Page 72 of A Dangerous Engagement

He stepped over to Felicity and put his arm around her, pulling her to his side. She forced her cringe into a stiff smile.

Mr.Merrick said, “When I am with my fiancée, I am the same way.”

Why did those words feel like a knife to her heart? Foolish.

“Oliver,” Lady Blackstone said, her voice sharp, “stop crushing the poor girl.”

Mr.Ratley let go of Felicity. He laughed. “She doesn’t mind.”

There wasn’t much Felicity could say to that, so she forced the smile to stay on her face. But her heart sank as Mr.Merrick avoided looking at her and excused himself.

“Thank you again,” Mr.Ratley called after him.

When he was gone, Lady Blackstone hissed, “Do you really think you could have dropped the key and have it end up on that table?”

“Yes, I think so.” Mr.Ratley’s expression was slack. “After I locked your door, Felicity and I ... well, we kissed while standing here. I probably just forgot to put it in my pocket, was distracted by our kissing, and dropped it. Then one of the servants—or one of the guests—saw it on the floor, picked it up, and put it on the table.”

But Lady Blackstone still did not look satisfied with Mr.Ratley’s explanation.

Felicity’s cheeks flamed, and her stomach twisted at the memory of kissing Mr.Ratley simply to get the key from his pocket. She had done it for Mr.Merrick, and he would not condemn her for it.

But he also might not respect her. And she could hardly blame him.

The next morning, Aunt Agnes insisted on sitting downstairs with everyone else. “I can eavesdrop,” she whispered while they were still in their room. “No one pays any attention to me.”

Strangely, Felicity realized she had not seen Aunt Agnes plucking her sleeves lately.

So they went downstairs and sat in the parlor with Lady Blackstone, who was serving tea. Nearly everyone was there, and Mr.Ratley perched on the sofa next to Felicity. Mrs.Cartwright ignored Felicity and talked with her husband in the corner of the room.

“It is a rather fine day,” Lady Blackstone remarked, glancing out the window. Then her face scrunched in a scowl. “It’s the rector, Mr.Birtwistle, coming to call on us.”

A man, rather short and dressed in black, was walking toward the front door. Soon, the servant came to Lady Blackstone and announced, “Mr.Birtwistle to see you.”

“Show him in.” Then she muttered under her breath, “Might as well see him now as later.”

The balding rector entered the room with a rather solemn expression. He bowed to Lady Blackstone.

“Come in, Mr.Birtwistle. It is so good of you to visit.” She was all smiles as she showed him to a seat near her. “Everyone, say good afternoon to Mr.Birtwistle, the parish rector.”

Several people nodded to him, and he nodded and said, “Good afternoon to you all.” He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and stuffed it back into his waistcoat. “It is rather warm out.”

“What brings you to see us today? Is everything all right with the church? No one is sick that I should know about, I trust?”

“No, everyone is well. That is, everyone who was formerly well is still well, that I know of. Mrs.Carter of Shrewsbury Lane has been in a decline for several months and is not expected to recover, and Mr.Loudon, as you probably know, is not at all well. But I came to look in on you, as I did not see you or any of your party at church the past two Sundays.”

“That is very astute of you, Mr.Birtwistle, for, to own the truth, we were not there.” She laughed a short, merry laugh. “We are enjoying each other’s company so very much. Let me pour you some tea.”

Lady Blackstone proceeded to serve Mr.Birtwistle tea and cake.

“Thank you, Lady Blackstone. Very kind.” Mr.Birtwistle made eye contact with Aunt Agnes, as they were sitting very near each other. Aunt Agnes actually gave him a smile.

“Have you met my guests Miss Felicity Mayson and her aunt, Miss Appleby?”

“I don’t believe I have. How do you do?” He smiled first at Felicity, then at Aunt Agnes. He seemed to notice the book in Aunt Agnes’s hands. “Are you a great reader, Miss Appleby?”

Mr.Birtwistle looked to be about the same age as Aunt Agnes, who was thirty-five. Was the man married? By the look of his rumpled coat, crooked neckcloth, and the way the sides of his hair grew rather long over his ears, Felicity guessed that he was not.

Auntie blushed. “I do like to read, very much.”