Page 85 of Miss Delightful
She peered at him, the breeze catching the ginger curls framing her pretty face. “The Scots are different. Is this how you do it in Scotland? You hand around a debt until everybody’s doing better?”
“Sometimes we hand around a whisky bottle, which does less damage the more widely it’s shared. Come along, and Henderson can see to the ticket and some coin for your journey.”
He took her bundle, likely everything she owned in the world, and set a slower pace as they started off for home. The afternoon was trying to be sunny, though it was by no means warm. They waited at the corner as a red-wheeled curricle tooled past, matched grays in the traces.
“Somebody’s off to drive in the park,” Alasdhair muttered. He’d seen that vehicle before, the same natty toff at the ribbons, no tiger behind. He’d been with Dorcas at the time, anticipating an introduction to her father after a delightful stop at the tea shop.
“That’s Mornebeth,” Aurora said, her tone suggesting the name carried a sulfurous odor. “Whores ain’t supposed to tattle, but I’m done bein’ a whore. That man likes to pinch and spank—and not in a fun way. Katie called him the pinchin’ preacher.”
The vehicle bowled around the corner, traveling in the direction of St. Mildred’s. “IsaiahMornebeth?”
“If God is merciful, which He sometimes is, there’s only the one Mornebeth. Showed up before the holidays and has made a regular pestilence of himself since. Big Nan can handle him, but none of the other girls will go with him anywhere. Has a mean streak. He don’t go to the spanking houses because they cost a pretty penny and because they have rules.”
A peculiar sensation prickled over Alasdhair’s arms and nape. “You have seenIsaiah Mornebethin Covent Garden doing business with Big Nan?”
“Every Monday, unless it’s snowing. She charges him double. Takes him to the Goose because Mother Goose watches the time to the minute, and Papa Goose is better’n fifteen stone in his bare feet.”
Dismaywas too tame a word for the emotion recoiling through Alasdhair. Dorcas sought to marry herself tosuch as that? Many a man enjoyed recreational sex—many a woman too—but ordained ministers were usually more discreet than to do business with streetwalkers.
But then, Mornebeth couldn’t exactly keep a mistress under his bishop’s nose, nor would he want to be seen coming and going from a brothel.
“That pinching preacher seeks to marry Miss Dorcas Delancey,” Alasdhair murmured. “You will excuse me, Aurora. I need to make straight for the vicarage at St. Mildred’s and cast out a demon.”
“Dorcas Delancey? Miss Delightful? The pinchin’ preacher thinks to marryMiss Delightful?”
“He has all but proposed. Why?”
Aurora’s mouth thinned, and she drew her cloak up around her neck. “She’s a good ‘un, MacKay. Big Nan was sick with the flu in the stone jug. Miss Delightful came by with blankets, food, and enough coin to keep the guards on their best behavior for a whole week, not that their best behavior would impress anybody. She brought tea and brandy. She looks after us, same as you do, in her way.”
“She looks after everybody.”
Aurora peered up at him. “Who looks after her?”
The prickling sensation came again. “I will.” Though Alasdhair wasn’t entirely sure how when the lady herself was determined to deny him that privilege. “Where can I find Nan?”
“The Goose, usually. MacKay, you can’t go killin’ a man because he’s earned the disgust of a few whores.”
“Actually, I can, but I won’t.”I hope.
“MacKay, listen to me,” Aurora said, taking his arm. “Katie and I ended up in London because Pa got carried away one too many times. We didn’t think. We just bundled up our clothes, put on our best boots, and started walking. You can’t march into a vicarage like the wrath of God. If Mornebeth is there, he’ll have you tossed out on your ear, if not arrested. He’s sly and low-down, and I need my coach fare before you go off half-cocked.”
Everything in Alasdhair, every hope and prayer, every conviction and every shred of honor, wanted to storm the vicarage and oust Mornebeth from the post of hopeful suitor. Alasdhair was desperate to achieve that goal, just as he’d been desperate to find Powell all those years ago.
And yet…
Mornebeth could not marry Dorcas without making arrangements, and he’d had no time to do that. Dorcas would insist on the proprieties, as would—Alasdhair hoped—her father and brother.
More significantly, Dorcas was contemplating marriage to Mornebeth precisely because she feared her family’s ruin. A half-crazed Scot tossing around sordid accusations without proof would not do.
“Come along,” Alasdhair said, offering his arm. “You will have your coach fare, and Mornebeth will face a day of judgment.”
Whether Alasdhair ended up with Dorcas was, and always would be, entirely up to her.
* * *
Dorcas looked forwardto the fellowship meal about as eagerly as she would have anticipated a fortnight on bread and water. She nonetheless wanted the church hall to be in good trim for the event and thus made her way to St. Mildred’s in the early afternoon.
The parish would gather at sunset, and Dorcas would spend her evening smiling and nodding, admiring other people’s babies, and ignoring Isaiah Mornebeth’s sly grins. She made sure the flowers had water, made sure at least four buckets of coal sat before both of the hall’s hearths. She laid out tablecloths and had begun counting the cutlery when a sound distracted her.
