The Vicar's Widow

He took his customary seat next to his sister and glanced to the left, to the place Kate always sat, her eyes keen on the vicar, her sweet voice rising above the others in song. She was not there. For the first time since he could remember, save the Sunday following her husband’s death, Kate had not come to church services.

That was when the panic sank its tentacles firmly in him, twining around his heart and all but squeezing the very life from him. Something was horribly, terribly wrong.





The Southbridge Charity Auction Ball was to be held Friday evening, and it was the last place Darien hoped to speak with Kate before resorting to more drastic measures, of which he had not yet divined—so unaccustomed was he to this particular game of the heart—but that he would divine before he let her slip through his fingers.

In fact, it was the more drastic measures he was mulling over a very cold and wet afternoon, not unlike the afternoon that reminded him of the one he’d spent with Kate. That day was indelibly scored in his mind, a day he could not stop thinking about, could not stop reliving, every moment, every snippet of conversation, looking for a clue.

He was sitting before the fire in his study, a glass of whiskey dangling between two fingers, his legs stretched negligently before him when Kiefer entered to announce a caller. “Mr. John Forsythe,” he said as he presented the man’s card.

Bloody hell. Darien didn’t bother to pick it up—he imagined the man’s wife had put him up to it, if not the girl. “Show him in, will you, Kiefer?”

Kiefer returned a moment later with Mr. Forsythe in tow.

Darien managed, in his lethargy, to come to his feet and extend his hand in greeting. “Mr. Forsythe,” he intoned. “Frightful weather to be out and about.”

“Indeed it is, my lord. But I felt it imperative that I speak with you.”

“Imperative?” Darien asked, cocking a brow as he gestured for Forsythe to sit. “We’ve no business that I am aware.”

Forsythe laughed nervously, and flipping the tails of his coat, sat where Darien had indicated. Darien sat, too, picked up his whiskey. “A bit of whiskey to warm you, Forsythe?”

“Please, my lord.”

Darien nodded at Kiefer, who poured the man a generous amount before leaving the study and pulling the door shut quietly behind him. Darien waited for Forsythe to taste the whiskey, then lazily lifted his glass to him before downing the rest of his. “Very well, then, Forsythe. What business have we?”

Forsythe laughed again and cleared his throat. “I recognize that this might be a bit premature, my lord, but what with all the rumors going about, I thought it was prudent of me to have a chat, man to man, about . . . about what the future may hold.”

“And are you privy to what the future holds, sir? If you are, I’d very much like to know.”

That seemed to rattle Forsythe a bit; he cleared his throat again, put the whiskey glass down, and fidgeted nervously with his neckcloth. “Surely, my lord, you are aware that rumors continue to circulate about the ton as to your intentions.”

Darien chuckled. “Rumors of my intentions have been the rule rather than the exception for years now, Mr. Forsythe. I rarely pay them any heed at all.”

“Ah, well,” the man said, looking a bit ill at ease, “as these particular rumors involve my daughter Emily . . . I hope you can see the need for a bit of a chat.”

He’d just said he paid the rumors no heed, implying that perhaps Forsythe shouldn’t, either. With a shake of his head, Darien flicked his wrist and said, rather insouciantly, “Chat as you like.”

Mr. Forsythe frowned at his lack of regard and looked down at his hands for a moment before speaking. “We’ve heard, on more than one occasion, that your interest in our daughter has . . . blossomed . . . and that you might be considering something perhaps a little more . . . long-term.”

“And where have you heard this blossoming rumor?” Darien asked, refraining from chuckling at his own jest as Mr. Forsythe was beginning to look a bit like a pomegranate in the face, which, already quite round, was getting redder.

“Where? I, ah . . . well, then, I can say in all certainty that our Emily has been apprised by Lady Southbridge. And, ah . . . Ladies Cheevers and Bristol, and, I believe, Ramblecourt.”

Now there were four women with nothing better to do than wag their bloody tongues all day, Darien thought. But he did think it rather interesting that Forsythe credited Emily with the repeating of the rumors. “And your wife, Mr. Forsythe? Has she attributed these rumors to the same sources?”