Page 8 of Prince of Scandal

Ashton winced as the vehicle crossed a patch of gravel and rattled his bones.

This was no doubt another decision he would come to regret.

* * *

Where on earth was the vicar’s wife?

Georgiana glanced out the parlor window for the seventy-sixth time. If someone had said to her a week ago that she would be champing at the bit to receive a virtuous, upright, middle-aged caller, she would have laughed. But now her mind had settled on Mrs. March as a reliable information source for Mr. Latimer, she wished to strap the woman to a chair and interrogate her until all secrets were revealed.

As long as no one does that to me.

She halted in her pacing across a patterned Aubusson carpet and attempted to calm herself with several deep breaths. It probably didn’t help that she’d just received a letter from Pippa saying they’d finally heard from Xavier. While their brother hadn’t yet tracked Rupert down, he was following some promising leads. Which meant both one step closer to justice, and one step closer to possible danger, no matter what Finlay said about Xavier being capable. Yes, she and Xav had spent most days verbally sparring as they rode and strolled and she bested him at cards, but even the thought of something happening to him gave her heart palpitations.

It also didn’t help that her damnable menses refused to arrive. To think she usually dreaded it; the unpleasant belly ache, the mess, and the annoyance of linen between her legs with a cord around her waist, similar to an infant’s smallclothes. But now she muttered a prayer each night for it to start. Perhaps the presence of a vicar’s wife would help with that. No doubt Mrs. March knew how to get God’s attention for important matters.

“Excuse me, Mrs. King? The March ladies are at the end of the drive.”

Georgiana halted at the maid’s words. “There is more than one?”

“Oh, yes, madam. Mrs. March often visits folks with her daughter Miss Phoebe.”

She brightened. Another possible information source never hurt. “Thank you. Please ensure we have enough tea and cakes.”

The maid bobbed a curtsy and hurried away—something else altogether lovely about staying here in Brundall. Being treated respectfully. No one telling her what to do or constantly criticizing her hair or figure or manners like at Kingsford House. People seemed to be genuine. Like Mr. Latimer, for instance.

Eventually, Georgiana began tapping her foot. How bloody long did it take for a carriage to travel down a driveway? Did she have to saddle Starlight and tow them in?

An entire quarter hour later, the two ladies were announced. They entered the parlor in a flurry of bonnet and shawl removal, while offering profuse apologies.

“Oh, Mrs. King,” said the plump, silver-haired vicar’s wife as she took Georgiana’s hands and squeezed them with a friendly familiarity that would raise eyebrows in London. “I do apologize. Reverend March dropped us at the gate, but we did not realize the driveway was so long. Do forgive us our—”

“Trespasses?” said Georgiana, without thinking.

Phoebe March burst out laughing as she and her mother settled onto an embroidered chaise. “Only if you promise to deliver us from evil. I’m sure I saw at least two hares eyeing us up on the walk. I really don’t know how a member of the bunny family has such a chilling gaze.”

“It is a mystery, Miss March,” said Georgiana, bemused at the other girl’s words. Although both women wore plain calico gowns, unlike her mother, Phoebe was tall and slender, with a mop of brown hair pinned haphazardly atop her head, and brown eyes sparkling with mischievous laughter. She liked her on sight. “But I’m very happy you are here, safe and sound. Would you care for tea?”

“That would be delightful,” said Mrs. March, frantically waving a small fan in front of her flushed face. “The Lord knows I am not built for cross-country jaunts.”

“I do prefer a gentle stroll in a garden,” agreed Miss March. “Unless of course we are taking a ride in a curricle. That can be rather thrilling, until the moment my bonnet collapses and hair pins fail and I start to resemble Medusa.”

Georgiana giggled. “And here I thought I possessed the unruliest hair in England.”

“Oh no, Mrs. King. You face some stiff competition.”

“Please, do call me Gigi,” she replied impulsively, as she leaned forward to pour the tea into fine china cups.

“Then you must call me Phoebe. I am ever so delighted to meet someone my age who lives near Brundall.”

“You could spend more time with India Dunmore,” said Mrs. March as she added a sugar cube to her cup. “That would be the Christian thing to do.”

“India?” said Georgiana curiously. “Like the East India Company?”

Phoebe rolled her eyes. “Precisely that. My future sister-in-law thinks it a marvelous honor to be named for a business her late papa so admired. I think it ghastly, and my betrothed, Sir Alan, agrees. Actually, India and I…we do not have much in common at all.”

She nodded sympathetically. A tale as old as time: sisterly disapproval. They always thought they knew best, no matter what the situation. And were only correct occasionally. “You’re engaged? How marvelous. Are you to be married soon?”

Mrs. March hesitated. “Oh, my dear, we don’t have to talk of betrothals and weddings if it will cause you pain. How tragic that you were widowed so young.”