Chapter Fourteen
Lost and found.
Where the deuce was he?
Tables had been smartly cleared, parasols folded and hampers repacked, servants having then conveyed all to the headland with weary arms. Guests now drifted back to their carriages, bleary-eyed and overstuffed, Lowarn Cove returning to its previous pristine and peaceful state.
Only the somewhat bedraggled Penrose party – and an ever-hopeful Mrs Tripconey – still lounged on the beach, wafting fans and awaiting the marquess.
“If Mrs Pencally saw him heading up the path, I’d say he’s gone on to the manor,” proffered the professor, swaying on a boulder like a one-legged seagull, now clearly stewed to the gills. “Let’s go home.”
“Mr Miggens says his horse is still tied.” Lowdy glared like a spitting kitten. “Why would he walk?”
Tamsyn bit her lip, unable to reveal the last known whereabouts of the marquess. Captain Lynch and Mr Miggens were searching the beach, Benjamin and Samuel the headland.
Nerves tore at her. Could he have fallen? She would have to suggest they search beyond the outcrop.
“Oh,” Mrs Tripconey suddenly gasped, standing and pointing out to sea. “Is that…Poseidon?”
They all gawked.
Lowdy scrubbed her eyes and Mrs Tripconey’s mouth dropped open.
“No,” Tamsyn replied faintly. “That’s Lord Winterbourne.”
Goodness.
He waded toward them, cerulean sea up to his waist, white shirt clinging to an array of muscles. She knew he was substantial in the chest area, but things…rippled with every stride in the heavy water.
“Oh my,” sighed Mrs Tripconey again. “I ought to faint, but then I’d miss the spectacle.”
Tamsyn could only concur with the widow as his black-clad thighs emerged, unnameable protrusions bulging in his battle against the waves.
With no cravat and shirt ties undone, impudent wet skin revealed itself, throat glistening, dark hair peeking through the laces.
“Gosh,” exclaimed Lowdy, “his physique is similar to that of Mr Miggens.”
Both Tamsyn and Mrs Tripconey peered askew, but she would question Lowdy later, as for now all eyes swivelled back with haste. No fribble had ever looked more potent, athletic or delicious.
Like Poseidon himself, he strode through the shallows, feet bare, water sluicing from his tall frame, black hair plastered to his head. He ran a hand through, and a beckoning wet curl flopped over his forehead in a most rakish manner.
Tamsyn gulped, wits scattered to the four winds.
“My lord,” yelled Mr Sewell, limping over the claggy sand. “Are you well, my lord? We supposed you lost? And I thought you couldn’t swim?”
A wet hand slapped Mr Sewell on the back, soaking the small man’s waistcoat. “Said I disliked the water, old chap, not that I couldn’t swim.”
In a flurry, Mr Miggens arrived at the shore. “Jack! What the hell happened?” Fingers patted at the sodden marquess. “Are you hurt?”
Tamsyn frowned. Jack? A tad familiar for a valet.
“I’m well. No need for such a clatter. But I’m afraid you’ll ring a peel over me as I’ve lost my new Hoby boots and the cravat is beyond redemption.”
A sopping dishcloth-like object was extracted from his breeches pocket.
“Wh-what were you doing exactly, my lord?” asked Tamsyn. “Did you slip?”
“Hmm?” he asked, wringing out the material and handing the rumpled item to Mr Miggens. “No, no. I got rather…overheated and fancied a dip, ’tis all.”
∞∞∞
“Someone tried to kill me, Oliver. What do you make of that?”
“Not much, my lord. You cock your toes and I’m deprived of employment.”
“Hah. You were worried, don’t deny it. You fussed like a hen with one chick.”
Jack perused his elegant evening attire of emerald green, although there was no point getting too rum-togged as the females of the house were taking a quiet and sober supper in their rooms.
The day, he would agree, had been exhausting.
Licky pies, fine conversation, fanciful mermaids, enthralling kisses and then an attempt at murder.
He might have to reassess his opinion of picnics.
“You are extremely fortunate, my lord, that you didn’t manage to bash your skull on a rock.”
“Faugh! Worse was trying to remove my Hoby boots under water – damn difficult. I’ll write Mr Hoby a letter. Tell him to add some laces and buttons if I am to continue in this line of work.”
Of course, for a moment, when the wave had surged and its strength had tugged him below, he’d thought maybe this was his fate. A justly end to another Winterbourne devil.
Then he’d recalled Tamsyn’s periwinkle eyes and thought sod that.
“The dunking does not appear to have doused your bonhomie, my lord.”
“Means someone is annoyed I’m here,” he said, choosing a peridot stickpin. “Perhaps knows of my mission. But who is that someone? Eh? Anyone could have clambered down that trail after me.”
The plot thickened.
“You must take care, my lord. Carry your sword or pistol.”
“Hmm, but I more worry about Tamsyn.” He puckered his brow at Miggens in the mirror. “If I’m not with her, I want you to keep an eye out. And that Sewell’s a bloody strange chap, as well, always peering at people. Keep your other eye on him. He seemed disappointed I could swim. Did you see anyone else on the beach not of our party?”
“I… No, not really.”
Jack scrutinised his half-brother’s reflection, watched his cheekbones ripen to a mottled red. “Were you…trysting?” Jack gasped. “Without consulting me for advice?”
“No! Simply conversing with Miss Treherne.” He coughed and faffed with the cufflinks, a sure sign of dissembling.
“Has your tackle fallen off yet from all this conversing?”
Oh, the delight he could extract from this. If only he’d done more meddling in his half-brother’s romance, then he could claim wedding number five. Thus far, all he’d been able to interfere with was insisting on his valet’s presence at the day’s events.
Miggens glared. “I would never…” He shook his head at Jack’s wink and grabbed the clothes brush. “Never have I met such a kind and devoted lady. I used to watch Miss Treherne at her cousin’s, working her fingers to the bone embroidering dog cushions for the countess who would then unstitch the whole lot for being crooked. She was their unpaid slave and deserved better.”
“As did you, Oliver, which is why I sought you out. But is there more to this?”
“No. Because she is too good for one such as I,” his half-sibling muttered. “She’s a lady. And I am a bastar–”
“You are a marquess’s son…and I prefer the term merry-begotten to bastard.”
“I doubt my mother considered it merry. And although half my parentage may be of noble blood, my mother milked cows.”
“You’re talking twaddle, Oli. And if Miss Treherne did happen to take umbrage at your conception, then she doesn’t deserve such a fine man. You should tel–”
“Don’t you dare tell Miss Treherne of our kinship, my lord, promise me.” Oliver scrunched his Winterbourne nose. “You are the marquess with a fat purse. I have nothing to offer a lady.”
“Pfff, that estate in Somerset still needs an owner,” Jack cajoled. “It’s unentailed, just sitting there, neglected. Weeds growing. Lands unploughed. Servants bored. If you don’t claim it, we’ll have rebellion in the West Country.”
A mulish expression contorted his brother’s physog. “I do not require a Winterbourne’s charity.”
Lud, save him from principled and stubborn valets.
Jack slipped the signet ring onto his little finger, all prepared for dinner. But there was something he kept meaning to say to Oliver and his near death had reminded him that life could too easily be snatched away, leaving words unsaid for eternity.
“Oliver, you are my brother.”
Fusty eyebrows raised. “I am aware of that, my lord.”
“No, I mean, more than simply blood. I look to you for advice and guidance. I admire your values and character. Your dairymaid mother brought up a calm intelligent man who has climbed in life through his own sheer hard work and strength.” Jack twisted the ruby ring about his finger. “I wish you’d known Vincent as you are similar in nature, loyal and considerate.” He paused, saw a brightness to Oli’s eyes. “And I could not do without you. So you take care, as well, my brother.”
A smile softened his solemn lips. “Don’t you worry about me, Jack.” He tugged his own waistcoat straight. “And do you know, we are not so different as you seem to think.”
“Faugh, night and day. But you being my brother also means I’m obliged to interfere in your romantic affairs.”
Oliver picked a lint from Jack’s sapphire velvet lapel. “And I wouldn’t have it any other way…my lord.”
∞∞∞
“So, Lowdy…”
“I wish I could eat double helpings of bread and butter pudding, but I’d end up resembling one.”
“You know very well that all the men here pant over your figure. Now, Lowdy…”
“I need a new corset. The laces tore last night and I suspect cook’s cake was to blame – that layer of marchpane is too thick.”
Tamsyn narrowed her eyes. Thus far, Lowdy had babbled on about every pudding known to woman, avoiding her questions and guzzling the blackberry wine as though there might be a sudden shortage, although with the professor in the house, that was a distinct possibility.
Helping herself to a glass, she shook her head. “You are adorable. Mr Miggens thinks you adorable.” She pointed a finger. “In fact, was it Mr Miggens who tore your laces?”
“Tamsyn! No, he hasn’t… He’s most… Only a kiss… Oh, Tam, he says he admires me so!”
Gosh.
Tonight, they were supposed to be dining upon cold meats left over from the picnic followed by some pleasant reading and an early night, but they’d quaffed a tipple to steady the nerves of the day, and then before she’d known it, half the bottle had been emptied – damn pesky piskies.
Now they both lounged on the chaise, feet up, shoes and stockings abandoned to the sultry evening.
“There is nothing to stop you–”
“He’s a valet!”
Well, there was that. Lowdy, for all her reduced circumstances, was still a lady by society’s judgement and Mr Miggens was…a valet.
Tamsyn wrinkled her lips and tapped her fingers. Yet her companion wasn’t so narrow-minded and such unions did occur once in a blue moon.
Something was smoky. Something Lowdy wasn’t telling her.
“The tide is out,” lamented her companion, presenting an empty glass.
Good grief, Lowdy would be three sheets to the wind soon, but she complied, refilling her glass before they fell silent, each drifting into their own thoughts.
Today, in Lowarn cove, alone and paddling in the shimmering sea, Tamsyn had realised something.
For the first time in a long while, she’d felt…alive. Content. Both with herself and the past.
Calmly, she’d touched the boulder where Jonathan had once kissed her upon the cheek, and pleasant memories had flooded her, tinged with the sadness of what might have been.
Peacefully, she’d entered the cave and perused its salt-encrusted walls and craggy fissures. Nothing remained of her terror, nature having cleansed the past.
For so long she had been silent, letting the world talk around her, live around her. Oh, she had heard and seen but she’d not participated, not lived. For too long, she had not enjoyed life. The simple things: colourful gowns, the lap of waves, sand in her toes…a kiss.
Of course, she was aware she still led a privileged life, but she’d let the past scar more than just her body. Even when she’d finally found the strength to overcome her scourge and scream, so afraid for Lowdy’s life in that cold water of the lake, she’d continued to hide in the shadows, grey and non-descript.
And so when Jack had kissed her and then…apologised for kissing her, she hadn’t felt incensed or unwanted but accepting of the beautiful day and the beautiful rogue who had desired her.
She understood his rationale for stepping back, and his exact honesty about himself was immensely appealing – probably why he was so successful as a rake, although that wasn’t to say he lacked depth. She had a feeling he was as bottomless as Dozmary Pool.
“I’m not a virgin!”
“I beg your pardon?” So lost was Tamsyn in thoughts, she hadn’t realised her companion was now sobbing, glass trembling on her teeth, fat tears rolling like rain. “Lowdy?”
“I’m… I’m not a virgin. And…and Oliver’s so kind and decent,” she bewailed. “He’d never forgive me and…”
Tamsyn hugged her close, rocking her quaking form. “Oh, Lowdy. Why have you never told me? Was it the earl?”
“I thought myself so lucky,” she cried. “I thought he loved me. I thought… I thought I’d found a home. I did everything for his mother, even fed that vicious hound, and the earl…granted me attention.”
“You mean seduced you,” she muttered, stroking Lowdy’s hair.
“I worked so hard, dinners, balls. I thought he was preparing me to be his bride… Foolish clumsy Lowdy! What would he want with a dumpy girl like me?”
“Oh, Lowdy, no. He’s a cork-brained beast.”
“Then I heard he was to marry Lady Margery, the perfect debutante, seventeen and pretty as a picture, and they told me to find another position. Oliver found me crying and he was so k-kind to me.”
Tamsyn raised a brow. “Kind?”
Frantic nodding wetted Tamsyn’s bodice. “Yes, kind. He’s honourable and good and we used to talk a lot. He’s so intelligent and well-read, and he held me and told me all would be well, kissed my hair… But I have nothing, not even my maidenhood. An earl’s distant relative is all I am. Nothing else. Nothing to offe–”
“That won’t matter a jot if Mr Miggens ‘admires you’, as you say.”
“How can I be sure he wants me?” she fretted, skin blotchy, rubbing her eyes on Tamsyn’s sleeve. “I thought the earl cared for me but I’d seen emotions that weren’t there. And even if Oliver does feel affection, he’ll hate me when I tell him about my wickedness. Everyone in the household always adored him. He…cared, Tam, always cared. The scullery maid who burned her hand, the footman who lost two guineas at gaming. And then he cared about me. And…”
“Oh, Lowdy, dearest. If Mr Miggens is disgusted by a lost maidenhood – taken by trickery, I might add – then he doesn’t deserve you. And remember, you have Father and I. We love you as family.”
“You’ll marry in time if–”
“No, Lowdy. I won’t. How could I with this ugliness I bear?”
“But Captain Lynch?”
She shook her head. “I enjoy his company, but there is no…” Desire. Fervour. None of the feelings that a London rogue had ignited. “…attraction, only friendship and even then, he can be a little fierce. Do you think he might snap his fingers in bed?”
A giggle. Good. That was more like the Lowdy she loved, and she rubbed her friend’s arms. “We will grow old together and have cats – a superior replacement – and tell fortunes like Mrs Mildern. We may travel to Italy and take young lovers.”
“Eugh!” cried Lowdy.
“Oh, did you not enjoy your…encounter with the earl?”
Another wet giggle. “It was only twice.” A frown. “It hurt, and he insisted on being called Lord Big…and he kept his boots on.”
She’d take that as a “no” then.