“Was he a resident here?” Mr. Applewhite asked, frowning. “I don’t seem to recall the name.”

“Indeed not,” Maggie replied. “Lord St. Clare has never been to Beasley Park, or to anywhere hereabouts that I’m aware.”

Fred scowled. “Must we speak of him? This is meant to be a merry party.”

Mrs. Beresford affected not to hear him. “I believe the viscount must have visited the region sometime or other,” she said. “Perhaps he used an assumed name? Young gentlemen will have their pranks. To be sure, his father indulged in many such amusements when he was a young man. And blood will tell, they always say. Like father, like son.”

“An assumed name?” Mr. Applewhite appeared utterly perplexed by this line of inquiry. He turned to Maggie. “Who did you say this fellow was again?”

“It’s not important. Quite the opposite.” She set aside her needlework. “It’s late, Vicar. Shall I call for your carriage?”

Mr. Applewhite gave her a look of relief. “Yes, thank you, Miss Honeywell. You are very good.”

Maggie rang for a footman. And when, a short time later, the same footman returned to announce that Mr. Applewhite’s carriage was ready, she insisted on accompanying the aged vicar out herself.

“I’m obliged to you, Miss Honeywell,” he said as they descended the curving staircase and passed through the entry hall. “Such hospitality. You’re to be commended for the fine meal. And the wine—from your father’s cellar, I collect. A splendid vintage. I haven’t tasted—”

“Mr. Applewhite,” Maggie interrupted. “There’s something particular I’ve been meaning to ask you.”

“Eh?”

A footman opened the front doors for them, and Maggie and the old vicar passed out onto the wide stone steps. The night was cool, the evening sky dusted with stars. An old carriage pulled by two equally old chestnuts awaited the vicar in the drive.

There was little privacy to be had. Only the space of seconds between the top of the front steps and the bottom. Maggie took full advantage of them. “Have you ever encountered a clergyman in the district by the name of Father Tuck?”

“Who’s that?”

“Father Tuck. It would have been some thirty years ago, I suspect.”

“Don’t know of a Father Tuck.” Mr. Applewhite’s brow creased. “I’ve heard of a Friar Tuck, of course.”

She frowned. “Quite. But this man wasn’t a character in Robin Hood.”

“Certainly not. Though I daresay that’s why he was called such. Expelled from his order, I believe it was. Never met him myself but heard the tales, a long time past. Something to do with that hedge tavern in Market Barrow.”

“Market Barrow!” Maggie’s pulse skipped.