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

by Sahara Kelly

  “I see.”

  A quiet answer to a vivid and disquieting revelation on his part.

  “I don’t know if you do.” He walked a little faster. “But let’s have one thing completely clear. I am not now, nor have I ever, mismanaged any Diocesan funding. Mostly because there isn’t enough to mismanage in the first place.”

  “I never said you were. And I know full well that over forty percent of dioceses can’t support themselves.” She looked at him then. “You’re the one who launched into your diatribe about your financial woes.”

  “Then…what…?” Once again, Simon found himself at a stuttering disadvantage with Tabitha. It was getting to be most annoying.

  “I’m here to review your accounts, not you. But the end result will be a report that goes to the Diocese. There, a decision will be made concerning the future of St. Simon’s. In fact, it will determine whether your church has a future at all.”

  *~~*~~*

  “It is a lovely church, you must admit.” Lady Rosaline Ridlington paced the length of the nave beside Tabitha.

  “I do, without hesitation,” answered Tabby. “The sense of quiet peace that seems to pervade our churches is certainly present here. And when the sun shines so brightly, as it does today? The windows are a work of magic.” She glanced upward at the beams of light.

  “Which also show the dust,” sighed Rosaline.

  Tabby chuckled. “It has ever been so. When I was a small girl I used to watch the motes dancing along the different colored rays and try to guess which ones would disappear first.”

  Rosaline smiled. “A child’s fanciful notion.”

  “And now I’m a practical woman,” Tabitha sighed. “You don’t need to say it. I know I am. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here.”

  Rosaline paused as they reached the transept, then turned and sat in one of the pews, gesturing to Tabby to take the seat opposite, across the aisle. “You are that good with accounts?”

  She didn’t need to go into any explanation of her question, and Tabby found herself even more attracted to the new Baroness. Rosaline cut straight to the point without roundaboutation. Such a delight.

  “Yes, I am that good with accounts. I’m not sure why, but I seem to have the kind of mind that finds working with numbers quite easy. My late husband was impressed enough to mention it and that is why I have ended up with this task.”

  Rosaline gazed upward at the ancient beams arching overhead. “Simon is not pleased.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “To be honest? Simon’s bloody furious.”

  “Isn’t he always?” Tabby shrugged.

  Rosaline dropped her gaze to the other woman. “No, Lady Ellsmere. He’s not. But around you he apparently loses whatever self-control he has.” She paused for a moment. “I have to wonder why that is.”

  Tabby rose and walked a little way further toward the altar, then turned. “I’m disappointed he is showing so much emotion.” Her words were calm. “I had hoped that after all these years his animosity toward me would have waned.”

  “You have somewhat of a history, then?” Rosaline hit just the right tone between nosy and casually curious.

  Tabby nodded. “You could say that. As much as a sixteen-year-old girl and a nineteen-year-old boy could have. At that age we were irresponsible, emotional and typical for our ages I would suppose.”

  “Ah,” said Rosaline. “A tender affair of the heart.”

  “One might refer to it in those terms, yes.”

  “How would you refer to it?” Rosaline’s eyebrows rose with the question.

  “Something best left in the past.” Tabby walked away, straight up to the chancel and the altar, hearing Rosaline’s footsteps following. “Unfortunately, it will be difficult for Simon over the next few weeks. He is obviously not comfortable with my presence here, and when he learns I am to reside in the Rectory Cottage he’ll be even more angry.” She looked over her shoulder at Rosaline. “I’m not here to hurt him, Lady Rosaline. I’m here to perform my assigned task. I would do so no matter who was Vicar.”

  “I believe you.” Rosaline smiled. “I can’t think of anyone who would deliberately want to hurt Simon. He’s a good man.”

  “He is indeed.” Tabby could endorse that sentiment.

  “So it would seem that you’re the only person who can raise his ire.”

  “Sadly, yes. That does appear to be my talent.” Tabby chuckled. “At least I have one.”

  “Come Lady Ellsmere. Let’s go back outside. It’s chilly in here.”

  “Of course. And please call me Tabitha?”

  Rosaline slipped her arm through Tabby’s and turned them back toward the door where a few peeks of murky sunshine could be seen through a layer of clouds.

  The two women walked down the nave in silence, each busy with their own thoughts. Tabby found herself oddly comforted by Rosaline’s presence and their linked arms. She had few female friends—there simply hadn’t been the time or the opportunity to form such relationships—so this quiet moment of companionship was a pleasant surprise.

  A small gig waited outside and Rosaline moved toward the step, turning at the last moment as Tabby closed the door to the church. “Come and dine with us this evening. I’ll send Harry and the gig, if that’s convenient.”

  “I must ask. Will Simon be there?” Tabby looked at the other woman. “If so, I should decline.”

  “You haven’t seen him since yesterday? Your meeting at the Lookout?”

  “No.” Tabby shook her head. “We parted at the crossroads, before I could even tell him I will be moving into the cottage. And that was the last I saw of him.”

  Rosaline nodded. “Well I heard he was visiting the chapel over in Murrayfield this week. Some sort of clerical gathering? I think they’re talking about curates or other church business.”

  “Goodness. What a jolly time,” said Tabby dryly.

  Rosaline laughed. “Indeed. So come dine with us. It’s time we all became better acquainted without any kind of international incidents in the way.”

  “Thank you. That would be lovely.”

  “Can I give you a ride anywhere?” Rosaline joined her driver on the small seat.

  “A kind offer, but no. I have the keys to the cottage and I need to familiarize myself with it. My box should arrive later, so I need to be here.”

  “Very well. We dine unfashionably early, so Harry will pick you up at seven.”

  “Perfect, thank you. Goodbye.”

  Tabby watched the gig as it drove away, leaving her alone at the entrance to St. Simon’s. The air was cool and still, and a few birds sang—the only sound to break the silence.

  And yet it seemed almost reverent; she glanced at the aged gravestones bearing inscriptions dedicated to those who had lived and died in this area centuries before.

  Turning her steps to a path that ran alongside the churchyard, she walked past ancient yew trees and saw the Rectory, a solid and quaint building that had developed a personality of its own over the years.

  Simon lived here, and she wondered what he’d made of the inside. It seemed that from a simple start the house had sprouted a gable or two, an addition and various chimneys that didn’t quite match. Looking at it from outside, she decided it was a cross between a fairy tale creation and a builder’s nightmare.

  Moving on, she turned onto the path that led to the Rectory Cottage. She had to go past the Rectory itself, and noted the elegant bow window looking over the edge of the churchyard and into the fields beyond. There would be a lovely view from there, and she wondered if that was where Simon prepared his sermons.

  A shiver coursed its way up her spine and she berated herself. “Stop dwelling on it, you fool. What’s done is done.”

  And with that firm resolve, she turned her gaze away from the Rectory and toward the small cottage she would be calling home for the next few weeks. That’s where her job and her life would stay.

  Simon Ridlington would have nothing to do
with it.

  Chapter Three

  Simon couldn’t believe he’d actually made it back to Ridlington before full dark. His plan had been to remain away for this one night and return in daylight, but the meeting had ended early, and somehow the prospect of an evening knocking back tankards of ale with three colleagues held no appeal.

  So he’d bid farewell to them all, summoned his horse and taken off several hours ago. With the end result being a night in his own bed, and more than a few aches and pains in his lower regions.

  He dismounted, stiff and sore, but relieved to be home. The horse seemed to agree, his gait tired as Simon led him to the stable and began to remove the saddle. He would come out later and brush the poor chap, but for now, relieving him of his burden and making sure there was fresh hay and water were reward enough. Their routine of a brush and then opening the stall door into the paddock seemed to comfort them both. At least Simon felt it was an excellent way to end the day.

  He was hanging up the last of the tack and about to take his bag into the rectory, when he noticed lamplight shining through the window of the cottage next door.

  Intended for a curate, it was quite small but snug, and should have been unoccupied. A nasty little suspicion wormed its way into his mind and he left his bag on a bench in the garden to walk over and see who had left a lamp burning inside.

  Peering through the glass as best he could, Simon couldn’t make out anything useful. There were a few boxes in the shadows, so it looked as if there was now a resident. But not one he, Simon, had either approved or been informed of by anyone.

  This, he thought to himself, was not good.

  With a certain amount of apprehension, he walked to the front door and knocked, listening to the sound as it echoed through the small rooms.

  The silence that followed was profound, and told him that whoever had moved in wasn’t there.

  He mumbled a curse, retrieved his bag, and strode back to the Rectory, letting himself in through the kitchen and lighting his own lamp.

  The fire was dead, so reviving it was his first chore. He wanted some warmth upstairs in his bedroom if possible, and a hot cup of tea would be quite welcome. So he spent a little time working on wood and kindling, with the result that a cheerful blaze soon filled the stove.

  The pantry, lined with ancient stone blocks that looked as if they’d been stolen from the remains of the old Rideauville Castle, was icy cool, chilling him as he opened the door and walked inside. His butter was still intact, protected by a rather nice glass container Rosaline had given him, and he blessed Letitia for the mug of milk covered with muslin that sat beside it.

  There was bread, and cheese—untouched since the arrival of a cat and her kittens. Simon liked to think the small family had sought sanctuary with him, and they freely helped themselves to any mice in the area in exchange for the warmth of his kitchen when the nights were cold or rainy. In fact, the tiniest had formed an attachment to him, often scrambling up the uneven wooden stairs to tuck herself into his knees at night.

  He would have suffered all kinds of torture before revealing that fact, of course. But she had such a sweet face and…well, he was human after all.

  Sighing with relief as he shed his traveling cloak and began to prepare a modest meal of bread and cheese, Simon glanced down to see his feline companion twining around his ankles.

  “Hullo there, little one. Any mice today?”

  She butted her head against his ankle in response.

  “I’ll be going upstairs a bit later. I have to eat first, you know. And then I have to take care of Dickens. He needs grooming and a night in his own pasture.”

  The cat leapt up onto the edge of the table, folded her tail around her little paws and looked at him with an expression of rapt interest. She didn’t seem at all interested in his food, just him.

  “I’d tell you about my day, but I doubt it would really enthrall you.” Simon munched his bread. “The entire trip wasn’t much use, I’m afraid. I couldn’t find out anything about…you know…” He rolled his eyes. “Or why she’s here.” He reached for his tea.

  “In fact,” he continued, “I have a horrid feeling she’s going to be living in the cottage. What am I going to do about that?”

  The cat stood, raised her back leg and scratched her ear. Then sat again, fastidious as ever.

  “I don’t know either.” Simon shook his head. “Although I’ll tell you one thing. We’re going to have to find you another name. I can’t have two Tabbies in the area.”

  At that, his companion yawned, showing tiny and very sharp teeth. Then she stretched and sharpened her claws on the old wooden table.

  “Exactly my point.”

  Simon finished his tea. “Come along then. You might as well take a walk with me to the stable. Then we can go to bed.”

  As if she understood every word, the cat followed Simon as he completed his evening chores, and after he’d let Dickens out into the pasture, he closed the gate and turned back toward the Rectory. That’s when he heard the sound of hooves coming up the lane toward St. Simon’s.

  “It’s late for visitors,” he muttered to himself.

  The conveyance drew to a halt and he stilled as he recognized a voice.

  “Thank you so much, Harry. This will be perfect. Please thank Lady Rosaline for me once more. It would indeed have been a long walk.”

  “Yes, Ma’am. You take care now.”

  “I will. Good night.”

  Simon’s worst fears were confirmed. He now knew who his new neighbor was, and he didn’t like it one bit.

  He simply stood and watched her walk around the corner of the Rectory and take the path that led to the Cottage.

  As if she sensed his presence, she paused and looked over the unruly privet hedge that lined the route.

  “Good evening.”

  He had to swallow before he could answer, since his throat had seemingly filled with sand. “Hullo.”

  The clouds parted and a sliver of moonlight touched them, glancing off her bonnet and illuminating the garden.

  “I see you and your little friend are out for an evening walk.” She nodded at the cat.

  “Just finishing our chores. You’re here now?”

  “For a while, yes.”

  “Well, then.”

  “We will talk in the morning, if that is convenient.” She moved on toward her door.

  “Of course.” Simon watched her. “Tabby?”

  She stopped…then looked back at him over her shoulder. “What?”

  His mouth opened, then closed. And he shook his head. “Nothing. Good night.”

  Silently she entered her house and the door closed with a squeak and a click, leaving Simon standing alone in the moonlight with a cat at his side.

  *~~*~~*

  Their first encounter as close neighbors set the tone for their interaction, or lack of it, over the next couple of weeks.

  Tabitha set a routine for herself, which habit she’d formed several years ago. Up early, stoke the fire, perform her morning toilette, and then have a cup of tea with a light breakfast. After that, it was back to the books for the rest of the morning, only breaking in the early afternoon for more tea and sometimes a little bread and cheese.

  The books of St. Simon’s Parish were old and musty—even the ones that Simon had kept up to date with his neat handwriting and scrupulous accuracy.

  Tabby had sneezed her way through the first week until she’d taken advantage of one bright morning and taken several of the old tomes outside for a brief bath in sunshine. That had helped clear a lot of the dust and from that point on she was able to work without the inconvenience of several handkerchiefs beside her.

  There were days when she walked to the village, placing orders for food and supplies, along with firewood. It was still chilly enough to keep a stove burning all the time, not to mention the fact that if she wanted to cook or heat water, then a fire was required. Thankfully, funds were not a problem and usually one of t
he villagers was happy to offer her a ride home with some of her purchases.

  Once word got out that she was residing at the Rectory Cottage, she became an object of fascination, and many of her drivers were ladies, eager to see what was going on with their favorite Vicar in his home environment.

  Aware of the machinations, Tabby chuckled to herself. They weren’t going to meet Simon by accompanying her. He’d managed to avoid her presence most adroitly, and that didn’t show any signs of changing in the near future at least.

  Of course, everyone knew that she was there to perform an audit of the accounts; there were few secrets in the small community that was Ridlington Vale. But she managed to avoid the pointed questions and outright inquisitions with a skill learned during her years working for the Government.

  Of that, only a few chosen folks at Ridlington Chase were aware. And they kept her secret close.

  She finally suspended her rather isolated schedule one Sunday, and for the first time Tabby found herself in one of St. Simon’s pews listening to the service. She remembered the church from her childhood, but now viewed it through the eyes of a woman who had visited cathedrals, temples, mosques and almost everything in between.

  The Vicar himself was an excellent speaker, surprising Tabby with his sincerity, his adept way of presenting religious concepts in a way that his little congregation could understand, and ending the service with an uplifting hymn that sent everyone off with a smile and a glad heart.

  How he did it—given the missing notes on the old organ and the lack of hymnals—well, she wasn’t sure. But he did, and she noted that the majority of the worshippers were women of various ages. Some had bullied their husbands to attend as well, but overall…Simon had gathered a flock of the faithful by virtue of his charm and lack of a wife.

  The following Sunday found her in the same pew, but this time Lady Rosaline and Miss Letitia Ridlington joined her.

  “Hullo. I hope you don’t mind if we share your space.” Letitia flashed her quick smile.