It is war’s prize to take all vantage.
Henry VI, Part 3
A wise Oxford don had once given Devan Farris a piece of advice that had stayed with him. “A true gentleman, no matter his circumstances, must invest his hard-earned coin in one piece of clothing that proclaims his rightful place in the world.”
For Devan that extravagant piece in his wardrobe was a fine black wool morning jacket adorned with silver buttons. It was tailor-made and had cost a pretty penny. He’d saved for two years to purchase such a garment and had taken meticulous care of it. It must have been God’s providence that forced Devan to pull the beautiful coat from his wardrobe and wear it today. He only wore it on special occasions, but today had predicted to be a little out of the ordinary.
When it was announced that Avalon Cavensham Pearce, the Marchioness of Warwyk, waited for him in the entry, Devan had said a little prayer, thanking the Almighty for his divine intervention. Devan would need every ounce of wit, charm, and persistence to do battle with the plucky woman.
Though they’d met several times through the years, Lady Warwyk hated him. In turn, he’d called her Lady Warlock as a way of needling her. Though his life was devoted to the church and its teachings, Devan believed that God accepted exceptions to the rules—particularly when it was all for the greater good.
For instance, the greater good required that he tease Lady Warlock relentlessly whenever he found himself in her presence. Though her charity work showed her fine character, the woman took herself much too seriously. Perhaps such a trait resulted from her insufferable marriage to the previous marquess. However, it was entirely possible that she’d relied upon her own company for so long that she’d become completely one-dimensional, much like those paper dolls children played with.
He’d scored a direct hit by calling her Lady Warlock if the tic that played and teased across one corner of her mouth was any indication. It must have been his imagination, but she seemed to shimmer in his presence with outrage. He fancied this version of Lady Warwyk rather than the stiff board that had first entered. When her emotions ran high, she was uncommonly becoming.
With thick brown hair elegantly swept off her neck except for one expertly styled curl that hung loose, she held herself regally, like a queen surveying her kingdom. The stance emphasized her long neck. Her green eyes had brightened to a color similar to an English garden in the spring. Her heart-shaped face and pert nose were delightful, and her pink, plush lips reminded him of pillows.
The functional navy gown seemed to be a shield proclaiming her practicality. It did nothing for her figure. A brilliant bronze or a spring green would better complement her perfect complexion and set off her delicate features, particularly her nose, which she favored tilting in the air as often as she could.
“What are you laughing at, you pious—”
“Tsk, tsk, my lady.” He leaned a little closer to inspect the pulse pounding in her neck. “Don’t say prig. You have used ‘pious prig’ too many times in the past. It’s lost the ability to shock or wound, wouldn’t you agree? I expected something more original.” He picked up the teapot, then lifted his eyebrows as if offering more. When she didn’t budge, he replaced the pot. “I think if we’re to work together successfully in the parish, we should come to an understanding.”
“We will never come to an understanding, Mr. Farris,” she huffed, the sound like a whisper of air. “I want you gone.”
“My dear lady, as much as I’d like to oblige, I’m afraid that just won’t happen.” He pursed his lips as if concentrating. “Both the bishop and I are concerned about the added financial strain the parish must bear because of your new residents. It’s no secret that Thistledown has turned into a haven for women of a certain … occupation who happen to find themselves…”
“Without a home?” She arched a single perfect brow. “With child?”
He bit his lip to keep from grinning at her contrary action. She was purposely trying to shock him.
“I fail to see that it’s any concern of the church when the community has accepted the responsibility.” She leaned closer, her sharp gaze like an ice pick. “Nor is it any of yours.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” He lowered his tone to the one that he always used when counseling parishioners who needed help settling an argument. “The Earl of Larkton specifically asked me to take this assignment, not only for the good of the church, but for the good of the Marquess of Warwyk.”
“What does my ten-year-old son have to do with this, Mr. Farris?” She leaned back, distancing herself from him.
He’d obviously touched a nerve. “As the guardian and conservator of your son’s estate, Larkton shoulders the responsibility to protect the marquisate and your son.”
She dismissed him with a wave of her hand, clearly trying to take the upper hand once again. “There’s no need to worry about that. I have my own money. The marquisate is healthy, and the wealth continues to grow from wise investing.” Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “So, there’s no need for you to ‘supervise.’”
He wanted to get a rise out of her so her beautiful eyes would blaze again, but the slight vulnerability in the wobble of her voice stopped him. It was more than her dislike of him. His mere presence worried her.
“It’s no trouble, my lady. Supervision is what I do best.” He tilted his head and offered his most charming effervescent smile. “Speaking of which, I understand from Mrs. McVey that the Thistledown Ladies Auxiliary holds weekly meetings.”
“It does,” she answered warily.
“And Mr. Knightley attended those meetings as part of his responsibilities to the parish?”
“Mr. Knightley was a wonderful vicar and a mentor to me when I was young and the new Marchioness of Warwyk. He helped me create the Thistledown Ladies Auxiliary. I still lead the weekly meetings.” She shook her head slightly. “There’s no need for you to attend, Vicar.”
Now she referred to him as “Vicar” instead of Mr. Farris or even “pious prig.” The woman was definitely trying to distance herself from him, and he didn’t like it one bit. But they’d soon be working together. Warwyk was a wealthy parish, one renowned throughout the church hierarchy as devoted to helping others. To Devan, it meant he’d see Lady Warwyk regularly.
He’d always found her at social events they attended. She’d stiffen like a crested porcupine whenever she saw him. He’d tease her, hoping to get a reaction that would break her out of her ice-cold reserve. He hadn’t been successful until last spring’s wedding breakfast that they’d both attended. It’d been the most entertainment he’d had in months. When it became obvious she’d grown angry, he’d immediately quit pestering her. But there was something about her he’d always found intriguing. Every nuanced expression and complicated layer she possessed made him want to examine each one carefully until he figured out the puzzle that was Avalon Warwyk.
Frankly, he could care less if she wanted Thistledown to become a haven for prostitutes. That was Larkton’s concern. It made no difference to Devan. However, as a member of the clergy, he had to protect the church.
“My lady, did you know that in old times, prostitutes would find a parish outside of London and deliver their babies? The parish leaders had been known to place a pregnant woman in a wheelbarrow and roll her and the unborn babe on to the next parish. For whatever parish the baby was born in, then that parish took responsibility for the child.”
She blinked in response.
“Once the women were well enough, they’d go back to London, leaving the parish responsible for rearing and caring for the infant until they could be placed either at an orphanage or a foundling home.”
“And the point of this history lesson?” she asked curtly.
“If others in similar plight see how generous you are, then they’ll flock to Thistledown.”
“They’re not geese seeking refuge for the winter. I expected more empathy”—she regarded him from head to toe—“from such an exalted member of the clergy.”
He could practically see her defensive shield being raised. “Without knowing the extent of the church’s coffers at this point, I’m trying to ensure that the church could bear the financial weight of such an endeavor.”
“I haven’t sought the church’s assistance. I’m financially responsible. Thank you for your concern, but it’s my business,” she countered.
“But it’s my parish.” He lifted an eyebrow in challenge.
She huffed in response.
“You can see why I want to know more. Thistledown welcomes these women unconditionally. I understand you’re thinking of building special housing for them, along with an offering to learn a new trade such as sewing garments or learning lace tatting.”
“Lace tatting is highly sought after by the dress makers in London and Paris. It’s good business,” she said.
“You’re going to pay for all of that?”
She nodded briskly.
“I see. Then I completely support teaching them a new profession so that they could leave prostitution while raising their own children. It’s a noble cause that the church should wholeheartedly embrace. From what I’ve heard and seen in my brief time here, the parish’s efforts are filled with love, compassion, and generosity, all Christian values with moral correctness. I just want to help you. Won’t you allow that?”
Her jaw clenched in response.
“Lady Warwyk, it would be my absolute honor to attend the Ladies Auxiliary meetings with you. I’m of a mind that it will quickly become the highlight of every week, except of course, my weekly sermon. I can’t let you have all the fun,” he teased.
Her cheeks heated to a beautiful crimson color reminiscent of ripened apples, his favorite fruit to eat.
“There’s no need to interrupt your days for our meetings.” Lady Warwyk stood to leave. “You must still be busy meeting all the parish members.”
“Of course I can make time in my day for your meetings, my lady.” He leaned close, and his nostrils instantly flared at her delicate scent of roses mixed with her essence, the warm fragrant scent of a woman. “Perhaps you would introduce me to the members of my new parish before Sunday’s sermon. I’d hoped to invite them personally to church. Remember, I’m still hunting for an heiress. Perhaps you could point out a few?”
“Spare me, Mr. Farris.” Though she spoke with a low voice, there was no mistaking the growling in her throat. “There are no heiresses in our parish except my sister. Stay away from her.”
“Lady Warlock, I beg to differ. There are at least two.” He escorted her to the door. “You and your sister. No need to worry about Lady Sophia. I don’t rob from the cradle. I want to marry a woman with enough gravitas and experience with the world to make the effort worthwhile.”
“What effort?” Lady Warwyk turned elegantly and faced him with a cool detached manner.
“The effort of marriage, my dear lady.” He opened the door and swept his arm in front of him, inviting her to precede him. “As a gentleman, I must see the patroness of the parish to the front door. Is that where you left your maid? I assume she kept Mrs. McVey busy while you made your generous offer.”
He concluded right then and there that Lady Warlock was a sly one. Which made him all the more eager to find out her business.
“I think I’ll look for a bride while I’m here.” He couldn’t help but grin when her cheeks again resembled fall’s first ripe apples. Truly, God was gracious to have put this woman in his path.
“You’d have better luck finding a wife in London. But just so we understand one another, this is my parish. Whatever it takes, I’m prepared to do so you’ll leave us alone,” she murmured. “We’re not done with this conversation, Vicar.”
“Lady Warlock.” He lowered his voice. “I can’t tell you how happy I am to hear that. Such a pity I never recognized it before, but you are simply delightful. I’ll rectify my lack of observation skills when it comes to you. I’m positive you have much to teach me. I predict sharing time with you will be the highlight of my time in your parish.”
Without another word, Lady Warwyk swept through the front door with her maid in close pursuit. Devan paused and looked for a carriage. Not a footman or black lacquered coach in sight. The good lady of Warwyk Hall had walked to his humble abode. It didn’t escape his notice that today was the chilliest of the month so far.
He’d have offered to drive her and her maid himself, but as he was a vicar, there was no coach. However, he did have his loyal steed, Devil. The black stallion was all Devan needed as his transportation needs were simple. Since it was less than an hour’s ride to London, Devil could easily accommodate him when Devan made the monthly trip to see his brother to report on his findings here within Thistledown.
Lord, he was tired of the church’s special projects that only he seemed to be “fit” to handle. What that meant was that he was the only clergy who wasn’t married and had enough brains to solve whatever problems various parishes had seemed to create amongst their neighbors.
He certainly didn’t want to destroy what Avalon had created here. From what he’d seen in the last couple of days, the parish and its residents were healthy, happy, and genuinely caring. A lovely place that Devan could easily see wanting to call home forever.
Lady Warwyk was a conundrum if ever there was one—a beautiful one. It didn’t take a genius to figure out that she didn’t want him prying into her special projects, specifically the Ladies Auxiliary. Whatever that group did, Avalon was the undisputed leader and didn’t want to share those responsibilities with anyone.
Including him.
However, she’d been very close to his predecessor, Mr. Knightley, and had welcomed him with open arms into her group. She didn’t distrust all men. Perhaps just him. Devan rubbed his hands together to ward off the cold. He couldn’t wait to attend next week’s Ladies Auxiliary meeting. Mrs. McVey had already told him when and where it was held.
He’d do whatever he could to help her.
As a wise man once said, “Even the mighty must fall.”
“My lady, I think it’s gotten colder since we arrived at the vicarage,” Henri said as her teeth rattled. She clasped her black wool cloak tightly.
“When we get home, I want you to sit in front of the fire, and I’ll send for a nice pot of tea. I don’t want you catching cold, Henri. I need you.”
Her lady’s maid laughed. The chuckles broke the air into puffs of frosty white clouds.
“Don’t you worry, my lady. I’m fit as a fiddle.” Henri thumped her chest with her gloved hand in a show of strength. “Healthy as a horse.”
Avalon stood just shy of five feet and six inches, but she appeared to be a giant beside Henri. Though short in stature, Henri had a personality that more than made up for it. Her brown eyes always twinkled from merriment. She could find joy in the simplest to the most complex of things. But her steadfast loyalty was her greatest strength in Avalon’s eyes. Whatever Avalon needed her to do, Henri did without question.
Avalon hadn’t noticed the cold as she was still fuming after her conversation with Devan Farris, the most disagreeable man on the face of the earth. She let out a breath and an arrow of white steam shot straight in front of her. His brother, the Earl of Larkton, had to be the second most disagreeable man on earth she’d ever come across.
When it had just been the earl that she’d had to deal with, things had been so much easier. Avalon had handled Thane’s guardian and conservator with an aplomb that even the most experienced of diplomats would have envied. The earl wrote regularly, and she’d answered each query or suggestion about the estate management or Thane’s upbringing with a rational explanation of why the earl’s thoughts weren’t sound. But now that Devan Farris had arrived, it made things all that much harder. He’d constantly be watching her.
If the vicar discovered how it came to be that prostitutes settled into Thistledown, then Avalon’s morals and her skills as a mother of a fatherless young peer might be cast into doubt. She’d become friends—no, allies—with her husband’s mistress over the years. The biggest risk was that if Devan discovered their true respect for one another, it might give the earl additional ammunition to take Thane away and send him to Eton.
Devan Farris, blighter extraordinaire, insisted upon interfering into her affairs where he wasn’t wanted.
However, her efforts to forge Thistledown into an ideal community would not be dismantled.
Everything she’d planned for her loved ones and community hinged on her coming up with a spectacular offer, one that Devan Farris, the heiress-hunting vicar, couldn’t refuse.
But something kept gnawing at her.
Devan was the first man she’d actually noticed in years. When was the last time she’d actually looked at a man and admired his form? She couldn’t remember. Her heart pounded a little more forcefully in answer. Avalon shook her head slightly.
Her time would be better spent finding another way to purge her parish of the new vicar instead of listening to her heart.