Chapter Twenty-three
Post-haste.
“You look like an owl in an ivy bush.”
“Thank you, Papa,” grumbled Tamsyn, attempting to shove strands of hair beneath the already beleaguered pins.
Father merely chuckled and continued tucking into his thyme and pork breakfast sausage.
Upon waking nigh an hour ago, Tamsyn had smoothed the shallow dip in the adjacent pillow but no warmth had lingered, purely the teasing scent of cologne.
She’d groggily arisen and stumbled to the mirror…then considered returning to bed as with last night’s new plait ruined by a rogue, she’d resembled a fluffy dandelion clock.
And she could hardly ask Lowdy for a detangling again. Piskies could only be blamed for so much.
“Mrs Mildern warned of a storm coming later,” Papa said, slurping tea, “but then she also told me not to wear my blue breeches as the hens have stopped laying, so I wouldn’t wager on it. What are your plans for the day? No more rambling about, as you have to stay safe, Daughter.”
“Just to the village church this morning, Papa, to discuss the harvest celebrations, but I have my pistol and two stout footmen. Then an uneventful afternoon with Lowdy.”
She neglected to mention they were to attack their wardrobes – throwing out a few greys and browns and contemplating…colour. Papa would get ideas.
Erroneous ones.
“Hmm, take four footmen. And where is Captain Lynch? He’s not haunted my door for several days.”
“He’s attending dinner tomorrow night and then aiding me hunt moths. Hu…Hugh bought me a new net.”
She felt guilty, even though it was ridiculous. Dinner had been arranged the day Hugh had gifted her that fine white net, but since then…
Both the night-time and the moths felt as though they belonged to her and Jack alone. She put a hand to her scars, remembered his words.
But he would leave for London when his mission – and surely that was what she was – had ended. Return to his scoundrel ways and she would only hear of him via the gossip columns once more.
The glumps threatened to descend, yet she no longer let a vicious Frenchman cloud her days so the thought of losing Jack shouldn’t either.
She recalled his words regarding Vincent, able to find joy no matter the circumstance.
And today appeared beautiful. Not a cloud in sight, despite Mrs Mildern’s grave portent.
“And Winterbourne?” Papa enquired with a sly smile before more bacon vanished with nary a chomp.
“I’m sure I don’t know what you are asking, Father.”
“Hmm. He’s a good lad, even though he doesn’t seem to realise it. I met his father on occasion, years ago.”
“Oh, you never said. How did he seem to you?”
“Persuasive and handsome, no doubt, but I oft heard ill talked of him and he’d an unpleasant reputation.”
Tamsyn chewed her lip. Not one unpleasant bone existed in the current marquess.
“But it must have been difficult,” continued her father, “to be raised by such a man. Winterbourne, I feel, needs to settle down, find a wife.”
Tamsyn harrumphed. Some London duchess-type no doubt.
“Papa, I meant to say…I’m sorry,” she ventured, staring into her tea. “I’m sorry I couldn’t speak about the incident all those years ago and especially to you. I-I was a coward.”
She heard his chair scrape on the floorboards, then footsteps, sensed him kneel by her side, still taller than herself. He smoothed a strand of hair against her shoulder which defiantly sprang back up.
“I knew your lack of voice was not of your choosing, Tam. It seems to me that the control of our will is a complicated matter. Yours did what it thought best for your well-being at that time. Rendered you silent.”
“I fought to speak. So hard.” She grasped his fingers, fidgeted with his Cornish gold signet ring. “But I would open my mouth and…nothing. Solely pain and tightness. I could have written it down, I know, but I’d hear his voice, telling me he would kill you all. Slit your throats in your sleep and worse.”
A huge paw enveloped her cheek.
“Daughter, your voice was not obstructed on some trivial whim, but to protect. You bore those memories alone for so long.” He bussed her cheek and made a futile attempt to smooth her curls. “I’m proud of you.”
Biting her lip to prevent it wobbling, she hugged her father tight. “And what are your plans today?”
“I am for Helston…on business.”
“Give my regards to Mrs Castleton.”
Father’s tender face fell to a glower. “She’s a friend, ’tis all.”
“Papa! What a whisker. Mrs Mildern saw you both.”
“In that damn mirror of hers?”
“No, at the bakers. You were buying her a nattlin’ pie.”
∞∞∞
The white painted door to The Angel’s post room creaked, and six bored faces spun Jack’s way.
Damn.
“Good afternoon, all,” he called, but only mumbles met his jovial greeting and the queue twisted back as one, shuffling tight together.
He joined the end as it would seem that the centuries-old English aristocratic class system with all its associated noble privileges was for naught within the Helston post-house.
No matter as surely the queue would be whittled away at a rattling pace. How long could collection and distribution of post take?
A gentleman at the front appeared to be having an intense discussion with the postmaster regarding the cultivation of roses. Jack yawned loudly, flicked lint from his damson jacket and slapped his hat against his thigh in a certain imposing marquess manner.
The queue cast him their blind eye.
He didn’t like to make a fuss. After all, he was a gentleman, but damn it, he did have a slight hurry. Did the other members of this string of tiresomeness not realise this?
Evidently not.
Five gentlemen and one lady now stood like graveyard statues, eyes fixed stonily ahead.
Sighing dramatically – to no effect, he might add – he wished he’d crossed paths with Tamsyn at breakfast to apologise for those rapacious kisses, for not waking her this morning. But she’d departed for Treloor church with Miss Treherne, and all he’d heard was the crackle of gravel outside as he’d completed his report for Whitehall.
She must think him the worst scoundrel ever.
Which he was.
Obviously.
Although this morning, wayward thoughts consumed him because last night, he had resisted, unlike his sodding father who would’ve followed through at full tilt.
So if he was less of a scoundrel than his father, could he–
“Is this the end?”
Was that a pessimistic query regarding their bleak existence in this world or a rhetorical question as to his health?
Unsure of a reply, he turned, noted a broad chap with a box, tapping his foot and frowning at the long queue.
“Indeed, it is nigh, my good fellow,” Jack replied.
Really, wasn’t it obvious? And he spun back before the chap could inveigle his way nearer the front with some invented tale of a lost dog or suchlike.
Jack rocked on his heels and peeked at his fob watch one more time, until finally the prattlebasket at the front left sans letter but with numerous tips on how to keep blackfly from his roses.
Talking of pests, Jack was jostled from behind as the queue sought to maintain its disciplined form.
Lud, what was it about being English?
Once, when waiting for a boat in Venice during the last leg of his Tour, the unruly scramble had been a sight to behold – no straight line or humble “after yous” but elbows and canes deployed with vicious intent and deadly resolve. And as for the gentlemen…
Another lackwit swiftly departed – now that was more like it. But he narrowed his eyes as the next lady grumbled at her lack of post and requested the postmaster check again.
Which he did.
Letter by letter.
Jack shed his gloves and studied his fingernails. He scrutinised his watch. Then put his gloves back on. He perused the announcements pinned to the wall: a circus was to visit in three weeks’ time; a bay horse had been stolen – reward fifteen shillings; the bowling club was to meet on Monday; and Saturday next was the Harvest Fireworks Extravaganza – if rain, to be held in The Angel ballroom.
Surely… Never mind.
The lady left disgruntled, tutting about the state of the postal service from Plymouth.
Only three stragglers left.
Another laggard mooched out with a box. At least that felt worthwhile and they all tightly shuffled forward, ignoring an interloper who’d wandered in and now lurked suspiciously to one side.
Jack readied his cane. He’d fight to the last for his place in this queue.
A red-haired fellow skedaddled empty-handed. Bloody time waster.
Finally, one ne’er-do-well remained, and Jack earwigged. Package for Brighton twaddle. Fragile prattle. Must be careful babble.
Jack harrumphed, and the chap twisted to glare.
Well, honestly, what did the nodcock expect? Mail coachmen flung your parcels around like a freshly landed sailor did with a doxy’s skirt – it’d be broken before it reached Falmouth so there was no point procrastinating.
At last…
“Lord Winterbourne?” The postmaster frowned. “Forgive me, my lord, I didn’t notice you in the queue.”
A likely story.
“No matter,” he lied, “I have this for London.” Jack produced his packet of words. “And is there a letter for myself?”
“Well, yes. In fact, there was an urgent dispatch from London, but Professor Pilkinghorne took receipt of it for you. First thing this morning.”
Cold dread hurtled through Jack’s veins. “And you let him? You let someone else collect my post?”
“Well, I-I…” The postmaster stiffened in his chair, eyes widening. “It had been paid in advance a-and he is staying with you at Penrose Manor and he asked if there was anything else he could take back. I th-thought it would help.” It ended on a squeak.
Unclenching his fists, Jack lowered both to the desk. “Never, ever give my mail to anyone other than myself or Mr Miggens.”
The man blanched further. “N-no, my lord. Terribly sorry.”
Jack pivoted, coat-tails whipping.
Grabbing his brother from the next-door taproom, there was no need to say aught.
“Jack?”
“Penrose Manor. We need to find the professor.”
Had the collection of his letter been innocent?
Foreboding tore at his nerves as his gelding pounded the dry dust back to the manor.
He hoped to hell it had been because if that urgent dispatch was from Whitehall and it had fallen into the wrong hands…
Jacket-less, he urged Jowlik faster, could hear Oliver close behind.
Air slammed his face yet gave no respite, remaining warm and muggy. Clouds had begun gathering to the south-west, slate grey and ominous, a low rumble echoing in the far distance.
He’d no need of Mrs Mildern to foretell it boded ill.
At last, the old manor house came into view, its battlement-like parapets readying for the coming clash, having seen the worst the coastal weather had to offer for nigh four centuries.
Flinging himself from Jowlik, he raced to the door; it opened immediately.
“Where’s Miss Penrose?” he shouted at the butler.
“Upstairs, I believe, my lo–”
Tearing up the old staircase two steps at a time, he dashed along the warren of corridors and flung open her door to find…
The room rent apart, dresses and petticoats littering the floor and bed. He fisted his hair, was he too late, had–
“Jack?”
He pivoted.
Tamsyn, mouth aghast with two grey dresses in hand.
Striding over, he threw hands to her shoulders, patted her. “Are you well?”
“Of course. Stop it, I’m not a horse,” she groused, plunking the gowns on a pile and shoeing his hands away. “What is the matter?”
“I…I was worried.”
On closer inspection, he could see the gowns were laid face up, although in a most haphazard manner, every grey imaginable strewn across every vacant surface – dove, slate, cloud, storm.
“Jack?” He curved his head to Oliver hovering in the doorway carrying sword and cloak. “The butler has no letters for you and the professor left half hour ago for the Treloor Inn.”
Baring his teeth, Jack twisted, emotions raging.
“I’ll be back soon, Tam.” And he yanked her into his arms to crush her lips beneath his.
“Oh, sod it,” he heard Oliver mutter, and cracking open one eye, he spied his half-brother haul Miss Treherne close for an equally thorough mauling.
Now that was how a rogue did it.
Tamsyn flumped to the bed, quite at mops and brooms, creasing all the dresses as Jack and Mr Miggens rushed from her bedchamber in a flurry of buckskin and boots.
Befuddlement filled Lowdy’s eyes, fingers to her swollen lips.
She knew the feeling. Pudding-headed and hot.
Awfully hot.
They cleared their throats in tandem.
“Well,” said Tamsyn, “and to think I told Papa the afternoon would be uneventful.”
∞∞∞
“It’ll be lashing it down afore long, my lord,” the innkeeper shouted, words flying down the cobbled lane with the wind’s onslaught as he fought to tie the shutters. “Best not over-dawdle here.”
Sharp gusts had spat dust in their faces as they’d ridden to Treloor, and thick clouds now shrouded the sky, a deeper grey than any dress Tamsyn owned.
Yet still rain refused to fall, the air pungent and oppressive, causing limbs to weigh heavy and heads to throb.
“Is the professor here?”
A nod and a curse as the shutter whacked the keeper’s jaw. “Onto his fifth.”
They strode in, found him propped at the bar, and Jack grabbed his elbow, tugging him to the corner table. The professor teetered, collapsing into the seat.
“I say, Winters. D’you mind?”
“Where is my post?”
“Hmm? Oh, in my pocket. Was it urgent?” he said, extracting a thin letter. “I thought it would save you a trip but the butler told me you’d already left for Helston. Sorry about the slight stain. Used it in the library as a mat.”
Jack grabbed the letter, turned it.
“It’s been opened. Was that you?” he snarled. The Duke of Rakecombe’s wolfhound seal had been obliterated by an inept attempt to reseal it, only the hound’s paws poking out from beneath the additional wax.
And Rakecombe never made mistakes.
Eyes wide, the professor held palms up. “No. I wouldn’t… It remained in my pocket or on the library desk.”
“Who else entered or could have opened it?”
“I…” He scrunched his eyes. You could almost see the cogs turning. “The butler. And Miss Treherne came in for a spell. And, of course, Rufus before he went out.”
Jack ripped open the letter, felt his stomach lurch, face blanch.
“What news?”
“Back to the manor. Now.”