Page 72 of The Noble Smuggler

They reached the gate leading to the parsonage’s front door. The viscount reached out to open it, and lowering her hand from his arm, Elizabeth passed through and started up the short gravel path.

“Miss Doyle.”

Following the sound of Mrs. Parkin’s voice, Elizabeth turned to her left. The vicar’s wife was standing beside her prize rosebushes, a large straw bonnet on her head, a pair of pruning scissors in her hand, and an all-too-familiar censuring expression on her face. “Upon my word, young lady, I’m surprised you have the audacity to show up at the parsonage after what you did to Mr. Cummings. The poor man was quite beside himself when Mr. Parkin read the banns for the third time and there was still no sign of you. Indeed, when Miss Berry told me she’d seen you at Langton Manor, I made it my duty to tell the magistrate myself. No man should be made to suffer so.”

Stung by the sudden and unexpected reprimand, Elizabeth stiffened. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Parkin,” she said. “I am looking for the vicar.”

“He’s not here,” she said shortly.

“Then perhaps you would be good enough to tell us where we might find him.” Lord Langton’s voice hummed with barely repressed anger, and beneath the wide brim of her bonnet, Mrs. Parkin’s face blanched.

“L-Lord L-Langton,” she stuttered. “I did not see you there.”

“So I suppose,” the viscount said, his tone stony. “The vicar,” he reminded her. “Where might we find him?”

“At-at the church, my lord. He’s preparing for a baptism.”

Lord Langton gave the trembling woman a curt nod before offering Elizabeth his arm again.

“Good day, Mrs. Parkin,” Elizabeth said.

“Good-good day, Miss Doyle,” she replied.

The viscount maintained his silence until they were halfway to the church. “How often were you forced to interact with that insufferable woman?” he asked.

“Once a month at the parsonage, when I was given very strict etiquette lessons at afternoon tea, and occasionally after Sunday services,” Elizabeth said.

“You have my profound condolences,” he said. “She is obviously no judge of character and has far too high an opinion of herself for her own good.”

“I confess I had no idea she felt so warmly toward Mr. Cummings,” Elizabeth said. “But I’m glad to know that Miss Berry did not break my confidence, even if Mrs. Parkin felt it necessary to tell the magistrate where to find me.”

“The fool woman caused your kidnapping and injury,” he growled.

Elizabeth tightened her grip on his arm. “An effort that came to naught, thanks to Reynard.”

He said nothing more, but Elizabeth felt the tension gradually leave his arm muscle and was glad that this time, it was she who had helped him regain his equilibrium.

After their being in the sunshine outside, the church nave was cool and dark. Lord Langton tucked his hat beneath his arm and followed Elizabeth down the aisle toward the vestry. As they drew closer, Elizabeth heard the murmur of voices, then a door opened, and the vicar walked out.

“Miss Doyle,” he said. Although the surprise in his voice mirrored his wife’s, it lacked the criticism.

“Good afternoon, vicar,” she said.

“May I help you?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No, thank you. I am simply accompanying Lord Bloxley and Lord Langton.” She pointed toward the vestry. “They wished to see some of the parish records, and it appears that you have already offered the earl the assistance he required.”

“Indeed. Indeed.” Mr. Parkin turned to Lord Langton and inclined his head politely. “It’s an honor to have you here, my lord.”

“Thank you, Mr. Parkin.” The viscount eyed the open vestry door over the vicar’s shoulder. “If you would excuse us, however, we promised Lord Bloxley we would join him directly.”

“Of course.” The vicar sidestepped into the chancel. “I will let you be. But I shall be at the font should you require anything further.”

“You have our thanks,” Lord Langton said, and with a slight bow, he took Elizabeth by the elbow and guided her into the vestry.

Closing the door behind them, he crossed the small room to join the earl at the table. “Any luck?” he said.

Lord Bloxley looked up from the large leather-bound book open before him. “Not yet, but I’m still in 1765.” He pointed to two more tomes sitting atop a bookshelf in the corner. “If you would take 1766, perhaps Miss Doyle would be willing to start on 1767.”