The Luck of the Bride (The Cavensham Heiresses #3)(72)

He pulled the bell and, within seconds, Buxton entered the study. “You rang, my lord?”

McCalpin didn’t even bother to look up at the loyal butler. “Have the coach and four prepared along with a basket of food and wine. I’ll need a bag. I’m traveling to Chelmsford and plan to stay this evening at McCalpin Manor. I’ll return no later than tomorrow.”

“Very well, my lord.”

McCalpin pulled out a fresh piece of vellum and jotted a few lines to his parents that he was on his way to intercept March. He promised he’d keep them informed of his progress. As he handed the note to Buxton, he met his gaze. “Please ensure the duchess receives this promptly.”

Without hesitating, the butler nodded. “My pleasure, my lord.” He bowed to leave the study, then halted his exit. “I wish you safe travels and hope you find Miss Lawson before she arrives in Chelmsford.”

McCalpin quirked a brow.

“I hope I’m not overstepping, but what if The Midnight Cryer’s claims are true?”

His stomach fell as if a barn swallow had taken up residence. March would be devastated, and so would he.

He didn’t even want to think about the resulting effects if she was, by chance, illegitimate. Not only would she be devastated, but also the scandal would be a black mark against her sisters. Bennett would be fine until he attended Eton. Then a haranguing consortium of bullies would hound him through the years.

Yet, strategy was his forte. He just hoped it didn’t fail him now. This was a challenge he couldn’t afford to lose.

It was fortuitous that he had a long carriage ride ahead of him.

*

March rolled her head in hopes that the ache in her neck would diminish. The cramped quarters in the mail coach necessitated that she keep her shoulders contorted in a slump the entire way from London. However, good fortune, that fickle beast, had shown its favor in March’s companions for the trip to Chelmsford.

A kind couple had sat next to her the whole way from London. On the first stop, an older woman had joined them on the bench. She shared that she was returning to her daughter’s home after visiting her son.

The young wife who sat next to March had chatted the entire way. Obviously smitten with her new husband, the woman went on relentlessly how lovely it was to be married to such a wonderful man. She’d even shared they were expecting their first child. Her husband had the good manners to redden at his new wife’s enthusiastic praise.

When the young woman had inquired about her marital status, March’s cheeks had blazed with heat, leaving little doubt that her face had to resemble the young husband’s embarrassment. She’d shaken her head slightly. The young woman had bestowed a sympathetic smile and had been blessedly quiet the rest of the trip.

March didn’t try to engage the young wife in any other conversation. She only hoped she hadn’t appeared rude, but her thoughts had consumed all her attention. Her mind wouldn’t let go of how critical it was she find the vicarage quickly and discover the proof that would turn Rupert’s claims into lies. Once she accomplished her goal, she’d return to London posthaste and refute the story. She whispered a silent prayer.

Let it be that easy.

She’d even bargain her own happiness for her sisters and brother to have the lives they deserved and spare them any more scandal. She tightened her hands into fists. The one holding the valise gripped the leather handles so tight it groaned in protest.

Finally, the coach rolled to a stop, and the sounds of a busy inn surrounded her. The ostler called out a welcome to the newly arrived carriage. Stable-hands changed the livestock on the mail coach, and the innkeeper even made an appearance to greet the mail carriage coachmen as if they were old friends.

With a deep breath for courage, she walked out of the inn’s courtyard. She rounded the corner and painfully exhaled. A simple church with a large steeple and a proper garden stood only a short distance away. A small vicarage sat next to the church. The church bell struck the hour, and as if encouraging her forward, the low bong vibrated through her tired body.

Soon she found herself in the church vestibule. Windows on both sides provided an abundance of natural light even though it was a winter afternoon. The entry doors to the sanctuary stood open, and a man stood behind the altar arranging items and filling the tall pewter vases with new evergreens.

Rooted to the floor, she waited for him to look up from his work. Eventually, he glanced her way. Without taking his gaze from hers, he wiped his hands on the apron that protected his garments from the menial tasks.

“Good afternoon.” His clear tenor voice rang through the sanctuary. He rounded the altar and came toward her.

She pasted a smile on her face and stepped forward. “Good afternoon, Mr.—”

“Noah King.” He offered his hand, and for an instant, she hesitated.

This was the man who supposedly swore her parents were married long after her birth? He was little older than she, but his handsome countenance with eyes the color of new spring grass bespoke a wisdom that defied the ages. Not certain what type of man stood before her, she quickly took his hand then released it.

Immediately, she launched into her purpose for disturbing him. “Mr. King, I understand you have a marriage register that I’d be most interested in. My name is Miss March Lawson.”

He nodded. “Come with me.”

With a graceful turn, he led the way to the vicarage office. He motioned to the two chairs that faced the inviting fire. Without waiting, he poured two cups of tea and placed a plate of biscuits on the small table nestled between the chairs. “My wife is most fastidious that I eat at regular intervals. She always prepares more than necessary in case of visitors.”