Chapter Sixteen
But does apparel proclaim the man?
Gulls squawked in displeasure as Jack interrupted their frenzied feeding on a pie crust outside The Angel.
Although a few miles inland, the town of Helston still betrayed its coastal proximity with a briny fragrance that persisted in the air, carts bearing pilchard barrels and a shoal of fishermen stood outside the Blue Anchor Inn, marooned on land without the slightest hint of a breeze.
Jack’s shirt clung to his spine like a slack sail to the mast, and he could only hope this late summer weather broke soon – it poached one’s noggin.
Having escorted the ladies to the seamstress, he’d left Benjamin and two footmen on guard outside and made for the postmaster.
Along with a ballroom, Helston’s postal service could be found within The Angel coaching inn; a medium-sized room on the ground floor, it possessed a funereal atmosphere with a newly polished but bare desk and no seats other than the postmaster’s. Jack ambled past a gentleman struggling to string a box, one end between his teeth and the other wrapped around his wrist.
“I’ve a letter for London,” Jack stated, “and have you anything for myself, I’m–”
“Aye, Lord Winterbourne,” the tidy man behind the desk finished, opening a drawer and sorting through small bundles of post.
After an inordinate amount of shuffling, an undersized letter was slid across the surface. “Smells o’ violets. From one o’ your ladies perhaps, my lord?” asked the cheeky chap. “That tale of the Saxony princess kept us entertained for days. Did you really–”
“No, I didn’t. I’ve never been up in an air balloon. Ever.”
The postmaster’s clipped moustache drooped with disenchantment.
What the gossip rags didn’t know they invented and under normal circumstances Jack would care little – dare he say, even be flattered – but if Tamsyn had read that article, she would think him an insatiable mutton monger.
Wandering through to the adjacent taproom, he ordered an ale and after settling into a chair by the window, he broke the Rakecombe wolfhound seal.
Expecting mission-related details from the duke, he was startled to recognise the duchess’s quillmanship, violet scent erupting from the paper. He read aghast…
…and please find space in your portmanteau for these few items which I’ve heard can be readily obtained in Cornwall.
Namely, six pairs of French silk stockings in peony red, four tubs of clotted cream and for His Grace, two cases of cognac.
Yours in anticipation, Aideen, Duchess, et cetera.
Devil take it, clotted cream? On a journey back to London of at least eight days?
Rolling his eyes, Jack tucked it into his pocket.
“Here’s your ale, me handsome,” a pretty filly breathed in his ear, sliding the cloudiest liquid he’d ever seen onto the table. “And I be wonderin’, could you…could you sign this?”
A stained scrap of paper was placed beside the glass. Looked to be a pie wrapper.
“You be ever so famous,” she gushed, brown eyes twinkling. “And I be overgone at meeting your lordship. I dunno me alphabet but me friend Sally does, and she reads me all the gossip in them papers ’bout you.”
The lass produced a pencil from her apron.
Well, he could hardly disappoint…
“What’s your name, lovey?” he asked, putting charcoal to pie wrapper.
“Kate,” she said as he wrote. “I remember them words, ‘sable curls in wild profusion’.”
Jack preened. “Here you go then, Kate.”
“That one is me favourite,” she enthused, blushing. “The Corsair. Thank you ever so, Lord Byron.”
Jack scowled into his ale.
Bloody poets.
Lowdy hesitated between the Paris mud brown and the Egyptian brown. “Which do you think would suit?”
“They look remarkably…identical.”
Although Tamsyn herself had been tempted by a brighter hue, she’d ended up with what the seamstress had termed “Stifled Sigh” – grey with a hint of lilac.
The hussy-like coquelicot fabric had breathed her name and the vibrant Pomona-green silk had sighed its discontent at being thus ignored, but she just…couldn’t. The thought of people staring at her, noticing her, still brought out a rash.
Instead, she had braved some emerald ribbons from the haberdashery. Small steps to regain her bolder spirit.
Whilst Lowdy contemplated the merits of Devonshire brown, Tamsyn noticed that puce-and-lemon waistcoat through the dressmaker’s window and heaved a sigh. Jack had such confidence to dress as he pleased and yet she no longer envied such a trait but appreciated it. As one peeled back the layers of this rogue, one discovered…yet another layer.
His flash of temper in the carriage had been provoked by a deep hurt, she realised, by his blackguard of a father. Goodness knows what he’d witnessed as a young boy.
Mrs Keverne, a farmer’s wife on the estate, had oft arrived in church with a bruised face, her little ones sullen and quiet. Father had intervened but to no avail and few had mourned the day Mr Keverne had been trampled by a herd of cows.
She poked her head out the door as Jack was dispensing some rogue’s advice to an eager Benjamin. “You could try flowers…though never purple hyacinths. They signify sorrow apparently.”
The lad sniffed. “Reckon my Lucy is as hard-hearted as Cousin Nappy’s pig.”
“Quite so but perseverance, my young swain.”
“Jack?” she called softly. “Lowdy is still deciding and Mrs Pencally is being pinned, but I need to talk to the Helston vicar about our harvest celebrations. The Treloor village church shares the donkey. Can you escort me? It’s only up the lane.”
“Of course. Never a bad idea to call upon the soul doctor.”
Taking his midnight-black sleeve, they wandered the curving lane, past the New Inn, the Six Bells, and the huddle of shops and houses.
Jack showed himself to be in fine fettle, enquiring after the history of Helston and adding his own London banter. He would make such a magnificent husband, she thought, and then promptly tripped over her feet.
Fustian nonsense. The marquess was a rogue and couldn’t be constant longer than a sennight.
“Are you well, Tamsyn? The walk is in part steep.”
“I’m quite well, lost my footing on a stray thought, ’tis all.”
They climbed the sharp slope to St Michael’s Church stood upon a hillock, but before searching out the vicar, they meandered the graveyard for a while, enjoying the coolness beneath the shade of the trees. Tamsyn’s mind stilled in the peaceful atmosphere, and even Jack quietened, content to amble and inspect the headstones.
“Meet me tomorrow, Jack. After dinner. And I shall tell you all.”
There. It was done. She only hoped her courage would outlast her words.
A raven brow raised. “Are you sure? I won’t deny your information could be vital, but memories can hurt like the devil. Are you quite ready?”
Such a considerate gentleman was all she thought as she lifted a hand to caress a stray leaf which hung overhead. “Yes, I–”
Breath ceased as she was whirled back against heat and sweat, a slice of cold biting at her throat.
Harsh words growled past her. “Gimme yer flashy jewels, or I’ll slash yer girl to shreds, yer prinky pox.”
Tamsyn’s eyes snapped shut as faintness overwhelmed her, fear stabbing at her chest like glass shards. In that blackness, she saw the dank cave, a Frenchman holding her tight, whispering death; he’d come for her as promised.
But all at once, her nose wrinkled and she opened her eyes. This villain didn’t smell of salty sea or frankincense but of sour beer and rotten teeth. He was pure bulk with podgy hands and a rough accent.
Even so, that dratted helplessness invaded her limbs, her throat refusing to scream.
The sliver of blade bit deeper, and she stared at Jack in bewilderment as he took a step forward, patting his waistcoat with an inane grin on his handsome face, eyes witless.
“Now hold on,” he was mumbling, “I have my natty watch here somewhere and I know you’ll simply adore this as it has a fetching enamel casing but with rather a naughty tableau on the interior.” He slipped a hand inside the garish waistcoat and tears stung Tamsyn’s eyes.
Captain Lynch was right: Jack belonged in the ballroom, not on the battlefield. His smooth hands were not made for danger but waltzing and flirting.
Long fingers fell to his breeches pocket as he took another step. “No, not there. Must be in the other one. Won the splendid item in a bet with Lord F, a cup-shot fellow who eats too many artichokes and never appreciated the painting inside. Indeed, it must be seen to be believed, so hold on a moment and I’ll have it for you.”
Her attacker chuckled, blasted chuckled, the knife moving a fraction away as the flippant dandy now investigated his coat pocket.
One tear fell and she manged a rasp. “Plea–”
A strike of puce, a whoosh of air, a cry. A thud.
She wobbled as the bulk behind her vanished and the knife fell, clattering to the stone path, Jack nowhere to be found.
Whirling, she saw…
The oaf lay sprawled, eyes wide, blood seeping from lip and nose.
Atop him a raging angel, thundering his grim wrath, fist crashing into the villain’s gut, something silver glinting upon his knuckles.
Lord Winterbourne was fervent prowess and swift intensity.
Magnificent, unexpected and…she was going to faint.
Pathetic but inevitable.
“Jack,” she rasped, but even though it was the veriest whisper, he heard and before she could hit the ground, strong arms gathered her, cocooning her in warmth and citrus, and she buried her face in that shameless waistcoat.
A blurry beamed ceiling above, softness beneath. Male murmuring and a beguiling fragrance of lemon and leather.
Jack.
Tamsyn didn’t know where she was, but with all her senses fulfilled, she didn’t particularly care.
Yet as the low beams lost their blur, thoughts raced in and a particularly stubborn one declined to leave.
“I’m sorry, Jack,” she said in hushed tones to the room.
A door closed, footsteps and then there he stood, eyes concerned. Not a scratch on him.
She’d felt that villain behind her, colossal and evil, and yet Jack had felled him with a fist.
His gentle hand brushed her forehead and she struggled to sit, a jacket falling from her shoulders. His jacket.
“Rest, Tamsyn. You’ve had quite a scare.”
“No… I am well. It was just…the cave and then… I’m so sorry, Jack.”
He sat beside her, and she realised she lay on a large bed in a small but clean room.
Without jacket, the white muslin of his shirt brushed her cheek as he smoothed her hair, the walnut locks cascading down in a knotted flood, pins lost.
“You have nothing to apologise for. In fact, it is I that should have taken more care–”
“No!” She grasped his waistcoat. “Not that, I…I misjudged you. I thought… In the churchyard. I thought you a fop, that you were being flippant. I’ve been so blind, haven’t I? So prejudiced. And for that I’m sorry…”
A broad palm cradled her cheek and she expected umbrage but instead a chuckle boomed.
“But, Tam, lovey, you’re supposed to think that. The knife would not have moved away a fraction if he’d thought me a worthy adversary. Folk wouldn’t divulge secrets if they thought me astute.”
She felt rather stupid. “What are you then? A façade? A fribble or a scoundrel? A jester or a warrior? Or neither? Are you telling me the true Jack Winterbourne is a dour bore?”
Those handsome lips twitched. “I do hope not, Tamsyn. But equally there is no pretence. I can be all those things as well. I adore fashionable waistcoats and London glitter, yet work for the Crown in high and low society alike.” His broad palm brushed. “I fight and I jest, be it in a ballroom or gin den, with duke or demon.”
Smiling, she stared into those lustrous black pupils and saw his dual nature, a light amusement covering his profound eyes.
She remembered Mrs Mildern’s foretelling.
“Devil, angel. Dark, light. Sorrow, joy,” she whispered. Perhaps that scrying mirror held more than polished obsidian. “I like you, Jack.”
An impish smile. “I’m no angel, lovey. I’m a rogue.” The impish smile waned. “You must remember that.”
Jack Winterbourne knew precisely who he was, and she could only admire such assurance. “Well, I still like you.” And she blushed. “Where am I?”
“The New Inn.”
“You carried me all the way…” But of course, he would have. “Oh, lawks, half of Helston must have seen me in the infamous rogue’s arms.” She covered her eyes, shaking her head.
“Never you worry. I was trailed by the vicar and you can’t have a better chaperone than that. He was untangling the bell ropes and came out to see what all the noise was about. We found a better use for the ropes and left the villain for the magistrate.”
Peeking through her fingers, she focused on his buttons – lemon silk. “I… I was no help, Jack. I didn’t fight or scream; I froze.”
That supple hand, which she now knew held so much strength, pulled her fingers away and cupped her jaw, forcing her gaze upwards.
“You are a brave woman, Tamsyn Penrose. You suffered a terrible ordeal all those years ago and yet here you are, kissing rogues, calling them fops and–”
“But for so long I gave in to fear and was silent.”
“There is wisdom in silence.”
“I fainted,” she said sheepishly. Why wouldn’t he agree she was wretched.
“Do you know, I once met a pugilist who fainted at the sight of blood. Either he struck first or lost. One punch and it was all over.”
She smiled. No, he wasn’t going to indulge her. And if he thought her brave, then maybe she’d not lost her younger self so completely.
“Do you always jest to make people feel better?”
Jack knew many a quip to answer that question.
“Yes,” he replied simply for once.
His mind slipped to his brother Vincent, who’d always banished the blue devils with a jest, causing all those around him to smile, even though he’d not had long to live…and known it.
That courageous selfhood had spread such joy in his short life and now Jack couldn’t bear to waste his own days with burden and dismay. Not everyone could shake off low spirits so easily as Vincent, but one had to strive with all one’s might.
Staring down at Tamsyn, he fathomed that was why he liked her so much.
La Chauve-Souris might have silenced her but he’d not broken her. Tamsyn had a strength that went about its business without fuss. She was a loving daughter, an admired lady and an adept mistress of a content household.
His own mother had tried her utmost to be strong, but Father had constantly belittled her efforts, scorned her in front of the servants, abused her good nature until that strength had been worn to a sliver. Just enough left to…
“Jack?” A hand pressed to his chest.
The past must have shown on his face. “Old memories,” he murmured. And he bent to kiss her. No thought as to why.
Lips parted and he tasted that honey mead which was all Tamsyn.
“I don’t want your pity, Jack,” she mumbled against his lips.
He drew back, laughing. “I’ll show you a kiss of pity.” He bussed her forehead. “And this is a kiss that a man gives a woman he finds…desirable.”
Grasping her nape, he brushed his mouth back and forth, merely caressing, relishing the potent pure awareness. Yet such delicacy would never be sufficient, and he pursued with more intent, parting her lips and capturing his prey. She succumbed, matched, nipped as the kiss deepened.
They fell back upon the bed, and he did what he’d yearned to do since meeting her on Goonhilly Downs: plunged fingers into her hair, tangling the luxuriant length. Her agile body arched beneath his, nails scratching at his nape, and Jack couldn’t help but bury himself in that tempting neck, lick the sweet almond from her skin.
Senses clouded.
No rules or roguish wiles, only Tamsyn, the pulse in her throat hammering wildly like a bird’s breast. He suckled it, willing it to beat solely for him.
In days gone by, amorous congress had been a pleasurable pastime with no deeper sentiment than gratification for all concerned, yet now a different emotion surged within, one he scarcely recognised but which he’d observed in others.
Possessive ardour. Scalding want. Primitive need.
Without his usual finesse, he dragged a hand down her side, cupped her rump, pulled her against his wanton arousal. And with the other, he dragged at the neck of her gown for more skin, more of Tamsyn.
“No,” she suddenly whispered, yanking his hand away. He paused, staring into those bright-blue eyes which glittered with passion and… He knew not what. Shame? Fear?
“Miss Penrose?” A loud knock and the two of them scattered like cats disturbed outside a kitchen door, lurching away and smoothing clothes.
“Come in.”
The vicar entered, eyeing them suspiciously, even though Jack had made it as far as the trunk by the window.
“Your carriage is outside, my dear, to take you all home. We can discuss the donkey another time. I’ve already collected Mrs Pencally and Miss Treherne from the dressmakers.”
“Th–” Tamsyn cleared her throat. “Thank you, Vicar.”
“No need, dear. To think such a terrible deed took place in God’s Acre. Now, you tidy yourself as you appear a little more rumpled than when we placed you here.” He tightened his lips. “Lord Winterbourne? Why don’t we have a quick nip in the bar whilst the lady attends to herself? I could remind you of Jesus’s time in the wilderness, resisting temptation.”
Jack nodded, head bowed, and shuffled after the vicar, but as they left, he swiftly whirled and blew a kiss.
Incorrigible rogue.