I should hope. Though I must confess, having you remain under such … crowded conditions does trouble me, Mrs. Martin. Should you choose to return to your cottage, I would be happy to insure that you are escorted to the hall as required.”
“A kind offer, Mr. Blackthorne, but unnecessary,” Beau again answered. “Mrs. Martin would never slight the squire by inferring that his hospitality is less than adequate. And it is more convenient having her close.”
The vicar looked him full in the face. “I’m sure it is—for you. ‘Tis the lady’s well-being that concerns me.”
“The squire’s accommodations are quite satisfactory, Mr. Blackthorne, though you are kind to be concerned,” Mrs. Martin broke in at last, a hint of exasperation in her tone. “If I require assistance, I shall certainly let you know. But now, gentlemen, your discussion seems to be disturbing Mr. Bradsleigh. Why don’t you continue it elsewhere and visit him again later.”
“As you wish, Mrs. Martin,” Beau replied, amused and impressed. She’d just managed to banish the vicar—and himself, as well, unfortunately—with both tact and dispatch. “Mr. Blackthorne, I believe we’ve been dismissed.”
His only consolation was that the lady seemed no more encouraging of the vicar than she was of the squire.
After the obligatory exchange of compliments, the two men left. Falling into step beside the vicar, Beau said, “You need not worry about Mrs. Martin. I shall personally insure she takes proper care of herself.”
“That is precisely what worries me, my lord.”
Beau halted and pinned the vicar with an icy glare that had daunted many a subordinate. “You will explain that remark, please.”
The vicar, to Beau’s grudgingly accorded credit, did not flinch. “I am concerned with the welfare of all my parishioners, Lord Beaulieu. You are a stranger, and may not understand the … harm you could do Mrs. Martin, however unintentionally, if it becomes known she is much in your company. Folk here do not approve of loose London ways.”
By gad, was the vicar maligning his honor by suggesting he’d give Mrs. Martin a slip on the shoulder under the very nose of the injured brother whose life she’d just saved? Had it been anyone other than a man of the cloth, Beau would have called him out on the spot.
Instead, controlling his outrage with an effort, Beau replied, “You overstep yourself, sir. I am fully conscious of the magnitude of the service Mrs. Martin has done my family. I would never cause her harm.”
The vicar held his ground. “I should hope not. But you should be aware, sir, that Mrs. Martin is not as defenseless as she might appear.”
“No, she is not,” Beau shot back. “She has the full protection of the Bradsleigh family. See that you remember that.” Having reached the entry landing, Beau made a stiff bow. “I will rejoin them now. Your servant, sir.”
“My lord.” Face impassive, the vicar nodded and walked back toward the entry.
Beau watched him depart, struggling to master his anger. As if Beau would force his attentions on any lady, much less one to whom he owed such a debt of gratitude! Still, he noted, the vicar could have done nothing more revealing of his feelings toward Mrs. Martin than practically accuse Beau of intending to seduce her.
Given the judgment-impairing effects of such partiality—effects Beau had suffered himself—he would attempt to excuse the vicar’s insulting innuendo.
That Beau entertained hopes of winning the lady’s favor he would not deny. And though those hopes might not veer toward matrimony, Mrs. Martin was not a young virgin whose reputation could be ruined by a discreet affair.
Except … the vicar might be correct in asserting the rural folk of this neighborhood might take a less enlightened view of such a relationship. Perhaps Elspeth’s idea of relocating Mrs. Martin had merit.
A circumspect liaison conducted elsewhere would, if anything, enhance her stature. In addition to the financial protection he was eager to offer, she’d meet prominent individuals whose influence could ease her way the rest of her life, as well as becoming acquainted with all the gentlemen of birth and status Ellie could hope for.
Should they later part company, most of these gentlemen would not consider her relationship with Beau disqualified her as a possible wife. Indeed, though her birth seemed merely respectable and her current position was less than modest, he wouldn’t rule out the possibility of wedding Laura Martin himself. Especially since he found the notion of her going to any other man extremely distasteful.
The spark of an idea caught fire in his heart and head. Beau had already absented himself from his work about as long as he could afford. Returning to visit Mrs. Martin at this remote area on a regular basis might well be difficult. Having her established somewhere close enough for daily visits would be much more satisfactory—so satisfying, in fact, that Beau could almost forgive the vicar his temerity in broaching the issue.
That decided it. As soon as Kit had sufficiently recovered, Beau would have to persuade her to come to London.
Chapter Seven
By the next afternoon Beau was once again out of charity with the vicar. Apparently the reverend had spread word of Ellie’s arrival and Kit’s improvement throughout the county, for beginning that morning they’d had a steady stream of callers. Having been interrupted three times already while trying to assimilate the contents of the satchel his courier had delivered at dawn, Beau nearly told the apologetic footman who’d just appeared once again to convey his regrets.
Then, knowing his kindhearted sister would never be so uncivil as to refuse to receive the local gentry, and realizing the task of entertaining the curious would fall on her delicate shoulders should he shirk a duty he was finding particularly irksome today, he relented.
With a sigh he set his papers aside and followed the footman to the parlor. The striking blonde seated beside his sister surprised him out of his irritation.
The lady rose and followed him to the window where, after bowing a greeting, he’d gone to join the squire. “Lord Beaulieu, what a pleasure to see you again!”
She held out her hand. Compelled by courtesy, he accepted it, his initial appreciation of her striking beauty dimming. Forward baggage.
“You’ll remember me from Lord Greave’s house party last fall at Wimberley. Lady Ardith Asquith.”
As usual, the business reasons behind his attendance at that event had limited his time among the female guests. He scoured his memory, finally coming up with a flashy blonde accompanying an elderly peer.
His eyes narrowed as he swiftly assessed the daringly low-cut gown, the guinea-bright curls, the perfect skin, pouting lips—and bright, hard eyes. A self-absorbed beauty.
“Yes, I remember, Lady Ardith,” he said, bringing her fingers to his lips for the obligatory salute. “And how is your husband, Lord Asquith?”
She flapped long painted lashes and gave him an overly familiar smile whose hint of shared intimacy he immediately resented. “Preoccupied as usual, my lord. Poor me—I so often have to find my own … amusements.”
He
