St. Simon's Sin: A Risqué Regency Romance (The Six Pearls of Baron Ridlington Book 2)

by Sahara Kelly

  He smiled at the little smattering of applause from the approving ladies. “There was a new king on the throne of England, Henry the First, if memory serves me correctly, and the Saxon-Norman conflict had diminished with the blending of lives, titles and lands. The young man became Lord Rideauville upon the old man’s death, and at some time in the late fifteen hundreds, Rideauville became anglicized to Ridlington.”

  “And there’s been a Simon Ridlington ever since?” Miss Susan Frost gazed at the Vicar with what Tabby could only describe as a look of longing.

  “Yes,” chuckled Simon. “And not always the first born. You may not know that I had an Uncle Simon, who was the second son. Sadly, he did not survive infancy. But I don’t believe the name has skipped a generation in all those years.”

  “Intriguing.” Miss Smethurst shook her head. “But how and when was he canonized?”

  “And why?” Mrs. Frost frowned. “Surely not for adopting his illegitimate offspring?”

  “No, I don’t believe such an act would have resulted in his sainthood, generous though it was,” answered Simon. “The actual facts are more outlandish than one might imagine.” He grinned. “And they tell an interesting story about the nature of us English country folk.”

  Tabby hid a grin. In this, at least, the Vicar was relating nothing but the truth. She was amused that apparently this tale wasn’t common knowledge amongst these ladies. But then again, she doubted that the origin of the church’s name arose in general conversation too often. Doubtless there were other matters of greater import to be discussed.

  “It all came about because of his little toe.”

  “What?” Miss Susan Frost and Miss Tedworthy matched their surprised exclamations in duet.

  “Yes indeed,” continued Simon. “Lord Rideauville suffered an accident one day—it is not known exactly what happened—but it resulted in the loss of one of his toes.”

  Mrs. Frost snorted. “Probably dropped his sword on it.”

  Her comment surprised a laugh out of Simon. “I think you may have the right of it, Mrs. Frost. A most appropriate notion. Anyway, not much was made of the issue, until many generations later. Apparently…” He leaned toward his audience.

  Milking the dramatic pause, thought Tabby. He was always good at that.

  “One of the local farmers had obtained what was left of the toe and preserved it. Nobody quite knows why, but he did. In a box. In a cupboard.”

  “Oh, ugh.” Miss FitzWalter let out the sound that echoed most of their thoughts.

  “Ugh indeed,” nodded Simon. “The relic, which does sound a little more impressive than toe, stayed in that cupboard for years, and finally disappeared, forgotten by just about everyone. Until many years later…”

  Again with the pause. Good heavens, the man could have played Drury Lane. Tabby waited with everyone else.

  “And this is where I’m going to ask you all to walk just a little further down the lane so that we may be in the right spot for the astounding conclusion to St. Simon’s story.”

  There were mutterings and whispers, but everyone stood and gathered their belongings.

  “Is it far, Vicar?” Mrs. Frost eased her back as she stood.

  “Not at all, Ma’am,” replied Simon. “And in fact I asked your coachmen to meet us there, knowing we would end our excursion at that very point.”

  “How thoughtful you are, Vicar.” Susan Frost maneuvered herself to his side once again. “We are in your debt.” The eyelashes fluttered energetically.

  Tabitha had to turn away on the pretext of gathering her flowers, otherwise the rather wicked snicker she was suppressing might have escaped. Poor Susan Frost. She was engaged in a battle she was bound to lose. Simon was immune to such obvious wiles.

  So the little party moved forward, out from beneath the shade into the warmth of the early summer sun. It was truly a day to appreciate, thought Tabby as she felt the breeze against her skin.

  The grass was that rich green that spoke of rain and plenty of it. The trees vied to outdo each other in their spring finery, and the clouds were fluffs of white against a pure blue canvas. The sea was a deeper blue, the horizon crisply clear, a few scattered white waves playing across the surface.

  She breathed in, relishing the familiar scents of her childhood. How long ago that seemed now. And how far she had travelled.

  “Are you well, Lady Ellsmere?”

  Simon had appeared at her side, although whether because he wished to be there, or because he was escaping the clinging arm of Miss Susan Frost, Tabby wasn’t sure.

  “I am indeed, thank you, Vicar. This is the perfect day for such an outing and I was merely enjoying the moment.”

  “Am I not Simon anymore?” He smiled down at her, a friendly glance that would occasion no comment were it noticed.

  She returned his glance with one of her own, but less warm. “It would scarcely be appropriate.”

  He sighed. “Since when have you ever been appropriate?”

  She smiled. “Since I grew up. Many years ago.”

  “Yes, of course. I’d forgotten your great age.”

  She couldn’t resist a little chuckle at his dry tone. “You still have that gift for sarcasm, I see.”

  “Only when people say absurd things.”

  She nodded slightly, acknowledging a hit. “Of course you’re right.” She paused and looked around. “I believe we have arrived at our destination.”

  There was a muttered sound of annoyance from the Vicar, but he managed to gather his thoughts enough to shepherd everyone down a lane to the side of a large field.

  Tabby noted the carriages waiting at the crossroads on the other end of the lane. Simon was a man of his word, it would seem.

  “And here we are, ladies.” He moved to one side so that he could see them all. “This field is where a miracle occurred, the one that resulted in the canonization of Simon de Rideauville.”

  They all looked at the field, which—in Tabby’s eyes at least—resembled most of the other fields she’d seen.

  “It was one terrible winter, back in the fourteen-hundreds. The harvest had not been as good as it could have been, and the people around here were faring poorly, with more than a few starving. Food was terribly scarce, and what little there was ended up being hoarded against the rest of the winter. Survival was not ensured, and the times were bleak indeed.” He looked around. “It may seem hard to believe, but childbirth was not a cause for joy, but for agony and pain. If the mother had no food, the baby would not live for very long.”

  “Oh dear.”

  “My goodness.”

  “How sad…”

  The ladies of the Historical Society were clearly moved by his description of the circumstances. Tabby could understand that. She found her own heart aching a little at the thought of what those early families must have endured.

  “It was into this savage time that a daughter was born to a local farmer and his wife. It was the child they’d prayed for, but they knew they could not feed either her or her mother sufficiently for both to live through the winter.”

  Tabby saw his throat move as he swallowed, and knew this wasn’t a dramatic pause. This was a moment of difficulty for him as well.

  “So in desperation, they came to this field, and laid their daughter in one corner, praying as they did so that the Lord would take her into his keeping. She would fare better in Heaven than she would here on Earth. They were people of faith with no other choice. I would imagine the idea of watching their newborn starve to death was untenable. This seemed to them to be the only option.”

  The silence was deafening. One or two birds sang lyrically in the distance, a soft and lovely accompaniment to Simon’s tale.

  “The next day, unable to stand being separated from their child, the farmer and his wife returned, prepared to bury the body of their little newborn. Instead, they found a miracle.”

  “She was alive…” breathed Miss Tedworthy.

  “She was indeed. An
d not only was she alive, but she was wrapped snugly in a soft blanket and surrounded by packages of food. Enough to help them survive the winter. It was indeed a miracle for which there was no explanation.”

  “None?” asked Mrs. Frost.

  “None, Ma’am. ‘Tis said there were no footprints in the fresh snow, no sign of horse or man. Just the babe and the food.”

  “Oh my.” Miss Smethurst held her hands clasped to her breast. “The lucky babe.”

  “The story got around, of course, as I’m sure you would guess. And that’s when the oddest thing happened. An old man, who had lived here for many years and had great-grandchildren of his own, declared he knew what had occurred.” Simon’s smile embraced them all. “He led some of the villagers back to the field and pointed to the exact spot where the babe was found alive. Then he told them to dig.”

  “Oh…oh…” Miss Frost’s eyes were wide.

  “I know…” Miss Tedworthy was almost jumping up and down.

  “You’re correct, ladies,” Simon chuckled. “They dug down a few feet and lo and behold…they found a small box. And inside?”

  “Lord Simon’s toe.”

  The words were chorused from all nine mouths as the end to the story brought smiles and laughter, followed by enthusiastic applause.

  “It was considered a miracle by all who heard of it, and eventually it was approved as such by the Diocese. I believe that such things were more readily accepted back in those days. It could well have been a kind gesture from a passing nobleman or woman, but…country folk do enjoy their legends. And from all this? We have the miracle of St. Simon. Or at least his toe. Pardon me…relic.”

  “What a perfect tale.” Miss Susan Frost gazed adoringly—again—at Simon.

  “Thank you so much, Vicar. Just delightful.” Mrs. Frost grabbed her daughter and all but dragged her to the carriage.

  More gratitude and exuberant thanks were offered, and it was at least ten minutes before the carriages rolled away, leaving Simon and Tabitha standing in the sunlight by the miraculous field. She’d refused the offers of a ride back to Ridlington Vale, on the grounds that there simply wasn’t enough room and it was a delightful day for a walk.

  Both of which were quite valid, but not exactly the truth.

  She needed to talk to Simon.

  And it was going to be a difficult conversation.

  Chapter Two

  Simon became aware of the silence as the last of the carriages rolled away. The birds still sang, the ocean still provided a background of soft wave sounds, and the breeze ruffled the leaves in the trees and on the hedges that bordered either side of the lane.

  “We should walk,” she said.

  “Indeed.” Politely, he offered her his arm.

  “I’m not decrepit, you know.” She lifted an eyebrow at his gesture.

  “I wasn’t implying anything of the sort and you know it.” He sighed. “I was merely offering an arm. Must we always come to daggers drawn?”

  She lifted her chin. “No. And I apologize. That was my fault.” She took his arm.

  “Apology accepted.”

  They began to follow the lane, strolling easily between the laurels and the wildflowers walling them in to their own private walk.

  “You didn’t stay that day for the Spring Fair,” said Simon. “You arrived, said hullo, and that was the last I saw of you, even when we heard the sad news.”

  “I know.” She nodded, her gaze fixed on the way ahead. “I wasn’t sure I wanted to re-establish my acquaintance with the people I used to know here. I certainly didn’t want their sympathy. Too much like pity for my comfort.”

  “But they’re people you grew up with, Tabby. They’re not strangers.”

  “To you? No they’re not. But to me…” she paused as if looking for the right words. “To me, they represent my past. Something that is gone and can never be recaptured.”

  Simon took his own time answering. “It must have been difficult when your papa passed away. My condolences on his death. I never had chance to express them. You were gone before the news came to Ridlington.” He lifted his hand and placed it over hers where it lay on his forearm.

  “Then you know Papa died in London.” Her tone was calm. “He was there under his physician’s care. There was nothing anyone could do. I should have been there, I suppose, but I took a chance on coming down here. Of course, that was when he passed away.” She sighed. “The way of the world. Always doing the worst possible thing at the worst possible time.”

  “So you vanished again, leaving us wondering if you had received a summons from some high ranking Government agency.”

  He smiled as he gently referred to her previous adventures in Europe. Her task as an intelligence-gatherer, or as his sisters liked to refer to it—a spy—had intrigued them all last autumn.

  She chuckled. “No. I’m hoping that phase of my life is over. I am retired from anything to do with the Government—of any nation.”

  “I am glad to hear it.” Simon heaved an inner sigh of relief. “What are you going to do with the rest of your time, Lady Ellsmere?”

  “The title is nominal, at best.” She sounded wry. “I can order an evening gown and have it delivered the next day. But I don’t have a residence to receive it.” A slight snort followed. “Stupid, isn’t it?”

  Simon snugged her arm in a little closer to his body. “I know Worsley Hall has gone to some relative…a distant cousin?”

  She nodded. “A man I had never heard of, let alone met. My home. Gone just like that with Papa’s death.”

  “And that’s why you’re here now? To conclude those matters?”

  “Mostly, yes.”

  They walked on in silence for a little while, Simon as busy with his thoughts as he imagined her to be with hers.

  “What shall you do, Tabby?” He brought them to a halt and looked down at her. “Worsley is no longer yours. You are a widow, and apparently there’s no home for you with the Ellsmeres.”

  She stared ahead, but he saw her throat move as she swallowed.

  “Can I help? Can the Ridlingtons do anything? I know Edmund and Rosaline would…”

  “No, stop.” She turned and disengaged her arm from his. “I have a mission already, Simon.”

  “I thought you said no more Government business for you.”

  “Not that kind of mission.” She blew a breath out from between her lips. “There’s no easy way to tell you this, so I’ll just come right out with it.”

  “Very well.” He wondered at her tone. Her face was expressionless, quietly attractive in repose and giving nothing away.

  “I have been asked by the Diocese to review and assess the finances of St. Simon’s church.”

  For a few moments, Simon’s brain made no sense of the words she had just spoken. He blinked. Twice. “What?”

  She turned and moved forward, not waiting for him to follow, as if she knew he would. Which of course, he did.

  “I can’t say it any more plainly. The Diocese officers, one of whom is my late husband’s uncle, have requested what might better be called an audit of the church finances. I am known to have an excellent grasp of such things, and also to have a local connection to this parish. Therefore, I received the request to act as parish overseer, and to report back to the Bishop as to the state of your financial affairs.”

  “But…but…” Simon’s brain still refused to function normally. The things he was hearing turned into an unintelligible muddle of some kind of old Norse.

  She sighed.

  “Simon, this is a damned unhealthy parish, and I’m sure that statement comes as no surprise. Your collections are pretty much non-existent, you’ve asked for funds to repair the church that far exceed the budget allotted to your building upkeep, and for some time now, St. Simon’s has been a drain on the resources of the Diocese.”

  “So you’re here to…what? Spy on me?” Simon found his voice at last as his mind grasped the implications of her revelation.


  “Don’t be so dramatic.” She waved her hand at him, dismissing his outcry. “That probably works quite well during a sermon. I’m quite immune to it.”

  “Well explain this to me, then. Because what I’m hearing sounds like you’ve been sent to find out if I’m wasting Diocese funds. Perhaps you’d like a list of my food requirements, or the number of goblets I’ve ordered for services.”

  She took a breath. “I knew you’d be awkward about this.”

  “Awkward? Woman, you have no bloody idea how awkward I’m going to be.” His outrage rose within him like a tide of volcanic lava. “St. Simon’s parish isn’t growing because I can offer our parishioners nothing but me. I cannot sponsor outings, fairs, or any of the seasonal events that other churches do so well, because I don’t have the funding. I don’t even have a damn housekeeper.” He fought for control. “My father drove people away from the church, and from Ridlington Vale, with his mean and spiteful personality. The damage he did has been all but impossible to repair, although Edmund and Rosaline are finally beginning to make a difference.”

  He stopped, waiting to see if he’d get any kind of a response. He didn’t.

  “I’ve held this parish together by its bootlaces for the five years I’ve been its Vicar. The average age back then was probably fifty to sixty. Many of those good people have since passed away and their places left empty by villagers who did not care to sit in a drafty pew on a winter Sunday when they had warm fires at home.” He gritted his teeth. “All because I don’t have the funds for firewood. And the rare times when a kind soul donates some, I save it for the important Church dates. Christmas classifies as one of those.”

  He stopped, emotion choking him with a sudden lump thrust into his throat. “I had to borrow what shawls and cloaks I could so that my parishioners could keep warm while listening to a service that should have been uplifting and joyous, not chilling and uncomfortable.”