He was about to give his horses the office when, through the encroaching darkness, they heard Quigley, who was standing studying Nunsworth as the sergeant lashed his prisoner to the rear of the magistrate’s gig, say, “It occurs to me, Nunsworth, that while I may regret not sending you for transportation all those years ago, you now have cause to regret that even more. While the punishment for thieving is a sojourn in the colonies, the punishment for kidnapping and attempted murder is the noose. You might want to dwell on that while sitting in your cell.”
Kit flicked the reins and turned his horses. There was just enough light left to see the way. At a neat clip, he drove back to the vicarage.
He’d barely drawn rein before the porch when Mrs. Henley appeared and declared that Smiggs and the boys were going nowhere without filling their bellies with the supper she and the cook had prepared.
Having descended from the curricle, Smiggs and the boys looked at Kit.
He refrained from rolling his eyes and nodded. “We wouldn’t want any of you fainting with hunger on the drive home.”
That earned him four grins and another of Mrs. Henley’s approving nods before she spread her arms like a mother hen and chivvied Smiggs and the boys into the house ahead of her.
With a resigned sigh, Kit descended and handed the reins to the groom who’d come running. “Walk ’em. They won’t be that long.”
He handed Sylvia down.
Smiling, she linked her arm with his and led him inside.
His prediction of how long it would take the boys and Smiggs to sate their appetites proved accurate. Less than half an hour later, having entrusted Smiggs with a message for Mrs. Macintyre that Sylvia was safe and well and would return on the morrow, Kit and Sylvia stood on the front porch and waved the foursome away. Unsurprisingly, the boys were grinning, and even the normally dour Smiggs was smiling.
The curricle passed the reverend’s gig on the drive.
Sylvia and Kit waited for her father to join them, then together, they went inside. She’d expected that having Kit in her childhood home, under her father’s roof, would feel a touch awkward. Instead, he and her father seemed to get on famously. They settled comfortably in her father’s study. On learning that Kit’s new business was building ocean-going yachts, her father revealed a hitherto unknown-to-her passion for sailing.
“Oh, yes. Quite a feature of my youth,” he assured her, then proceeded to engage Kit in a discussion of the various novel features he and Wayland intended incorporating into Cavanaugh yachts.
Eventually, Henley arrived to announce that dinner was served, and the three of them adjourned t
o the dining room.
Sylvia ate and watched the two most important men in her life as they animatedly described masts and sails, hull designs, and rudder conformations.
Only after the meal, when they returned to his study, did her father notice her relative silence. “My dear, his lordship and I have been quite remiss—we’ve been chatting non-stop and must have bored you to tears.”
She laughed and sat on the small chaise. “No, I assure you—it’s been quite a revelation.” She smiled at Kit as he sank down beside her.
From the armchair opposite, her father looked on; when she glanced his way, she saw a glimmer of understanding and expectation in his eyes.
“But tell me,” he said, looking from her to Kit, “how did you become acquainted? Bristol is a large city, after all.”
Kit directed a laughing glance at Sylvia. “Actually, we first met at my brother’s wedding in August.”
“Ah—of course!” Reverend Buckleberry nodded. “I remember now—the other Lord Cavanaugh who married Felicia.”
“Indeed,” Kit returned. “Your daughter and I were partners in the bridal party. Sadly, Sylvia seemed entirely unimpressed by my beaux yeux.”
He heard the soft snort Sylvia tried to suppress before she hurried to say, “Be that as it may, when the Dock Company withdrew their support from the school, saying we had to vacate their warehouse on the Grove in just days, I sought out the owner of the business displacing us to appeal for help in finding new premises, and lo and behold, the owner was Kit.”
Kit shifted on the chaise so he could watch her face. So he could drink in the liveliness and underlying happiness that glowed in her features as she told her father of all the recent changes in her school for dockyard boys.
“And,” she concluded, “we’ll shortly have a sign hanging above the door proclaiming that we’re now ‘Lord Cavanaugh’s School.’” She glanced at Kit, and he saw the affection in her eyes.
One day, he was going to have to ask her why she’d so taken against him at the wedding; having come to know her so much better, he couldn’t believe it had been solely due to his reputation. But now, pride and warmth in her voice, she went on, “I suspect that will deter any future naysayers.”
He stirred. “And if it doesn’t, I will.”
That declaration prompted a meandering conversation that touched on many political and social issues, drawing Kit and Sylvia both into airing their opinions, which, to Kit’s relief, seemed perfectly aligned.
Reverend Buckleberry was no more of a fool than his daughter. Once they’d covered a broad scope of subjects, proving just how alike their thinking and how compatible their life-visions, Sylvia’s father fell silent, and when they did as well, he looked from Sylvia to Kit and back again and arched his brows.