, except the vicar, raised his hand. In dismay, he wondered which one he should choose.

“If I may make a couple of suggestions, my lord,” Miss Fenwick said.

Grateful and hoping his face was not blazing with embarrassment, he said, “Most certainly.”

“Mr. Sims is slender and able to squeeze into small places.” She smiled when she added, “Mr. Henderson may be the strongest man in Sanctuary Bay. If one of the timbers slips, he will be able to hold it while all of you escape.”

Edmund did not doubt the man was the strongest in the parish. He was built with thick shoulders and looked as if he could lift one of the fishermen’s cobles—their small deep wooden boats—out of the sand and hold it over his head.

“Thank you, Miss Fenwick.” He nodded toward her as if it were the most ordinary matter in the world that the vicar’s sister should make such a decision. “Men, come with me.”

The vicar began praying for their safety as Edmund put his foot on another beam. Edmund added a few prayers of his own as he shifted his weight onto it, and his boot slid slightly. The beam held. With one foot still on the ground, he gave orders for the men to follow one at a time, testing each step they took and never allowing more than one man on a beam at the same time. Without knowing how the joists had been weakened by the fire, they must take extra care.

Edmund eased down into the cellar, feeling more alive than he had in months. The only decision he had to make was where to put his foot next, and he was relieved to see there was no choice. The crisscrossed joists offered a single path. He reached the bottom and frowned at the broken font to his right. For how many centuries had it been part of baptisms? Now it was rubble.

The odor of brandy was very strong, and he saw several crates of empty bottles in a dark pool. He knelt by the pool, dipped his fingers in and tasted the liquid. Water.

He pushed himself to his feet and leaned toward a joist. The odor of brandy was strong on it. Whoever had started the fire had soaked the floor with enough smuggled alcohol that the reek remained. But had it been the smugglers?

The lantern was passed down to him, and he edged toward the place where the opening was cut into the stone wall. The work had been done fairly recently because the chisel marks where the stones had been torn out of the wall still had rough edges.

He peered into the opening. He slapped his hand against the wall when he saw earth and stone blocked what once had been a tunnel. Someone had pulled down the ceiling only a short time before because the stones still had dirt clinging to them.

Taking a step toward the opening, he stopped when his foot struck something soft. He bent down. It was a water-soaked coil of French lace, another favorite item among the smugglers. He had no further doubts. The smugglers had been using the cellar and had burned the church. It was not the first time they had used fire to intimidate, because there had been a suspicious fire in Meriweather Hall’s kitchen before Christmas. But who had given the order to set the church aflame? The order had to have come from their leader, a man who would have no compunctions about burning the parish’s church.

He heard a warning creak. He looked up to see Henderson and Sims dashing up the beams. Dirt and ash fell on him. He did not hesitate. He was close on their heels by the time he reached ground level. Jumping off the beam, he whirled as several joists caved in to the cellar. A gray cloud rose up. He waved aside the ash and coughed.

Edmund motioned for everyone to get back from the edge, then thanked Sims and Henderson and the other men. They nodded and went back to piling debris closer to the cliff. But he did not miss their troubled expressions.

He picked up his coat and pulled it on, listening to make sure the men were not within earshot. As he drew on his greatcoat, he asked, “Mr. Fenwick, when was the last time you were in the church’s cellar?”

“At least eight or nine years ago.” His nose wrinkled. “Shortly after I accepted the living here, I had everything stored down there brought up so it didn’t molder away. The door into the church has been locked shut, and the key was lost years ago.”

“So the smugglers had the perfect place to hide their cargo.”

“Smugglers! In my church?” The vicar shook his head. “Impossible.”

“The evidence is in the cellar.” Edmund outlined what he had seen.

The vicar’s face grew long with dismay. “This is an outrage. When I heard the story that a previous vicar counted himself among the smugglers’ ranks, I had hoped it was untrue. Now...” He choked, unable to continue.

Patting her brother’s arm, Miss Fenwick said, “We must make sure it does not happen again.”

“That may be easier said than done,” Edmund said. “They need a place to hide their illicit cargo. Who knows how long they have been using the church? At least since we made it impossible for them to use the dower cottage at Meriweather Hall. All worked well for them until a section of the church’s roof fell in. They must have feared someone would check the cellar to make sure the joists could support a new roof.”

“So they set the church on fire,” Miss Fenwick said, looking from him to the cellar, “to hide that they had been using the cellar.”

“That is exactly what I was thinking.” He appreciated her acceptance of the facts.

Her brother remained less willing to see what was right in front of them. “But why would they burn this church? We have been discussing building a new church—”

“They could not take a chance that the decision would be made to fix up the old one instead.” Miss Fenwick’s face hardened. “But where will they go next? It could be anywhere.”

Miss Kightly gave a soft cry of fright and wobbled as if she were about to faint. Mr. Fenwick jumped to keep her from falling. He helped her back to her carriage where she could sit and recover her composure.

“I should go back with her,” Miss Fenwick said. “It appears that Gregory and I will be accepting your invitation to stay at Meriweather Hall.”

“For as long as you need to.” Both he and Lady Meriweather would be happy to have company in the huge house that would seem empty now that both his cousins were married to his two best friends, Jonathan Bradby and Charles Winthrop, the earl of Northbridge.

“Thank you. We will need to depend on your hospitality until we can live in the vicarage again. That must wait until after we have a church, of course.” She turned to go, then paused. “Before I go, I must ask you one question.”

“Certainly.”

“You are familiar with constructing buildings. Will you help us rebuild our church?”

She had no idea what she was asking. Overseeing the building of a church would require dozens of decisions each day when he could not make a single one.

“Please, say yes,” she went on. “We need your help.”

What could he say? That he had plans to go to London for the Season? That was not true. That he had to entertain Lady Meriweather? Miss Fenwick would know that was a lie. But he could not speak the truth. He had seen enough pity in his friends’ eyes. He did not want to see more, especially in her eyes. But she was right. He was the man for the task.

God, if this is what You want me to do, I will need Your help more than ever.

“All right,” he said. “I will try to do my best.”

Instantly, he wished he could retract his words. This was the first decision he had made in more than a year, and he feared it would prove to be as bad as the last one.


Chapter Two

Other than the steady plop of thick, cold raindrops outside, not a sound could be heard when Edmund stepped into the entrance hall of Meriweather Hall. He followed the vicar and Miss Fenwick and Miss Kightly. Other than Foggin, the footman who had opened the door, nobody could be seen. Lady Meriweather must have retired to her room, exhausted by the long journey north from Norwich.

The footman, in Meriweather Hall’s black livery, took their coats, then stepped aside as another footman burst into the entrance hall. He skidded to a stop on the stone floor, almost bumping into one of the benches set against the raised panels on the lower half of the walls.

“Jessup,” Edmund said with a frown. He was still learning how a baron should act, but he knew that a footman never behaved that outrageously. “I trust you have an explanation.”

The footman gulped. “I was asked to deliver this message to Miss Kightly the moment she arrived at Meriweather Hall.”

“Perhaps you should not take such requests quite so literally.”

Nodding, the footman said, “I won’t. From this point forward.”

“I am pleased to hear that.” He motioned for Jessup to hand the message to Miss Kightly, and the footman held out a folded sheet to the pretty blonde.

As she opened it, he shifted his gaze toward Miss Fenwick. She stood beside her brother, her hand on his arm in a comforting pose. Not that he was surprised. Miss Fenwick was very supportive of her brother and his ministry. He had known that before, but her request by the remnants of the burned-out church was proof of her devotion to him.

Edmund looked away. Miss Fenwick’s determination to help her brother with his parish must have been what had persuaded her to ask Edmund’s assistance in rebuilding the church. How long would it take for her to realize she had made the request of the wrong man? His gut churned at the idea of having the respect he had seen in her eyes turn to pity.

Pitiful.

He had heard others whisper the word when they thought he could not hear. Even though his closest friends had never spoken so, he knew what was in their heads. It was a pity that Edmund Herriott, who once could be depended on to make a quick decision, now could make none at all. Not good. Not bad.

Pitiful.

A groan sounded in the entry, and, for a moment, he wondered if it had escaped from him.

Miss Fenwick rushed to Miss Kightly’s side, asking her what was wrong, and he shoved away his thoughts that punished him over and over.

Miss Kightly’s smile was forced. “Forgive me. I am simply surprised at the message from my great-uncle.”

“Do you want to share what Sir Nigel has to say?” Miss Fenwick asked.

“Yes, I guess I should. He says that...” Her voice trailed off.

Miss Fenwick looked toward Edmund, and he shrugged. He could think of several possible subjects Sir Nigel might have written about, especially in light of what had happened at the church and what had been discovered.

He was not surprised when Miss Kightly said, “My great-uncle has sent word that I should be ready to return to his house.”

“When?” he asked.

She looked at the note, a lovely golden strand of hair slipping across her pale cheek. “It says only that he will come for me today.” Again a strained smile edged along her lips. “’Tis good then that there has not been enough time to unpack my bags.” She folded the page and looked around.

The footman jumped forward to take it from her at the same time Edmund reached toward her. Jessup backed away with an apology.

Edmund nodded toward him, then said, “If you wish to sit in the small parlor, I will have a hearty tea brought for us.”

“Sit?” Miss Fenwick said with an unexpected laugh. “We have been doing far too much of that.”

He savored the sound of her laugh. It lilted like a lark over a spring field, bringing the warmth of sunshine into the entry hall. When she looked at him, he chuckled, caught up in her amusement.

“I stand corrected,” he replied.

That set off another round of laughter from both ladies, though the vicar remained as somber as his dark clothes. Edmund had to pause to realize what he had said that was funny.

“No,” Miss Fenwick said, “we all stand corrected.”

Were her words a gentle reminder that his guests were exhausted? Maybe so. Maybe not. As with everything else, he could not decide.

But, even if the words were meant only as a jest, he needed to think of his guests’ needs. And his own. His clothes were wet, and they stank of ashes and brandy. He glanced toward the stairs, wondering which rooms were ready for guests. At Christmas, when his other cousin had wed, the Meriweather women had overseen all such preparations.

As if he had spoken aloud, Jessup said, “Lady Meriweather left instructions for where the vicar and his sister and Miss Kightly would stay.”

Thank God for Lady Meriweather’s foresight. He was able to wear a genuine smile as he said, “Jessup will show you to your rooms whenever you wish.”

Miss Fenwick turned to her brother who had not said a word since they had left the church. “Gregory, why don’t you rest? I doubt you have slept an hour since the fire.”

“I can try.” The vicar’s voice was a shadow of its usual booming warmth. “I probably won’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see that inferno rising up from the depths to consume the church. Every time I let my mind wander, it takes me immediately to the moment when I first saw the flames and knew all I have worked for was being destroyed.”

Edmund had to look away before the vicar saw that hated sympathy and pity on his face. He did not want to subject any other person to that expression.

“Try to rest today,” Miss Fenwick said quietly. “You are going to need to be rested for the work yet to be done in rebuilding the parish church.”

“So they can burn it down again?”

Miss Fenwick gasped at the venom in her brother’s voice. “Gregory—”

“Someone should have put a halt to these smugglers by now.” His fury focused on Edmund. “Why haven’t you? Is it because your life’s work isn’t in danger?”

The vicar’s words lashed through Edmund. Through Miss Fenwick, too, if he judged by how her face became a sickly gray. Miss Kightly stared at the vicar as if she had never seen him before. No one spoke as the last echoes of Mr. Fenwick’s words faded from the entry hall.

Again it was Miss Fenwick who spoke first. “You are exhausted, Gregory. You barely know what you are saying.” She put her arm around him, and he wove like a sailor on a ship in a storm. He leaned on her as his head lolled, and she began to buckle.

Edmund leaped forward to pull the vicar’s other arm over his shoulder and help keep both Mr. Fenwick and his sister on their feet. He got the man steady only when the footman Foggin grasped the vicar’s arm that was draped over Miss Fenwick and drew it over his own shoulder. Miss Fenwick stepped back, her blue eyes wide with despair. She grasped Miss Kightly’s hand like a lifeline.

“Jessup and I can get him upstairs to rest, my lord,” Foggin said.

“I want to see that he is settled in,” Miss Fenwick said in a crisp voice that suggested nothing anyone said would change her mind.

“And, if someone could escort me to where my bags were taken,” Miss Kightly said, “I would greatly appreciate it.”

A glance he could not read flashed between the two women, and Miss Fenwick asked, “If you don’t mind, my lord, can Jessup assist Miss Kightly while we see to Gregory?”

It sounded like a reasonable solution, though he knew he could never have come to it on his own. Everyone looked at him, so he nodded. He loathed admitting, even to himself, how grateful he was for Miss Fenwick’s suggestion. He had no idea how long they all would have stood in the entry hall while he tried to determine what to do next.

With a smile and a nod to Jessup, Miss Kightly went up the long staircase, with the footman following like a well-trained puppy. No man of any class could be immune to the blonde’s ethereal beauty. She was like a fairy tale princess come to life.

He shook the thought out of his head. Now was not the time to admire Miss Kightly. The vicar needed his help. Telling Foggin that they would start at the count of three, he took a deep breath. The vicar was completely senseless and, therefore, dead weight.

As they climbed, Edmund wondered if he could have managed to help lug the vicar up the stairs before he had gone to the Continent. The life there had hardened his muscles in ways he had never imagined. In comparison with hefting cannon and gunpowder casks, the vicar was a light load. It had not been an officer’s place to handle such tasks, but, in battle, everyone pitched in to help where they could.

Just as Miss Fenwick asked you to help with the church.

He grimaced at how easily she slipped into his thoughts when he was not on guard to prevent it.

“I can send for another footman, my lord,” Foggin said.

“If you need to be relieved...”

“Nay, my lord.” The footman stumbled over his words as he added, “I meant to take over for you.”

“No need.” That the footman had misread his grimace was probably the best thing that had happened all day. It would not do for the household staff to start whispering about how their lord could not get his mind off Miss Fenwick.

That would be insulting to the vicar’s sister. She had endured enough without him saying something that would be repeated and distorted throughout Sanctuary Bay. It was not she who monopolized his thoughts, but the project she had asked him to work on with her.

The vicar swayed in spite of their grasp on his arms; then he steadied. Edmund looked back to see Miss Fenwick with her hand against her brother’s back.

“Move away,” Edmund said. “If he falls, he could take you with him.”

“I am just helping, even though I know you won’t let him fall.” She gave him a bolstering smile.

That smile did something unexpected to him, making him feel—for a moment—that he could do anything. Even coming to a simple decision would be possible if she smiled at him again with that expression that suggested she believed he was capable of again becoming the man he once had been. It was oddly comforting to have someone believe the invisible wounds he carried would heal.

“Thank you,” he said.

Her crystal-blue eyes widened, and he realized he had put too much fervor into those two words. What a beef-head he was! She was thinking of her brother’s welfare, not his. Hadn’t he just noted what a devoted sister she was to the vicar? She appreciated Edmund’s help. Nothing more. Nothing less. He must not forget that again.

* * *

Vera closed the door to the room where Gregory now slept. She guessed Mrs. Porter had slipped some valerian into Gregory’s tea, because he had calmed and grown sleepy after drinking less than half of the cup. Maybe with a good night’s sleep, he would be more himself in the morning.

Thank You, Lord, for letting him find rest. We will need Your help even more than usual in the days to come.

She walked along the corridor to the room that Lord Meriweather had offered for her use. Going inside, she faltered. Many times she had sat in this room because it had belonged to Catherine Meriweather before her wedding. Here, while seated on the settee in front of the large arched window, she and Cat had talked of every possible subject and read books they both had enjoyed. Occasionally, she had brought a small bag of mending from the vicarage while Cat worked on her needlework. They had sometimes simply looked out at winter snow, summer blooms and the ever-changing sea. She had been here so often that every piece of furniture was as familiar as any in the vicarage, and she knew every contour of the coffered ceiling.

But she had never imagined she would sleep in that grand bed with its bright pink curtains and lush covers. She never had coveted it, being satisfied with the simpler bed in her tiny room at the vicarage. The house she and Gregory had used on Lord Hedgcoe’s estate had been larger, but she had been grateful every day that they had a home in Sanctuary Bay.

Now she would be sleeping in this magnificent room until the vicarage was habitable again. She had no idea when that would be. Both Lord Meriweather and her brother had insisted it was too dangerous for her even to peek inside the burned house, so she could not guess how much work it would need. The first priority was rebuilding the church.

No, they needed to find a place to hold services. If the fire had happened a couple of months from now, winter would be past and services could be held out-of-doors. There was no place in the village big enough to hold the parishioners. Maybe Gregory could do several different services for a short time. It was logical, but she knew how important it was to the parish to worship together. That was why, at the time of the previous lord’s death, the talk had begun about building a larger church. Recently, the population in the village had grown.

Her fingers clenched on the coverlet. She hoped the arrival of more people to the village set on the side of the steep cliff had nothing to do with the smugglers. Easy money could entice criminals who would change Sanctuary Bay forever. With all the preparations for Cat and Jonathan’s wedding, she had spent very little time in the village during the past six or seven weeks. Maybe she should make some calls on longtime parishioners and discover more about the newcomers.

“Is there a problem, Miss Fenwick?” asked Lord Meriweather.

She released the covers and whirled. She had not expected him to come and check on her. She had assumed he would return downstairs where he could talk with Miss Kightly or seek his own rooms in order to change out of his smoke-stained clothing. His hair was still damp, and it curled at the back of his collar.

“Of course not,” she hurried to say before he could notice that she was staring. “Not beyond the obvious ones, I should say.”

He nodded, and she expected he would urge her to rest and be on his way. Instead, he lingered by the door. “I have assured your brother as I have you that everything humanly possible will be done to rebuild the church.”

“I am sure.” She smiled, astounding herself because she had been thinking only moments ago of surrendering to tears. “With your expertise, my lord, all should go well.”

He looked past her as if unwilling to meet her eyes. “About that, Miss Fenwick. I hope you understand that I have never been involved in building a church.”

“Nor have Gregory or I.”

“True.” A smile flitted across his lips as he leaned one shoulder against the doorjamb. “I will need guidance.” He looked toward the ceiling before lowering his gaze to meet hers. “Not just from above, but on a more practical earthly plane.”

“We will do everything we can to help.”

“Good.”

She sensed there was something more he wanted to say. Perhaps she was mistaken. She did not know him well enough to discern his true feelings, but her intuition whispered she was right.

“And,” she said with a smile of her own, “I am grateful that you have offered such a lovely and comfortable place for Gregory and me to stay. We both will understand if a time comes when you need our rooms for other guests.”

“Nonsense. I’m not tossing you out when you have no place to go. What sort of fellow would I be then?”

Tears rushed into her eyes, and she lowered them before he could discern how much his words meant to her. If Lord Hedgcoe had shown that kindness, she and Gregory would not have feared being homeless and facing starvation.

“Have I said something wrong, Miss Fenwick?” Lord Meriweather asked, sincere concern in his question. “If I have said something unseemly, forgive me. I have spent too many years with men who spoke plainly.”

She met his gaze with her own. “You have not said anything unseemly. You are being far kinder than I dared to hope.”

“Kinder?”

Oh, dear! Had she offended him when all she wanted to do was thank him? Every word that came out of her mouth today seemed to be the wrong one.

When she said that and asked for his forgiveness, he chuckled. “I could say the same thing to you, Miss Fenwick, and beg your indulgence. I daresay fatigue and shock have more control of our tongues than our brains do.”

“I agree.” For the first time since she had heard of the fire at the church, her shoulders sagged from their rigid stance. A shudder of pain rushed down her back as her strained muscles protested.

A good night’s sleep. That was what she needed as much as her brother did.

Vera did not realize that she had swayed until Lord Meriweather’s hand closed around her arm and he asked if she needed to sit. Warmth slipped from his palm, strengthening her, but her head remained light.

“Maybe I should sit,” she murmured.

“May I help you?”

“Yes.” She did not want to tumble on to her nose in front of him, so she allowed him to guide her to the settee in front of the largest window.

He sat her as if she were made of the most brittle porcelain. Brittle. That described exactly how she felt. Every inch of her seemed to feel too much and be about to crack at the next bit of bad news.

Kneeling beside her, he held her hands between his calloused ones. She wondered why his fingers were trembling; then she realized the quivering came from her own fingers.

“Tell me what you need, Miss Fenwick,” he said, his face turned up toward her.

She gazed down at him. A low mat of tawny whiskers emphasized the planes of his jaw and cheek. How had she failed to notice that tiny scar beneath his right eyebrow? It was no bigger than the nail on her smallest finger, and she was curious if he had received it, as his friend Lord Northbridge had, during the war. Or had it been there before he joined the fight against Napoleon?

“Miss Fenwick?”

“Yes?” she asked as she seemed to fall into the brown depths of his eyes. They had seen so much. Things she could not imagine. Things she did not want to imagine.

Again the tired tears scorched the back of her eyes. She needed to be more like him in the wake of the fire at the church. Be strong and keep her focus on the task that lay ahead.

“Tell me what you need me to do,” he said again.

For you to tell me that everything will be all right, that this is only a nightmare. She could not say that. Instead, she struggled to smile and found it was not as difficult as she had expected when he regarded her with kindness.

She began, “I need you to—”

“Lord Meriweather!” came a shout from the hallway.

A ginger-hackled footman careened to a stop by the open door.

Vera recognized him but was not sure of his name. Heat slapped her face when his gaze focused on Lord Meriweather’s hands cupping hers. She hastily jerked her hands away, clasping them on her lap.

“Oh, my lord, I didn’t mean to intrude. That is...” The footman’s face became as ruddy as his hair.

Standing, Lord Meriweather said, “Carl, Miss Fenwick would like tea and something to eat brought here as soon as possible.”

The footman nodded but carefully did not look again at either her or the baron.

“What is your message?” Lord Meriweather asked.

“Sir Nigel’s carriage has come through the gate.” Carl’s voice was so low that Vera had to strain to hear it.

“Has Miss Kightly been informed?”

“I am on my way there now, my lord.” He rushed away.

Lord Meriweather turned to face Vera again. “If you will excuse me, Miss Fenwick. Perhaps we can finish our discussion later.”

“Whenever is convenient for you.” She was surprised that he acted as if the footman’s reaction to discovering them alone in Cat’s bedroom was nothing out of the ordinary. She decided to follow his lead and pretend that there soon would not be whispers belowstairs about the baron and the vicar’s sister holding hands. “Or we can finish it while we walk downstairs.”

“Don’t you want to stay here and rest?”

“Yes.” She sighed as she pushed herself to her feet. “But I want to thank Miss Kightly for being such a good companion on our way north from Norwich. She let me babble on about my hopes and fears for the parish church, and not once did she say what I’m sure was in her mind—that she was tired of hearing me say the same things over and over.”

“If you would like, I can convey that to her.”

“No. I should thank her myself.”

“As you wish.” He offered his arm.

She hesitated. Nothing would add to the gossip about him holding her hands more than being seen only minutes later with her hand on his arm.

He smiled coolly. “Miss Fenwick, surely you know from your long association with my cousins and this household that nothing we do or say can halt the wagging tongues of those who misconstrue my attempt to comfort you in the wake of the fire.”

“I understand that, but...” Again the warmth surged up her face.

“You are worrying needlessly. Exactly as you know the people here and the village well, they know you and will give no credence to any whispers of you acting like a featherbrain.”

Vera put her hand on his sleeve so she could avoid meeting his eyes. If he had any idea of how she had been extremely foolish before she and Gregory had found a haven in Sanctuary Bay, he would not be offering that assurance.

She was glad that Sir Nigel bustled into the entry hall as she and Lord Meriweather descended the stairs. Sir Nigel had snow-white hair and the wide stomach of a well-fed man. His greatcoat was spotted with rain. He ignored the footman waiting to take it as he looked up the stairs and scowled.

“Where is Lillian?” Sir Nigel demanded without the courtesy of a greeting.

Beside her, Lord Meriweather stiffened as they stepped into the entry hall, but his smile appeared genuine as he said, “She has been alerted of your arrival.”

“Didn’t she get the message I sent here for her? It told her what time I would be here.” The baronet puffed up like an affronted rooster.

“I got it,” Miss Kightly said as she came down the stairs, her steps light on each tread. Behind her, Carl carried her bags and kept his gaze focused on the floor. “Here I am, Uncle Nigel.”

Vera stepped aside as Miss Kightly walked past her to give her great-uncle a kiss on the cheek. The blonde stepped back, glanced toward Vera with what seemed to be a meaningful expression and then turned to Lord Meriweather. What message had Miss Kightly been trying to convey? Whatever it was, Vera could not decipher it.

“Oh, my dear girl,” Sir Nigel gushed. “When I heard you were riding back here from the wedding, I wanted to get you to my house right away. It may not be safe here in the wake of recent events.”

“Don’t be silly,” Miss Kightly said with a light tone that Vera had never heard her use before. She gazed up at Lord Meriweather with unadulterated admiration. “I am perfectly safe while in the company of one of England’s great heroes.”

The tips of Lord Meriweather’s ears turned red, but Vera could not guess if he was embarrassed or pleased at Miss Kightly’s praise.

There was no question how Sir Nigel felt, because his forehead ruffled as his scowl deepened. “Meriweather, this has been a sorry situation.” He shook his head. “A very sorry situation. What do you intend to do about it?”

“Do?” repeated Lord Meriweather, clearly astounded by Sir Nigel’s question.

“Yes! You are the lord of Meriweather Hall, aren’t you? You are responsible for the parish church in Sanctuary Bay, aren’t you? You must have some sort of plan of what to do since it burned down.”

Vera almost said, Since it was burned down by the smugglers. She pressed her lips closed, knowing it was not her place to speak up during a conversation between her social betters. If she humiliated Lord Meriweather in front of his neighbor, he could turn his frustration on her and Gregory as Lord Hedgcoe had. Not that she believed the baron was as vindictive as Lord Hedgcoe had been, but she could not take that risk. Not when Gregory’s living depended on Lord Meriweather’s good will.

“Lord Meriweather intends to rebuild the church,” Miss Kightly said with a broad smile. “Isn’t that marvelous? And generous.” She almost cooed the last words as she put her hand possessively on Lord Meriweather’s arm.

Vera lowered her eyes, but not quickly enough to miss Lord Meriweather’s shock at Miss Kightly’s bold motion. Maybe that was how members of the ton acted with one another. Neither she nor the new baron had much experience in that direction. Was he as uncomfortable with Miss Kightly’s actions as he was with her great-uncle’s verbal assault? As uncomfortable as Vera was?

“It is,” Sir Nigel said in the same uncompromising tone, “the very least he could do for the parish when he was not here to help.”

“Uncle, be fair,” Miss Kightly implored. “We were attending his cousin’s wedding.” She raised her eyes back to Lord Meriweather’s taut face. “He hurried here as soon as he could.”

“The church should have been torn down when the roof caved in.” The baronet seemed to notice Vera for the first time. “Now neglect has led to this fire that has destroyed not only the parish church but the vicarage.”

Vera met his gaze steadily, but as with Miss Kightly, she could not read what Sir Nigel’s narrowed eyes intended to convey. When he looked away first to stare at his great-niece, she was curious about the unspoken conversation she was not privy to. Something was going on, something that had to do with Miss Kightly’s oddly brazen behavior and her great-uncle’s ridiculous accusations.

“Come along, Lillian,” Sir Nigel said, motioning for the footman to take her bags out to his carriage. “There is no need to linger here any longer.”

Miss Kightly gave Lord Meriweather a long hug that startled him and made Vera ill at ease for reasons she could not quite explain. Her stomach tightened painfully, and she could not pull her eyes from the embrace, even though she knew she should. Instead, she waited for Lord Meriweather to put his arms around the blonde. He did not before Miss Kightly released him. For some reason, seeing that allowed Vera’s stomach to unclench ever so slightly.

It compressed again when Miss Kightly turned to throw her arms around Vera. As she hugged Vera, Miss Kightly whispered, “I’m sorry.”

She did not know how to respond because she had no idea why Miss Kightly had said those two simple words. Were they to express again her dismay about the fire at the church, or were they an apology for something else?

“Come along,” Sir Nigel said again when Miss Kightly had accepted his help in putting on her coat. “It’s a cold, wet drive back home.” As he put his arm around his great-niece’s shoulders, he said, “Now that you are here, Meriweather, I trust you will decide what to do to make things right.”

The baron recoiled as if Sir Nigel had struck him, and, in a way, he had. The baronet had targeted Lord Meriweather’s most vulnerable spot.

Before she could halt herself, she said, “Sir Nigel, Lord Meriweather has already made some excellent decisions toward rebuilding the church. Both my brother and I are very pleased that he has offered his expertise to assist. I am sure you are glad to hear that, as well.”

“Yes, yes,” the baronet said before hurrying Miss Kightly out the door.

Vera tilted up her chin, pleased with her efforts to halt the baronet’s uncharacteristically cruel jabs at Lord Meriweather. As she turned away from the door, she realized that, except for her and the footman by the door, the entry hall was empty. Lord Meriweather must have left while her attention was on the others’ departure. His cousin had told her how it pained and mortified the baron that he could not make a decision.

She considered trying to find him, but climbed the stairs to the room she would be using until they returned to the vicarage. She had offered up prayers earlier to ask God to help her be there for her brother through the trials ahead. She also needed to pray that she would be able to do the same for Lord Meriweather.


Chapter Three

The next morning, Edmund found only Lady Meriweather seated at the table in the breakfast parlor. She put down the newspaper she had been reading.

“Good morning, Edmund,” she said with the warmth that suggested he was her son rather than her late husband’s distant cousin.

“And to you, my lady. Do not let me interrupt your reading.”

She laughed. “This newspaper was sent from London. It is nearly a week old, so waiting longer to read it is no problem.”

Helping himself to eggs and sausages, he placed his plate at the seat across from the baroness. She poured him a steaming cup of coffee from the silver pot that had been left on a ceramic tile by her right hand. He reached for a muffin from the basket that was set beside him by one of the well-trained footmen.

He buttered it as he said, “I have not had a chance to thank you for making arrangements for Mr. Fenwick and his sister to stay at Meriweather Hall.”

“It was my pleasure. Dear Vera has been a steadfast friend to my daughters, and it is not as if we don’t have the room.” Her laugh sparkled through the space. “She tells me that you have agreed to help with rebuilding the church.”

“It is my place.”

“To provide the funds, yes, but Vera suggested you were going to provide more than that.”

He poured cream into his cup and stirred it. Setting the pitcher on the table, he wondered when the two women had talked. No doubt, it had been after he had scurried away like a hurt child from Sir Nigel’s barbed comments. He snuck a glance at the lady across the table from him. Had Miss Fenwick told her about that conversation? If so, he saw no sign of pity on her face.

“You know of my work before I came to Meriweather Hall,” he said when he realized the lady expected him to answer. “I know something of building projects.”

“Quite a bit, according to my new son-in-law.” She chuckled. “Jonathan mentioned something about seeking your advice for the larger house he plans to build for him and Cat.”

“He said nothing about that to me.”

“Because he knew you would help when the time came. You, Jonathan and Charles learned to depend on each other’s skills in the army, and that will never change.” She picked up her coffee cup. “You have been given a great gift, Edmund. Such friends do not come along often.”

“I realize that.”

“Have you heard more about the tunnel that led into the church?” She must be as curious as he was to learn how and when the smugglers had gotten into the church.

“Sims brought me a report this morning. The tunnel appears to have been collapsed completely. We cannot guess where it might go.”

“Nothing aboveground suggests its direction or destination?”

He was impressed with the baroness’s question, though he should not have been. All the Meriweather women had sharp minds and cared deeply about the estate and the people of Sanctuary Bay.

With a shake of his head, he said, “The smugglers are too careful to allow that. Otherwise they would have been found out years ago.”

“I see.” After Lady Meriweather took a sip of her coffee, she changed the subject to her plans for the gardens once the weather was warm enough to plant flowers among the hedges and perennials. He listened with half an ear as he thought of what she had said. He and Northbridge and Bradby had been melded together in the crucible of war. That bond had been strengthened as they had faced the smugglers’ treachery since he had first arrived in Sanctuary Bay. He could depend on their assistance again, if necessary.

He hoped it would not be, because Bradby was on his honeymoon and Northbridge and his family were settling into his ancestral estate in the south of England. But it was good to remember that, if he needed them, they would come.

Maybe fulfilling Miss Fenwick’s request to help rebuild the church would not be impossible, after all.

* * *

When Foggin came to announce a guest later that morning, Edmund assumed either the vicar or Miss Fenwick wished to discuss the plans for rebuilding the church. Instead, a dark-haired man with an air of arrogance strode into the room as if he were lord of the estate and Edmund his least minion. Edmund suspected women would find Lord Ashland handsome, but his sharp features and hollow cheeks reminded Edmund of how disdainful the viscount had been when Edmund went to his estate in hopes of obtaining help in halting the smugglers.

“Ashland!” Edmund pushed himself to his feet. “I had not expected you to call.”

“This is no social visit.” He drew off his gloves and tossed them in the direction of Foggin.

The footman scrambled to catch them both along with the greatcoat the viscount shrugged off. The poor footman looked so dismayed that Edmund wanted to assure him that Ashland treated everyone with the same contempt.

“I heard,” Ashland went on, as if he had not taken note of the footman, “about the fire at the Sanctuary Bay church, and I thought I should come and discover how bad it was.”

“It was very bad.” He hid his surprise. The viscount had never shown the least bit of interest about anything in the village. A hint of suspicion bubbled through him. If the viscount were the man the smugglers called his qualityship, he would be curious if anything pointing to the smugglers had been discovered in the ruins. “The building is completely destroyed.”

“I am sorry to hear that confirmed. Rumors reach one’s ears all the time, but I prefer to discover the truth for myself. If you have no objections, I would like to ride into the village and see what remains.”

“There is not much to see.”

“Even so, I would like to see it with my own two eyes.”

“Certainly.” He paused, then said, “As you have removed your outer coat, I assume there is more you wish to discuss with me before we leave for the village.” He gestured toward a chair near the hearth. “We may as well be comfortable by the fire before we venture out into the cold.”

“Quite so.” Ashland selected a chair as if he were doing Edmund a great favor.

How did one come to possess such hauteur? Ashland’s bearing suggested that his place was at the center in the universe and that everyone should acknowledge it. Did that mien come from being raised as a peer from birth? Could it be learned later in life? Not that he wanted to act as self-important as Ashland, but he could use the confidence such comportment inspired.

Another item to put on his list for his next conversation with Northbridge. He could ask his friend and former military commander such questions without the ridicule he would face if he addressed those questions to Ashland. That lesson he had learned all too well when he had asked Lady Eloisa about life among the ton. She had answered him, but later made a jest about it at his expense. The Beau Monde could be scathing to outsiders too eager to join the elite of the elite. They labeled those people encroaching mushrooms, but he had not expected, as a new baron, to be described in such terms.

Not until he had overheard Lady Eloisa use that exact term along with his name.

Edmund sat after offering to ring for a cup of something warm for the viscount. When Ashland said that was unnecessary, Edmund asked, “What did you want to discuss?”

“Rumors.”

“You will need to be more specific. Sanctuary Bay is always rife with rumors.” He allowed himself a cool smile. “Some are true. The trick, as I learned during my time in the army, was to determine which are true and which are simple conjecture fueled by repetition.”

Ashland’s eyes narrowed, and Edmund knew that the viscount had not anticipated such a retort from him. If Ashland thought him nothing but a harebrained newcomer to the Polite World, reminding the viscount that Edmund had seen battle on the Continent was not a bad thing.

“That is true,” Ashland said, continuing to appraise Edmund. Was he surprised by what he saw? No hint of his thoughts were revealed on his carefully schooled face.

“Are there particular rumors that you wish to discuss?”

“Rumors about the smugglers who work out of Sanctuary Bay.”

Edmund kept his fingers from digging into the upholstery and his shoulders from stiffening. The viscount’s words disclosed more than his face did, and Edmund suspected his cool composure was a pose. Two could play that game, so he sank back in his chair, crossing one foot over the opposite knee.

“Again,” he said, “I need you to be more specific. Smugglers and their exploits are a major source of rumors throughout Britain.”

“True. I shall be specific.” He pyramided his fingers in front of his face. “Rumor says that the vicar and his sister are now living here at Meriweather Hall. Is that true?”

“Yes.” He was shocked by the abrupt turn in the conversation. Why would Ashland be interested in where the Fenwicks were staying in the wake of the fire? “I thought we were talking about rumors of the smugglers.”

“We are. Other rumors have reached my ears. Rumors of smugglers using the church as a place to store their shipments.”

It took every ounce of his control to ask in a placid voice, “Are you accusing the Fenwicks of assisting the smugglers?”

“The facts speak for themselves.”

“Do they?” He lowered his foot to the floor as he met Ashland’s stare with his own. “Then you clearly are hearing more than rumor, Ashland. The facts are not that straightforward to me. I have seen what was left behind in the church’s cellar, and I have seen the Fenwicks’ faces when they heard that information.” He faltered as he recalled the pain and grief on Miss Fenwick’s face during the long ride back from Norwich. Tears had glistened in her eyes when she had beheld what was left of the only home she had known for the past ten years. The memory of her face as she had fought to remain strong for her brother and his parishioners was etched on his mind. “I believe they have been victims, twice over. First, when the smugglers used Mr. Fenwick’s church for their crimes, and second, when the church and the vicarage were burned.”

“You come to their defense easily.”

“The truth is easy.” Keeping his answers short prevented his anger from bursting forth.

The viscount smiled coldly. “Truth, like beauty, is bought by judgment of the eye, if I may misquote Shakespeare. You rush to the defense of the Fenwicks.”

“Because they are, as I have said, victims in this heinous crime.”

“Maybe they are, but I am not as certain of that as you are.”

Edmund borrowed the viscount’s chilly expression. “Why?”

Again he sensed that his question had astounded Ashland, because the viscount did not shoot back an answer. When Edmund had gone to Ashland’s estate last year to ask for his help in halting the smugglers, he had been shocked at the viscount’s disdain and disinterest in taking action with him. He had stuttered over his words and left feeling like a pup with its tail curled beneath its legs...as he had when Lady Eloisa had tossed him aside.

“You are a newcomer to Sanctuary Bay, Meriweather,” the viscount answered as he regained his poise. “I have lived nearby my whole life.”

“Then you should know that the Fenwicks would never be mixed up with the smugglers.”

“No?” He laughed icily. “I would leave you in your ignorance, Meriweather, but the situation requires action. May I suggest your first action would be to speak to the vicar and his sister about assistance they have offered the smugglers?”

Edmund looked away from the triumphant glitter in Ashland’s eyes. The viscount must have directed the conversation to this point so he could shock Edmund with such a revelation. No, it was not a revelation. Only innuendo.

“I shall.” Standing, he said, “And there is no time like the present. The Fenwicks have gone to see what they can recover from the church, as well as any personal possessions. Why don’t we go and ask them together if your insinuations have any basis in truth?”

“I thought the church was completely destroyed.” Ashland remained seated, but his smile had vanished into a deep scowl.

“The building was, but items can survive even such an inferno.”

He leaned forward, his eyes slitting again. “What did you see when you climbed into the cellar?”

“I see gabble-grinders have been doing a strapping job of spreading the tale of my actions at the church.” He folded his arms, after ringing for a footman to bring the viscount’s outer wraps, as well as his own.

“Why are you avoiding giving me an answer to my question?” He set himself on his feet. “Are you trying to hide something, Meriweather?”

“Are you accusing me of being in collusion with the smugglers?”

“You? Working with the smugglers?” Ashland surprised him by laughing.

The viscount was not laughing at his question. Ashland was laughing at him. And why not? A baron who could make no decisions was hardly a man fit to give the smugglers orders of when and where to obtain their illegal wares. Did the whole world know of his humiliating affliction? It would seem so.

* * *

Vera heard the rattle of harness and carriage wheels and looked up from where she was placing a broken plate back on the ground. Brushing away the cloud of ashes that swirled on the sea wind, she was not surprised to see the Meriweather carriage slowing to a stop between the ruins of the church and the charred vicarage.

Happiness burst through her as unstoppable as the waves rolling out of the sea. And just as powerful. She was glad that Lord Meriweather had come from Meriweather Hall. He was calm and sturdy and...handsome. She ignored the end of that thought. He made her feel that her problems were his. He made her feel safe. He made her feel...lovely.

Was she addled? The last time she had let her mind lead her in that direction, she had almost destroyed her brother’s career. But lying to herself was foolish. When she was with the baron, she felt as if she were someone special, someone who could be described as more than the vicar’s sister, someone who had worth of her own.

The carriage door opened. She wiped her hands on her apron and straightened. Her spine protested, and she realized she had spent hours bent over as she picked through the ashes around the vicarage. With the roof falling in, she had not dared to go inside. Some of the men who had fought the flames had tossed some items out of the vicarage’s small kitchen, but only a handful of items had survived.

Her brother stared at the window where his office had been. He had not moved from that spot for the past hour. Her single attempt to comfort him had been for naught. When he’d asked her to leave him to his thoughts and prayers, she had agreed.

Shouts sounded around what remained of the church. The men working there had noticed Lord Meriweather’s carriage. They paused in their tasks, and she wondered if they were as eager as she was to listen to any plans the baron might have for rebuilding.

Her welcoming smile wavered when Lord Meriweather stepped out of the carriage, every inch of him bristling with the fury displayed on his face. That anger was hidden when another man emerged from the carriage.

Lord Ashland! What was the viscount doing here? He seldom came to the village, though he had attended services at the church several times in the past year.

Vera walked toward the men, curious what had caused even-tempered Lord Meriweather to wear such a grim expression. “Good day, my lords,” she called.

They paused when they reached her and greeted her politely. It was clear they had other issues on their minds.

“I’m glad you are here,” she said when silence fell between them. “The men have been working hard, as you’ll be able to see.”

“They aren’t the only ones.” Lord Meriweather’s face transformed as he smiled.

“What do you mean?”

“It appears you have been poking around the ashes, too, Miss Fenwick. You have a line of gray streaking your cheek.” He raised his hand, then drew it back with a glance at Lord Ashland who watched without comment.

“Oh, that must have happened one of the times I pushed aside my hair.” She looked at her filthy hands.

“Allow me.” Lord Meriweather pulled out a lawn handkerchief and handed it to her. When she looked at him in confusion, because she was not sure which of her cheeks was dirty, he pointed to the left side of his face.

“Thank you,” she said as she dabbed at the soot on her face. When she looked at the handkerchief, she was shocked how dirty her cheek must have been. She wondered why nobody else had mentioned it. Maybe they had not wanted to embarrass her, telling her that she looked like a chimney sweep.

She noticed Lord Ashland walking toward her brother. Maybe the viscount could offer Gregory solace on this difficult day.

“Have you found anything that was saved?” asked Lord Meriweather, drawing her eyes back to his.

She saw concern within those dark pools, but the storm that had raged there when he had exited the carriage could not be hidden. She almost asked what was amiss. She halted herself before she could overstep her place as the vicar’s sister.

“The cooking pans are blackened, but they can be cleaned and made useable again.” She looked at where her brother talked to Lord Ashland. “Not one of Gregory’s books was spared. I haven’t seen him this upset since...” She halted herself before she could spill the truth of what had happened before Gregory was given the living in Sanctuary Bay by a very generous Lord Meriweather. “There aren’t many things he prized as much as he did his collection of books.”

Lord Meriweather sighed. “He is welcome to use any books in Meriweather Hall.”

“Thank you, and he will avail himself of them, but he had some favorite volumes he will sorely miss.”

“I am sorry to hear that. I have contacts in London who may be able to find copies to replace them.”

Vera smiled. “I will let him know.” London prices would be too dear for a vicar, but she appreciated Lord Meriweather’s offer. She hoped Gregory would, as well, though knowing copies existed that he could not afford would add to his frustration.

She started to put the soiled handkerchief in her apron pocket, but Lord Meriweather said, “I can take that.”

“Are you sure? It’s dirty.”

He gave her a sad smile. “I daresay by the time I leave here, I will be far dirtier.” He held out his hand.

“That is true.”

His troubled expression drew his mouth down farther at the corners. “May I ask you a question?”

“Certainly. What about?” She placed the handkerchief on his outstretched palm.

A gust of wind threatened to steal it. She clamped her hand down on the fine linen at the exact same time he closed his fingers around hers. A shock rippled up her arm, a shock that was startling and pleasing at the same time. He drew in a quick breath, and she looked up at him. She saw her conflicting reaction mirrored on his face.

“Miss Fenwick...” His voice was as breathless as if he had run down the village’s steep street and back up. Twice.

“My lord...” She was unsure what to say after that, but she must say something. She could not stand with her hand in his. After what the footman had seen at Meriweather Hall, gossip would spread far and fast...exactly as it had last time.

That memory spurred her to slip her hand from his. “Thank you, my lord, for lending me your handkerchief.”

He did not reply as he gazed at her, as if he had never taken note of her before, and he was intrigued by what he saw.

Vera turned away as someone shouted, glad for the excuse to sever the invisible link between them. She closed her eyes and prayed, Dear Father, I must not forget what happened before. Lead me on the path I should walk, the path that makes sure I never risk Gregory’s work for You.

When she opened her eyes, Lord Meriweather was loping toward a man by the cellar. The man was waving excitedly to him.

Curiosity sent Vera after him at a slower pace among the gravestones that seemed lonely without the church standing guard over them. Both Lord Ashland and her brother passed her; by the time she reached the hole, the men were grouped around something on the ground. Lord Ashland was looking over the side but stepped back hastily before someone bumped into him and sent him down to the bottom of the cellar.

“Just brought it up, my lord,” someone said from the center of the group. “Can you believe it?”

Squeezing among the men, Vera gasped when somebody took her arm and popped her out of the crowd like a grain of sand between her fingers. She smiled at Gregory when he drew her to stand beside him. He gestured toward the ground in front of them.

“Oh, my!” She stared at the baptismal font that rested in three pieces by the cellar hole. The pedestal had broken twice, but the bowl was intact. Smoke and water stains brought the carved figures on the stone into higher relief. “I thought it was shattered.”

“So did I.” Lord Meriweather bent to examine the ancient font. One side was badly chipped. “Astounding! When I saw it in the cellar, I was sure it was destroyed.”

The men grinned.

A tall man she recognized as Luther Hinchliff, the village cooper, said, “We thought so, too, then realized the broken pieces were from the ceiling. The pedestal will have to be put back together, but otherwise it’s useable.”

“We can put it in the new church,” Gregory said, and Vera patted his arm. “God has shown His love by allowing this vital part of our church to come through the flames. Let us thank Him.” He took her left hand and reached out to the man on his left.

When a hand grasped her right one, the warmth coursing through her at the simple touch could have come only from Lord Meriweather.

She bowed her head as Gregory led them in prayer and added her silent thanks that her brother seemed revitalized by the discovery. A good night’s sleep had helped, too, but she had been worried about his state of mind when he had stood by the vicarage so long.

Everyone chorused heartfelt amens when Gregory finished. He reached past her to shake the hands of the men who had brought the font up from the cellar without damaging it further.

Beside her, Lord Meriweather said, “It’s a beginning.”

“Yes,” she said, unable to stop smiling. “We may not have a roof over our heads when we worship, but we can catch heaven’s rain to baptize our newest members.”

“A lovely thought, Miss Fenwick.” He squeezed her hand, and she pulled in a sharp breath. She had not realized he still held it, for it seemed natural to have her fingers enfolded within his. “With this beginning to inspire us, who knows what other blessings lie ahead of us?”

“Blessings? Finally some good news.” The voice came from behind her. She drew her hand out of Lord Meriweather’s and turned as the others did to see a pudgy man. His greatcoat was worn at the elbows, and the collar was frayed. His dark hair needed to be cut. Any hint of a shine had vanished from his boots.

Lord Ashland stepped forward. “Ah, Brooks, I should have known you would be here posthaste.” He motioned toward the rest of them. “You know the vicar and Miss Fenwick, of course. Have you met the new baron?”

The chubby man nodded his head toward Vera and her brother, then dipped his head more deeply toward Lord Meriweather. “Haven’t had the pleasure until now, though I did see you at Sir Nigel’s fall assembly. Too crowded to get to you so we might speak, my lord, that night. So many art lovers eager to admire Sir Nigel’s latest masterpieces. I assumed eventually our paths would cross again.” Mr. Brooks looked from the ruins of the church to the burned-out vicarage. “Vicar, I would guess you are the best one to bring me up-to-date on this tragedy. If you have the time, that is...”

“Of course, Mr. Brooks,” her brother said.

Mr. Brooks motioned for Gregory to walk with him away from the others. When Lord Ashland made to follow, Mr. Brooks gave him a stern look that stopped him in midstep.

The viscount scowled, then stamped toward the carriage. “Coming, Meriweather?” he called over his shoulder.

“In a few minutes.”

Vera was grateful that she stood far enough away from the viscount so she could not discern the words he growled under his breath.

Lord Meriweather watched Lord Ashland for a moment, then shook his head and sighed. He clasped his hands behind his back. “Miss Fenwick, who is Brooks?”

“Cuthbert Brooks is the local justice of the peace.”

“That man is the justice of the peace?”

Vera kept her voice low. “Do not let his self-effacing image fool you. He is a brilliant man when it comes to keeping the peace in the Sanctuary Bay parish.”

“He has been of little use with stopping the smugglers.”

“But there has been less violence than in other places along the shore.”

“Possibly because the smugglers know better than to upset their well-placed leader.”

“That is something I cannot forget,” she whispered.

“Nor I.”

Vera was astonished when Lord Meriweather glanced at where Lord Ashland was climbing into the carriage. Did the baron have suspicions about the viscount’s involvement with the smugglers?

She had heard enough whispers to know that the smugglers took their orders from someone of wealth and prestige. The viscount fit that description, as did Sir Nigel. Mr. Brooks was not as plump in the pockets as the other two, but he held much sway in the parish as the justice of the peace.

“As a good host,” Lord Meriweather said with a sigh, “I should escort Ashland back to Meriweather Hall. I have no idea why he wanted to come here.” He glanced at the baptismal font.

“With the recovery of the font,” she said, “the parishioners are going to be even more eager to have the church rebuilt.”

“I agree.”

“We need to start making plans for the interior. I can meet with you tomorrow whenever you wish. Or the next day if that is better.”

“If you think that is the best time...”

Vera kept her face serene, so he could not discern how sympathy welled up within her. The poor man could not make a single decision. Facing each one seemed to scourge him.

“Let’s not set a definite time now. I will make a list of what I think we need to do,” she said, “and, when I’m done, I will bring it to you for review. Your expertise will be invaluable.”

He nodded and turned to leave; then he paused. Facing her, he said, “One question, Miss Fenwick, if I may.”

“Of course. Any time.”

Again his smile came and went like lightning on a hot summer night. “It is a difficult question to ask. It has come to my attention that it is being said that you and your brother have offered assistance to the smugglers. Is there any truth in that rumor?”

“None!” Both anger and pain riveted her. Anger that he would give that rumor any credence. Pain that such a lie could lead to her brother losing the living in Sanctuary Bay.

“I’m glad to hear that.” He tipped his hat toward her. “I will see you at Meriweather Hall, Miss Fenwick. If you need anything, don’t hesitate to ask.”

She nodded, but she knew she would never be able to ask for what she needed most now: answers. She wanted to know who was spreading spurious tales about her and Gregory. She ached to discover if, upon first hearing them, Lord Meriweather had contemplated sending them away from Sanctuary Bay. And, as much, she longed to find out how she could halt herself from feeling the warmth of his touch, a warmth that could lead her into ruining everything...again.


Chapter Four

Vera stifled a yawn as she walked into her brother’s room the next morning. The room Gregory was using was as masculine in style as hers was feminine. Dark furniture and rugs contrasted with the green velvet draperies. Friezes along the ceiling served as a frame for a mural of a hunting scene. Foxhounds bounded past hedges while riders on horseback jumped over them, suspended forever in midflight. The bright red coats matched the silk on the upper half of the walls above richly stained moldings.

She called his name, and he poked his head past the door that led to the room where his valet would sleep if he had one.

“Good,” he said. “I had hoped you would get here before I left.”

“Left?” She noticed he carried a stack of clothing. “Where are you going? We need you here now while we make plans for the new church.”

He opened a bag on the bed that already held a few items, including several books that must have come from Lord Meriweather’s book room. “I must seek the bishop’s counsel on dealing with the smugglers. As well, I want to share our plans for rebuilding the church.”

“The plans to move the church closer to the village?” She walked to the other side of the bed and watched as he deftly packed the bag. If she did not know better, she would have guessed he had done that many times before.

“Yes, but it is not only the building. There is the churchyard to consider. If we move to another location, do we build a wall around it to protect the graves? The parishioners will not want to be separated in death from their loved ones by starting a new churchyard with the new building.”

She sat on a chair near the foot of the tester bed. “Perhaps we could move the new church a bit closer to the old foundation, so we can still incorporate the graves within the churchyard.”

“A good idea, Vera. I shall share it with the bishop.” He put the last of the clothing in the bag. “Thank goodness that Lord Meriweather and I are close enough in size so I don’t have to call on the bishop wearing dirty and torn clothing.” He closed the top of the worn leather bag and stepped away from the bed.

“I cannot imagine the bishop would judge your ability to lead our parish through this crisis with the smugglers because of what you are wearing.” She smoothed her hands over her lap and the fine gown that was Cat’s. It was even more elegant than the one she had worn to her friend’s wedding, but for the daughter of a baron, it would be considered an everyday morning gown.

“True. Mr. Hamilton has agreed to lead the services on Sunday. I trust you will help him as you do me.”

“Of course.” She would write a simple sermon for Mr. Hamilton to read. He was a fisherman like many in the village, but he helped often at the church and tended the churchyard.

“And if you are away longer than that?”

“I will worry about that if I must.”

Vera bit back frustrated words. Her brother allowed her to assist in his work, but nothing more. How could he not see that she longed to do more to serve God? Many times, she had dreamed of being the one standing at the pulpit preaching the words she had written. Her brother could not imagine a woman having such an ambition.

Gregory glanced toward her. “Something is bothering you, Vera. What is it?”

“Lord Meriweather asked me an unsettling question yesterday.” That it was rumored she and Gregory had abetted the smugglers had kept her awake most of the night.

“About what?” He reached into the cupboard for a coat that, like the rest of his clothing, must belong to the baron.

“The silliest thing.” She should have said nothing. Gregory had been pleased to have the old Lord Meriweather’s complete confidence in him. That the new one might not would upset him more.

“What did he ask?” He folded the coat over his arm and looked at her.

“He asked if we had ever helped the smugglers, and I told him that we hadn’t.”

Gregory placed the coat on top of the bag. “That is not completely true.”

“What?” She jumped to her feet. “Gregory, you cannot be serious!”

“I am.” He motioned toward the door. “Let’s find Lord Meriweather. I might as well explain to both of you at the same time.”

She fought the sickness clawing at her stomach. Her brother had helped the smugglers? Lord, how can I face Lord Meriweather knowing that my brother assisted the men who threatened the baron’s cousins? Both Sophia and Cat had escaped alive, but the situation could easily have gone the other way. And Gregory had helped them....

Somehow her feet carried her alongside her brother. She gripped the banister as they descended the stairs. She heard Gregory ask someone where the baron was but could not focus on whom he spoke with nor the answer. She realized where they were going only when she saw four suits of armor that held swords and lances at the ready lining either side of the corridor.

Gregory knocked on the door of the book room and called, “Lord Meriweather, may we speak with you for a moment?”

“Come in,” the baron called.

Vera walked with her brother into the room that was lined with overflowing bookshelves. More books were stacked in front of them. A rosewood desk was set in front of a large double window. Chairs faced the white marble fireplace.

“Good morning,” Lord Meriweather said with a smile as he stood from one of the chairs.

That smile wavered when Gregory said, “I understand you have asked Vera about our connections with the smugglers, and you need to know that the answer she gave you was not the truth.”

She tried to keep from lowering her eyes when Lord Meriweather looked from her brother to her. Accusation burned in his eyes.

“Are you saying, vicar, that Miss Fenwick lied?”

“No.” Gregory shook his head calmly. “She told you the truth as she knows it. However, it is not the true as I know it.”

“I see. Perhaps,” Lord Meriweather said, “we should sit and discuss this. Miss Fenwick, if you please...”

Both men waited while Vera selected a chair farthest from where the baron had been sitting. She stared down at her clasped hands. It might be futile, but she wanted to prevent him from having a good view of her face. If Gregory had been honest with her, they would not be in this uncomfortable situation.

No, a small voice whispered from her heart, you would have had to spill the truth when Lord Meriweather asked you yesterday. You could have been the cause of Gregory being dismissed again.

At that thought, her throat threatened to close and halt her breathing. The vicarage was gone, and they could be soon, too. Lord Meriweather might believe, upon hearing what Gregory had to say, that a vicar who consorted with criminals did not deserve to preach at the Sanctuary Bay church.

“Very well, Mr. Fenwick,” Lord Meriweather said coolly. “I am waiting for you to explain that extraordinary comment which leads me to believe you have assisted the smugglers.”

She closed her eyes, praying that Gregory knew what he was doing. She did not open them as her brother spoke.

“It was not as you think, my lord,” Gregory said in a quiet, calm voice. “The incident happened several years ago. It was one evening after I had visited a member of the congregation in the village. A man appeared out of the shadows. He wore cloth over his mouth and nose, and his hat hid his eyes. He did not say much, but it was enough to know that there had been a terrible accident and I was needed. A man was dying. I am not a judge. I leave that to God. What I could do was pray with him and offer his family comfort when he died.”

She bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling as tears pressed against her eyelids. How could she have doubted her brother’s integrity? One of the smugglers’ greatest crimes might be making them suspicious of each other.

Lord Meriweather did not reply right away. When he did, his voice was strained. “I cannot fault you for doing your duty, vicar. I would never speak badly of any man who did that. But I do have a question.”




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