Reverend Augustus Shackleford glanced down at the sermon in front of him. Why oh why hadn’t he gone over it before now? There were twenty pages for pity’s sake. He had no excuse. Certainly not one that would satisfy the Almighty that he’d been doing his deuced job properly. He looked over at his congregation stoically waiting for the address to begin. They might be accustomed to Percy’s fire and brimstone narrative, but they were expecting at least a little Christmas cheer, not a fifty-step guide to avoid spending next Christmas downstairs with Old Nick.
The truth was he’d been neglecting his duties of late, and this was Percy’s way of telling him so. God only knew what tomorrow’s sermon consisted of. The Reverend sighed and shook his head. He couldn’t deny that the expectations of his parishioners had increased tenfold since he solved the mystery of Redstone House the year before. In fact, sometimes he felt as if the villagers regarded him less as a spiritual advisor and more as a resident mummer.
He glanced up once more. He certainly had to say something, but he couldn’t keep his flock from their beds for another two deuced hours. Sighing again, he opened his mouth. Just as the main door was flung open causing the candlelight to waver in fantastical patterns. Surprised he stared over his flock whocollectively turned to see what had caught their Reverend’s interest.
The newcomer was a tall slender man dressed completely inadequately for the weather. To the Reverend’s less than perfect eyesight, he actually resembled a scarecrow used by the local farmers to protect their crops. Wordlessly the man limped down the central aisle, his whole bearing a testament to overwhelming exhaustion. The congregation simply sat and followed his progress, sensing something important could well be about to happen.
On reaching the pulpit, the man stopped and spoke, his voice low and hoarse with desperation.
‘Tell me you know where Nicholas Sinclair has gone.’ As the Reverend merely stared back at him in astonishment, he turned back to face the silent congregation and suddenly thundered, ‘For the love of God, does anyone here know the whereabouts of the Duke of Blackmore this night?’
Then he slowly crumpled to the floor in a dead faint.
∞∞∞
It took four villagers to carry the unconscious stranger to the vicarage, where he was unceremoniously put to bed still fully clothed. The local apothecary proclaimed him simply suffering from exhaustion and determined that a good night’s sleep in a proper bed would likely see him back to full strength by the morrow when they would undoubtedly discover exactly why the man was looking for their Duke.
Naturally Reverend Shackleford was torn between doing his Christian duty (it was Christmas Day after all, and well… no room at the inn, stables and all that…) and concern that either he, Hope or Percy, or possibly all three of them might be murdered in their beds overnight.
After leaving the oblivious stranger to his dreams, the three of them sat mulling over the problem in the kitchen whilst partaking of Mrs Tomlinson’s excellent light repast. It had to be said that after a couple of brandies, the Reverend was much more inclined to view the whole episode as a bit of a reprieve since in the uproar that followed the stranger’s dramatic announcement and subsequent swoon, he hadn’t had to give the address at all.
‘Whilst we are unsure as to the stranger’s motives,’ Hope was saying as she took a small sip of her sherry, ‘we cannot deny that his distress was very real. For some reason he was desperate to get word to Nicholas.’ She paused and frowned. She was about to say something that for her was entirely out of character, but there was something about the stranger that both pulled at her heart strings and imparted a sense of urgency she was unable to shake. Taking a deep breath, she continued. ‘Despite the fact that he is dressed like a vagabond, he has the bearing of a man of quality and has undoubtedly come a long way to speak with his grace.’ She drew herself up before declaring defiantly, ‘I think we should take him with us tomorrow.’
To her astonishment, neither of her companions disputed her statement. The sense of need conveyed by the stranger had clearly affected them all in a similar manner.
‘I’m not sure Nicholas is going to be very happy about us foisting an unknown man on him on Christmas Day,’ was all the Reverend commented with a sniff.
‘We don’t know that he is unknown to his grace,’ retorted Hope. ‘Remember Nicholas was in the Royal Navy for many years before he inherited the title from his father. Mayhap this man is known to him from his days at sea.’
‘That as may be,’ interrupted Percy warily, ‘but we must consider the possibility that we might also unwittingly be bringing an enemy into his grace’s household.’
‘I am no enemy of Nicholas Sinclair.’ The deep voice came from the kitchen door which had opened without any of them noticing. Hope stood up with a gasp before looking accusingly at the still comatose foxhound whose only contribution to the unexpected entrance of a total stranger was a slight thump of his tail.
‘You should be in bed sir,’ she commented hoping that the tremor in her voice was not noticeable.
‘There is no time,’ came the whispered response as the man limped painfully into the room. ‘I must speak with the Duke of Blackmore. Do you know where he is?’
Without answering, the Reverend stood and pulled out another chair. ‘Sit down man before you fall down,’ he declared. ‘And deuced well eat something. You look as though a puff of wind might blow you away.’
The man hesitated, then swayed slightly. Finally, he inclined his head in an approximation of a bow. ‘Gabriel Atwood at your service,’ he murmured hoarsely before finally giving in and collapsing into the proffered chair.
Hope pushed the remains of their repast towards him and after a small hesitation, he began to eat. ‘Percy, fetch some more brandy,’ ordered Reverend Shackleford watching as their guest pushed food into his mouth as though there would be none tomorrow. Clearly Mr Atwood had not eaten in some time.
Rising to fetch a fresh loaf of bread, Hope put it in front of the man with a pot of honey. ‘Why do you wish to speak with the Duke of Blackmore?’ she asked wincing as she watched him unceremoniously tear the loaf apart.
Before he could answer, Percy returned with a decanter of brandy and another glass. The Reverend poured three generous measures as they waited for their unexpected guest to finally stop eating. At length Gabriel Atwood leaned back with a sigh and picked up the snifter of brandy, staring into its amber depths as though it contained the secrets of the world.
Finally losing patience, Hope repeated her question.
Gabriel looked over at her before tilting his head back and swallowingthe fiery liquid in one mouthful.
‘I cannot say,’ he bit out, doing little to conceal his frustration at their refusal to tell him the Duke of Blackmore’s whereabouts.
‘You’ll have to do better than that,’ responded the Reverend flatly.
‘If I tell you more, your lives may be in danger,’ he shot back savagely throwing his hands up in the air at their obstinacy.
Hope narrowed her eyes, refusing to be intimidated by their visitor’s dramatic declaration. ‘If as you say our lives could be at risk should you favour us with such knowledge,’ she snapped, ‘then it stands to reason that the Duke of Blackmore’s will also be threatened should we take you to him.’
