He swiveled about, cassock flying, Eugenia still tucked under his arm, and surveyed Ward and Lizzie.
“No, no,” Eugenia said hastily. “Mr. Reeve is a client of Snowe’s, that’s all. May I introduce Mr. Edward Reeve and his half-sibling, Miss Lizzie Darcy?”
“Of the Northampshire Darcy’s?” the bishop asked.
“No, my lord,” Ward said, bowing. “In fact, my half-sister’s father was Lord Darcy of Darcy Manor.”
Chatty’s mouth fell open. “What?”
“Lizzie’s younger brother Otis inherited the title,” Ward added.
“If I understand you correctly,” the vicar erupted, with an expression that suggested he’d just swallowed turpentine, “this child is the offspring of a notorious—”
“Mr. Howson,” Eugenia interrupted, “I’m certain you have no intention of saying anything disparaging before a child who is mourning the recent death of her mother.”
“Dead, is she?” Chatty said with interest. “Lady Lisette was barking mad, of course, but a lovely woman.” With a little start, he looked over his large stomach at Lizzie. “Forgive me, child.”
Lizzie heightened her air of innocent pathos. “My father once told me that madness is a pirouette away from genius.”
“My lord, I thought it best if I brought Lizzie to speak to you,” Ward said, intervening. “I would be dismayed if the absurd rumors circulating in the village are countenanced here.”
Chatty turned to the vicar. “Howson, the truth is that I’ve allowed your nonsense to go on too long. I’m feeling ashamed of myself. This young girl has no need of spiritual guidance.”
He looked down at Lizzie’s conspicuously innocent gaze. “She is clearly as guiltless as a lamb,” he said, with more vigor.
“We must discuss these events,” the vicar spluttered.
Chatty’s eyes narrowed. “You just spit on me, Howson! Spit! Do you know what spit does to silk? The only thing worse is blood. It was bad enough when you accused that old woman of running a house of ill repute, when in fact she was nurturing indigent orphans.”
Howson had a desperate look around his eyes. “I know the smell of evil!”
“No, you don’t,” Chatty snorted. “I’ve had enough. You’re lucky that Mr. Reeve is an understanding man.”
Ward was standing with his arms folded over his chest and Eugenia didn’t think he looked very understanding. Nor did the vicar, considering the way he edged away from him.
“I’m sending you to Africa,” Chatty said. “Or perhaps somewhere farther away; geography was never my subject.”
“The Antipodes,” Ward suggested.
“Right, that’ll do,” Chatty said obligingly. “Howson, get your affairs in order because you’ll be off on the first boat. I think you’d better apologize to this young lady. If you make it back to England, don’t get yourself tangled up in the pastimes of the nobility. This young girl is the daughter of the late Lord Darcy. Her brother is a lord.”
“That is irrelevant!”
The curate walked forward and took the vicar by the arm. “If you’ll be so kind, vicar, I believe that you might want to begin packing your books,” he said, pulling the protesting man straight out the room.
“Eugenia, Eugenia, Eugenia,” Chatty said, enveloping Eugenia in his arms again. He smelled of roast beef, incense, and port.
“I didn’t get to say my speech,” an indignant voice said from behind Eugenia.
Lizzie was tapping her foot for all the world like a frosty dowager who’d been kept waiting.
“You can perform it at home,” Ward said, glancing down at her and then back at Eugenia.
She could feel herself getting pink around the ears. Hopefully no one else could interpret that intent look of his. She glanced sideways and realized that Chatty’s eyes had narrowed.
“Miss Darcy,” Eugenia said hastily, “it is not appropriate to complain when you’re in the company of a bishop.”
“Why not?” Lizzie demanded. “He sent the vicar away before I could make my speech. I had the right to say it, because the vicar was accusing me of nefilius things. All sorts of nefilius things.”
“Nefilius?” Ward repeated.
“I presume you are referring to ‘nefarious’ things,” Eugenia said. “While I applaud your vocabulary, there is a time and place for everything.”
Lizzie glared. “This was the place and the time,” she said, not unreasonably.
“She has a point,” Chatty said, interrupting. “I’ll be tickled if she doesn’t remind me of you, Eugenia. Remember that time when you secreted yourself in a basket and had it brought into the parlor? You were around seven years old.”