Chapter 3
CHAPTER 3
H astings stood on the threshold of the parsonage’s small parlor, grinding his teeth. Her Grace, the Duchess of Ashland—Anne, as Stephen called her—was looking him up and down in what was clearly an insulting way. She was still young and quite pretty, a diminutive brunette, her curls barely contained by her elegant hairstyle. Looking at her you’d never guess she was a duchess, or the mother of four. But when she spoke it was with the authority of her station.
“You’ll do,” she said flatly. “At least you’re fully clothed today.” She waved him into the room imperiously, directing him to the sofa opposite her and it was only the beseeching look on Stephen’s face that kept Hastings from turning around and stalking off.
“Not on your account,” he told her, walking over and sitting down in a stiff-backed chair in the corner farthest away from her.
“Naturally,” she said with equanimity. “Since you were barely covered the last time I called I didn’t think my sensibilities were paramount in your sartorial decisions.”
“I’m still half shot,” Hastings said rudely. “Enough pleasantries. Let’s get this over with.”
“I’m sorry,” the duchess said with ill-disguised sarcasm. “Were we being pleasant? I hadn’t noticed.”
“Anne,” Stephen said with a sigh. “Hastings.”
“He started it,” the duchess said.
“I’ll end it, too,” Hastings said.
Stephen pinched the bridge of his nose and Hastings took a deep breath, pressing his lips together. He hadn’t meant to say that. It just slipped out. “Sorry, Stephen,” he said.
The duchess watched them closely. “I am not the enemy, Mr. Hastings,” she told him not unkindly.
“Just Hastings,” he corrected her. “I’ve just the one name.”
“You… you don’t have a Christian name?” she asked.
“No, I haven’t,” he answered, not upset by her question. He was used to people asking him about it. “Just the one. My mum said she thought it was my father’s name, but she couldn’t be sure. She abandoned me to the parish when I was barely in britches, and though they tried to give me another name—can’t remember what it was, actually, I think they tried several—I only ever answered to Hastings.”
“Did your mother tell the parish about your father? Is that how you know?” Stephen asked, a frown wrinkling his brow.
“Nah,” Hastings said with a laugh. “She showed up when I was ten or eleven, wanting some money. She’s not a bad woman, just not mother material. We get on pretty well, all things considered.”
“I… well, goodness,” the duchess said, blinking rapidly. “I didn’t know you were a foundling.”
“Why would you?” Hastings asked, then yawned widely.
“Are we keeping you up?” she asked archly, whatever sympathy she’d been about to impart redirected, much to his relief.
“Not at all, Your Grace,” he told her with a grin. “I didn’t get to sleep until quite late last night, and Stephen hogs the bed.”
Stephen blushed beet red. Hastings liked to shock him. “I do no such thing,” Stephen said calmly. “You were the one who came into my room and proceeded to collapse on my bed in a drunken, snoring stupor.”
The duchess covered her mouth as she giggled. Hastings wasn’t going to shock her with the thought of two men in a bed together. It was a fact that she and her duke and their friend Mr. Haversham were tucked up quite nicely each night into their ducal blankets. Honestly, he had no idea how Stephen’s motley crew of friends—the duke and duchess and their lover included—got away with such blatant disregard for the rules. He having a royal title helped considerably, as did having a royal friend.
Stephen cleared his throat. “Now then. Anne, I asked you here today to help us find some sort of useful industry for Hastings while he is staying with us here in Ashton on the Green.”
“He’s staying?” she asked, and Hastings couldn’t tell if that was delight in her tone or mere incredulousness.
“I’m as surprised as you are,” he told her.
“Well, what prompted that decision?” she asked, leaning forward a little, avidly anticipating some gossip, most likely.
“That’s a state secret,” he told her, making his face as blank as he could.
Stephen’s snort ruined the moment. “Hardly,” he said. “Sir Barnabas has ordered him to stay here with me, for only God knows what reason.”
That was only part of the reason. The other part was sitting across from him in a bottle green jacket that made his cheeks look even rosier than usual, piously trying to improve Hastings’s life. He’d never been interested in a man before. This attraction to the parson was damned inconvenient and Hastings didn’t know what to do about it. And until he did, he was staying right here.
“How wonderful,” she said, and Hastings believed she meant it. “Ashland is always happy to have someone new in the village,” she added, referring to her husband. “Well, what can you do, Mr. … ah, Hastings?”
“I can kill people,” he said, squinting as if in thought. “Guns, knives, bare hands, whatever’s required.”
“Yes, well, we don’t often have need of that here…” She trailed off, a diabolical grin breaking out on her face. “However, we do have an opening that might suit your skills.”
He was as shocked as Stephen looked. “You do?” he asked in disbelief.
“Oh, no, Anne,” Stephen said, his face noticeably pale. “No, no, no. I don’t think that’s a good idea.” He stood up as if to make his point. He looked genuinely alarmed.
“Nonsense,” the duchess said firmly, her mind obviously made up. “He’s perfect. He’s an agent of the law, isn’t he? It is quite, quite serendipitous that he should arrive just in our hour of need.”
“I don’t think I should kill anyone here,” Hastings said slowly. “I’m supposed to be laying low.”
The duchess laughed in delight and Hastings got a chill down his spine. “Really, this was Stephen’s idea, not mine,” he blustered. “I’m perfectly content with things the way they are.”
“Nonsense,” she said again, and Hastings got the impression she said that a lot. “Drunk and naked is no way to go through life, Hastings.” She put her teacup down on the table in front of her with finality. Hastings hadn’t seen her take a sip, but Mrs. Tulane’s brew was notoriously strong. Even Hastings had to have it half cream.
“You will present yourself at Ashland Manor tomorrow morning, Hastings. It is, of course, up to the duke, although I believe he will accept my guidance in this matter.”
“When does he not?” Stephen muttered and she looked at him sharply, one brow raised.
“You are correct,” she told him. “His Grace is quite astute and not averse to wise counsel.” She headed for the door.
“Wait,” Hastings said, scrambling out of his seat. Somehow he’d lost control of this meeting. “What exactly am I supposed to do for you?”
She didn’t even turn around as she answered him. “Why, Hastings, you are the new sheriff.”