Page 30 of Indecently Daring

―Excerpt of a letter to the Reverend Harry Martin from Hunters Gentlemen’s Club.

20th January 1845, The Vicarage, Sussex.

Harry smothered a yawn as he walked up the path to the vicarage. He hoped poor Jeb had found himself some supper and gone to bed. A housekeeper really was imperative, now Jeb was living with him. Harry often returned home late when events overtook him. Like tonight, when it became clear that Mr Figges had been quite correct in what he’d said. The old man had died peacefully, with Harry holding his hand as he slipped away. Thank you, he murmured as he reached the front door, speaking to a God he had discovered late in life and considered a friendly being, a forgiving and loving father, not the fire and brimstone vengeful creation some would have their flock believe in.

Harry was grateful, though, that God had guided him to forget to leave the paper, and to return to Mr Figges again on his way home from visiting old Mother Babbage so he could give it to him. Harry had known as soon as he’d entered the bedroom, and so had Mr Figges, his smile quietly rueful. Thank God that he had returned, that the old man had known someone was with him as he went into a peaceful sleep, never to wake up. Harry would never have forgiven himself if he’d died all alone.

Harry opened the front door, hanging up his coat and hat and then pausing, sniffing the air. His stomach growled at the delicious scent. Had the housekeeper arrived? The wonderful thought propelled his feet towards the kitchen despite his weariness, only to have him freeze upon the threshold at the extraordinary sight before him.

Miss Cadogan was in his house, in his kitchen, asleep in a chair before the range cooker. Her golden hair was a disorder of curls and she had tucked herself up in the warm blanket Harry kept here for the nights when he became restless, couldn’t sleep, and sat up staring into the darkness. On the kitchen table was a delicious looking sponge cake, golden and sparkling with sugar in the lamplight. One large slice was already missing. Jeb’s work, hopefully, and there was something else, something that smelled wonderfully like some manner of stew was keeping warm on the range. What on earth was going on?

At a loss, Harry cleared his throat.

Miss Cadogan stirred in her sleep, her eyelashes flickering as she woke. She blinked rather owlishly as she focused on Harry. She smiled, a soft, hazy smile that put Harry in mind of lazy mornings in bed with a lover. It was secret and intimate and full of dreams, and for a moment his chest ached with longing. Then she came fully awake with a start and a little squeal of exclamation.

“Oh!” she said, swivelling around to the windows to see the curtains hadn’t been drawn and it was dark out. “What time is it?”

“Close to midnight,” Harry said, still too befuddled at finding her here, let alone at such a scandalous hour of the night, to react with as much horror as he ought.

“Oh, my goodness! Drat and botheration. I must have fallen asleep.”

Harry nodded. Well, that much was obvious. “You did.”

“Good heavens, now I’m for it,” she said, sounding rather desperate. “I’m so sorry, Reverend. Miss Steadman's assumption was not correct, I swear it. I am not angling to be a vicar’s wife. This is not a trap. What a horrifying idea, for both of us!” she said with a slightly hysterical laugh.

Harry rubbed a hand over his face, too exhausted to figure out why he didn’t feel especially horrified. He’d been up since five and it had been a long and soul-wearying day. “Then why are you here, Miss Cadogan?”

She got to her feet and set about folding the blanket, then smoothing down her rumpled skirts. The actions were jerky and distracted. “Because of Jeb.”

Harry frowned, galvanised with concern. “Jeb? Why? Is he well? What’s happened? Is he sick?”

“He’s quite well, don’t worry.” Miss Cadogan smiled at him and reached out, laying a reassuring hand on his arm.

Harry stared down at it as every nerve ending in his body fired to life. She was standing too close, and she smelled of vanilla and buttery, sugary sweet things that made his mouth water. Suddenly, he was wide awake. He took a step back, and she dropped her hand, blushing.

“His mother came around,” she said briskly. “Thankfully I was here, but there was rather an unpleasant scene. She accused us both of conspiring to turn Jeb against her, and of stealing her boy. Jeb was extremely upset and frightened, too. He wants to stay here, with you, very badly. He stayed in the house and slammed the door on his mother. She was none too pleased, I might tell you. I’m afraid you’ve not seen the last of her.”

Harry sighed, weariness descending once again alongside the weight of regret that poor Jeb had been so distraught.

“And so you stayed with him?” he guessed, knowing that she would have done so, because she was inherently kind, and brave. She was brave enough to rescue Jeb from drowning, and to stand up to a woman who was not good to him because she felt she must, because it was the right thing to do.

“Yes. He was so sad and lost and… I just couldn’t leave him alone. So, I showed him how to make a cake, and then I thought as I’d been brazen enough to raid your larder and use an unconscionable quantity of butter and sugar, I may as well compound my villainy and make supper too.”

Harry’s stomach gave a well-timed and very audible growl. “If that’s villainy, I’m changing sides and going to the devil,” he said with a tired smile.

“Why vicar, you do have a sense of humour,” she said with mock amazement.

Harry snorted. “Occasionally, though, how either of us can find humour in this situation is beyond me. You realise if anyone discovers you here—”

“Yes, it had occurred to me,” she replied, rolling her eyes at him. “And if you don’t want me for a wife, you’d better get me home unseen.”

The words shocked Harry, striking at him like a clapper hitting a bell and making it ring out. The word wife thrilled through him as he saw her there, in his kitchen, smelling of the cake she’d made and dishevelled from sleeping in the chair by the fire, waiting for him to come home. It was such a domestic scene, one that tugged at something inside of him.

“I’d best get you back to Holbrook,” he said, forcing the image into some dark corner of his mind before his imagination could run away with it. His imagination was a wicked thing and had led him into far too many dangerous situations to be trusted ever again.

Miss Cadogan gave him an assessing look, her blonde brows drawing together. “Yes, you had, but I think you’d best sit down and eat something first. You look ready to drop. Did something happen?”

He waved this off, not wanting to argue. “It’s fine, Miss Cadogan, I can wait until—”