she heard her aunt’s voice from just behind her. ‘Ah, here you are, my dear. Come, let me present you to my good friend, His Eminence Bishop Richards, and the vicar, Father Gryffd.’
Dread tightened her chest as Honoria turned to face them. When Miss Foxe continued, ‘Gentlemen, my kinswoman—’ she found herself blurting ‘—Miss Foxe. Miss Marie Foxe,’ she added, in deference to her aunt as an elder Miss Foxe.
As ashamed as she might be of the desperation that had produced the lie, her feelings of relief were stronger. Until she figured out what to do with her life, she’d just as lief the bishop—and the rest of Sennlack—were not aware of her true surname, in case some word of the scandal made it here from London. And with the nature of that scandal making the name Honoria sound too much like mockery to her ears, she’d might as well make the falsehood complete by using a middle name.
To Honoria’s relief, after only a slight rise of her eyebrows, Aunt Foxe fell in with the deception. ‘My niece is presently on an…extended visit.’
‘Welcome, Miss Foxe,’ the bishop said. ‘Sennlack may be only a small village, but I’m sure your aunt will make you quite comfortable. The views from the coastal walk are breathtaking, her gardens lovely, and Foxeden Manor boasts a fine library.’
‘Thank you, sir. I’m sure my stay will be most enjoyable.’
‘Shall we tempt you to Exeter for the summer festival, Miss Foxe?’ the bishop addressed her aunt. As the two began discussing this event, Honoria turned her attention to the vicar.
‘Father, who is that little girl walking off with her mother?’ she asked, pointing down the lane.
As if somehow knowing she was being discussed, the child paused at the bend in the road to look back and wave. With a defiant glance in the direction of the innkeeper’s son, Honoria waved back.
‘Eva Steavens,’ the vicar replied. ‘And her mother, Mrs Steavens, a recent widow. Her husband and the child’s father, a fisherman, was lost at sea last winter.’
‘Poor child—and poor wife,’ Honoria murmured. ‘Does the girl never speak?’
‘Not that I know,’ Father Gryffd replied.
‘That still doesn’t make her a halfwit—no matter what some people might think,’ Honoria asserted.
‘No, indeed,’ the vicar agreed. ‘But many of the folk hereabouts are superstitious. It’s her eyes, I suppose, and that crooked smile. Fearing what they do not understand, some think it the devil’s mark and avoid her. Especially…’ he hesitated, as if searching for the correct word ‘…watermen like John Kessel, who shooed her away. It seems she gave a pretty rock or some such trifle to a friend of his, the captain of one of the local, um, fishing boats, just before he set off on a voyage. There was a storm; the ship was lost at sea with all hands. Kessel believes she possesses the evil eye and brought his friend ill luck.’
‘That’s ridiculous,’ Honoria said flatly.
The vicar nodded. ‘Indeed, but the sea is a hard mistress. One can understand that those who ply her depths would wish to avoid anything they think might increase her dangers.’
Unable to disagree with that argument, Honoria said instead, ‘Is the child a halfwit?’
‘’Tis difficult to know for sure when one is unable to speak with her. But she appears intelligent. You must have noticed the language of gestures she has developed to communicate with her mother.’
Her newly-acquired sympathy for the innocent ignited on the girl’s behalf. ‘But it’s so unfair! ’Tis no fault of hers that she entered life with mismatched eyes and a crooked smile.’
‘It is indeed wrong for innocents to suffer for the mistaken perceptions of the world,’ Aunt Foxe said, rejoining their conversation as the bishop’s attention was claimed by another parishioner. ‘But, alas, ’tis often the case.’
Her kind eyes and the look she directed to Honoria were so filled with sympathy, Honoria’s own eyes pricked with tears.
‘One waits in hope for a just God to right matters in the end,’ the vicar said.
‘Amen to that,’ Aunt Foxe agreed.
Honoria had nearly regained her composure when a velvet-timbred, lilting voice emanating from just behind made her jump.
‘Father Gryffd, Miss Foxe, good day. I heard we had a new visitor at services.’
A wave of sensation rippled across her skin. Honoria turned toward the voice that, although she had heard it only once before, already seemed familiar. Standing before her, a smile on his handsome face, was the rescuer from the beach.
Something about that smile made her stomach go soft as blancmange while little ripples darted across her nerves. Before she could figure out why a man’s expression could have elicited such an absurd reaction, the man himself bowed to her aunt. ‘Miss Foxe, might I have the temerity to beg an introduction?’
Her aunt hesitated. Honoria held her breath, wondering how that lady would respond. A smuggler was not a fit person for Lady Honoria Carlow to know, but snubbing a renowned local personage in so small a village hardly seemed warranted—especially on behalf of a mere Miss Foxe whose aunt was apparently on familiar terms with him.
Obviously drawing the same conclusion, with an amused smile, her aunt nodded. ‘My dear, allow me to introduce Mr Gabriel Hawksworth, a…mariner lately come to our shores. Mr Hawksworth, my niece, ah, Miss Marie Foxe.’
‘A breathtaking addition to our local congregation, ma’am. I’ve heard Miss Marie is an admirer of gardens. Would you permit me the further liberty of escorting your niece to view the roses in the churchyard? They are just coming into bloom.’
Honoria nearly sputtered with indignation as her aunt weighed that request. Had the man in question been an eligible gentleman of rank, the inquiry would have been bold enough, but for an out-and-out rogue to solicit the company of an earl’s daughter was audacious beyond belief!
Perhaps it was her certain knowledge that the Carlow men would go into fits, were they to know Honoria was strolling about with a free-trader, but Aunt Foxe nodded her head.
‘I don’t suppose you can involve her in too much mischief whilst walking about the churchyard in plain view, Mr Hawks-worth, but I do count on you to exhibit your most gentlemanly behaviour. My dear, make the most of this opportunity to become acquainted with a local legend.’
The brigand bowed low. ‘I am deeply in your debt, ma’am.’
‘See that you remember that the next time you price your cargo,’ her aunt replied.
Beginning to believe her aunt nearly as much a rogue as the man into whose charge she was being given, before she could think how to protest, with an elaborate bow, Mr Hawksworth claimed her hand and nudged her into motion.
Any thoughts of refusal were scattered to the wind by the little shock that leapt through her as he took her hand. Though after that jolt, her mind remained indignant over the Hawk’s effrontery, her treacherous feet followed his lead quite docilely—a reaction which only increased her irritation.
‘Sir, this is an abduction,’ she
