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We should be rigorous in judging ourselves and gracious in judging others.

JOHN WESLEY

The Parish Church of the Holy Cross, with its small belfry and trim graveyard, appeared serene on a Sunday morning. Yet I felt only turmoil as I entered the church, which smelled of linseed oil.

Not even my freshly pressed gown and matching green hat could lift my spirits as Mrs. Herriot and I took our usual spot.

I felt the eyes of the women and men, most whom I had known for the past twelve years since our family first moved to Bramnor.

Despite the rumors of fever, the church appeared unusually packed.

Father would be so pleased. I hoped no one else would fall ill.

Dust motes danced in the beams of sunlight cascading onto the polished pews.

Father had spent a good deal of the previous day ordering a complete cleaning of the church to impress the new viscount, just in case Lord Hawthorn made an appearance.

I wanted to inform Father that such efforts would be wasted, but there I sat, dressed in my second-best attire, with my second-best gloves, and holding a new reticule embroidered with white flowers.

My maid had attempted to tame my frizz into something pretty, with manageable curls carefully arranged on my forehead, until I bid her stop with the fussing.

Regardless of my appearance, my chest fluttered from nerves.

Several women bent their heads together, their whispers carrying over the pews.

“Roaming the fields at night.”

“Shocking for a lady! Can no one rein her in?”

“Chattering magpies. For shame, in a church no less,” Mrs. Herriot muttered as I turned my attention to my reticule, refusing to strain my burning ears. Perhaps I could encourage Father to preach a sermon about the dangers of such prattle. Then again, I was used to being the subject of gossip.

Dressed in a pristine cassock over his newest suit, my father cleared his throat while raising both palms over the congregation, which barely ceased its babble. Instead, the whispers increased in loudness, hissing and echoing across the cavernous sanctuary.

I shot him a glance, arching my eyebrow, but Father appeared transfixed, his startled gaze directed to the church entrance. Gasps resounded. Someone coughed loudly.

I shifted in my seat, my bonnet blocking my view of the entrance.

As I angled myself better, a man walked in late, his large form drawing attention. Our gazes locked briefly before he headed toward the raised lordship seat, positioned near the front of the left side, just before the chancel.

A tingle rippled through me. I felt frozen as I watched him stalk down the aisle.

His boots echoed hollow, if uneven. Despite his war injury, all I could remember was the strength of his arm as he pulled me out of the pit, and the way his arm curved about me during the ride in the storm.

From my position sitting on the bench, I had an ample view of the proud tilt of his head as he walked past. He did not bother to look at me again.

I had hurt him when he pulled me out of the hole the other day at the field.

Yet he had barely uttered a murmur, even though his skin blanched when he set me on firm ground.

He certainly knew how to inflict damage with his curt dismissal.

No, I couldn’t pity him. He had proven to be unbendable.

Boorish. Without another look at the church members, he sat on his family’s bench, his expression as hard as marble.

“Welcome, Lord Hawthorn. We are delighted to have you with us this morning.” My father offered a warm smile before stepping into the pulpit to expand upon Ecclesiastes.

Vanity of vanities; all is vanity.

What profit hath a man of all his labour which he taketh under the sun? One generation passeth away, and another generation cometh: but the earth abideth for ever.

My mind scarcely took in anything of value. I knew Father reserved one of his best sermons for this Sunday, yet his words scarcely registered through my tumbling thoughts. Instead, my feelings battled for control as I surreptitiously studied the new lord through lowered lashes.

Before long, we sang the last hymn, our voices high and out of tune, and then Father offered a closing benediction.

I wondered if and how I should approach Lord Hawthorn again regarding the mosaics.

I needed to know what secrets lay beneath the soil on Mr. Perry’s farm.

Somehow, I suspected Lord Hawthorn would accuse me of vanity.

I do not want acclaim. He had all but ground out the statement before fleeing on his beast.

As if he sensed the weight of my stare, his eyes flared open, and he angled his head to catch me in the act. I ducked my head to study the beads trimming my reticule, waiting until Father finished his prayer with a resounding, “Amen.”

The parishioners left the sanctuary, all except the viscount, who glowered from his bench.

Was he wishing to speak with Father? Dread shuddered through me. I hoped the two of them would at least come to a reasonable understanding regarding Mr. Perry’s land. Father couldn’t undertake finding a new vicarage or a lowly curate position at his age.

I slipped to the back of the church, hoping for another chance to speak with the viscount, but he marched past me. Again, he refused to glance in my direction, his desire to escape evident by the stomp of his boots.

“Lord Hawthorn,” I said, my voice louder than I intended and holding a decided note of challenge to his bad manners. “A good day to you.”

He pivoted, his boots squeaking on the polished floor.

“Miss Littleton, isn’t it? My apologies.

I scarcely recognized you.” His flinty gaze moved from my face to the plumy white ostrich feathers surely dancing from my bonnet, courtesy of the breeze rippling in from the open doors.

He seemed to catch the error of his blunt speech at the last moment and added in a low voice, “A lovely change.”

The inclination to behave for the sake of my father dissipated like dandelion puff in the breeze. I arched an eyebrow at the viscount’s offhand comment and uttered in an equally clipped tone, “Come now. There’s no need for such flattery. I am still the same, whether on the field or in the church.”

The muscle in his jaw jumped, and I felt as if I had piqued him.

“I scarcely know what I’ll encounter. A fairy or a sprite, an antiquarian knee-deep in research, or... perhaps a sheep herder.”

My mouth dropped open in the most undignified manner. “I beg your pardon?”

He leaned forward, that tantalizing scent of leather and sandalwood teasing my nose again. His hard gaze pinned me to the floor. “Miss Littleton, you wouldn’t happen to know who dug holes on my property or let my sheep loose?”

Shock filled me, though I did like his use of antiquarian .

“I confess you have me at a loss, my lord. Neither I nor the Perry family would ever consider trespassing on your land, even for research purposes. Although, if you allowed it, I should like to see that hole.”

A dry chuckle escaped him. “I bet you would. You’ll find naught but stones.

There is nothing of value hidden on my land.

Although, you did warn me about the greed of others and the swarm of treasure hunters soon to devour us.

Have a care, Miss Littleton. I intend to plant more trees for my orchard and lay the foundation for a service road to cut from the orchard to the brewery.

Do not stand in the way of true progress. ”

My nostrils surely flared at the thinly veiled insult while my heart dropped at the breadth of his plans.

“I hope, Lord Hawthorn, you won’t forbid my father and me from our ministering visits. I have dear friends who happen to be tenants of yours. Mrs. Eacher is one of them.”

His hard expression morphed into a smirk. “Ah yes. Your afternoons of reading gothic novels. I confess I’ve never met a vicar’s daughter who enjoyed such fiction.”

Heat bloomed across my cheeks. “My father and I have worked hard to cultivate our relationships in Bramnor.” Then I added, as if stabbing him with a pin.

“Might I add how good it is to see you at church. My father has so looked forward to having you join our humble congregation. Will you be joining us next Sunday?”

He offered the barest nod. “I shall. Your father preached an excellent sermon.”

Apparently, he had manners, even if dusty. Too late, I remembered Father’s warning not to cause offense. Struggling to retrieve my tattered manners, I plastered a bright smile on my face.

“And how do you find Hawthorn Abbey and the surrounding estate so far, despite your adventure of missing sheep?”

“It will be to my liking soon enough.” He narrowed his eyes as he regarded me. “Perhaps we shall encounter each other again, out in the field.”

“Mr. Perry’s field,” I corrected firmly. “I look forward to the magistrate’s assistance in this affair.”

“Rest assured, I have already sent out inquires,” Lord Hawthorn replied in a frosty tone.

As we stood in the center aisle, regarding each other warily, I had the impression of two fencers parrying gently and tapping the foils for weakness before lunging for the kill.

I wanted to return to the subject of the dig, to press him further, but something in his hard gaze told me this wasn’t the moment. Better to retreat and save my strength for another day.

With a sharp nod, as if reaching the same conclusion, he turned away, his attention already shifting from our skirmish to the larger battlefield of church society.

My breath caught as he approached my father, the two exchanging a few terse words.

I remained rooted to the spot, watching as the villagers quickly closed in around him, drawn like moths to a flame.

His rigid posture and clenched jaw betrayed his discomfort, but he stood his ground, engaging with the fawning parishioners with a politeness that appeared to be more duty than desire.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mrs. Eleanor Hawkins and her husband, one of the landed gentry, approach Lord Hawthorn. Both smiling wide enough to cause cheek spasms. I slipped away, leaving him to the delight of the other parishioners.

Another man paused at the nave, hovering at the back of the crowd before lunging forward to the small group clustered around the new viscount.

Mr. Barron, of all people, dressed in a navy coat of fine wool and a flamboyant gold waistcoat.

I paused to observe as he bowed, snapping his heels together after pushing through a cluster of tittering misses, all daughters of the Hawkinses, to make himself visible.

Only my friends, the Perry family, ducked out of the church, leaving before I could speak with them.

Mr. Barron waved his hands. “My good viscount, how fortunate we are to have you within our humble valley. I extend a warm welcome to you.”

The viscount appeared stunned at the forwardness of Mr. Barron while I grinned.

Good. Perhaps listening to Mr. Barron prattle was all the vengeance I needed.

Snippets of the one-sided conversation drifted through the stuffy air.

Cider. Sales. Would you be so good as to provide barrels to several inns?

All too soon, Lord Hawthorn’s icy mask thawed. Such magic Mr. Barron wove with his words, and how different the two men appeared from each other, even if they stood at the same height. The paunchy redhead with a tendency to balding, dramatically gesturing next to the stoic, dark-haired statue...

No. I would not indulge in such unscientific observations, especially if they related to a breadth of shoulders and flinty gaze that chafed me. Instead, I halted beside Father.

“Did I hear correctly? You’ve finally obtained a parish call with our new lord?”

Father appeared bemused as he clutched his book of sermons close to his chest. “I have.” He glanced my way. “Your dig is the talk of the town, and Lord Hawthorn has questions about the area. Perhaps I can help settle the boundary lines.”

So the viscount had not told my father about the missing sheep, nor the ridiculous thought that I might be behind the trouble.

“Are you saying there are no reliable land records in the care of Lord Hawthorn?” I demanded.

Father placed a hand on my arm, drawing my attention back to him. “Shh, Bridget. Lower your voice. Be at peace. I will get to the bottom of the issue.”

His assurance brought no relief. Instead, I felt only further dread.

What questions did the viscount have? Would he and Mr. Perry continue to quarrel over the land rights?

I dearly hoped the magistrate in Chichester maintained rigorous records.

No one could fault either man for making an error regarding the Perry farm.

Yet the viscount’s demeanor had suggested anything but a pleasant visit over tea.