"So you do," he managed, very aware of everywhere they were touching.
"You can stand on your own now."
"Can I? I'm not entirely certain. That was quite traumatic. I might need continued support."
"Mr. Fletcher..."
Alaric looked over to where Mrs. Martin was indeed watching them with the expression of someone who'd just received an early Christmas present.
We should probably separate."
"We should."
Neither of them moved.
"Marianne..."
"Don't," she said softly. "Whatever you're about to say, just... don't. Not here. Not now."
She released him and stepped back, and he immediately missed the warmth of her. They stood there for a moment, carefully not looking at each other while Mrs. Martin pretended to be absorbed in ribbon arrangement and the vicar studied a hymnal with suspicious intensity.
"Well!" the vicar said with forced brightness. "That was exciting! Perhaps we should take a break? Some tea?"
"Tea," Marianne agreed quickly. "Yes. Tea would be good. Normal. Appropriate."
"I like appropriate," Alaric said.
"Since when?" Marianne muttered, but she was already moving toward the vestry where the vicar kept his tea things.
The vicar's vestry was a small, cluttered space filled with books, papers, and the accumulated debris of thirty years of ministry. As the vicar bustled about making tea, he kept glancing at Alaric with an expression of growing recognition.
"You know," he said finally, "you remind me remarkably of someone I used to know. Worked up at the hall, oh, twenty-five years ago now."
Alaric's blood went cold. "Oh?"
"Yes, correspondence secretary to the old duke. Montrose, his name was. Any relation?"
Montrose. His family name. Of course the vicar would remember—his father's secretary had been named James Montrose, a distant cousin who'd handled all the duke's correspondence.
"No relation that I know of," Alaric lied carefully.
"Remarkable resemblance though. Same bearing, same way of speaking. You could be his son."
"Coincidence, I'm sure."
"Hmm." The vicar didn't look convinced. "He had a son, you know. Brought him to the church once when he was visiting. Serious little boy, very proper. Would be about your age now."
Marianne was watching this exchange with increasing interest, and Alaric could practically see her putting pieces together in her mind.
"How interesting," she said carefully. "And this James Montrose, he worked closely with the old duke?"
"Oh yes, very closely. Handled all his personal correspondence, traveled with him frequently. The duke trusted him completely. Used to jest that Montrose knew more about running the estate than he did."
"And what happened to him?" Marianne asked, still watching Alaric.
"Died, sadly. Years ago, I think. Heart trouble. The duke was devastated, I heard. Even came to the funeral, which was unusual. The old duke didn't usually concern himself with staff."
"But he came for Montrose?"
