The Vicar's Wife

17*

Smelly, slimy, stomach twistingly morbid was the work cut out for them. The dog's carcass was rotting, bloated, and losing its hair, making for a sight not soon to be forgotten. Deciding not to report it to the constable, the duke and vicar removed the carcass to a quiet corner of the vineyard. Piling stones over the grave, Wentworth mopped a sleeve across his brow, his shirtfront damp with sweat.

"I'd say this is proof enough, Jon. I can begin an investigation myself."

"The sooner the better, I'd say," Forsythe flexed his hands, grimacing at the hard callouses. "This was a macabre warning."

"Agreed." Glancing around, the duke lowered his voice. "I think he intends you harm and means to frighten you first."

"Bloody good job he's making of it."

Clifton shot his friend a startled look. Jonathon Forsythe was no fearless adventurer that sprinted boldly into the fray, but neither was he a mewling coward. The admission was unexpected, so he said as much. Eyes glinting with anger, Jonathon met his look.

"It is not for myself that I fear, but for Hattie. She could be harmed because of this, and the thought of that scoundrel getting his hands on her terrifies me."

"It won't happen." Clapping a hand firmly on the vicar's shoulder, Wentworth grinned confidently. "We shall see to it."

"No," breathing the word, Forsythe met the emerald eyes of the duke. "I shall see to it."

"Are you honestly refusing help now that I am offering it?"

"No, but protecting Hattie is my privilege. I expect you to find Newton before he makes himself publicly known."

"Consider it my wedding gift," despite the soft words, the duke's features were a mask of fierce determination. "His actions have taken away all honour I might have accorded him otherwise."

"There is one more matter,"

"Yes?" Despite the grisly circumstances, Wentworth grinned as though they stood casually around a billiard table. Forsythe's expression was tight.

"I have been required to make a clean report of my past to the church. It was necessary to keep my position here."

"You desire my influence to make it disappear?"

"No," shaking his head, Jonathon slanted a grin at his friend. "Even you would not dare earn divine wrath for tampering. I'd hoped you'd have a suggestion for a course of action that might spare me any...repercussions."

"Now that you mention it," Wentworth frowned thoughtfully, stroking his chin. "I do believe I have a favour to call in."

"Do I even want to know?"

"Doubtful," the answering smile was licentious. "I've discovered the most pious of holy men to be among the worst sinners. As it turns out, my position in society was called upon to aid him, which is now going to enable me to assist you."

"You're not going to heaven, you know that don't you? What you're suggesting is tantamount to blackmail."

"Jon, really," Wentworth chuckled. "What would I find to amuse myself with in heaven?"

"When was the last time you stepped foot into church?"

"Last Sunday." Wentworth's expression was bland, the sparkle in his eyes too innocent. Forsythe arched a brow.

"Her name?"

"You are a vicar, Jon, I'd hate to stain your purity with tales of my... indiscretions."

"You really are hopeless."