Page 64 of Daisy and the Duke
Tristan continued without allowing anyone to interrupt. “The first matter is an accusation of theft. Let us hear from the man who made the accusation: Mr. Hornthwaite. Sir, please rise and come over to this table, which shall serve as our witness stand.”
The man at first demurred, citing his position in the church as a reason why he should not be questioned. But the crowd was anxious, eager to hear the root of this gossip, and it was clear the duke would prevail. So the vicar walked up and took his place, perhaps viewing it as a sort of pulpit for him to use as he liked.
Tristan began simply enough. “Now then, you are the vicar in Lyonton, at the church with no steeple. You are also the man who accused Miss Daisy Merriot of stealing items for a costume ball, among other things.”
“I did, as God would have wanted me to,” Hornthwaite said stiffly.
“If you made such an accusation, you must have evidence to back it up,” Tristan said.
Hornthwaite sniffed. “I know well Miss Daisy’s financial situation, your grace. Everyone around here does. The idea that this woman—”
“This lady,” Tristan corrected.
“Thisladycould afford a new dress of such quality is laughable.”
“Miss Daisy did not claim to purchase it. She has said it was a gift. Yet you accused her of theft. So now I hope to see evidence of that statement, beyond your assumptions.”
“I have not formally accused her of anything.”
“No, you merely announced it to an indiscriminate number of people in a very public environment, and then permitted the charge to spread, leaving her to be judged by hastily formed opinions, and perhaps abusing people’s implicit trust of a clergyman. Your sermon the following Sunday was on the subject of the sin of thievery, was it not?”
Hornthwaite looked quite smug, but he said, “It’s an eternally germane topic.”
“I’ll ask again, here in the presence of our esteemed magistrate,” Tristan said, his voice icy. “Do you have evidence?”
“Not as such,” the vicar ground out.
“Not. As. Such,” Tristan repeated, biting off each word. “So you must have, I assume, faith.”
“I do,” Hornthwaite said, straightening up.
“In other words, God is on your side.”
“I should hope so.”
“So you would stake your living on your intuition.”
“Excuse me, your grace?” he asked, faltering.
“You have been afforded a living as the vicar of the church in Lyonton. Is that not right? You were installed before I inherited the title, of course. I believe the Dukes of Lyon have traditionally been quite influential in choosing the curate here. But you have your living now.”
“Yes,” Hornthwaite said, unsure of where this was going.
“So you will stake it on this…matter of truth.”
“I don’t understand.”
“It’s simple. If you can produce positive evidence of theft on the part of Miss Margaret Merriot, then you’ll have the satisfaction of seeing her go to gaol—and her stepsister embarrassed, the other servants likely shamed as well. An odd aspiration for a vicar, to see others made miserable, but I suppose you can point to some passage in the Bible to uphold your view.”
“And if I don’t do it?” Hornthwaite asked, clearly nervous now.
“Well, if you don’t—or if someone produces evidence that the dress was purchased for or gifted to Daisy Merriot—you’ll resign. Our local vicar must be a man who can be trusted. There must be no hint that a liar could have care of the whole parish. I recall some passage about bearing false witness. Sort of an important point, it was. A commandment, in fact.”
Hornthwaite knew he was being lured into a trap, but he couldn’t think of an escape. “That is clear in the Scripture, yes.”
“Excellent. We are all on the same page. Now, let us proceed. Mr. Kemble has taken on the role of legal counsel for Miss Daisy Merriot. Do you wish to avail yourself of a solicitor, Mr. Hornthwaite? Or will the angels defend you?”
“I shall speak for myself, your grace. And the young lady can pray for all the help she likes. The angels will ignore her.”
