Compromising The Duke's Daughter. Mary Brendan
and Vincent promenading in Hyde Park, Joan had suggested in her note that they meet up to talk. She and Vincent had been friends for too long to allow a mishap to drive a wedge between them.
Next week the Duke would be reunited with his spouse and Joan was confident he’d be in a better mood then. The Duchess was presently with her daughter in Essex, as Fiona was increasing again and feeling very poorly. Maude had sped off many weeks ago to give support and encouragement, sure the signs were there that an heir to the Wolfson name was on his way.
Her brother-in-law would be immensely proud to have his longed-for son, Joan thought before her mind wandered on...to a person Luke would certainly not be proud of: his degenerate best friend...
An impatient tut escaped her as she realised Drew Rockleigh again occupied her thoughts. Since the hair-raising incident with the beggars she had not managed to forget the dratted man for any length of time, much as she wanted to. His astonishing way of life depressed her the more she dwelt on it. Infuriating though she found him, he deserved better than to end up trading blows in a boxing ring.
‘I hope the Duke won’t stop you seeing me or make me abandon the vicarage school.’ Vincent sounded anxious.
‘Of course he won’t, on either count! Papa knows that you are a good friend and he is not without compassion for the poor. He will mellow in time.’ Joan paused, searching for a new subject to talk about. ‘How is Louise liking her sojourn in the countryside?’
Louise Finch and Joan had been close since childhood. Louise’s mother and Vincent’s mother were kin and, despite one sister marrying a wealthy fellow while the other’s husband was a man of the cloth, the women remained close. Vincent had followed in his father’s footsteps, but had gained a living administering to a flock in the London stews rather than in a Kentish village.
‘I understand from my mother that her guests will be returning early next week. Apparently Louise misses the social whirl and is bored with cattle for company.’ Vincent gave a rather disapproving sniff.
Joan bit her lip to subdue a smile. It was the sort of blunt opinion she would expect from her best friend, yet she doubted Louise had intended her hostess to overhear it.
‘I shall be glad to have her back, anyway,’ Joan said, patting Vincent’s arm in a consoling manner. She gave him a smile and his indignation disintegrated. Vincent was a man of adequate height and build with coppery brown hair and pleasant looks. As they strolled around the perimeter of the lake Joan noticed that they were under observation.
‘Your association with me attracts attention, you know,’ Vincent said wryly, his thoughts mirroring Joan’s. He nodded discreetly at some people craning their necks at them as their barouche passed by.
‘No doubt they are recalling how abominably I embarrassed you when I was younger,’ Joan teased, making Vincent cough and blush. ‘Oh, the gossips should be used to us being friends by now.’ She wrinkled her petite nose in a display of insouciance. ‘It is more likely those young ladies are staring because they think you handsome and eligible,’ she added with a twinkling smile.
‘I doubt they would think my bank balance very attractive,’ Vincent countered wryly. ‘Even the clergy need to pay their bills.’ Vincent paused. ‘They appear to be returning for a second look,’ he said as the barouche again approached.
‘Oh, let them look.’ Joan sighed. ‘That is Miss Greenvale and her cousin. They are heiresses and could spare a few pounds from their trust funds to put towards your new church roof.’
‘I fear I’ll have no luck there and will carry on collecting rainwater in buckets for the foreseeable future.’
‘I’ll speak to Papa about releasing some of my money—’
‘You must not!’ Vincent interrupted sharply. ‘I’ll not let you do that.’ His features softened into a grateful smile. ‘You are a very generous and good-natured young woman.’ Vincent slanted a glance at the pearly contours of Joan’s profile, framed by chestnut curls. ‘I hate that you suffered for your goodness. Will you tell me more about this dreadful attack by those beggars?’
‘There isn’t much to tell...it was over very quickly after we received help...’ Joan said carefully. She’d sooner not make much of the incident with Rockleigh.
‘Gracious! Over there by the trees is a fellow I know.’ Vincent discreetly waggled a hand indicating to his left. ‘He is the Ratcliffe Highway’s most successful pugilist. Of course, I rarely attend those contests lest I encourage the men in their barbarism.’
Joan came to an abrupt standstill as her eyes widened on the person who rarely quit her thoughts. He was standing many yards away on a patch of grass fringed by a copse and appeared to be deep in conversation with another fellow. From their position close to shady branches, and their unsmiling expressions, Joan guessed that the meeting was not a social one.
‘Is he known to you?’ Vincent had heard Joan’s quiet intake of breath. ‘He wasn’t one of the beasts who beset your coach, was he? The fellow is known locally as the Squire. One only needs to be in his company for a short while to know he is well bred. He must be badly down on his luck, but I’d be surprised if he stooped to bullying women or begging.’
‘No...he would never do that...’ Joan murmured with a throb of conviction in her voice. ‘He was our rescuer—I told you that we received help. He drove the carriage out of the slum.’
‘I’m not surprised he was your Good Samaritan. He’s courteous, if brutal, and that’s a rarity in the parish. The Squire’s got no need to beg as the victor’s purses can be considerable.’ Vincent looked enquiringly at Joan. ‘Shall we speak to him? I’m keen to persuade some of the families to attend the Sunday services more often than they do. The ne’er-do-wells congregate in the Cock and Hen on the Sabbath when they might better spend their time seeking the Lord’s forgiveness, or their own salvation.’ Vincent clucked his tongue. ‘A few of their wives are regular church goers though...’
‘Is he married?’ Joan blurted out, unsure why the thought of Drew Rockleigh having a wife appalled her.
‘The Squire married? Not to my knowledge. He’s popular with the ladies though...’ Vincent cleared his throat to cover his slip. ‘Forgive me, Lady Joan...that was most crass...’
But Joan was no longer listening; her eyes had become entangled with a steady tawny stare. Drew stepped away from his soberly dressed companion and the man scuttled into the copse out of sight.
Joan’s heart began pounding beneath her ribs as she watched Rockleigh plunge his hands into his pockets on his casual stroll over the grass towards them. Alert to her aunt’s presence, Joan shot a look over her shoulder. ‘Lady Dorothea is occupied with Lady Regan, so we can briefly say hello to Mr Rockleigh,’ she rattled off.
‘Rockleigh? Is that his name?’
Joan gave a brief nod, already on her way to meet him and so rapidly that Vincent had to trot to keep up with her.
‘My lady... Reverend Walters...’ Drew dipped his head, then glanced thoughtfully from one to the other of them.
‘You are a distance from home today, sir,’ Vincent burst out when his companions stared at one another rather than exchanging a greeting.
‘I had an appointment to keep,’ Drew informed, sliding his attention back to Joan.
‘I must thank you very much for the service you did Lady Joan. I’ve heard how you helped her and her aunt out of a very unpleasant situation.’ Vincent thrust out a hand.
‘She wouldn’t have been in that unpleasant situation but for you encouraging her into the neighbourhood,’ Drew returned coolly, giving the Reverend’s fingers a single firm shake.
‘I need no encouragement to be benevolent,’ Joan interjected sharply, conscious of the vicar fidgeting on being reprimanded. ‘I made up my own mind to go to the vicarage school.’
‘Against