A Gentleman’s Position(32)

“Yes,” Richard said, mortified. “I see.”

“At least you thought to ask me. She lives in a village some few miles from Cirencester. The town Cirencester, I mean. I couldn’t find out which, but I understand she’s married to the parson there, so it should not be too hard for you to discover her. Good luck, dear fellow, and now kindly take yourself off. I’m going back to bed.”





Chapter 7


“So you’re Mrs. Fleming’s lad?”

David smiled at the butcher as he handed over his money. “It’s the eyes, isn’t it? Striking resemblance.”

The butcher gave a full-throated roar of laughter. “Aye, that’s it. Hear that, Samuel? It’s the eyes!” His apprentice joined in, chortling, and they exchanged a few more pleasantries along with the bacon before David left the shop.

He couldn’t resent the comments: his mother’s once-vibrant red hair was shot with sandy silver now, but it was still bright enough to attract attention. In any case, he had detected no scorn in the butcher’s voice, just the usual heavy-handed jollity. David’s mother had lived in the little village of Cricklade for ten years, and she made friends easily. The redheaded son of her first marriage was very welcome.

Such an easy thing, to be liked. All you had to do was make sure people didn’t know you.

David walked back through the grounds of St. Sampson’s, the ancient stone church standing foursquare in the dappled light, and around to the rectory on Church Lane. It was, he reminded himself, perfectly acceptable to use the front door. This was his mother’s home now.

“Good afternoon. I have the bacon,” he called, hanging up his coat without looking.

“David?” His stepfather’s voice came from the drawing room, sounding rather careful. “Could you come in here?”

Mother. It didn’t matter that he’d seen her at breakfast; the fear was always there. He dropped the parcel on the hall table, hurried into the comfortable little room, and stopped in his tracks, because it was full of noblemen.

Mr. Fleming, in clerical black, was perched on the edge of his usual chair, back stiff with respectfulness. His wife, with her red plaits looped around her head, was rigid too, but not with respect. David could feel her quivering tension.

Lord Richard sat on a chair too small for him, with one of the best bone china teacups looking ludicrously fragile in his hand. He seemed to David to take up half the room and most of the air.

“Your lordship,” David managed through stiff lips.

“Cyprian.” Lord Richard smiled, a society smile. “Mr. and Mrs. Fleming have been very hospitable to me while I waited for you.”

David had been out for hours, walking the Cotswold fields, inhaling clean air, trying to breathe out his anger and resentment. How long had Lord Richard been imposing his bulk and authority here in David’s mother’s home?

His mother was also wearing a company smile, but David could see the vixen look in her eyes, and so, quite evidently, could Mr. Fleming. He shot her a nervous glance. “I, uh, assume this is on your business, David, so, my dear, perhaps we should…If you will excuse us, my lord?”

Ellie Fleming did not look at all inclined to leave them to it, but David gave her the faintest nod of confirmation. She rose. “Of course. With your permission, my lord. I’m quite sure you have much to discuss with my son.” She gave Lord Richard a sharp smile with the last words. He blinked.

David shut the door behind his parents, held on to the handle, and rested his forehead against the wood, gathering his strength. “What do you want, your lordship?”

“Your mother is a very beautiful woman,” Lord Richard said, ignoring the question. “The resemblance is striking.”

David turned at that. Lord Richard had stood. He looked a trifle travel stained, his coat and boots needed brushing, and his deep blue gaze was locked on David.

“How did you find me?” David asked.

“You had a day off to visit your mother when we were at Tarlton March two years ago. I did not know her name, but she was discoverable with a little effort.”

A little effort. “What do you want?”

It would have occurred to all the Ricardians how much David knew about them. He was braced for a threat, a bribe, even an offer of his job back, and he had thought long and hard about some of the things he would say to any of that. He readied himself to say them now.

“I want to beg your pardon,” Lord Richard said, and knocked David’s breath out of him. “To offer my regrets. And, if you will, to talk.”

“My pardon. For what?” The tension was squirming in his stomach.