They set about searching the room with methodical precision. Inside the cabinets, they found vestments and ceremonial utensils…nothing out of the ordinary.
“The clue’s not here.” Rhys raked a hand through his hair. “Where next?”
“We could return to the nave—”
“Good day. I am Mr. Peters, the vicar of St. Candida. May I assist you with something?”
Spinning around, Maggie saw a stout blond man with twinkling blue eyes. Childhood memories of church unexpectedly flooded her, filling her with anxiety. The Goodes had been the constant target of fiery sermons from the pulpit and censorious stares from the pews.
And Maggie was no saint. She’d had a child out of wedlock. She was conducting a liaison with the father of said child and deceiving him about their daughter’s parentage. She didn’t need to compound her sins further by lying to a man of the cloth.
“We were, um…” she floundered.
“We got turned around,” Rhys cut in smoothly. “This is my first time here, you see. My uncle spoke highly of this church, and I wanted to see it for myself.”
“Oh?” The vicar’s eyes lit with interest. “Who is your uncle, sir?”
“Horatio Jones. He passed away recently.”
“Whether we live or die, we are the Lord’s,” the clergyman murmured. “My deepest condolences. Mr. Jones was an exceptional gentleman and a benefactor of the church.”
“You knew my uncle?”
“He came here several times in the last few months. We talked about the life he’d led and his love of travel. He seemed at peace with himself and ready to embark on his final adventure. He mentioned that you might pay us a visit one day.”
“Did he?” Rhys said alertly.
“Indeed. He said he had a nephew who took after him, who possessed the same spirit of adventure,” Mr. Peters said amiably. “He said that if I were to meet you, I should direct you to see his favorite spot, the Shrine of St. Wite. I’d be pleased to show you there, Mr. and Mrs…”
“The name’s Rhys Jones.”
“Follow me then, Mr. and Mrs. Jones. The shrine is in the North Transept.” The vicar set off.
Blushing furiously, Maggie said, “Rhys, he thinks we’re—”
“Let’s just play along,” Rhys muttered. “It’s better than having to explain our true purpose.”
Tucking her hand into the crook of his arm, he led her after their chattering guide.
“During the Reformation, many ancient relics were destroyed,” Mr. Peters said. “St. Candida’s is one of the few churches to still house a relic, that of St. Wite.”
“I am not familiar with St. Wite,” Rhys said.
“Wasn’t she a Saxon woman?” Maggie recalled what her mother had told her. “She risked her life, holding a lantern on the cliffs during storms to guide sailors home.”
“While there are many theories concerning the identity of St. Wite, Mr. Horatio Jones preferred the version you just gave.” The vicar’s smile was indulgent. “Said he liked the idea of a woman leaving a light on for him.”
“That sounds like my uncle,” Rhys said.
“Mama, I’m bored.” Glory appeared in the nave’s aisle, swinging her bonnet by its strings. “How much longer will this take?”
Before Maggie could reply, the vicar said heartily, “Hello there, young miss. Would you care to join Mama and Papa on a tour of the shrine?”
Seeing Glory’s brow furrow, Maggie quickly took her hand. “She would enjoy it. Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” The vicar continued to lead the way, Rhys following behind him. “What a charming family you have, sir. Your daughter takes after both of you.”
Blooming hell.Maggie’s heart shot into her throat. Was it her imagination or did Rhys’s broad shoulders freeze for the briefest instant?
