Free Lady Anne's Lover (The London List) by Maggie Robinson

critically. “Ian should be charmed. He has an eye for a pretty woman.”
    “A minister?” she asked, skeptical.
    He nodded with no trace of a smile. “He was Bronwen’s lover. No one knows that save I. So I think we just might be able to make him do our bidding.”

C HAPTER 7
    T hat was the answer. Maybe Mr. Morgan was responsible for Bronwen’s death. However, she couldn’t very well accuse the man when she was begging for a favor. Anne trooped out after Gareth through the fog to the stable. Old Martin helped her onto the back of a stolid-looking animal, and Gareth hauled himself up on the livelier mount.
    It was not an auspicious day for riding, though she was grateful she wouldn’t have to slog her borrowed skirts through the mud and wet down to the village. Gareth offered no further conversation as he rode on the narrow lane beside her, keeping his horse in check with a determined hand. The distant mountains were dark smudges against the gray sky, the soft ground littered with shards of ice. She cheered to see smoke from the chimneys of the scattered houses of Llanwyr once they turned onto the main road.
    “How many people live in the area?” she called over the biting wind. The fog was now slanting sideways, changing into sleet.
    “Less than two hundred. Six or so families live on what’s left of Ripton lands. Morgan travels the circuit to neighboring villages, but he lives here. He preached yesterday and so should still be home.”
    They passed a plain stone building set back in a field, its graveyard the only hint of its purpose. “Is that his church?” Anne asked, surprised. “It looks like a barn.”
    “It was once, believe it or not. A secret meeting place a hundred and fifty years ago. Some say Cromwell once visited. We Welsh are a practical lot for all our religious fervor. Why waste a good solid building? There were many such places all around the countryside here, although some have fallen into disuse now that the Puritan fever has cooled. You have to ride into Hay for a proper Anglican church. But at least we have no Jumpers here.”
    “What are Jumpers?”
    “Oh, they’re a sight to behold. They, well, the congregants jump during service. And sing and shout and clap and stamp their feet. They think it brings them closer to God.”
    How very extraordinary. Anne could remember many a governess pinching her black and blue to make her sit absolutely still in church. She might have been a happier little girl in a Welsh Nonconformist church.
    They continued on the road until they got to what passed for the high street in Llanwyr, stopping in front of a double cottage hard by the edge of the road. Both doors were painted bright green, a welcome splash of color on this cheerless day.
    “We’ll see if he’s in. I don’t think anyone hereabouts is at death’s door waiting for a pastoral visit, so the chances are good.” Gareth dismounted and knocked on the left side of the building. Anne waited, her nervousness becoming more pronounced for every minute Gareth stood shifting his feet on the step.
    A lace curtain twitched, then pulled back. The man who stared at her from behind the window could have been Gareth’s twin, dark, lanky, with the same piercing blue eyes. Anne found she couldn’t stare back.
    The door opened. “What do you want?”
    No greeting, just hostility dripping from each word.
    “We need to speak to you, Ian. Mrs. Mont and I have something important to discuss. We won’t take up much of your time.”
    Ian Morgan looked at her, nodded, then turned back into his house. Gareth tied the horses to a post and put his arm around her waist. “I can get you down, but you might have to sweet-talk Ian to get you back up.”
    Ian didn’t look like anyone could sweet-talk him into anything. “He could be your brother!”
    Gareth shrugged. “A cousin only.”
    “The family resemblance is striking.”
    “We are nothing alike, believe me.”
    “Except for your taste in women,”