The Golden Lord. Miranda Jarrett

Seeing how tightly the quill was clutched in Potter’s ink-stained fingers, Brant could secretly sympathize all too well with his agony—not, of course, that he’d ever be able to confess his own miserable weakness, or find any comfort in commiserating. He was the Duke of Strachen, wasn’t he?

      Mrs. Potter loudly cleared her throat. “Attend me, my dear. His Grace is here to see you.”

      At once Potter looked up, startled, and groped for his coat as he jumped to his feet.

      “Ah, ah, Your Grace, forgive me, please!” he exclaimed as he thrust his long arms into his coat sleeves. “I’ve never a wish to keep you waiting, but my sermon—you see how it is, how lost I can become in the writing of it. My meager talents are seldom worthy of the divine challenge ‘’

      “It’s of no matter, Reverend,” said Brant as he moved more books from a chair to sit. “Once again I’ve come to consult your knowledge of the neighborhood.”

      “Yes, yes.” Potter smiled with satisfaction; he was on more comfortable ground here than with the sermon. Little escaped his notice in his parish, and he’d helped Brant before to solve small problems among his people before they grew to large ones. “I’m always delighted to be at your service, you know. Ann, please, tea for His Grace. Now it’s not a problem with the Connor girl, is it? You know her mother was so pleased you’d found a place for her up at the Hall.”

      “No trouble at all from that quarter,” said Brant, unwilling to be distracted. “Have you heard of any military men in these parts?”

      “Military?” The minister frowned. “A regiment quartered in this county?”

      “A lone soldier, I’d say, passing through on leave. Most likely an officer, a grenadier.” Brant made a little tent of his fingers, tapping the tips together as he remembered how the girl had spoken of such a rascal. “Have you heard of any such man visiting family or friends, or perhaps stopping for a can of ale at the tavern?”

      Potter shook his head. “I cannot say I have, Your Grace. Not that I know of everyone’s comings and goings, to be sure, but I would have heard of such a man. Even the children in the schoolhouse would have spoken of a soldier in uniform. But is the man dangerous, wanted for some crime?”

      “Perhaps,” said Brant, purposefully vague. Although he trusted Potter and his reticence, for the sake of the girl’s good name he’d keep what little he knew of her to himself as long as he could. “I have certain suspicions, that is all.”

      “I’ll send word the instant I learn anything.” Potter sighed. “I know the Bible counsels us to be welcoming to strangers, Your Grace, but I agree that there are times when it is perhaps the wisest course first to question those we do not know.”

      Ann Potter returned with a tea tray, setting it on the table between the two men. “So you have settled what’s to be done with the young lady, then?”

      Brant looked up sharply. He’d come here looking for news, not to volunteer it. “The young lady, Mrs. Potter?”

      “Aye, Your Grace.” Her round face flushed, but she didn’t back down, folding her hands tightly over the front of her apron. “The confused young lady what’s at the Hall. You scarce had to ask, Your Grace. We understood, and we should be quite happy to have her here to stay with us, as long as she needs.”

      “Then you have misunderstood me, ma’am,” said Brant briskly, surprised that she’d even consider such an arrangement. The girl would stay at Claremont Hall for as long as was necessary, and that was an end to it. “There is no reason for the lady to be moved here with you. All her needs are being tended sufficiently at the Hall.”