‘It’s your father. He’s not in his room.’ Staring at the curate’s anxious face, accentuated by the candle in his hand, Charity felt an immediate tug of worry.
‘What time is it?’
‘Nearly one o’clock,’ the curate responded.
‘Mayhap he couldn’t sleep and went down to the library,’ Charity guessed.
‘But his bed hasn’t been slept in.’
Charity thought back to her earlier peep into her father’s room. Clearly wherever he went after he retired from the drawing room, it wasn’t his bed. Her worry became frustration. She turned back to look at the snoring foxhound. Mayhap they could use Freddy to find him if he was somewhere in the house. If not, they would have to wake Jago and organise a search party. Her exasperation turned into irritation. Where the devil could he have gone?
Then suddenly she thought back to their conversation that afternoon and her insistence there was something suspicious about Genevieve’s small sitting room.
‘I think I know where he might be,’ she murmured. ‘Hand me the candle.’
Seconds later, they were stealing down the stairs and Charity went straight to the small sitting room at the bottom. ‘Why would he be in here at one a.m.?’ Percy asked when she began to turn the knob.
‘Who knows why my bacon-brained father does anything?’ she muttered, determinedly ignoring her earlier intention to do exactly the same thing.
Reverend Shackleford was exceedingly uncomfortable. In fact he had a suspicion his arse might never actually recover, and he couldn’t help wondering if he would be cursed to forever walk with a hunched back. Surely the Almighty would not be so cruel. But then the Reverend thought back to his earlier reasoning for being where he was. No matter which way one regarded hisactions, he’d most definitely not been about the Lord’s work. And as Percy had insisted on more than one occasion, the Almighty did not take kindly to snooping, especially when it involved other people’s property.
He could only hope that Jago’s father would take this night off from wandering the house like a deuced ghost.
Sighing, he rested his head against his knees and eventually fell into an uneasy doze, only to be woken again by the sound of the doorknob turning. Lifting his head up in sheer panic, he cracked it against the underside of the desk and only just managed to smother a small groan.
‘What’s that noise?’ asked Percy fearfully, hearing the sudden dull thud.
Hearing his curate’s voice, the Reverend thought for a second that the bang on his head might be bringing on an apoplexy, until the shadows became defined as a candle was lifted.
‘Percy, is that you?’ Augustus Shackleford hissed.
‘Father, where are you? What the devil are you doing here?’
Astonishingly, it was Charity who answered. ‘I could ask the same of you,’ the Reverend muttered, forgetting for a second he was being rescued.
The candlelight became brighter, and suddenly a face appeared at the entrance to his prison.
‘What on earth are you doing skulking in there,’ his daughter muttered crossly, ‘come out at once you foolish old reprobate.’
‘Are you completely bird-witted?’ the Reverend retorted, clearly up to trading insults despite being wedged in like pilchards ina hogshead. ‘Do you think I’d be here if I could deuced well move?’
‘You’re stuck?’ Charity asked incredulously.
Before he could think of a scathing response, Percy’s head appeared next to Charity’s.
‘What on earth are you doing in there, Sir?
‘What do you think I’m doing? Taking a deuced nap? Get me out of here.’
The two heads disappeared, and the candlelight waned as the holder was placed on the fireplace. For a few seconds all he could hear were mumbled voices, then suddenly, Charity reappeared. ‘Right then, Percy will take a leg, and I will take an arm, and we’ll endeavour to pull you out,’ she announced.
Seconds later, his would-be rescuers got down on their hands and knees. ‘If I’d known I’d be grubbing about on the floor at half past one in the morning, I’d have been more appropriately dressed,’ Charity grumbled, firmly retying her robe. ‘Percy, take hold of his knees.’
The curate bent forward. ‘I’m not sure I can get in far enough,’ he muttered, his left elbow almost taking off the end of the Reverend’s nose as he tried to get a grip on his superior’s knees.
‘Ow, them’s me baubles,’ came out as a strangled yelp, seconds later. ‘Are you trying to castrate me while you’re at it?’ the clergyman protested.
‘Father!’ Charity admonished. ‘This is no time for obscene language. I’ve a mind to…’
