Telford’s hand, steadying, landed on his shoulder. “Are we missing something?”
He snorted. Reached for his tea, then changed his mind and shoved away from the table. “Why don’t you ask our lovely Miss Tremayne? She certainly seemed rather cozy with Mr. Scofield yesterday.”
She put her tea down with a clatter too. “I told you. I didn’t know who it was.”
“Oh, so you just flirt with every stranger, then?” He pushed to his feet, shaking his head. “Well, how wonderful for you. No business of mine. I hadn’t proposed yet, and I certainly won’t be now. You’d probably have strung me along for those eight years and then announced you were engaged to him all along. Well, Abbie was right about you—or would have been. Had she met you, which she won’t now.”
That had come out all wrong. And shouldn’t have come out at all. Oh well.
He turned for the garden gate. “Oh, never mind. You may be the prettiest young lady in England, but I’ve learned my lesson. If you want another chance, you’ll have to spend a decade begging me. So there.”
A parting shot that may have been more satisfying if she didn’t have an expression of complete bafflement on her face.
Well, she’d puzzle it out eventually. And see her mistake. Then she could spend countless hours trying to sort out how to propose to him. Maybe she should be the one to drop to a knee. Take his hand in hers. Say, Marry me for Mrs. Dawe’s crumpets and scones. You’ll never regret it.
He pushed through the gate and out onto the cobbled road. The pub. He’d order a cup of tea there, and something sturdier—though no doubt far less delicious—than a crumpet. And let beautiful Beth Tremayne go to the devil.
Though that may very well mean Scofield, come to think of it. And he just couldn’t stomach the thought. He’d proven himself a miserable savior once already, true, but he may have to try again if her bad judgment persisted in that direction.
Quick footsteps gave him three seconds of warning before Telford appeared at his side. “That was interesting.”
“She had it coming. I’m going to hold out for at least a year after that stunt of hers. Maybe two.” He shoved his hands into his pockets. “All right, six months. She’ll have to work hard, though, to win me back.”
Telford snorted a laugh. “You do realize you said all that out loud, don’t you? Perhaps you’d been having the conversation in your head before, but I’d be willing to wager no one else was part of it until now.”
“You couldn’t be more wrong.” He turned his head, which made an ache pulse through his nose. He’d probably scare every child in Old Grimsby with this mug of his as he walked through the town. “I had at least half of it with Ainsley. And future Abbie and Millicent, who will have disapproved of her because she doesn’t come from wealth or title. Wise women, my sisters. Well, not that she ought to be judged by that. I’ll still defend the Tremaynes to them—you’ll soon be related, after all. Can’t have your future brother-in-law maligned.”
“Glad to have you championing him someday. Though we’ll see how you feel after he’s finished running you through the wringer for all that back there.” Telford reached into his pocket, pulled out his handkerchief, and held it out.
Sheridan blinked at it. “What?”
“Your nose is bleeding again.”
“Oh.” He took the pristine white square and held it to his nose. Sure enough. “I’ve ruined a perfectly good waistcoat, too, you know. As if it’s my fault.” He dabbed a few more times, but it wasn’t bleeding in earnest. Another couple steps and he was able to stow the soiled handkerchief in his own pocket. Telford had an endless supply anyway. “Do you know, there are valets in the world who don’t lecture their employers?”
“Fascinating.” Telford tugged him to the side as a horse and cart clopped lazily by. “And did you really have to go after Scofield?”
“It just isn’t fair. I know far more about fairies than he ever could. He tried to guess that her name was Peaseblossom! As if every schoolboy doesn’t know Shakespeare. Completely unimpressive.”
“Usually I can follow your inanity, but you’ve lost even me this time, old boy.” They turned at the corner, and Telford looked about them. “Where are we going, anyway?”
“I’m hungry.”
Telford dug in his pocket again and came out with a toffee wrapped in foil. “Pub doesn’t open for another hour.”
“Blast.” He took the toffee. “Couldn’t you have put another crumpet in there?”
“Sorry. I was in a rush to catch up.”
And if there was no pub at the other end of his walk, Sheridan saw no reason to keep his pace so quick. Which meant he soon drifted to a halt and stared up at the building before him for a long moment before realizing it was St. Nicholas’s.
This was where he’d marry Beth, no doubt. If she convinced him. Or he convinced her. Oliver would officiate. Though for Oliver’s own wedding to Libby, he’d have to call in the vicar from the parish in St. Mary’s. What was his name?
Unless Libby insisted, or Lady Telford did, that they marry near Telford Hall instead. That would be more expected, but somehow he couldn’t imagine it. “The Abbey Gardens, more likely.”
Telford lifted his brows.
“Libby and Tremayne.”
Telford lowered his brows all the way into a frown. “Do you think so? Mother won’t like that.”
“But think about it.”
Telly grunted. “I suppose I wouldn’t argue. If they want a garden wedding, that means they’ll have to wait at least a year.”
“Or hurry it along and squeeze it in before autumn is over.”
“Pessimist.” Telford struck off again.
Sheridan held his place. It was a relatively new church building—he’d guess it to be no more than thirty or forty years old. But an older one would have stood in the same spot or a nearby one before it was built. An island that boasted two castles would most assuredly have had some sort of priory too.
Priories and churches kept records. Meticulous ones. And even if the old building were no longer around, it was still the same parish, and they were likely still in the care of the same parish priest—or vicar, now.
He pivoted back the way they’d come.
“Sher?” Telly jogged to catch up. “Now where are you going?”
“To fetch Tremayne.”
“Because . . . ? You’re ready for his lecture about his sister?”
The toffee was quite good, really. Though he usually preferred lemon drops. Or perhaps anything would taste good right now. “Don’t be silly. He can lecture me about that any time. Right now, we need him in a professional capacity.”
“You need spiritual guidance?”
Sheridan shot him a look. Ainsley would no doubt be thrilled if he had a heart-to-heart with a vicar on spiritual matters . . . and maybe he would, at some point. When his nose wasn’t aching and he had the mental capacity to engage him in a rousing debate on why Christianity was often presented as so very dull, when its truth was far more interesting. In other words, not today. “No. I need church records. Preferably dating back to around 1650.”