Chapter Twenty-eight
Summer surrenders with nary a gasp.
“’Tis dawn. I must leave.”
Tamsyn longed to ask if there was greater meaning to that simple statement as Jack kissed her forehead and rose from the bed.
A sombre grey did indeed sift through a gap in the curtains but all was peace, the storm having ridden out its rage and power. A dampened freshness blew through the open window with the fragrance of autumn.
Summer had ended.
Propping herself on an elbow, she watched Jack tug on his breeches, admired anew his tight buttocks and muscled back, realised she would never see this sight again.
“What will happen now?”
Jack hauled on his crumpled shirt, despite her silent protest, and came to sit on the bed, not pretending to misunderstand. “We’ll collect their bodies this morning and visit the magistrate. La Chauve-Souris and Lynch will be buried together somewhere, I expect. Then…my mission is done.”
She fiddled with the bedsheet, smoothing out the creases. “Father must have spent the night safe in Helston, but he’ll return this morning if the roads are clear. I’m worried the servants will talk and–”
A kiss halted her fussing. “If Sir Jago demands matrimony for our night, then I will accept it.”
No, she would not allow that. She’d cajole, bribe and generally make her father’s life a misery if he sought to pressure Jack into marrying her. What could be worse than an unwilling husband?
In no manner was she downcast this morning – resigned perhaps, weary certainly, ached deliciously – but she had loved Jack Winterbourne in every way and who could be miserable about that?
She would lend him no reason to depart with discomfiting memories of a fretful female. A clinging vine.
Jack abruptly tensed, hand halting on her naked arm, and she peered up to a furrowed brow and parted lips. “We also… I didn’t… I’ve never overlooked…” A hand speared through his hair, the curls bouncing into perfect order once more – how did he do that?
“What?”
“A babe, Tamsyn, I didn’t…”
Oh. She was a country girl; she knew how things worked, but last night all had been forgotten in the delight of being alive, in the fervent passion of her lover, in the wildness of the storm.
That he too had been swept away in desire with no thought as to the consequences sent a frisson of delight coursing… She quashed it.
Bad Tamsyn. Again.
“It was only the one night,” she said, unable to offer more. “I will send word to London if…”
“I would return immediately.”
She stroked his stubbled cheek, let her thumb wander to his lips. “You are a good man, Jack.”
But he shook his head, and with one last gentle kiss, he left her bedchamber, a glum slump to his shoulders.
Jack let the back of his head fall against her closed door.
A night he would treasure and forever remember.
He should be overjoyed.
But…
Damn, he hurt.
Leaving Tamsyn’s bed felt wrong, depraved and utterly codheaded.
Never before had he experienced the slightest twinge of remorse, but then never had it been Tamsyn, a sweet innocent.
An innocent who’d so lightly accepted his departure.
No hysterics or weeping eyes, no pleas to stay or lingering sighs. No attempt to entrap a marquess.
He should be overjoyed.
She’d simply let him go.
Damn, he hurt.
He pottered to the hall window, an early mist blanketing the ground outside. A few trees had cocked their toes in the storm, trunks uprooted as though a giant had plucked them from the ground, and a handful of slate tiles lay shattered in the garden having narrowly missed a lichen-clad statue of Theseus.
Ambling to his own door, he dithered at the brass handle. The honourable path would be to ask for her hand, to marry without delay, as after all a babe could be forthcoming. For the first time in his life, he’d had no self-control, had given it no thought. Last night his mind had emptied of all but Tamsyn.
But this morning, she’d been so very…practical.
He should be overjoyed.
When sat on the bed, he’d watched for signs of distress or sadness but all he’d seen was calm acceptance and smiling lips.
Where was the vixen from last night, who’d demanded more?
He should be overjoyed.
Damn, he hurt.
∞∞∞
“The only two things of which be sure are death and quarter day.” Ben shoved a cap haphazardly onto his head and clomped away as the gravediggers began the job of burying La Chauve-Souris for ever.
Jack kept stride. “I’ve been glad of your company today, my lad.”
In actual fact, the send-off for the fiend and his cohort only comprised the two of them, and even that seemed one too many. Sir Jago had been inclined to bury them in a field once the magistrate had been advised, but it had been Tamsyn who’d shaken her head and said they should both be laid to rest at the back of the Treloor churchyard.
Forgiveness? Or as a permanent reminder of their demise? Jack hadn’t asked.
“Good riddance to bad rummage, I say. Can’t believe I was so bumfoozled by…whatever his name was.”
With a pat to the lad’s back, they wandered from the churchyard. “Don’t be too down in the mouth, young Ben. Do you know, I once mistook the Duke of Longston for a footman, passed him my hat and gloves and asked for a sniff of the household’s finest cognac.”
The lad chortled. “Your advice on Lucy worked a treat. We’re off to market together next Thursday. Said I could buy her a pint of ale.”
“Hmm. Congratulations but remember my golden rule number twenty-two: sweaty palms could also mean you’ve chosen the wrong jacket for the weather.”
“Eh? That don’t make no sense.” He scratched his chin. “I suppose you mean…they that have marbles can play and they that ain’t must look on.”
Jack opened his bone box to ask but, from the corner of his eye, caught Ben’s amused grin. “I wish you well, Ben. You can always ‘bumfoozle’ the poor girl into your arms. I’ll be sorry to miss it.”
The lad halted mid-stride. “Are you headed up-country?”
“Of course, back to London the day after tomorrow. No one in Cornwall has need of me now.” The words brought a vague discomfort to his guts, but then he’d also foregone breakfast.
Instead, he’d written up another report and listened to Mason’s painful story.
The chap had been a cryptographer at Whitehall, but the murder of his sister had compelled him down a different path, his work giving him access to relevant files. Five months previous, he’d noted Rainham’s interest in the Tamsyn Penrose incident and decided to take matters into his own hands, resigning his employment and crafting his façade as research assistant.
All to avenge his beloved sister.
“Pfff,” replied Ben, wiggling his eyebrows, “like Jan Tresize’s geese, some are never happy unless they’re where they ain’t.”
Jack grinned. “Plum as bun dough, my lad.”
∞∞∞
For this evening’s celebration, Sir Jago uncorked a 1788 Grande Fine Clos du Griffier Cognac in the study which, according to Cornish smuggler’s legend, had been obtained from the drinks cabinet of Napoleon himself no less.
A second bottle could be found at the Blue Anchor.
Another at the Six Bells.
And one at the Treloor Inn, if he recalled correctly.
Guilt smote Jack as he sat in the leather armchair and glared at the precious amber liquid.
Feted as a hero by Sir Jago, his conscience squirmed. He’d bedded the daughter of the house. Ruined her. Taken her innocence with a needy rapaciousness.
Except… Jack took a gulp, hardly noticing the smooth smoky burn or spicy flavour. Except… He couldn’t regret a single moment.
And over the past day, it was that which had worried him most. It meant he genuinely was a rogue, seducing a maiden and not giving a damn. He’d adored every thrilling taste. And he wanted to repeat it again and again…and again.
What did that make him?
“You’re an outstanding chap, Winterbourne.”
Spluttering as the brandy landed in his lungs, he peered up with blurred eyes. Witch’s thighs, that was strong liquor – Napoleon must have had the constitution of a horse.
“I… I did what any gentleman would have done.” Faugh, what an absurd reply, but never had he engaged in small talk with the father of a woman he’d seduced. All at once, every word had connotations so he navigated the conversation to safer waters. “We found the fake captain had indeed served in the army. Under the real Lynch in fact, at the Battle of Nive according to papers in his lodgings, but he was court-martialled for looting when he should have been fighting.” He’d also found the bugger had been blackmailing a mail coach lad to open Jack’s letters, but he’d let that lie.
Gazing off into the distance, Sir Jago sighed. “Wickedness lives in all men to some degree.” Those brown eyes returned to pierce Jack. “I was concerned when your name came up, having heard the tales, but Rainham assured me you were a good lad.”
“Well, not all of those tales are true,” Jack insisted.
“Hmm. You’re not quite the rogue I was led to believe.”
He was. He really was. But… “I strive to enjoy life and bring joy without causing hurt, Sir Jago. I’m not sure what that makes me.”
His convivial host leaned over the desk, hands clasped. “When I lost my beloved wife, my own world dimmed to nothing, and I’ve witnessed many a soul become bitter and beaten by life’s trials, so I admire anyone who seeks to elicit joy.” He sniffed his brandy and smiled. “Have you heard us Cornish sing?”
Jack shook his head.
“Cornwall is no Eden for many,” he continued. “Clay pits, the mines, fishing – all precarious ways to earn a wage. But we sing, and it spreads joy, soothes the soul and vents all the bile that a body could hold. Shame you’re not staying longer to hear it.”
“Indeed…” Shifting uneasily, Jack fiddled with his lime-green waistcoat – for once cursing the frivolity of it because he didn’t feel frivolous at all.
“I meant to ask, Sir Jago. Are you aware of any…” He didn’t wish to insult anyone. “…coastal afflictions here in Cornwall? From the sea air, I mean. Shortness of breath and palpitations, lack of concentration, that sort of thing?”
Sir Jago sat back, lounged in fact, with a slight tilt to his lips. “It rather sounds like something I caught years back, but it’s not confined to the coast, I’m afraid.”
Well, at least Sir Jago still lived and breathed, as Jack had wondered if he was to meet his maker at any moment. “So, it cures with time?”
“Personally, I found it never left me, but I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”
Jack loosened his cravat. That’s what he’d concluded. Ignore it and the affliction might lift of its own accord. “Well, Sir Jago, I thank you greatly for your hospitality, kindness and excellent advice. Good health.”
The chap rose, also raising his glass. “And I thank you also, Lord Winterbourne, for saving my daughter in every way – both her life and her spirit. The strongest and most beautiful woman I know.”
Jack stood and drank heartily to that.