‘I think this calls for a celebratory brandy before we finally retire, Roan chuckled, climbing to his feet.
‘What the devil are we celebrating?’ Nicholas growled, his eyes narrowing.
‘What, other than you admitting you were wrong, Nick? Why, nothing at all…’
‘Dae ye gae me a bit more bed, Revren? Yer big toe be verra nearly up ma nose, and tae be honest, it be mingin’’
‘Well, since your deuced toes look like you could grow potatoes in between ‘em, I wouldn’t go casting stones,’ the Reverend retorted, dragging up the blanket to cover the offending digits just under his chin. ‘There might be a bit more room if Flossy got out from under the damned blanket.’
‘She be keepin’ me warm, Revren, seein’ as ye an’ Da be hoggin’ the blanket an’ ye willnae let me keep ma boots on.’
With a long-suffering sigh, Reverend Shackleford gave his curate a shove. ‘Can’t you move over a bit, Percy?’
‘Sorry, Sir,’ came the mumbled response, followed by a loud snore.
All was quiet for a few moments, and Augustus Shackleford finally began to drift off until suddenly a crunching sound broke the silence. ‘What in blazes are you doing now?’ He growled, sitting up.
‘It be ma puddin’’ Finn explained, sitting up in turn and holding out a biscuit. ‘Dae ye want one, Revren? Ah hae plenty under ma pillow.’
The Reverend stared incredulously at the boy. ‘You had a deuced pudding,’ he growled. ‘In fact, I think you had three.’
‘Four,’ corrected the boy. ‘Mam says ah be gettin’ right guid wi’ ma numbers.’
‘You can’t possibly be hungry,’ Reverend Shackleford went on, wondering what the devil he was doing arguing with a nine-year-old boy in the middle of the night. ‘And you’re getting crumbs in the bed.’
Finn shrugged. ‘It be a wee biscuit is all,’ he retorted. ‘I dinnae care aboot a few crumbs. Better’n lyin’ ‘ere wi yer mingin’ bunions up ma nose.’
The Reverend gritted his teeth and opened his mouth to tell the boy in no uncertain terms that this was his deuced bed, and he’d decide what would be eaten in it, but he was forestalled by a sudden knock on the door.
‘Thunder an’ turf, you’ve woken the whole household,’ the clergyman hissed.
‘Ah didnae dae anythin’,’ protested Finn as the knock came again.
Gritting his teeth, the Reverend climbed out of bed and, shivering at the sudden rush of cold round his nether regions, hurried to the door, his nightshirt flapping round his ankles. ‘What time do you call thi…?’ he started, pulling open the door, only to stop and stare incredulously at his granddaughter, Henrietta.
‘Has something happened?’ he asked immediately, fearing the worst.
‘Be somebody deid?’ Finn quizzed with ghoulish relish, coming to stand beside the Reverend. ‘Or gaunae be deid?’ he added hopefully as Henrietta began shaking her head.
‘No, nobody’s dead – not even a little bit as far as I’m aware,’ Henri muttered before adding in an undertone, ‘Not yet anyway.’ She paused and looked around the deserted landing before leaning forward and whispering, ‘Rosie’s here.’
‘Rosie who?’ the Reverend asked after a second.
Henrietta looked at him askance. ‘Roseanna – your granddaughter.’
‘What the devil is she doing in Torquay? How did she get here?’
‘She…’ Henrietta stopped and shook her head. ‘It would take too long to tell you. I need you to fetch Tristan.’
Her grandfather stared at her in disbelief. ‘Are you addled, girl? I can’t be fetching gentlemen for you to have a cosy chat with in the middle of the night.’
‘It’s not me, it’s Rosie.’
‘Oh well, that makes it alright then,’ he scoffed sarcastically.
‘Ah dinnae ken her da’ll see it that way,’ Finn interrupted doubtfully.
The Reverend and Henri glared at the frowning boy for a second, then Henrietta shook her head, gritting her teeth in exasperation. ‘I daren’t leave it until tomorrow. What if Uncle Gabriel finds out she’s here?’
