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“No, I won’t back out. The thief must be caught, and this is the only way.

” Sighing heavily, Frederick frowned. “I haven’t lived in this area for a year yet, and already people are starting to believe I took the items from the church.

It breaks my heart when even the local constable doesn’t believe in my innocence.

I must build the trust back with the community quickly.

” He motioned toward the door. “So go out, greet the people, and make me proud. I wish you good luck. I shall be praying that you turn out a splendid performance.”

“Oh, trust me, I’ll try my hardest to make them believe I’m you.” Nic smiled wide. “One might even think that I playacted for a living.”

“Well, we certainly did as boys.”

Nic nodded. “That we did.”

After settling Frederick’s hat snugly on his head, Nic reached for the walking stick leaning by the door and stepped outside.

The sunlight greeted him with an intensity that made him squint, his eyes unaccustomed to the brightness after spending weeks in the dim interior of his cousin’s home.

The adjustment was slow, but gradually the brilliance of the day came into focus.

The weather was nearly perfect for a stroll, though the crisp wind blowing in from the ocean carried a sharper chill than he had anticipated.

As he walked, Nic found himself wishing for the company of a lovely lady to share the picturesque moment with.

North Devon, with its lush green landscape and blooming flowers, seemed to be in full celebration of spring.

The trees, newly budded, swayed gently in the breeze, painting the town in vibrant colors.

At a certain point, Nic knew he could climb the hill that overlooked the coastline, offering an unmatched view of the bluish-green waters stretching toward the horizon.

The thought of it brought a sense of peace—a kind of serenity he rarely felt.

The calmness of the scene always stilled his mind, filling him with gratitude for the beauty around him.

As much as he hated to admit it, North Devon had a charm he found deeply soothing, more so than any place he had ever been.

He reluctantly tore his gaze away from the breathtaking scenery and turned his attention to another of God’s creations—the friendly, familiar faces of the village.

As Lord Hawthorne, he had already met many of Frederick’s acquaintances and, over time, had come to think of them as his own friends as well.

Both he and his cousin had allowed the townspeople to believe that Nic had returned home weeks ago, which made his current guise all the more convincing.

The first couple he greeted on his walk were the newlyweds, Mr. and Mrs. Lambert. Nic had witnessed his cousin perform their wedding ceremony just three months earlier, and they still radiated the happiness of newlywed bliss.

Mrs. Lambert clung to her husband’s arm, gazing at him with an expression of pure adoration as he spoke. It was a small but touching scene that stirred something in Nic’s chest.

He paused for a moment, reflecting on the sight.

It reminded him of his good friends, the Worthington brothers, who shared the same look of contentment with their wives.

For just a fleeting moment, a pang of loneliness settled in Nic’s heart, and he wondered if he would ever find that special woman meant for him.

The thought of companionship tugged at him unexpectedly.

As quickly as the feeling arose, he brushed it aside, chuckling quietly to himself.

What was he thinking? He wasn’t ready to find that kind of happiness—not for several more years.

The idea of settling down seemed distant, almost absurd.

There were too many adventures yet to be had, and marriage, for now, could wait.

“Mr. Woodland. Good morning,” Mrs. Lambert called out to him. She raised her hand and smiled.

The new bride was a lovely woman, and immediately, Nic wanted to make her smile.

“Greetings,” he said, quickening his step until he reached them.

He must remember he was the clergyman, not a rogue.

No charming the women! Instead, he should think holier.

“What a pleasure to see you both this fine morning.”

“Indeed, it’s a very lovely day, Mr. Woodland,” Mrs. Lambert said. “How happy I am to see you out. I trust you’re feeling better?”

“Yes, I do feel better.” He stroked his palm over his furry chin. “However, this beard is my only irritation now. I will be relieved when the tenderness in my face disappears and I’m able to shave once again.”

“I do understand your frustration.” Mr. Lambert nodded. “Two years ago I also had some kind of rash and I couldn’t shave for a whole week. I don’t know if I could have gone as long as you have, though.”

Nic shrugged. “It is quite uncomfortable. But at least I’m out of that stuffy house and able to see your happy faces. Tell me, how are you faring since we last talked?”

As the young couple shared the joys of their new life together, Nic found himself laughing along with their stories, his smile so forced it made his cheeks ache.

It wasn’t that he was uninterested in their happiness—he was genuinely pleased for them—but he simply couldn’t relate.

Marriage, to him, was a distant and foreign concept.

At least Frederick had experienced it once, though tragically, his wife had died in childbirth six years ago. Nic had never understood why his cousin hadn’t remarried, but then again, perhaps he never would.

Nic’s relationships were fleeting by design, and he liked it that way.

He cherished his freedom too much to let anyone tie him down.

Women often adored him, and he made it a point to make them feel special, right up until it was time to move on.

Nic had always been a charmer, and when it came time to end the affair, most women accepted that he wasn’t the type to marry.

Rarely did they harbor any lasting bitterness toward him.

But then his thoughts came to a screeching halt as a familiar face flashed in his memory—Tabitha Paget.

An angelic figure he had once wrongfully suspected of murder.

It had been six months since they crossed paths, but the image of her lingered as vividly as ever.

Her mesmerizing blue eyes, framed by a heart-shaped face, and those lips—remarkably exciting and utterly unforgettable.

In an instant, the carefree laughter of the moment faded, replaced by the haunting memory of a woman he hadn’t been able to forget, no matter how hard he tried.

“Is that not right, Mr. Woodland?” Mrs. Lambert asked.

Inwardly, Nic kicked himself for not paying better attention to the Lamberts. He couldn’t even recall what they had been saying. He chuckled and shook his head. “Ah, Mrs. Lambert, of course it is right, since it came from you.”

The young lady nodded and looked at her husband, giving him a grin of victory. “Did I not tell you? Mr. Woodland is a very intelligent man.”

Mr. Lambert held up his hands in surrender. “I’m not arguing with a clergyman.”

Nic laughed and clapped his hand on the other man’s thin shoulder.

“And might I suggest not arguing with your wife, either.” He glanced at Mrs. Lambert and winked.

Her cheeks flared the color of rose petals.

The shade clashed greatly with her bright orange-red hair.

He tipped his hat and bowed. “I must be on my way. I pray you both will have a pleasant day.”

“We will,” Mr. Lambert said. “Will we be seeing you later tonight at Mrs. Burls’ birthday celebration?”

“Indeed you will.” Waving at them, Nic continued his walk.

Another minute later, his name was being called by a woman across the street.

The widow, Mrs. Smythe, and her maiden sister, Miss Talbot, were the gossipmongers of the parish.

If there was a story to be told, these ladies were the first to spread the news.

Apparently, they knew everything…or they wanted to let everyone think they did.

Perhaps, if Nic became really close with those two, he might discover if one of them knew who the real thief was. Although he enjoyed charming women, he’d never had to work his wiles on women of their age. He supposed there was a first time for everything.

Mrs. Smythe was a short, round woman with a head full of brownish-gray hair that seemed perpetually in disarray, constantly slipping free from the coil she attempted to tame at the back of her head.

Her plump figure and lively, bustling nature made her a familiar presence in the village.

Standing beside her was her sister, Miss Talbot, who shared the same roundness but towered over her older sibling, thanks to her tall, big-boned frame.

Miss Talbot’s stringy brown hair, always looking as though it had never seen a comb, added to her disheveled appearance.

From the moment Nic had met her, she’d given the impression of someone perpetually caught in a windstorm.

Her most distinctive feature, however, was the large, prominent nose that seemed to dominate her face, making it difficult not to fixate on it during the conversation, no matter how hard Nic tried to look elsewhere.

“Mr. Woodland,” Mrs. Smythe called again from across the street.

She hustled as fast as her round little body could carry her until she stood in front of Nic.

Out of breath, she smiled, holding her hand to her chest. “Oh, Mr. Woodland. It’s so refreshing to see you today.

Why, I was just telling my sister, Mildred, earlier that we should drop in to see how you are faring.

” Slowly, her gaze slid over Nic, and her eyes widened.

“Oh, heavens. It appears you have lost some weight. I didn’t think you had been that sick. ”

He patted his midsection. “I didn’t think I was that sick either, until I dressed fully this morning and realized my clothes didn’t quite fit. Perhaps I should get sick like this more often.” He ran his hands up and down his middle. “I believe I can feel my ribs.”

“Oh, Mr. Woodland.” Miss Talbot blushed. “You are just horrible! Feeling your ribs is not a good thing. You need to come to the house soon so that I can fatten you up with some of my food.”

“I thank you, Miss Talbot. Mrs. Smythe. Taking in a meal with you does sound welcoming. Now, don’t let me keep you from your walk. I was just heading to the church.”

“Have a pleasant time.” Miss Talbot’s blush deepened as her gaze skipped around him, not meeting his eyes.

Nic suppressed a chuckle as he observed Miss Talbot, recalling how it had been clear from the beginning that she harbored deep feelings for Frederick.

It baffled him that his cousin had never noticed—or perhaps Frederick simply hadn’t recognized the subtle signals Miss Talbot sent his way.

Then again, women were notoriously difficult to read, their emotions shifting like the wind.

One moment they were reserved, and the next they were wild with passion.

Nic had seen it all. As a self-proclaimed rogue, he had encountered every type of woman imaginable.

Some would glare at him with eyes blazing like fire, only to melt in his arms moments later, willingly sharing a heated kiss.

But just as quickly as they’d surrendered to their desires, they would transform, spouting venomous words as if none of it had ever happened.

Their unpredictability was enough to drive any man to madness.

Perhaps Frederick was wise to keep his distance. It certainly explained why Nic had steered clear of marriage—he had no desire to be ensnared by the fickle nature of a woman’s heart.

Yet, even as he mentally reaffirmed his disdain for commitment, a familiar face crept back into his thoughts. A face that, despite his best efforts, refused to disappear entirely from his memory. Tabitha Paget. She lingered in his mind, resurfacing at the most unexpected moments, like now.

From the moment Nic first laid eyes on her, Tabitha Paget had captivated him.

Her enchanting blue eyes seemed to pull him in like a siren’s call, luring him closer with every glance.

There was a mysterious air about her, something elusive that he couldn’t quite grasp, and it drove him to dig deeper into her life, desperate to understand why she intrigued him so.

He had spent far too much time unraveling that mystery, and now he was paying the price for it.

He cursed himself for the way she lingered in his thoughts. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t forget her. She haunted his dreams, appearing unbidden during the still of the night, her face vivid and unforgettable.

Although their association had ended disastrously, with accusations and misunderstandings that left them both scarred, he could never shake the regret that gnawed at him. It bothered him deeply that he had never been able to apologize for accusing her of murder.

He inhaled deeply, trying to clear his head as he made his way toward the church. The familiar stone pathway stretched out before him, each step a reminder of the charade he was about to continue. As he drew closer, his pace slowed, and his gaze lifted toward the heavens.

Surely God wouldn’t strike him down for walking into His house dressed as a clergyman. Or would He?

Gulping, Nic reached for the front door. The steel from the knob was cold against his palm, but the energy running rapidly through his body would turn the handle warm very quickly, he was sure.

God forgive me, for I have sinned… Yet, in this case of switching identities, he needed to help his cousin. God would forgive him. He hoped.