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