LITMIR.BIZ

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as the curate had, Mr. Quinn grinned at her, and she found herself smiling back. There was something engaging in his countenance.

      The tea tray arrived at that moment and Miss Hathaway busied herself with pouring. Mr. Quinn didn’t wait for his cup to be brought to him but rose and wandered over to Miss Hathaway. He took the cup offered him, then approached Lindsay. “See here, since you’ve probably visited the good parson to discuss this morning’s sermon, why don’t you sit here in his corner and ask him whatever you like. The reverend knows more about scripture than I’ll ever know in two lifetimes.”

      It was as if he’d read her mind. Before she could think what to say, Mr. Quinn turned to Beatrice. “In the meanwhile, I’d be glad to regale Miss Yates with tales from Newgate if you’d care to hear them.” He smiled and winked at her cousin.

      To her credit, Beatrice took it in stride. She replied with enthusiasm, “I would love to hear about Newgate.” She looked across at Miss Hathaway. “Reverend Doyle has told me something of your work among the inmates. I would dearly like to know more of it.”

      Mr. Quinn quirked an eyebrow at Lindsay and held out his arm as if he were escorting her to an assembly at the exclusive Almack’s. “Shall I take you to Hathaway?”

      She stood at once, her heartbeat quickening. Two armchairs and a small round table formed a cozy nook before the bow window. Reverend Hathaway stood as she approached and waited until she was seated before he resumed his seat opposite.

      “Well, Reverend, are you ready for a catechism lesson?” Mr. Quinn asked in a jocular tone.

      Instead of replying, he glanced toward his sister, but she was already engaged in an animated conversation with Beatrice. Lindsay heard her saying, “The inmates are kept in atrocious conditions….” Then, almost as if reluctant, the curate turned back to Lindsay. “Of course. What is it you wish to know?”

      After Mr. Quinn went to rejoin the women, Lindsay cast about for how to begin. Reverend Hathaway was so much younger than Reverend Doyle, yet so unlike the young gentlemen of the ton she’d met during her coming out.

      “I—you—” he began, then brought a clenched hand to his mouth and cleared his throat. “You had some questions?”

      “Yes.” Lindsay pulled open the drawstring of her reticule, relieved to have something else to focus on besides the awful moment he’d caught her looking at his peg leg. She removed the small Bible and laid it atop the tapestry covering the table. “That is, if you don’t mind.”

      “No, of course not. Were you reading a particular passage?” he asked.

      “I was trying to find the scriptures you spoke of this morning, but I must confess, I did not write them down.” To her chagrin, she felt herself stammering. “I—I shall be more diligent next Sunday.”

      “I can help you there,” he said, taking the Bible from her and opening it, easing her nerves somewhat. “I began with a verse in the Book of Acts, in chapter thirteen.” He ruffled the thin pages. He had beautiful hands, his fingers long and slim, the nails cut short and straight across. When he came to the passage, he handed the book to her. “Here.” He pointed with his forefinger. “Verse twenty-two.”

      She tore her attention from his hand and bent her head over the scripture, trying to concentrate on the words.

      When she’d finished, she lifted her face and caught her breath when she found him looking at her. This close, he looked even more handsome. His face was slim, the lines firm and well proportioned. She was reminded of the sculpted busts and statues of the Renaissance she’d had to study at Miss Pinkard’s Academy. So different from the Mayfair dandies who surrounded her at each dance.

      She turned her mind back to the Bible verse. “How beautiful it sounds, ‘a man after mine own heart.’” She drew her eyebrows together in a frown. “Do you think God would regard a woman’s heart the same way? Could a woman also have a heart like David’s?”

      “I believe God doesn’t look at the externals—the gender of a person, or her status in society, or level of education—but at the heart.”

      The gentle look in his eyes, and the confidence of his words reassured her. She found herself smiling, and the two remained looking at each other a moment.

      Then he blinked and looked back down at the Bible between them.

      Her thoughts returned to his sermon. “You also read something this morning about ‘being born again.’” She repeated the last words slowly, puzzling over them.

      He nodded. “Yes. Jesus first uses the term in the Book of John, but I was quoting from the Epistle of Peter this morning. If you’ll permit me…” He reached for her Bible again, and she quickly turned it around for him. Their fingers grazed. “Pardon me—”

      “It’s quite all right—” Their words collided just like their hands, and she fell silent, still feeling the tingle of the contact. Would he think her an utter schoolgirl, ignorant of every social grace?

      He flipped through the pages once more until finding the verse he’d used. “‘Being born again, not of corruptible seed, but of incorruptible, by the word of God, which liveth and abideth forever.’” He turned the book back toward her, his forefinger once again marking the place.

      She bent over the fine print of the Bible. When she looked up this time, he asked her, “Have you never heard that scripture before?”

      “I confess, I don’t recall it.” Her glance left his and she looked out the window at the view of Hyde Park, across the road. “I haven’t been very diligent with the reading of scripture in the past few years, not since going away to school.”

      “That is understandable in one so young.”

      She bit her lip, her fears confirmed. He did think her a mere schoolgirl. “I wasn’t trying to excuse myself. Your preaching this morning made me want to begin reading again. I have read the prayer book every Sunday,” she added hopefully.

      His fine lips curved up and she felt even more childish. “That’s admirable. However,” his tone sobered, “if you truly would wish to hear the Lord speak to you, I would encourage a daily habit of reading the scriptures.”

      “Does God really speak to a person—I mean, besides a clergyman?”

      “Of course.” He said it as if it were the most natural thing.

      She shook her head slowly. “Papa would disagree with such a notion.”

      “What does your father say?”

      She tried to formulate the principles her father had taught her over the years. “He does not believe that God interferes with man.”

      “Ah, a deist.”

      She tilted her head. “I’m not sure what the term means. He has brought me up to understand that God created all things but that He has left it up to humans to behave according to the reason He has given us.”

      “Yes.” Reverend Hathaway tapped his long fingers lightly on the tabletop, as if considering. She wondered if she had said something displeasing to him, but he quickly dismissed the impression. “There is much to be commended in rationality. Unfortunately, it ignores much of who Christ is and why He came to live among men.”

      Her eyes widened at the direct yet gentle way he was saying her father was wrong. Up to now, the concept had never entered her head. Her father had always been the wisest person she knew. She looked down at her hands, her thoughts in a quandary. “When my mother was alive, she would read me the scriptures each evening before bed, but somehow I never continued after she passed away.”

      “Has she been gone long?” he asked softly.

      She shifted her glance back to the view beyond the window, the sympathy in his tone bringing a prick of tears to her eyes. “Three years.”

      “Yours is still a fresh loss.”

      Slowly,

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