Page 27 of Every Rake Has A Silver Lining

She trounced inside the church, making no attempt to follow his suggestion. “I’m surprised the ceiling didn’t fall on us the moment you stepped through the doors,” she whispered.

“Me?” He adopted his most innocent expression. “I’m a paragon of virtue”—he winked—“when I need to be.”

“Ha!” Her exclamation drew the attention of a man standing at the transept.

“I say, good man.” Simon took off his hat and waved it at the man. “Are you the vicar?”

“I’m the curate, sir. Are you Mr. Beckham and his betrothed?”

After Simon answered him, the curate led them back to a small space next to the sacristy. “The vicar, Mr. Trembly, is at prayer, preparing for your meeting.” The curate knocked twice, and they received permission to enter.

As they took their seats, Mr. Trembly studied them. “I’m puzzled and even a little concerned by the request in your letter, Mr. Beckham. Why the great urgency to wed without the customary reading of banns?”

Simon slid a glance toward Charlotte, who raised her brows at him in question. Good, he’d hoped she would allow him to take the lead.

“Good vicar, Mr. Trembly. Our reason is as old as time immemorial. We are so desperately in love, waiting is torturous.”

Charlotte snorted, admittedly a rather dainty snort, but it didn’t go unnoticed by the vicar.

“Miss? Do you disagree with Mr. Beckham’s assessment of your reason?”

“It’s Lady Charlotte Talbot, sir. And I just found it rather humorous that myintendedused such an unimaginative reason. He’s usually quite creative.”

Well, well.Was there a compliment hidden in that scathing insult?

“Allow me to be more blunt, Lady Charlotte. Do you wish to marry Mr. Beckham? The Church has no desire to force people into a union they do not want.”

Simon held his breath and watched Charlotte’s face, mentally pleading with her to lie for once in her life and save her reputation.

Mr. Trembly waited, his face a mask of patience.

Simon could almost hear the cogs clicking as Charlotte’s sharp mind worked out the simple question.

“I have agreed to marry Mr. Beckham of my own free will, sir.”

Clever girl.Not quite a straightforward answer, but truthful.

Mr. Trembly hesitated but a moment. “Very well. But I see no reason to omit the reading of banns. We shall start this Sunday and plan for the wedding three weeks hence.” He pulled out a book and dipped his pen into an inkpot. “Which day of the week would you prefer?”

Simon pulled out his trump card. “Sir, may we speak in private?”

The vicar raised his brows. “We are in private, sir.”

“What I mean is, may you and I speak in private—without my beloved?”

“That is most irregular.”

“Irregularity is a constant state with mybeloved,” Charlotte quipped.

“Well, then. If the lady has no objection.”

Both Simon and the vicar stood as Charlotte exited the room.

Simon patted the copy ofThe Muckrakerin his pocket and said, “Mr. Trembly, allow me to tell you about my future wife.”

Saints and angelslooked down on Charlotte from their lofty places high above in the stained-glass windows of the church. Judging? Advising? Consoling? Pitying? She wasn’t certain. She’d never had much faith in help from above.

At least she’d made it to the church alive. For several long moments, she’d had her doubts. Shivers traveled up her spine, expecting the journey back to Pendrake House would be just as harrowing. Although, rather exciting as well. Of course, shewould never admit that to Simon. Any encouragement and he’d probably be even more reckless.

---