“Unfortunately, he’s left for London. His mama has not been in the best of health, and she’s apparently taken a turn.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Bea murmured.
Inwardly, she was disappointed that the outing had been for naught. She looked at Wick and noticed the direction of his gaze. He was looking beyond Mr. Varnum, to an open door off the chancel which led to the vestry. She recalled that Reverend Wright used it as his office, a memory corroborated by the desk and bookshelves visible through the doorway.
The idea took hold of her. If they searched the reverend’s personal domain, would they find any clues? Wick lifted his chin slightly, as if to indicate that he’d had similar thoughts.
“It’s a pity to miss the reverend,” he said in a genial manner, “but I was wondering if I might have a tour, Mr. Varnum? I confess I have a great interest in churches.”
“I’d be delighted.” Mr. Varnum beamed. “Shall we start in the church yard?”
“Please excuse me, sirs, I’m afraid I’ve developed a bit of a megrim,” Bea said. “I shall have a rest with my chaperone in the carriage. Please do go on without me.”
Wick led the way through the nave toward the exit, keeping the curate occupied with questions. Bea dawdled behind. Once the men left the building, she quickly turned around and returned to the vestry. She gave a furtive scan of the environs before ducking inside the reverend’s office.
She started her search at the sturdy oak desk. A copy of the Bible, a leather-bound appointment book, and a tray of writing utensils lay on its tidy surface. She opened the appointment book, her pulse accelerating at the owner’s name inscribed on the very first page:
The Reverend Mr. Henry Cartwell Wright.
Henry Cartwell—H. C.
Could the pocket watch belong to Wright?
She continued leafing through the pages. The multiple appointments with Squire Crombie caught her eye. Were the two discussing village business, as Crombie had claimed? Or was the reason for their meetings more infamous?
The second thing she noticed confirmed what the curate had said about Wright’s visits to London. In the past few months, it appeared that Wright had taken three trips to the city, all lasting a week or more.
Knowing that Wick could not keep the curate occupied indefinitely, she took her search to the cupboards that lined one wall. Opening and closing the doors, she found ceremonial equipment, folded robes, and…her heart shot into her throat.
On a shelf sat three cans marked “Linseed Oil.”
“…the roof of the nave was reconstructed in the early eighteenth century,” Mr. Varnum’s distant voice drifted into the office.
Closing the cupboard, she flattened herself against the wall next to the open door, a position that put her out of view of anyone walking by. Her heart skipped as the footsteps got closer, Mr. Varnum droning on about the architecture of the chancel. Her mind raced through possible excuses—she’d been looking for the necessary and got lost?—when Wick’s deep voice cut in.
“I say, could we have a closer look at the stone tracery in the transept?”
The footsteps receded. Peering out the doorway, seeing that the coast was clear, Bea exited the vestry and the chancel as stealthily as she could. She spotted Wick and Mr. Varnum at the far end of the transept. The curate had his back to her and was pointing out some detail in the window, but Wick caught her glance, and she gave him an excited nod.
She couldn’t wait to tell him what she’d discovered.
18
Two days later,Wick exited the inn at Stoke-Upon-Trent where he’d stayed the night and instructed his driver to take him to Thomas McGillivray’s office. Through the carriage window, he had a view of the town, with its pleasant square lined by shops and dining establishments. In the backdrop were rolling rural hills and sprawling earthenware factories which had sprouted up here and in the nearby towns. Despite the clear summer day, the sky was dark from the coal smoke billowing from the large bottle kilns.
As Wick mulled upon the best strategy to take with McGillivray and the other factory owners, he found his mind wandering to Beatrice. Leaving her yesterday hadn’t been easy. The discoveries she’d made in Wright’s office had been concerning but insufficient to prove the reverend’s guilt. Linseed oil was, after all, a common substance. It was used for everyday projects such as varnishing wood, of which there was plenty in the church. And the fact that Wright had the initials “H. C.” in his name was suggestive but hardly proof positive that he was the owner of the pocket watch.
Thus, both Squire Crombie and Wright remained on the list of suspects. Leaving Bea alone with those two nearby had tightened the knot in Wick’s gut, even though he knew that his trip to Stoke was necessary to protect her. His concern had prompted him to have a private word with Knighton after supper last night. He and the other might be rivals, but they were also men from the same world. If Beatrice’s life was threatened, he knew Knighton would have the wherewithal to protect her.
He hadn’t told Knighton all the details, just that Beatrice had dangerous enemies. Knighton had understood and given Wick his word to keep an eye on her. Of course, the bastard probably intended to put more than just an eye on her, and Wick was fully prepared to have to kill Knighton upon his return. In the interim, however, Bea’s safety was paramount.
Moreover, he trusted his lass. She was not a woman to play games, and she’d told him that she had no interest in Knighton. To strengthen his claim, Wick had visited her chamber the night before he left. She’d still had her flux, but he’d coaxed her out of her nightgown, petting and kissing her lovely breasts, rubbing at the seam of her drawers until she’d sweetly cried out her release.
He would have been content to leave things at that. Beatrice being Beatrice, however, had insisted on returning the favor. Kneeling between his legs on the mattress, she’d frigged him, her soft yet firm pumping bringing him close to the brink. Then she’d shyly asked if she could kiss him there the way he’d kissed her pussy. Wick knew for certain then that he was the luckiest bastard alive.
The image of her rosy lips stretched around his prick, the smoky desire in her eyes as he’d instructed her in the art of fellatio was enough to make his balls swell and heart pound with the possessiveness to which he’d become accustomed. He no longer questioned whether marrying Beatrice was what he wanted; heknewit was. Not just because she happened to have a natural talent for oral pleasures (thank you, God) but because she was right for him in every conceivable way.
He admired her spirit and tenacity. He enjoyed working with her, playing with her, just being with her. With her, he felt able to let down his guard for she neither judged nor coddled. Instead, she listened, asked questions, and gave her honest opinion. She tamed his restlessness and made him want to be a man who was deserving of her.
