Always Believe in Love (Emerson Book 4)

by Maureen Driscoll

  Nick nodded, envisioning some poor spinster poring over the volumes. “Perhaps I should ask for her assistance with my project.”

  The vicar frowned again. “I am not at all certain that would be quite the thing. As I said, she is unmarried, though I predict that will change soon enough. I plan to marry her.”

  Nick didn’t know anything about the bookish Miss Winston, yet he still had the notion she’d be happier staying unmarried and messing about with the musty ledgers than wedding this dour man. “I wish you happy.”

  “I have no doubt we will be,” said Bramwell, as if Nick had somehow implied the opposite. “Well, I must continue my morning constitutional. It is good to get out and about before the devil awakens.”

  “I was unaware he set his clock by Greenwich,” said Nick, realizing even as he said it that he shouldn’t be antagonizing this man, but was, nonetheless, unable to resist.

  “Come again?”

  “You implied the devil was still asleep, as if he were attuned to this time, as opposed to the Americas or the Orient. For all we know the devil has been awake for hours.”

  Bramwell frowned. “You’re not some type of Satanist, are you?”

  Nick hoped Miss Winston had the forbearance of a saint. “It was simply a jest.”

  “I do not think the devil is a laughing matter.”

  “Yes, well, I shan’t keep you from your constitutional. Good day, Mr. Bramwell.” Nick bowed, then continued on his way. A visit to the church archives later in the day was definitely in order. And perhaps he’d tell the spinsterly Miss Winston to rethink her matrimonial plans.

  * * *

  It was almost eleven of the clock and Kate had been poring over a ledger for almost two hours. This one had a particularly interesting account of a wager between the residents of Weymouth and those of nearby Dorchester. Apparently, a good deal of ale had been consumed in the course of it, for several arrests had been made for disorderly conduct including an unnamed act which had put a hen off of laying her eggs for almost two weeks.

  Kate was most disappointed not to have the infraction in question explained in detail.

  There was a knock at the door. She sighed. No doubt it was Mr. Bramwell there to either inquire about her person or to disparage her work. Neither was pleasant. And as much as she’d like to ignore the knock, she knew it would only prolong the inevitable.

  “Come in!” she called out, while remaining engrossed in her work. Perhaps if Mr. Bramwell saw her thusly occupied he would limit his interruption. At least one could certainly hope.

  “I apologize for intruding,” said a deep voice she didn’t recognize.

  Kate looked up to see one of the most handsome men she’d ever had the pleasure to behold. He was obviously a visitor to Weymouth and only recently arrived. For she was certain she would’ve heard of his impossibly good looks if he’d been there longer than a day. He was tall with black hair and dark eyes. Were it not for the smile which showed impressively straight white teeth, he could be a dark angel come to wreak havoc on the rectory. Or, at the very least, on her composure.

  She rose from her seat because it was only polite to do so and it also gave her a better vantage point from which to observe him. He was dressed like the lord he undoubtedly was, with a dark blue jacket, striped waistcoat, breeches that – goodness – didn’t just hint at his form but proudly proclaimed it, and boots of the finest leather. Most impressively of all, he didn’t smell of fish.

  He was, however, looking at her as if he knew her.

  “Forgive my intrusion,” he said again. “I met Mr. Bramwell in town this morning and he suggested I stop by.”

  Kate was rather astonished that such a brilliant idea had been hatched from Mr. Bramwell’s head, but she decided it was a case not unlike the blind squirrel finding a nut. She realized she had yet to say a word, so she replied with an “Oh!” Then she chastised herself for being a dolt.

  Evidently, the man might be thinking along similar lines, for he looked around. “Is Miss Winston here?”

  “I am Miss Winston.” She curtsied.

  For some reason, the visitor seemed surprised, but quickly caught himself and bowed quite smartly. “I am Nicholas Chilcott. Mr. Bramwell spoke of you earlier.”

  “I figured he must have, unless you are exceedingly good at guessing names.”

  That made him grin, which made him even more handsome, though it almost defied the odds that such a thing were possible. “Is there a reason you wished to speak with me?” she asked.

  He was still looking at her with a rather odd expression. “You must forgive me, Miss Winston. I simply wasn’t expecting you.”

  “Oh? Then just who were you expecting, sir?”

  * * *

  Nick wanted to hit himself in the head for the dolt that he was. He’d gone there expecting a prim miss resigned to her pending marriage to Bramwell. But, instead, here was the lady he’d watched the day before. She of the upright posture and striding gait. She of the lovely light brown hair and ringlets. She was wearing a plain gown with long sleeves and a high neckline. But she had remarkable green eyes which had studied him to a frankly astonishing degree when he had arrived. There was nothing flirtatious in either her look or her mannerisms, but it was unsettling to be in her presence. This was the woman who had made the fishermen laugh and the girls jealous. The lady who would soon wed Mr. Bramwell.

  That didn’t make any sense at all.

  He had been expecting a spinster, not this vibrant woman. And while he’d long felt it was unfair that an unmarried woman was considered on the shelf when she was only a few years out of the schoolroom, he’d been expecting someone older and, well, considerably less attractive than Miss Winston, who looked to be three and twenty at the most and would turn heads in any London ballroom. Assuming she slowed down long enough for men to watch her.

  “Is something amiss, Mr. Chilcott?” she asked.

  “Nothing at all.” Other than the mystery of her being betrothed to the vicar. “I was curious about the records that can be found in the archives. I am somewhat of an amateur historian.” As he said the words, he realized how pompous they sounded. He also had a feeling Miss Winston would be able to discern that he was no such thing.

  But if she suspected he wasn’t being wholly honest with her, she didn’t show it. “It is mostly an accounting of births, marriages and deaths in the parish for three centuries.”

  Damn. That wasn’t going to help at all. “So just the mundane details of daily life.”

  As soon as the words were out of his mouth, he could tell he had made a mistake. She visibly bristled, resulting in the most alluring shiver rolling through her body. He wondered what it would be like to see her shiver beneath him. It was wholly inappropriate to think of such things with the vicar’s betrothed, of course. But it was entirely wrong that she should be stuck with Bramwell.

  “Mr. Chilcott,” she began, with a chill in her voice that surely must match the wind off the sea in winter. “Births, marriages and deaths are not ‘mundane details’ to those who are going about having children, getting married and dying. They are the most important activities of a village, for they represent life in all its forms. The celebrations and days of mourning are what people remember, sir. They bring people together and you should not disparage them.”

  “Pray forgive me, Miss Winston. I did not mean to disparage anything.”

  She leaned forward with wide eyes and a look of wonder he knew he shouldn’t trust. “Pray forgive me, sir. Perhaps I have misinterpreted the meaning of the word ‘mundane.’ Has a new definition been affixed to it?”

  She was much too lively for the vicar. “You are correct, Miss Winston. My choice of words was poor, indeed. I am at a loss as to what I should do now.”

  “Perhaps, sir, you should cease talking.”

  The sting of her words was lessened considerably as she clapped a hand to her mouth and wrinkled her nose. “Now it is time for me to ask your forgiveness, Mr. Chilco
tt, for I have been unforgivably rude. One of my biggest faults is allowing my tongue to race ahead of my brain. I fear in this case, the former is halfway to London while the latter is still asleep in bed.”

  For one long, pleasurable moment, Nick could only think of Miss Winston’s tongue. He would like to accompany it on any journey it might undertake. Then he thought about what she’d said and laughed aloud. “Miss Winston, anyone as clever as you should never apologize for her wit. Especially since I am the one whose tongue and brain first disassociated with my thoughtless remarks about the village archives. Shall we begin again? I am Nicholas Chilcott.” He bowed to her.

  “And I am Miss Kate Winston.” She curtsied.

  Then he bowed over her hand, bringing it all the way to his lips – which was most improper of him to do with the vicar’s betrothed. God must have been watching the infraction because he was punished not by a lightning strike, but a spark that started with her hand and travelled past his lips into every inch of his body. He looked up to see the same startled gaze on her face that must be on his.

  Both of them stepped back a few feet.

  She recovered first, though she smoothed her hair as she began to speak. “What is it you wish to find in the archives, Mr. Chilcott, if not a recording of the events of village life?”

  Nick had to be careful here. He knew the villagers wouldn’t want to speak freely about smuggling and there was no way they would want to talk about spies. “I am interested in the war.”

  A wall of reserve settled upon the lively Miss Winston. “I see,” she said slowly. “Were you a soldier, sir?”

  “No, though a brother of mine served valiantly.” That much was true. Colin had been a decorated officer, even if he never wished to talk about it.

  That seemed to put Miss Winston more at ease, though she looked troubled. “Was he lost in the war?”

  “No, thank God. He is quite well. But I have been curious about how the war affected the coastal region. Were you here at the time? You must have been quite young.”

  “I moved here when I was eight, seventeen years ago.”

  That made her five and twenty. “So you were but a girl during the fighting.”

  “I was seventeen when the war blessedly came to an end. My guardian was the previous vicar and he spoke often about its terrible toll.”

  He wanted to ask her why she had a guardian, but it was too personal of a question. And he had a mission to fulfill. “Did you see much of it here?”

  She grew suspicious again. “Surely, Mr. Chilcott, you know England wasn’t invaded. And there were no British troops quartered in the village. What exactly is your inquiry?”

  He wanted to trust this woman with his quest, but it was too risky. If she turned against him – and she had taken quite an exception to his comments about the births, marriages and deaths – she could turn the entire village against him and then he’d never get the answers he sought.

  So, instead, he decided to retreat with honor. “I was just curious if any naval ships had been berthed here. I do love the sea.”

  “Do you?”

  Now she looked especially suspicious.

  “Quite.”

  “I’m afraid we have nothing that would interest you then, since there were no ships stationed in this area. You might have better luck further up the coast.”

  “Thank you, Miss Winston.” He wished he could think of a way to prolong the conversation. She was interesting to talk to in a way most women of his acquaintance weren’t. Mostly because he didn’t spend a great deal of time talking to women, other than the ladies in his family. “So I shall be going.”

  He hoped he wasn’t imagining the look of disappointment that seemed to flash across her face.

  She smiled and his breath caught. “Good day, Mr. Chilcott. I hope your stay in Weymouth is pleasant.”

  It would be if he could spend more time talking to her, but from her expression he doubted that would be the case.

  * * *

  Kate wasn’t certain what to make of Mr. Nicholas Chilcott. For one thing, she doubted he was merely a mister. He seemed like a lord to her. Not that he’d been high in the instep. Quite the contrary. But there was something about the way he carried himself. It was the confidence that seemed to be bred into toffs. Not that she’d met that many herself. But their carriages stopped in the village on occasion and she had read about them in the London newspapers Oscar had been able to obtain with surprising frequency for a poor vicar.

  She wished there was a copy of Debrett’s Peerage in the village so she could find out who he truly was. She supposed it was possible that he was a simple mister. After all, she’d never heard of a toff declining to use his title. But if that was what he was doing, she was even more suspicious of him.

  She didn’t believe his Banbury tale of being an amateur historian interested in the sea. He’d asked about wartime activities and that had put her on edge. The only wartime activities in Weymouth had been of the clandestine kind. Fishermen had risked their lives as freetraders to feed their families, providing goods like brandy and lace to the same men who enacted laws against them in Parliament.

  She had been too young to understand it during the war, but she’d spied Oscar leaving the house after midnight on more than one occasion, heading to the shore.

  There had also been rumors that some fishermen hadn’t limited their cargo to the likes of lace and brandy. She believed men had also been ferried back and forth. She’d always hoped they were British spies and soldiers gone to do their duty, but she hadn’t wanted to learn too much about the ventures. She was loyal to the Crown and didn’t wish to know if there were traitors in Weymouth.

  But you could never really know a person until you truly knew them.

  If anyone had committed treasonous acts they could still hang for it. She knew everyone in the village and prayed that if anyone had acted dishonorably, they were now repentant and would never do so again. She couldn’t bear to see anyone die for what they’d done.

  But now Mr. Chilcott had come to ask questions about the war. Perhaps she should’ve let him look through the ledgers in search of answers she knew wouldn’t be there. For who would have entered such accounts into the public records? And he’d already expressed his derision of the birth, marriage and death records. If he did look through the ledgers, mayhap he would lose interest quickly and be on his way to the next village and whatever mission he was truly on.

  She hoped he wouldn’t make the mistake of making inquiries in Weymouth itself. People wouldn’t take kindly to a toff – he simply had to be at least a baron – investigating their business. She feared Mr. Chilcott could come to harm if he wasn’t careful.

  She decided that when she next saw him, she would invite him back to the archives so she could bore him with minutiae. And she wasn’t motivated at all by the prospect of sitting in the same room with him for a day and staring at such a fine male figure.

  Not at all.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Nick walked away from the archives with several thoughts. The first was sheer wonderment that the pompous, overbearing vicar had been able to persuade the lively, quite attractive Miss Winston to agree to marry him. Nick wondered whether or not the lady had actually heard the question before saying yes.

  He knew it was difficult for an unprotected female to make her way in the world. With her guardian gone, perhaps Miss Winston felt marriage to Bramwell was her best chance for a secure future. That could be the only reason for her saying yes. For it could not possibly be a love match. Just the thought of it made Nick snort his derision, causing the matron who was walking near him to pull her children out of his way.

  He had certainly made a hash of his efforts to learn about wartime activities in the village. Her defenses had come out like a suit of armor. She was too young to have participated in any of the activities, but she obviously knew something had happened, or, at the very least, had her suspicions. But she was protective of the villagers and he do
ubted he’d get her to reveal any of their secrets. Mayhap he’d find someone not quite as smart as Miss Winston who could help him.

  Nick spent the afternoon walking through town, learning as much as he could about the village. It was easy to see how it had been a popular spot for freetraders during the war. There appeared to be an untold number of coves by the rocky cliffs. It would be impossible to tell just how many there were unless one was down in the water. Families who’d fished these waters for generations would know how to make runs to France under cover of darkness, safe from the Revenue and whatever limited naval forces might be in the area. Nick had no doubt this had been a smuggler’s paradise during the war. But had they run spies?

  Freetrading had been an economic necessity for many, but most smugglers were loyal to the Crown. It wasn’t unusual for them to ferry men back and forth between the continents with few questions asked. There were legitimate reasons for travel between the two countries. Sometimes it was to further the trade they engaged in. Others lived in one country, but had loved ones in the other. And Colin had once told him there were soldiers he’d known who’d taken trips from France to England to attend to family matters. Even just to get the occasional break from the war.

  So, Nick didn’t fear the fishermen themselves were traitors. But he wasn’t at all certain they’d have the information he needed.

  “Yer that Mr. Chilcott, are ye not?”

  Nick looked up to see a girl who couldn’t be more than eighteen or nineteen. She was a buxom lass, wearing a simple gown whose bodice emphasized her charms. Her brown hair was being whipped about by the wind and her cheeks were red from the cold. He thought she should be wearing a shawl against the cold, then realized this was the woman he’d seen from his room the day before. The one who’d been flirting with the fishermen. The one who didn’t like Miss Winston.