A Bride for the Baron

“I am sorry to hear that. I have contacts in London who may be able to find copies to replace them.”

Vera smiled. “I will let him know.” London prices would be too dear for a vicar, but she appreciated Lord Meriweather’s offer. She hoped Gregory would, as well, though knowing copies existed that he could not afford would add to his frustration.

She started to put the soiled handkerchief in her apron pocket, but Lord Meriweather said, “I can take that.”

“Are you sure? It’s dirty.”

He gave her a sad smile. “I daresay by the time I leave here, I will be far dirtier.” He held out his hand.

“That is true.”

His troubled expression drew his mouth down farther at the corners. “May I ask you a question?”

“Certainly. What about?” She placed the handkerchief on his outstretched palm.

A gust of wind threatened to steal it. She clamped her hand down on the fine linen at the exact same time he closed his fingers around hers. A shock rippled up her arm, a shock that was startling and pleasing at the same time. He drew in a quick breath, and she looked up at him. She saw her conflicting reaction mirrored on his face.

“Miss Fenwick...” His voice was as breathless as if he had run down the village’s steep street and back up. Twice.

“My lord...” She was unsure what to say after that, but she must say something. She could not stand with her hand in his. After what the footman had seen at Meriweather Hall, gossip would spread far and fast...exactly as it had last time.

That memory spurred her to slip her hand from his. “Thank you, my lord, for lending me your handkerchief.”

He did not reply as he gazed at her, as if he had never taken note of her before, and he was intrigued by what he saw.

Vera turned away as someone shouted, glad for the excuse to sever the invisible link between them. She closed her eyes and prayed, Dear Father, I must not forget what happened before. Lead me on the path I should walk, the path that makes sure I never risk Gregory’s work for You.

When she opened her eyes, Lord Meriweather was loping toward a man by the cellar. The man was waving excitedly to him.

Curiosity sent Vera after him at a slower pace among the gravestones that seemed lonely without the church standing guard over them. Both Lord Ashland and her brother passed her; by the time she reached the hole, the men were grouped around something on the ground. Lord Ashland was looking over the side but stepped back hastily before someone bumped into him and sent him down to the bottom of the cellar.

“Just brought it up, my lord,” someone said from the center of the group. “Can you believe it?”

Squeezing among the men, Vera gasped when somebody took her arm and popped her out of the crowd like a grain of sand between her fingers. She smiled at Gregory when he drew her to stand beside him. He gestured toward the ground in front of them.

“Oh, my!” She stared at the baptismal font that rested in three pieces by the cellar hole. The pedestal had broken twice, but the bowl was intact. Smoke and water stains brought the carved figures on the stone into higher relief. “I thought it was shattered.”

“So did I.” Lord Meriweather bent to examine the ancient font. One side was badly chipped. “Astounding! When I saw it in the cellar, I was sure it was destroyed.”

The men grinned.

A tall man she recognized as Luther Hinchliff, the village cooper, said, “We thought so, too, then realized the broken pieces were from the ceiling. The pedestal will have to be put back together, but otherwise it’s useable.”

“We can put it in the new church,” Gregory said, and Vera patted his arm. “God has shown His love by allowing this vital part of our church to come through the flames. Let us thank Him.” He took her left hand and reached out to the man on his left.

When a hand grasped her right one, the warmth coursing through her at the simple touch could have come only from Lord Meriweather.

She bowed her head as Gregory led them in prayer and added her silent thanks that her brother seemed revitalized by the discovery. A good night’s sleep had helped, too, but she had been worried about his state of mind when he had stood by the vicarage so long.

Everyone chorused heartfelt amens when Gregory finished. He reached past her to shake the hands of the men who had brought the font up from the cellar without damaging it further.

Beside her, Lord Meriweather said, “It’s a beginning.”

“Yes,” she said, unable to stop smiling. “We may not have a roof over our heads when we worship, but we can catch heaven’s rain to baptize our newest members.”

“A lovely thought, Miss Fenwick.” He squeezed her hand, and she pulled in a sharp breath. She had not realized he still held it, for it seemed natural to have her fingers enfolded within his. “With this beginning to inspire us, who knows what other blessings lie ahead of us?”

“Blessings? Finally some good news.” The voice came from behind her. She drew her hand out of Lord Meriweather’s and turned as the others did to see a pudgy man. His greatcoat was worn at the elbows, and the collar was frayed. His dark hair needed to be cut. Any hint of a shine had vanished from his boots.

Lord Ashland stepped forward. “Ah, Brooks, I should have known you would be here posthaste.” He motioned toward the rest of them. “You know the vicar and Miss Fenwick, of course. Have you met the new baron?”

The chubby man nodded his head toward Vera and her brother, then dipped his head more deeply toward Lord Meriweather. “Haven’t had the pleasure until now, though I did see you at Sir Nigel’s fall assembly. Too crowded to get to you so we might speak, my lord, that night. So many art lovers eager to admire Sir Nigel’s latest masterpieces. I assumed eventually our paths would cross again.” Mr. Brooks looked from the ruins of the church to the burned-out vicarage. “Vicar, I would guess you are the best one to bring me up-to-date on this tragedy. If you have the time, that is...”

“Of course, Mr. Brooks,” her brother said.

Mr. Brooks motioned for Gregory to walk with him away from the others. When Lord Ashland made to follow, Mr. Brooks gave him a stern look that stopped him in midstep.

The viscount scowled, then stamped toward the carriage. “Coming, Meriweather?” he called over his shoulder.

“In a few minutes.”

Vera was grateful that she stood far enough away from the viscount so she could not discern the words he growled under his breath.

Lord Meriweather watched Lord Ashland for a moment, then shook his head and sighed. He clasped his hands behind his back. “Miss Fenwick, who is Brooks?”

“Cuthbert Brooks is the local justice of the peace.”

“That man is the justice of the peace?”

Vera kept her voice low. “Do not let his self-effacing image fool you. He is a brilliant man when it comes to keeping the peace in the Sanctuary Bay parish.”

“He has been of little use with stopping the smugglers.”

“But there has been less violence than in other places along the shore.”

“Possibly because the smugglers know better than to upset their well-placed leader.”

“That is something I cannot forget,” she whispered.

“Nor I.”

Vera was astonished when Lord Meriweather glanced at where Lord Ashland was climbing into the carriage. Did the baron have suspicions about the viscount’s involvement with the smugglers?

She had heard enough whispers to know that the smugglers took their orders from someone of wealth and prestige. The viscount fit that description, as did Sir Nigel. Mr. Brooks was not as plump in the pockets as the other two, but he held much sway in the parish as the justice of the peace.

“As a good host,” Lord Meriweather said with a sigh, “I should escort Ashland back to Meriweather Hall. I have no idea why he wanted to come here.” He glanced at the baptismal font.

“With the recovery of the font,” she said, “the parishioners are going to be even more eager to have the church rebuilt.”