Chapter Ten
One can’t be hanged for illicit thoughts.
The wooing of Miss Penrose over turbot and lobster was proving problematic.
More problematic, in fact, than the occasion of Carlton House, when Princess Caroline had laid her hand upon his left knee beneath the dining table whilst the Duchess of Randall had caressed his right.
He shuddered. The life of a rogue wasn’t all plain sailing.
Tonight, he’d been seated beside Miss Penrose but almost wished he hadn’t. His skin prickled when their arms brushed as though he’d the ague. Perhaps he did.
As luck would have it, the formidable Mrs Pencally had the snuffles tonight and so had kept to her rooms, but the professor’s conversation piece of blood-thirsty giants was hardly the most suitable backdrop to a romantic foray.
What he couldn’t fault was the setting – an intimate table that would seat a mere twenty or so was gazed upon by ancient Penrose family portraits, one of whom he guessed to be Sir Jago’s wife as her smiling eyes were a vivid blue, pink lips aquiver as though set to laugh at Jack’s ineptness in gaining her daughter’s attention.
Miss Penrose and Miss Treherne mostly kept to their own conversation, debating the length of time between arias at the various operas.
Not long enough apparently.
Something had changed since yesterday. He’d sensed it all evening as Miss Penrose seemed more guarded, eyes colder than deep-sea pearls. His arrival in Helston had reached the local Cornish gossip rags quicker than hell could scorch a feather, along with a few old stories of his more insalubrious exploits, which might explain the prevailing wintry looks.
He signalled the footman for another glass of claret, observed Mr Sewell pick every bone from the fish and then prod it with suspicion – not a coastal man then.
“Have you met Lord Byron?” enquired Miss Penrose, gazing at him over the scallops, her hair surpassing the walnut table for shine. “I do so love his poetry. What is he like?”
“Moody, pretty and drinks like a fish.”
“And Mr Brummel?” Miss Treherne mumbled through squab pie. “Are you acquainted with him also?”
Faugh, what was it with these pretty fellows?
“Moody, pretty and owes me fifty pounds.”
“And Mr Keats–”
“I must tell you the story,” Jack enthused, before they could enquire after Blake or that doleful Shelley fellow, “of my Aunt Lucille, the highwayman and a dog called–”
“Roger?” Miss Penrose finished, not looking up whilst she scraped the last of her cream sauce from the plate and licked her spoon.
He cleared his throat. “Why, yes.”
“And would that Lucille be Lady Marsden also?” She tapped her lip, blue eyes now assessing. “I’ve heard that story. Lady Marsden attended the same Seminary for Young Ladies that my Great-Aunt Sarah did. Bosom friends. Visited here two years ago.”
A candle spluttered and died in the silver candelabra, casting her face to shade, and he fell silent to imagine all the delicious ways he could quieten Miss Penrose.
Pudding arrived: cooked apples bloated with fruits and smelling of sweet brandy.
He’d lost her attention for good.
When had London’s foremost rogue ever been forced to compete with a stuffed fruit?
Fingering the silver spoon, his gaze wandered to the centrepiece of a mermaid crafted from icing and marchpane, her tail scaled with slithers of rose petal. Delicate yet strong in her own perfect domain.
“Looking forward to Captain Lynch’s picnic tomorrow,” slurred the professor all of a sudden. “Capital idea.”
Mr Sewell glanced up. “Are we to place blankets on Goonhilly Downs?”
“I believe he’s planning Lowarn Cove. Cooler down there.”
Miss Penrose’s spoon dropped to the table; her eyes rapidly blinked.
“Tamsyn?” Sir Jago called with a frown, leaning forward whilst Miss Treherne made to stand.
“I can’t… No…” Her words rasped and faltered as Jack had observed in the carriage to the ball, and he twisted, swiftly gathering a serviette from the centre of the table.
“Breathe, Miss Penrose,” he whispered, remembering Miss Treherne’s instruction that evening. And as he withdrew the serviette, he brushed her trembling hand with his own – a momentary press, but her attention focused upon him and not the past.
Jack smiled into those cornflower eyes, couldn’t seem to stop staring, noticed a faint paleness around her hairline where the bonnet must shade her skin, saw that her locks did in fact hold a slight reddish tinge. Her breathing smoothed, and Miss Treherne placed a glass in her palm, the liquid fragranced with honey and herbs.
Sir Jago murmured a growl and Jack hurriedly drew back to fiddle with his cuffs, having been caught gawping again. “I’m sure we could rearrange our picnic to the Downs,” he offered. “Perhaps we could ride there rather than take the carriage?”
Those eyes blinked, a loose strand of hair cascading to her shoulder. This evening, she wore another concealing pale-grey gown, and he speculated if her modesty had anything to do with the injury she’d received from La Chauve-Souris. Temper simmered, his fingers curling to fists.
“Thank you, Lord Winterbourne,” she finally replied, voice scratched yet shoulders straightening, “but I…I believe Lowarn Cove would be ideal.”
Sir Jago stood and crossed to his daughter’s chair, bringing his hands to rest on her shoulders. “Only if you wish it, my dear.”
She peeked up. “Yes, Papa. I believe I do.” And she patted his hand.
Such a bond they had, and a sense of envy arose. He wished he’d been born into a family such as this – close and caring. Not the cold approval of Father or his mother’s distracted affection but understanding and warmth.
As though hearing his pensive thoughts, Miss Penrose glanced to him, gratitude shining in her eyes, a tender smile curving her lips. He’d placed that there and not with his nimble tongue or roguish grin but through honest concern.
He longed to watch it form over and over. Have her smile up at him as he reassured her, as he stroked that mass of hair, as he kissed–
Thrusting out a hand, he knocked over the claret.
What the hell was the matter with him?
Desiring innocents contravened all his rules. He would break her heart, his affection never constant, emotions quicksilver. Vincent had been the gentle, loyal one like mother, but he took after Father – a quick temper, a fierce ardour and a cold winter’s heart.
He must not get tangled within this family, this place or this woman.
This was a Crown mission and he would inveigle the required information by fair means or foul, and an invitation to use a marquess’s given name would charm the stockings off any country miss.
After wetting his whistle with the newly poured claret, he cast a suave smile toward Miss Penrose. “You must call me Jack.”
He lounged in his chair, dropped an intimate wink and waited.
Tamsyn’s smile faltered as the considerate gentleman of a moment ago submerged beneath the scoundrel, gaze fixed upon her like an eagle to a dormouse.
Was ever a man more vexing?
The marquess possessed two faces under one hat, as Benjamin would say, and it wasn’t a mask, she realised, merely different sides to the same man – a true Janus garbed in coquelicot silk and burgundy superfine, but she speculated as to why he felt the need to turn his face quite so often.
She hadn’t realised the picnic was to be held at Lowarn Cove, but with friends around her, she would brave the place she once loved so much.
Lord Winterbourne’s suggestion of an alternative venue had been both appreciated and frightening all at once.
Appreciated because he’d seen her dread and sought to alleviate it.
Frightening because it revealed he must know of the cove, know something of her ordeal. It could be the only reason. But how?
Why was he here? Did he think her totty-headed?
She felt so dratted confused, questions racing. Why invite her to use his given name in such a manner? He must be a rascal, just as the ladies of Helston had gossiped.
“I believe I will retire, Lord Winterbourne. I do not wish to be overtired for Hugh’s picnic tomorrow.”