‘Maybe you ought to cancel your date with the vicar,’ he suggested, looking hopeful.
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Have you been talking to Harriet?’ She carried on without waiting for an answer. ‘I’ll tell you what I told her. I’m not an idiot and I don’t propose to give the local mafia anything to gossip about. It’ll be a casual dinner in a public place, on a friendly basis and nothing else.’ He just looked at her and she shrugged. ‘Oh, all right, yes, I do want to sound him out about one or two things.’ She gave him a rapid rundown of her conversation with the vicar at the previous day’s party. ‘I’ll be tactful, but I’d like to see if he does have interests other than the late Roman period.’
Rory hesitated then clearly decided against saying anything but his concern was clearly apparent. He looked at his watch and gave her an awkward pat on the shoulder instead. ‘Have a good time,’ he said kindly, ‘but be careful. Locksley is starting to look like a village in Midsomer Murders, creepy characters all over the place.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ she snapped as he turned to go. ‘I wish you and Harriet would stop treating me like a kid, so stop behaving like a big bro….’ Her mouth shut on a gasp and he stared back at her curiously, but the glare he received was forbidding enough to make him take the hint.
Why on earth did I say a thing like that? Edith was aghast. Not for a moment did she believe Lara Dean’s veiled slur about Rory and her own father, but the unsettling idea had nevertheless been planted in her head and she couldn’t leave it alone.
The sound of tyres on the gravel drive rescued her from her distracting thoughts and she opened the front door to see Rory going off in one direction in his elderly rattletrap, while a sleek Alfa Romeo drew up with a flourish and John Forrester, as polished and sexy as his car, jumped out and came over to greet her.
Sure that Rory could still see her she bestowed a glowing smile of welcome on the vicar and accepted a kiss on the cheek. ‘What a gorgeous car,’ she told him. ‘I’m so envious. I’m planning on buying some kind of transport myself, but it won’t be anything like this beauty.’ She was about to take the passenger seat he was offering when she spotted something. ‘That’s nasty,’ she said, with sympathy, ‘the dent on your wing. What was it? A traffic shunt or something?’
‘Nothing so glamorous.’ He looked rueful. ‘I miscalculated the tricky angle of the vicarage drive just now and had an argument with the gatepost. Didn’t you notice the brick dust embedded in the metal? I’m a fair driver, normally, so I can only plead a distracted mind. You look lovely, by the way.’
The smile that accompanied this remark made her feel slightly uncomfortable. Was it possible John Forrester was actually interested in her for her own sake? If so, things could get a tad awkward. She shifted uneasily in the expensive leather seat, sidetracked for a moment as she wondered how a Church of England clergyman could rise to such a car. Oh well, she hunched her shoulders slightly, it’s only dinner and if he is harbouring ideas about me, it’s no big deal, I’ll just put him straight.
‘Where are we going?’ she enquired, putting her misgivings aside as they turned out of the village.
‘I thought we’d try Stockbridge. Plenty of good pubs there so I’ve booked a table,’ he told her. ‘I hope that’s okay with you?’
‘Perfect,’ she approved. And it was: great food, not too far from home and right on the wide main street so that even the most determined village gossip couldn’t make an assignation out of it.
He was a good driver so she relaxed and studied him under her lashes. Devastatingly good-looking in a craggy, lived-in kind of way – everyone was right about that – with reddish-brown hair and laughter lines at the corners of the eyes that almost matched his hair. Long and lean and tanned, he was casually dressed with no sign of a dog collar and she wondered just how old he was; late thirties, she decided.
‘Well?’ He had caught her studying him. ‘Do I pass muster? Have you been given instructions on how to handle a randy vicar?’
She was annoyed at her involuntary blush but she grinned anyway and shook her head. In spite of Rory and Harriet’s strictures the vicar turned out to be a charming companion with a dry, sardonic line in humour and they laughed over their meal like old friends. Harriet was right, in a way, she thought. He was pleased with himself but it was quite an endearing conceit salted with self-deprecation. It came as something of a surprise to her that John didn’t drink.