The Seduction of Scandal (Scandals and Seductions 5)

by Cathy Maxwell

  It was not unusual for parishioners to make free of the rectory. They often saw this dwelling, just like the church and himself, as their property. It was annoying, but what was a parson to do?

  Except this visitor was a surprise. Squire Rhys-Morton only appeared in church at Christmastide and the Passion.

  Knowing how close the squire was to the earl—and just how much the Thorn had stolen from his lordship last night—Will’s guard came up. “Why, Squire, this is a surprise. How may I be of service?”

  The squire leapt to his feet, acting as if he was embarrassed to have been caught there and almost knocking over the chair. He was a ruddy-faced man of middling height, whose unease turned to alarm as he took in the sight of Will.

  His bushy brows rose to his hairline. “Good God, Reverend, you look as if you were set upon by thieves.”

  Will tried to smile. “It was a rough night. I’m called out at all hours. But enough about me. What brings you here, Squire? Although your presence is fortuitous. I have a meeting with the elders about a new bell for the tower. We could use your opinion.” And your money.

  “No, no, I don’t want anyone to know I am here.”

  Now he had Will’s full attention. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I must talk to someone. If I don’t, I think I may have a fit of apoplexy. I can’t go on this way.” He raked his fingers through his gray hair, pulling on it in his frustration. “And seeing that you are related in a sort of way to Lord Bossley, I thought it best to talk to you. I can trust you . . . I think.”

  Before the stunned Will could respond, the squire fell to his knees before him. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  This was the part of Will’s calling that made him uneasy. Who was he to grant absolution? For the past four months and more, he’d been chalking up sins to St. Peter’s list with an abandon that would have put his bishop in his grave if he’d known.

  “Please, Squire Rhys-Morton. That’s unnecessary.” Will bent to help the heavier man up.

  The squire turned to dead weight, refusing to move. He raised anguished eyes to Will. “I’m betraying my country, and I can’t live with this on my conscience any longer.”

  Will froze. “Betraying your country?”

  “Aye.” There was fear in the squire’s watery eyes. The man didn’t look healthy. Will remembered he’d thought as much last night as the squire had shoveled food into his mouth, as if trying to avoid the company. Right now, his skin was pale and sweat beaded his forehead.

  Sitting down in the chair the squire had just vacated, Will feared the answer as he asked, “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t say this to just anyone,” Squire Rhys-Morton whispered, glancing around them as if he was afraid someone might have been peeking in the window. “I know things. At first, it was just a lark. I’m not the most honest of men. I don’t mind lining my coffers, and I can say that those crofters have cost me more in aggravation than they have in gain. I should double their rents.”

  “You did.”

  “Well, double that,” the squire said without remorse.

  “What is this about betrayal?” Will asked.

  Such a strange conversation for an early morning. The sun pooled light on the brick tiled floor. From the open window came the sound of a whippoorwill calling his mate, the spring buzz of happy bees. This was not the place for talk of treason.

  “I know you owe a debt to Lord Bossley,” the squire said.

  “I do,” Will said perfunctorily. He was always reminded of it. Always had been; always would be.

  “That’s why I reason I could talk to you. You won’t go running with my tale, but I can remove it from my back.”

  “This involves Lord Bossley?”

  Again, the squire shot a fearful glance over his shoulder. “You know Simon Porledge didn’t run afoul of the Thorn.”

  Will knew that better than anyone . . . but he was surprised Rhys-Morton did. “He didn’t?” He managed to keep his voice level.

  The squire laid a finger to the side of his nose, a sign he was in “the know.” “It wasn’t him. Although he’s been blamed for it. You don’t cross Bossley.”

  “My foster father can be a hard man.”

  “And a greedy one.”

  “You said that, Squire. I didn’t.” The thought threaded through Will’s mind that perhaps this was a test. That Bossley suspected his loyalty and had sent the florid squire to ask questions. “I’m not here for gossip.”

  “I’m not here to gossip,” the squire answered, and there was enough fear in his voice to lead Will to believe him. He bore a great weight. Secrets or knowledge of evil could do that to a man. Will knew. He walked a fine line himself.

  The squire reached for his hand, the supplicant pleading for mercy. “I don’t want to end up like Porledge, but I can’t keep this to myself any longer. Bossley is dealing with the French,” he whispered. “They are helping him in his bid to become prime minister. Last night, he sent a shipment of money he’d received from the French to his man in London.”

  “Why would the French want to see Lord Bossley prime minister?”

  “So they can have him in their pocket. The earl has grand ambitions. He’s made friends in high places. He confided in me one night when he was in his cups.”

  “Lord Bossley doesn’t drink that deeply,” Will said with certainty.

  “He has started to. Haven’t you noticed?”

  There had been lines of dissipation on Bossley’s face, but Will had thought that a matter of age. The man was over sixty and had spent a good number of years under the Barbados sun.

  Will’s guard was up. Would Bossley have said something, even while drinking, to a man like Rhys-Morton? “This is a serious charge, Squire. Are you certain your confession shouldn’t be for spreading a falsehood about a good man?”

  “There are French ties to Scotland. Not all of Bossley’s money comes from his crofters and tenants. Everyone thinks it does, but they are wrong. Take this knowledge from me. I can’t bear it any longer,” the squire said. “Now you know. If you think it should be reported, then you do it.”

  “Me? All I have is your hearsay. Speak to Major Ashcroft. He is the Crown’s Authority in the area. Tell him what you’ve told me.”

  “I’m not certain he isn’t in on it. You do know that once Sherwin marries that duke’s daughter, Bossley will have more power than any man in England. The duke is very well connected. No one will question Bossley’s actions until it might be too late. There is a reason he’s paying Banfield a pretty penny to marry Sherwin to that girl.”

  Will wondered if Lady Corinne knew about the money.

  The squire let go of Will’s hand and clumsily climbed to his feet. His features sagged as if he’d been broken. Will rose with him.

  “It’s on your head now,” the squire told him. “I’ve relieved my conscience. I’ve been a selfish man and followed the master, but I will endeavor to do better in the future. Isn’t that right, Reverend?”

  “No, it isn’t enough. Take care of your tenants, Squire. Show them the compassion you want from our God.”

  Rhys-Morton nodded. “I will. I will. But I can’t protect them for having to pay Bossley. He’s the law here. You ken? This is best between us? Yes?”

  “Of course.” The words were bitter in Will’s mouth.

  “Good. I mean no disrespect to your foster father. Thought it better I talk to you than anyone else.”

  “That was a wise decision,” Will murmured, uncertain if that was how he felt. This information was valuable. It added pieces to the puzzle that was Bossley.

  “Thank you, Reverend. Thank you. Like a confessional, right?”

  Will wanted to sigh. “As you say.”

  The squire didn’t look at Will as he let himself out.

  Will stood alone in the
kitchen. Bossley was being paid by the French?

  His foster father’s ambition was unsettling. He liked to scheme.

  This wasn’t the first time Will had confronted it. Bossley had played him against Freddie all his life. But how could he imagine to escape with treason?

  Or was this the way things were done in halls of power? A man “bought” his way in.

  Last night, Will had taken a small chest from the coach and tucked it into the sack where he’d been carrying his fire torches. What with Lady Corinne being shot, he’d not stopped to break the lock to see its contents. It was currently hidden in the rock wall of the reiver’s hut.

  But what if there wasn’t money in it? The chest had a lock and had been quite heavy—like the others Will had stolen. Except Bossley had taken great pains to see that the chest reached London. To whom was he sending it?

  A knock on the door and “Reverend Norwich?” told him the elders had arrived and were tired of waiting. Will opened the door on John McBride, Lem Carlson, and Joshua Gowan.

  “Here you are now, Reverend. We were waiting at the church, but you are right late,” McBride said. He had a burr to his voice, proof of his adventurous years spent in Glasgow.

  “I’m sorry. I seem to be chasing myself this morning,” Will apologized.

  “We don’t mind the wait,” Gowan said. He was the blacksmith and his wife cleaned the parsonage, along with cooking Will’s meals. “But I must say, you look the worse for wear.”

  “I was called out for a sick child,” Will lied.

  “Whose child?” McBride wanted to know.

  “On the other side of the parish. You wouldn’t know them,” Will answered. He had to be careful. His lies were stacking up. He needed to keep track of them.

  Before the Thorn, he’d prided himself on his honesty. What did they say—pride goes before the fall?

  “You are always running somewhere in the middle of the night,” McBride observed. “I’m glad I don’t have your job. I like my bed too much.”

  “You like your warm wife too much,” Carlson responded. He was the oldest of the three, and he had iron-gray hair, a long beard, and a liking for whiskey.

  McBride gave him a playful cuff to the ear but laughed. “You are right, you jealous dog.”

  “Come, gentlemen, let us have a look at the tower’s bell,” Will said, wanting them out the door and their minds on other things.

  Gowan spent a good hour weighing the damage and wondering if he could or could not do the repair. There was concern about funds. Money was tight.

  Will found it interesting that no one in the parish mentioned the small packs of money he put on doorsteps, money he’d stolen as the Thorn. Well, he really didn’t consider it stealing. He thought of it as a redistribution. The money had belonged to the crofters in the beginning.

  Or the French.

  In the end, Gowan decided he couldn’t do the repair. The bell would have to be taken to a foundry in Manchester. Another expense.

  The men climbed down from the tower. Will was the last to descend. It had been a busy morning, yet thoughts of Lady Corinne hadn’t been far from his mind. He wondered if they had discovered her missing or if Ashcroft had said anything—

  “Hello, Will.”

  Bossley’s voice gave Will a start. The earl never visited the church; then again, they should have been looking everywhere for Lady Corinne.

  A calmness settled over Will, the same calmness he felt before he pulled the mask over his head and became the Thorn. God help him, but he enjoyed the challenge. He savored righting the wrong. He craved the danger—and Rhys-Morton’s confession had raised the stakes.

  Will turned from the ladder. The elders stood to the side, silent. They did not make eye contact with the earl.

  He did.

  “Hello, my lord,” Will said with the ease of one greeting a family member.

  His lordship was decked out in a light coat trimmed in velvet with piping. His boots shone like mirrors, and the gold buttons on his jacket had the dull gleam of true metal.

  “Problems with the bell tower?” Bossley asked, addressing the question to the elders. None would answer. The tenants and crofters kept their silence around the earl. Will sensed that the earl enjoyed toying with them, of encouraging their fear.

  There had been a time when the earl had attempted to make Will fear him. He’d failed.

  “The bell has a crack,” Will replied.

  “Someone rang it too hard?” Bossley said with a mild smile, as if he’d made a joke. The elders gave the weak chuckles expected of them.

  This teasing, this pretense of a casual visit, was not what it seemed. Will turned to the elders. “Gentlemen, I shall send to Manchester for information.”

  “Very good, Reverend,” Gowan said, but the others only nodded their heads, gratefully accepting his words as a dismissal.

  Bossley waited until they’d left the building to say, “Good men. Hard workers. The church looks in fine form, Will.”

  His foster father rarely involved himself in the goings-on of Holy Name. Either his visit was about Lady Corinne . . . or, possibly, the squire’s visit.

  “Is there something I can do for you, my lord?”

  Bossley waved the question away, moving past the stone baptismal font and walking into the sanctuary.

  The interior was a fine example of Tudor craftsmanship. The first earl of Bossley had been most generous in his day but he’d also been extremely vain. He’d given the church the carved pews, the grand pulpit, and an ornate rood screen decorated with imaginative scenes, including one representing himself spearing a lion.

  The story was told that the lion represented Scotland and the reivers the earl had greatly despised. Will had no doubt the story was true. Many would have liked to have seen that portion of the screen removed. Centuries of intermarriage should have blurred the lines between Scot and English in this small borderland, but such had not been the case. Most of the parishioners were proud of their Scottish ancestors and had a tendency to see the earl of Bossley as some medieval English warlord—something this earl certainly played upon with his demands.

  Bossley scowled at Will. “You should find your razor. No proper parson would go around looking like an outlaw.”

  Will forced an easy smile and rubbed his chin, wondering if Bossley knew how close to the truth his criticism was. “You are right, my lord. Unfortunately I had a sick call last night and returned just in time for my meeting with the elders.”

  “And your neck cloth? And your shirt? You aren’t wearing a shirt.”

  “I gave the shirt to the crofter and must have tossed aside the bands at the same time. I have more.”

  Bossley studied him for a moment. Will had to admit, the man had presence. With little more than a lift of his brow, Bossley had always been able to make Will squirm. It took all Will’s resolve to stand calm and assured in front of his foster father.

  “I do admire you,” Bossley said at last. “You take such care of your flock. Giving them the shirt off your back, as it were.”

  “They are your flock as well, my lord,” Will couldn’t resist reminding him. They’d had this discussion. Several times, back in the early days, when Will had protested against what Bossley had been doing to the crofters and had thought his arguments could overcome the earl’s greed.

  “Yes, yes,” his lordship answered. “But I’m not here for an argument. This is a social call, Will.” He smiled, the expression not reaching his eyes. “What did you think of Lady Corinne last night?”

  “Why do you ask?” Will’s voice betrayed nothing but casual interest. Oh, he was becoming an adept liar—although his nerves were stretched thin.

  “Curiosity,” Lord Bossley said. “It struck me over dinner last night that it is time you married.”

  That was not the direction Will had exp
ected the conversation to take. “Marry?”

  Bossley laughed. “Yes, man, marry, or are you like some papist and thinking to remain celibate? I won’t have it, you hear.” He’d changed his tone. Lightened it. Filled it with goodwill. Will’s guard went up. “You need a woman, Will.”

  “I won’t argue the fact,” Will agreed with complete honesty. “But I’ve yet to meet the right one.” Or one who wouldn’t have minded his outlaw activities or seeing him hanged. Still, there had been a time he’d dreamed of marriage, of a wife to grace his life. She’d always looked like Lady Corinne. . . .

  Will shut the thought from his mind. He was a dreamer, a fool. And now that he was learning how difficult, headstrong, and willful she was, Lady Corinne was the last woman he would wish for a wife.

  Come to think of it, he was doing Freddie a service by helping her run away.

  “I shall find one for you,” Lord Bossley promised. “A bishop’s daughter who can help further your ambitions . . . and mine. I told you I wanted to see you archbishop of Canterbury someday. Don’t believe it couldn’t happen.”

  “Canterbury?” Will’s gesture took in the confines of the country church. “I might as well aim for the moon.”

  “I am the moon, Will.” There was not a trace of doubt in the earl’s voice. “Do you believe me?”

  Slowly, Will nodded his head. It was what Bossley expected, what he felt was his due.

  “Good,” Bossley said. “I don’t want you to forget what you owe me; what I owe you.”

  “You’ve given me enough, my lord,” Will answered.

  “So modest,” he observed. “You make a good clergyman. I chose well for you. The woman I choose will be good for you also. Two of the bishops have marriageable daughters. I shall pay a call to them once we have Frederick married.”

  No mention of the missing bride.

  “How is the duke of Banfield and his family today?” Will prodded, wanting information. Bossley’s whole manner puzzled him. He acted as if nothing had been amiss. Could he not know that Lady Corinne had run away?