Chapter Nine
An ostentation of peafowl.
“Take note, Miggens.”
The valet in question licked his pencil.
“A clay pit venture presents unique challenges due to the intensive labour, slow drying times and relative quantity of recoverable clay in comparison to the quartz-mica slurry produced, which is such that…”
Jack puffed his relief as Miss Penrose finally took herself from the library carrying both newspaper and frown. Late last night in bed, he’d cribbed the first three chapters of Dr Tuffle’s mighty tome on china clay. Mid-way through the fourth, he’d fallen into a guilt-ridden sleep.
All this deception sat as heavy in his gut as cook’s clotted cream scones. Mostly his missions involved experienced femmes fatales, spies or Rookery cut-throats, not a brave lady with hair the colour of rich earth and a spirit which beguiled.
He’d thoroughly enjoyed yesterday: the invigorating gallop over the moors so unlike a sedate trot down Rotten Row discussing Lady Whitehead’s hat or Mr Talbot’s latest wager. Miss Penrose had displayed a broad knowledge of estate matters, appreciative of local concerns, and she’d listened with kindness to his reminiscence of Vincent’s death, a hurt he rarely mentioned.
She was without artifice. And he was so full of it.
But after the ride and an early dinner at which Miss Penrose had declined to attend, being indisposed, Jack now felt a tad frustrated.
How could Miss Penrose succumb to his charm if she either avoided him or kept asking ridiculous questions concerning clay filtration as she had over breakfast? There were only so many ways to deviate from a subject and choking on a kipper had now been used.
“Never have I been so stumped in a philanderous pursuit, Oliver.”
“If in London, my lord, how would one entice the lady?” Miggens asked, placing a lump of hevva cake on the windowsill for the seagulls. “Surely it cannot be so dissimilar.”
Jack stared, incredulous. “I’d take her to Gunter’s for an ice or Astley’s circus to see the lions. Woo her with a waltz or escort her to the theatre. Present her with a posy or gift her a fan. Take her to Hyde Park to feed the ducks or visit Vauxhall Gardens. Go see the Tower of London or–”
“Perhaps a visit to Helston would be provident. One could buy a trinket,” his valet suggested, eyes widening as three more seagulls joined the two on the sill in an altercation over a currant.
“Hmm. You’re not just my brother in nose, are you? I’m obliged to make a few house calls anyhow as I was besieged at the assembly ball with invitations and a plethora of cards.”
Miggens raised a brow, although the haughty affectation was diminished by his shooing hand as six gulls now swarmed the open window, their beady eyes resembling a Rookery thug who’d just spied a weak pigeon on his patch.
“None of that, Miggs. I shall be calling on gentlemen alone as I require all my hardihood for Miss Penrose.” He ignored the snort and pondered. “My presence, however, has caused a bit of a rumpus, and I can’t step into a seedy tavern without some chap shaking my hand or a woman pressing her…attentions. Therefore, I require your assistance.”
“I…” Seagulls now nipped at Miggens’s gently flapping fingers, their yellow beaks diving with venom, and Jack rolled his eyes. His half-brother had the body of a lion but the heart of a dove. He strode over and sharply clapped his hands, the bullies retreating to the apple tree to watch and wait. Jack slammed the window shut.
No doubt they would gain their revenge from on high when he dared walk the gardens.
“I need you to ask the locals about Miss Penrose and the incident six years ago. What do they know of it? Were they not aware of a French spy ring in their midst?” Jack scrutinised his valet’s dapper attire. “Discreetly, of course. Wear something woollen that smells of fish and trawl the inns and hostelries.”
“Not my usual haunts,” he muttered, dabbing at his bloodied hand.
“Yes, we all know you prefer a reading room at the circulating library but remember when you glug that ale with a doxy in your lap that you’re doing it for England.”
A sniff conveyed his valet’s reluctant compliance, and Jack fingered a leather-bound book with silver script denoting its subject of mermaids. Perhaps he’d peruse that in bed and use Dr Tuffle’s book against the malevolent piskies instead. “Whilst you’re busy, I’ll make my house calls. Hopefully Miss Penrose will attend dinner tonight and I’ll be able to whittle down her resolve.”
“Perchance a different tactic might be in order, my lord.”
Kissing Miss Penrose came to mind. Holding her nape firm as he sank into those delectable lips, fingers searching for skin beneath that grey she wore, feeling her heart thud.
Lord Rainham had declared seduction would not be required, just a few charming lines. What Rainham hadn’t known was that the complex Miss Penrose wasn’t some giggly chit to fall for a bit of flattery but a courageous and stubborn woman.
And they never fell for mere charming lines and a handsome face.
∞∞∞
Despite the amusing scene of Mr Miggens being chased to the stables, by not only Petrok the peacock but also a battalion of seagulls from above, Tamsyn glared at the gardens, arms crossed.
She would not be falling for Lord Winterbourne’s charming lines and handsome face.
Even if most of Helston had.
Turning, she surveyed the drawing room, the busiest it had been since her brother Ruan had visited three months ago. All the ladies of the district would be found at Penrose Manor when the heir was in town.
Rainbows of colour filled her home, everyone bedecked in their finest attire. Mrs Pearce’s jonquil-yellow gown even appeared suspiciously dampened, although one could always blame the heat.
A few ladies peered expectantly at the door as footsteps sounded, thrusting forth their bosoms and licking lips to a glossy sheen, but the appearance of Benjamin caused chests to slump once more, lips only partly appeased by a further tray of scones and tea.
“I hear,” Mrs Tripconey stated, nibbling a Cornish fairing, “that the marquess once seduced an Italian opera singer in between arias.”
Tamsyn rolled her eyes. If the marquess seduced half the women they talked of, he wouldn’t have time to sleep. Although, perhaps he didn’t. Sleep, that was.
Breathing deeply, she reminded herself she didn’t care.
“No, no,” repudiated Lady Cooch, wafting a fan against the sultry air. “It was a duke’s wife, I heard. In between acts at the Theatre Royal.”
“He doesn’t dally with married women,” Lowdy cut in, and everyone turned to stare. She chewed her lip, cheeks rosy. “I… I’ve heard he is quite deliberate in not engaging with married women or young debutantes.”
Lady Cooch, whose husband was well and truly breathing, huffed, and Mrs Tripconey, whose husband was well and truly buried, grinned, fluffing her hair.
Tamsyn could hazard a guess as to where Lowdy had received that insight.
A tapping of cane echoed from the hall and all eyes swivelled to the door. Lady Bawden dragged a bodice ribbon loose and Miss Roskruge pinched her cheeks, inducing a typhoid-fevered appearance.
The door creaked. “Good morning, ladies.”
A choral sigh compelled her father’s rapid retreat but not before he’d snaffled three quince tarts with a grin.
“Sooo,” ventured Mrs Tripconey, eyes flitting to the door, “where is Lord Winterbourne today?”
“Making house calls in town, I believe,” answered Tamsyn. “Visiting the mayor and all the local neighbo–”
“Well, it’s been ever so pleasant, my dear,” gushed Mrs Tripconey, abruptly rising from the blue-striped settee, “but I do have to speak with my housekeeper about the state of the linens.”
Open-mouthed, Tamsyn stared as the entire assemblage of ladies who’d graced her drawing room made a grand exodus, and she thanked the heavens that no servants wandered the hall as surely they’d be trampled to death by the stampede of silk slippers.
Half-emptied cups of tea sat crooked in their saucers, a chair listed, and a broken biscuit lay on the floor – Papa’s hounds caused less mess at feeding time.
“Well…” Tamsyn murmured as she picked a lonesome brown glove from the sofa. “They’re probably right. Doubtless he’s visiting all the women who have been pressing their cards into his pockets. He could be gone a sennight.”
Lowdy harrumphed, straightening the cushions. “Mr Miggens says he’s not like that.”
A wry smile curved Tamsyn’s lip. “But his reputation precedes him.”
“Oh, he’s a rake alright,” said Lowdy, snapping shut a half-furled cockade fan which had been abandoned in haste, “but he likes to do the chasing and tends to…tarry with only one woman at a time. Doesn’t play games.”
“And how long does he ‘tarry’ with them?”
“About a sennight.”
Goodness, it took her longer to choose a grey dress.
∞∞∞
“The coquelicot waistcoat, I think, Miggens. It’s seen me through many a trying time.”
Making no comment, but rendering his thoughts known through a mournful visage and flopping shoulders, his valet held the splendid item out for inspection.
A nod and Jack shrugged it on, selecting a ruby cravat pin to match.
The day had been most pleasant, visiting the local gentry, although for some reason many of the households had been devoid of ladies – a weekly embroidery club perhaps?
Gentlemen, old and young, had been full of admiration for Miss Penrose, both as mistress of the manor and her fortitude at overcoming her ordeal. A few had mentioned the incident and the tragic death of her young beau, Master Jonathan Tregellis. But they presumed it an isolated affair, French ruffians who had retreated to foreign shores. The end.
On his return from Helston, he’d also made a diversion to where it had all begun.
Carlsbrook had documented that two paths led to Lowarn cove, and Jack had first scrabbled down the more unkempt pebbly trail that led to the secluded caves at one end. Seaweed and detritus had littered this small haven of sand and shingle, and he’d explored the hewn caverns, tried not to imagine Sir Jago’s horror at finding his daughter and Master Tregellis here.
With tide low, he’d then picked his way over a lofty outcrop of rock to the larger beach. Spacious and sandy, it resembled heaven on earth if you enjoyed solitude and crabs – which he didn’t.
A second broader path led back to the headland from there – enough for a narrow wagon of smuggled brandy, he surmised – and he’d ambled up, only to happen upon the professor’s surly assistant, Mr Rufus Sewell.
Although happen upon wasn’t quite right, as he had a feeling the chap had been watching him from the headland.
Normally, Jack had no problem urging tongues to babble but the professor’s assistant was as tight as Brummel’s pantaloons, lips buttoned.
Fastening his cufflinks, he wondered if below-stairs gossip might enlighten. “Miggens, what have you heard about Sewell from the servants?”
His valet glanced up from brushing Jack’s burgundy jacket. “A quiet and undemanding man. I like him.”
“Lud, I find him odd.”
“A toad is a diamond in a duck’s eye.”
“You’ve been talking to young Benjamin Roskilly, but I advise dodging the butler’s grandmother. Today my prediction comprised a scaly nose.”
“Your advice is belated, my lord,” admitted Miggens, plucking at Jack’s cuffs until they perfectly aligned. “She stared into that suspicious black mirror of hers and told me…”
“Hmm?”
Miggens straightened, a flush highlighting his cheekbones. “She told me my gentleman’s equipage would fester and drop off if I kissed a woman with blond hair and a name beginning with L.”
“How concise. And have they?”
A repressed glare bore through Jack in reply. Gads, he was merely trying to help.
“Never mind. Now how do I look?” He peered into the mirror for his own prediction of fairness. “I need every advantage tonight before that hairy hero Lynch’s picnic tomorrow. He’s endeavouring to woo Miss Penrose with itchy blankets and French tarts.”
Indeed, Jack only had this evening to dazzle them all with a Winterbourne’s flair – wit, wonder, wordplay, and if all else failed, his Roger the dog tale.
“You appear impeccable, my lord.”
Jack picked at his elegant attire. “I’m beginning to think that might not be the best approach where the daughter of the house is concerned. Can’t you rumple me a tad?”
With a pained sigh, Miggens tugged one cuff longer than the other.
That would have to do.