The Vicar's Widow

A few days after the May Day Ball, Kate and her father returned from their weekly calls to the elderly in a bit of a deluge; it was as if the heavens had opened up and poured out a sea of water on London. They were met in the foyer by William, a servant in the vicar’s employ.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, Mrs. Becket, but ye’ve callers,” he said, taking her reticule from her.

“Callers? In this storm?” Papa asked, and exchanged a curious look with Kate. Together, they walked to the door of the small parlor of the vicar’s guest house and peeked inside.

There were four men inside, all right, and they surged to their feet almost as one the moment they saw Kate. Papa strode into the room; behind him, Kate hastily removed her bonnet and tried to smoothe her hair before following him.

“Mrs. Becket,” they muttered in unison. “Mr. Crowley.”

“Rather a nasty day to be about making calls, sirs,” Papa remarked dryly.

“Ah, but what better opportunity to call on the fair Mrs. Becket,” Lord Connery said and quickly stepped forward from the pack of men and extended his hand to Papa. “She knows me well.”

“Does she indeed?” Papa drawled, squinting up at Connery. “And here I believed her to have only a passing acquaintance with you, my lord.”

Lord Connery was not the least bit intimidated by Papa’s challenge; he grinned and bobbed his head at Kate as a rotund gentleman elbowed his way in front of him.

“I daresay I’ve not had the pleasure of making Mrs. Becket’s formal acquaintance,” the rotund man said, bobbing at Papa before turning to Kate. “Madam, if you will allow me. Lord Moreland at your service,” he said, and bowed low.

“Mr. Anglesey at your service, too!” another gentleman all but shouted from the back.

“And lest I be overlooked, madam, Baron Hardwick.” You may recall that we met at church services approximately two months past.”

“I, ah . . . I am certain I will recall it in a moment,” Kate said, feeling a bit flustered by all the attention. And confusion as to why the sudden attention.

Papa was confused, too, judging by his suspicious expression as he eyed them carefully. “Seems rather odd, the four of you calling on my daughter all at once and in a bad rain.”

“I am certain I mentioned I’d be calling the last time I had the pleasure of Mrs. Becket’s company, sir,” Connery said with that despicable smile of his.

“You did not have my company, my lord,” Kate reminded him.

That earned her an oily smile and a shrug from him.

“Nevertheless, no one has asked my daughter if she is disposed to receiving so many gentleman callers today,” Papa said sternly and looked pointedly at Kate.

Hardly—she was wearing a drab gown, her hair was mussed from her hard walk across Mayfair in a downpour, and her feet, while shod in her best walking boots, were killing her. Not to mention her general confusion as to why this spate of callers were at her door to begin with. She’d rather thought that a gentleman called as the result of some mutual understanding betwixt himself and the lady. She had no such understanding with any of these gentlemen. Or the three who’d called earlier this week.

Nevertheless, the four gentlemen looked at her expectantly as they jostled about a bit to stand before her. Kate self-consciously put a hand to her hair and said, “I beg your pardon, good sirs, but I am not, at present, quite prepared to receive callers. I’ve had a rather arduous morning and really must tend to my father’s, ah . . . business this afternoon.”

The four men looked at one another. Lord Moreland was the first to waddle forth; he paused before Kate and snatched up her bare hand, pressed his thick lips to it before looking up and pinning her with a very strange look. “I shall call again if I have your leave, madam,” he said low. “I think you will find me a most pleasant companion.”

“Oh! Ah . . . I’m, ah, certain that you are, my lord,” she said, having no earthly idea what to make of it.

Mr. Anglesey and Baron Hardwick both sought to take their leave next, and Kate had to suggest that perhaps Mr. Anglesey go first, as he was closest to her. Both men exited quickly, eyeing Papa nervously as they vowed to call again at a more convenient time.

Lord Connery, naturally, was the last to leave, and he sauntered toward her, his head lowered, his gaze prurient. “Lovely Mrs. Becket,” he purred over her hand. “How long shall you keep me waiting for the pleasure of your company?” He bent over her hand and pressed his lips to it. She felt the tip of his tongue flick against her skin and quickly jerked her hand back.