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Chapter Three

Perdita searched high and low for Canon Darby after the service. She thought she saw hints of his strawberry-blond hair in the crowd, but a group of parishioners of mostly old ladies wearing their best Sunday hats separated them each time. She did see him briefly as she was exiting the church and clasped hands with him, until Aunt Vin hustled her along because other people wanted to greet the vicar, too.

A bolt a recognition went through her the first time she touched him, a sense of familiarity, as though she’d always known him. It struck a chord deep within her that vibrated like a tuning fork, and it hummed within her still. Did he feel it, too? He'd gazed at her in wonder, as though he had never met anyone like her before, and when he smiled, her heart skipped a beat. And then Aunt Vin hustled her along because other people wanted to greet the vicar, too.

During the Eucharist, she joined the queue to receive the Host even though she hadn’t gone into confession in six months, and was therefore unworthy. But she figured it was an Anglican Church and they probably had a different set of rules of which she was ignorant, so her faux pas could be excused just this once. She was almost sure God wouldn't mind.

When she got to the front of the queue and found herself face to face with him—gosh, he was tall—she froze for a moment before she remembered what she was supposed to be doing.

“Body of Christ,” he said in a pleasant baritone that was slightly less posh than Uncle Bertie’s accent. He held the Host inches from her face.

Usually, she received it on her palm and put it in her mouth herself, but this time, she stepped forward and opened her mouth for him. His face showed no reaction as he placed the Eucharist wafer on her tongue.

She said, “Amen,” crossed herself, and stepped out of the way. As she returned to her pew, she felt a tiny bit of guilt because she had received the Eucharist on a pretext.

Not because she was taking in Jesus’ body into her own today, but just so she could take another gander at the handsome vicar.

She was hoping he'd have buckteeth, misaligned nostrils, a smattering of tiny pimples on his chin, or a lazy eye when she saw him up close, but no, he was perfectly symmetrical. He had a lovely mouth and long, thick eyelashes that any woman would kill to have. Some people were just born ridiculously good-looking.

That's why she never ascribed to that whole thing about God creating every person equal. Surely He blessed some more than others and not just with material things. How was it possible that gorgeous people like Simon Darby walked around in a world of Quasimodos? There was no other explanation for it: God just saw it fit to bless some people more than others.

She finally spotted him by himself under the church eaves and mustered the courage to speak to him. She could do it. He was turning his handsome head this way and that, as though he were looking for someone. Dare she hope that it was she that he was seeking?

Just as she was about to go to him, Lady Warren grabbed her arm, saying she knew someone that Perdita just had to meet.

“But…” she started to say and stopped. It wouldn't do to argue with her aunt's oldest friend. How would she excuse herself, anyway? That she was about to march down a hill to talk to a man she barely knew and a vicar at that?

Perdita pasted a smile on her face. “But of course, Lady Warren.” She hooked her hand through the woman's proffered elbow and walked away from her vicar. She stole another glance at him over her shoulder and saw that he was now engaged in conversation with an old lady wearing a purple, plumaged hat.

“I have many handsome partis you must absolutely meet,” trilled the Dowager Viscountess Warren. “Your aunt practically begged me to introduce you to the quality young men of my acquaintance.”

Perdita fished inside her red reticule and pulled out a lace handkerchief to cover her mouth so that Lady Warren wouldn't see that it had dropped open. For a minute, she had no answer. Did her Papa send her to England to find a husband?

But she’d promised William Montgomery that she'd give him an answer once she returned to California. Did Papa not want William as a son-in-law? He always said that people from the East Coast could never understand what it’s like to live in the West. William was born to a prominent, wealthy New York family. New York was where Papa meet her mother.

“Oh, there he is!”

Perdita looked beyond where the older woman was pointing and saw a tall, dark-haired man dressed in all black from head to toe, standing by the gate of the church. He was talking to a couple: a woman with red hair standing next to a middle-aged man in a rumpled suit. Did his wife really let him leave the house like that?

She and the viscountess reached the group and the Lady introduced Perdita to them. “Dita, this is Detective Chief Inspector Kenneth Grover of the Cambridge Police and his lovely wife, Rosemary.”

She shook hands with the stunning Mrs. Grover, who was wearing a dark blue, bias-cut dress with a square neckline and three-quarter sleeves which were trimmed with white ruffles. The skirt itself was A-line and tea-length. Oh, Perdita gasped silently. It has pockets! To finish off the outfit, she had a marigold scarf tossed casually over the shoulders, then brought back to drape over her breasts, likely for modesty.

While her handshake with the detective was brief, she seized Rosemary's hand with both of hers and declared, “Oh, we shall be great friends, you and I. Shan’t we?”

Rosemary smiled with her coral-painted lips and put her free hand over Perdita’s. “I should like that very much, Miss Sanchez.”

“And this is,” Lady Warren was saying, “the right Honorable Reverend Thomas Roundtree.”

Perdita faced the young man and wished she had her fan instead of her handkerchief. It would be easier to cover her face with a fan. She was blushing like a tomato right now, she knew it.

Another handsome clergyman. She didn't see the white dog collar from far away.

Reverend Roundtree was a little taller than Canon Darby. Maybe three inches above six feet, Perdita thought. And younger, too. He didn't have the laugh lines around his eyes that Canon Darby had or the slightly haunted look of a man who fought a war and lived to tell the tale. The detective had the same look in his gray eyes.

Thomas Roundtree was too neat. Clean-shaven, black hair cut about an inch from the scalp. His hair was too short, but Perdita could tell it would be a little curly if it were longer. Maybe the Reverend didn't think the curls would be ministerial.

He had a square jaw, cheekbones so sharp they could probably slice onions, and a patrician nose probably inherited through some noble lineage. It was the nose of a prince. Long, straight, and slightly downturned at the tip. He looked like an aristocrat. He must be an eligible “parti,” indeed.

“It's a pleasure, Miss Sanchez.” He took her gloved hand in his and bowed over it in the courtliest of manners. “How are you liking England?”

He had kind eyes, Perdita thought. His accent was posh, similar to Canon Darby's, and not quite fully RP like Uncle Bertie. Maybe it was a Cambridge accent. “It's been lovely, thank you, Reverend. I haven't been to many places. Only London and Essex, where Uncle Bertram has a country house that we visited a fortnight ago. Everyone has been kind.”

“What's it like in California?” Mrs. Grover inquired. “Is it true that it's still like the Wild West out there?”

“Rosemary!” her husband chided her.

“We're a lot more civilized out there now, I'm afraid,” Perdita said with a light laugh. “I don’t know about Southern California as I haven't traveled there since I was a girl, but I live relatively close to San Francisco, which is a bustling metropolis.”

“Oh, that's where the Golden Gate Bridge is,” the other woman exclaimed. “It isn't truly made of gold, is it?"

“Of course not, Rose,” said her husband. “Gold isn't a very strong metal. Hundreds of cars and lorries drive over it every day. It's made of steel.”

Reverend Roundtree jumped in with more facts about the bridge, like who designed it, when it was finished, how many people died building it, and how many pedestrians crossed it on any given day. Lady Warren had joined her aunt again and was now talking to Martha Malone, the church secretary and the vicar’s housekeeper.

Perdita tuned out the conversation she was having with the Grovers and Reverend Roundtree and looked across the the churchyard to find Simon Darby watching her. She dropped her gaze to the ground, feeling the warmth suffuse her neck and cheeks. When she lifted her head to peek at him again, she discovered that he was still staring at her.

Oh my God, she thought, pressing her hand to her chest. What was happening to her? She'd always thought of herself as a level-headed girl with her feet planted firmly on the ground, but just one look from this man and she quaked deep inside.

This was madness. How could she feel this strongly for a man she just met?

“Miss Sanchez?” Reverend Roundtree touched her back lightly. “Are you all right?”

She nodded and managed a smile for him. “Perfectly all right, Reverend. Now tell me, are you from Cambridge as well?”

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