Chapter Four
“Talk of the Devil, and he’s presently at your elbow.”
(English proverb. 1666)
“A fribble,” muttered Tamsyn as she dismounted in the stables of Penrose Manor.
Spriggan neighed in agreement and nibbled her hair, receiving an apple for loyalty.
“Sorry we was too far behind, Miss Penrose,” Benjamin said, hefting the saddle to the tack room, “but never you fret, me and Samuel had that London dandiprat sweatin’ like a furze hook in a dewy ditch.”
Tamsyn grinned. Ben’s Grandfather Thomas had a saying for every occasion – or made one up if he didn’t.
Yet it had to be acknowledged that the Marquess of Winterbourne had not looked sweaty at all.
He’d looked utterly…dry, even beneath a sweltering Cornish sky.
Obviously not expecting female company, the marquess had removed his jacket, revealing enough billowing muslin to clothe two Penrose household maids and a footman. A pale-lemon waistcoat, which wouldn’t remain pale for longer than a gull’s squawk, had shielded his broad chest, and surely a bootjack and fork would be required to prise him from those cream buckskins at night.
He embodied town sophistication…and country ineptitude. Dusted buckskins indeed!
Stomping from the stables and circling Petrok, the resident peacock, she considered his aspect. Dark flashing eyes, strong classical features and curled raven-black locks – he must sleep with curling papers in his hair.
For such a fribble, the only contradiction was that one would expect his demeanour to hold a hint of softness, of dissipation, but he exuded masculine grace and strength, dark stubble adding to the general air of wickedness.
Even here in Cornwall, they’d heard the tales of Lord Winterbourne.
His exploits with a certain Saxony princess had been the talk of Helston for eleven days until Lady Mundy’s footman had run away with three silver teaspoons, a family pug and the daughter of the house – the debate as to order of importance had rumbled on for a further six…until the pug had returned home.
Now here the marquess was. The most famous rogue of London Town under her family’s roof.
Why?
Tamsyn frowned as she clumped through the kitchen door and dropped into a chair to unlace her grimy boots, cook tutting at the state of her through a mist of flour and dough.
News of this dandy’s imminent arrival had been imparted by Father a week ago, that he was to assist in a business matter, but it all sounded more than a little havey-cavey to Tamsyn.
Papa had waffled on, eyes shifting…shiftily.
A business matter? China clay pits? What would a London fribble know of those?
Evidently, she’d have to question Lord Winterbourne…at length. Tamsyn hadn’t spent three weeks assisting Dr Tuffle with his famed work, China Clay – The Geology, Geography and Industry, for nothing.
She dashed up the servants’ staircase from the basement, stone steps cool on her stockinged feet.
For some days, she’d been worried, worried the marquess was coming for her… To question and probe and hence rekindle the horrors of that night six years past, but surely Whitehall no longer concerned itself with such a long-ago event?
And truly, the Marquess of Winterbourne? A Whitehall spy?
Snorting, she paused on the top step, letting dark memories ebb and flow…of lying unconscious in that dank cave for hours until the search party had found them, of then lying bedridden for months with inflammation of the lungs and infection of wounds.
She’d been left pitiful, silent, a quaking mass of hushed terror.
But now that French demon was firmly in her past and there he would remain. Too long had she waited, watched the shadows, dreaded the night he’d return.
Yet he hadn’t.
And she would refuse to let him blight her days any longer.
Perhaps the marquess genuinely was here on business – after all, there must be quite a demand for porcelain figurines of himself; he could sell them to sighing admirers or gift them as farewell tokens to past loves.
“Tamsyn? Are you well?”
Whirling, she tamed her scowl to a smile. “I happened across the Marquess of Winterbourne on my ride.”
“Eeeeks,” Lowdy squealed. And she never squealed.
“Not you as well. Are you all agog to meet him then?”
“I saw him at a London ball once, dancing a quadrille.” Lowdy sighed, tripping on the Axminster rug as she drifted over.
What was it about this irksome fribble that sent everyone into a tizzy?
The local newspaper had once devoted an entire column to his effect on London ladies – fainting, dropping of handkerchiefs and stumbling were commonplace mishaps when the marquess sauntered by.
“I expect,” Tamsyn muttered, spryly marching across the entrance hall, “that he was perfect at it.”
“Yes! How did you know? So agile and commanding and his smile…” Lowdy heaved another sigh. “He never noticed me, of course.”
Pulling up the hem of her riding habit so as not to dirty the staircase, Tamsyn made for her bedchamber, with Lowdy extolling the many delights of Lord Winterbourne. Apparently, he also ate with great delicacy, played the piano with brilliant skill and regaled with many an entertaining story.
Did the man do everything with such expertise?
“Does he deign to bathe himself, do you think, or is it the valet’s job to mop him down?”
“Tamsyn Penrose!” Lowdy held a hand to her mouth. “Never tell me you didn’t like him?”
“I didn’t like him.”
“Why not?” Lowdy appeared as though Christmas had been cancelled.
Tamsyn paused outside her bedchamber.
Why not indeed?
Perhaps because he had made her feel like a tangled urchin as he’d scrutinised her hair with a frown? Maybe it had been his immaculate attire whilst she herself had been grubby from tip to toe?
But none of those reasons would reflect well upon her.
“Perfect looks can deceive,” she finally answered.
Her companion merely pursed her lips. “Do you think he’ll attend the assembly ball with us tonight? He is early by one day.”
“I doubt it,” she said, ambling through the door and unbuttoning her riding habit. “He is used to more sophisticated events than our monthly dance in Helston.”
Lowdy helped peel off the bodice, but Tamsyn’s eyes skittered from the sight of herself in the tall mirror.
And in that moment of reflection came a horrid realisation. She was…resentful.
Resentful of Lord Winterbourne’s perfection. Of his flawless skin, faultless form and sheer lustre.
Her breath shallowed and Lowdy bent to lift Tamsyn’s chin with gentle fingers. “Tam?”
“I…” A rising tautness gripped her throat, clutched her voice, snatching it away. Her chest tightened, breath so shallow it pained – no words, no sound, nothing.
“Slow, Tam. Inhale slowly. As I showed you.”
She complied, breathed softly, thought of the sea, limpid and serene, until the tension receded.
“I’m an awful person,” she whispered. Resentment of others was a bitter emotion – it destroyed one’s soul and hid true self. Spiteful words were so much easier than admitting one’s own flaws.
A hug engulfed her, warm and fragranced with lavender. “Don’t be a goosecap, Tam, and besides, you are probably right about the marquess. The earl called him a licentious scapegrace with the morals of an alley cat.”
That didn’t particularly console, the earl being a distant cousin of Lowdy’s, who’d used her as both hostess in London and unpaid companion for his mother until he’d found a wife; then surplus to requirements, Lowdy had been turfed out.
The wretch.
Tamsyn stared into Lowdy’s dark-brown eyes, so dissimilar to her own. “I do not know what I would do without you.”
“Pfff. I would be homeless if not for you and Sir Jago. And probably dead. Or a harlot, which would be worse.” She grinned, revealing dimples. “And Lord Winterbourne is doubtless unintelligent. Most rakes are. I remember a Lord Whitely in London and he too was handsome and had the reputation of a scoundrel yet couldn’t count past ten. That’s probably why the marquess is a day early.”
Tamsyn smiled. “You have the right of it. Surely Lord Winterbourne can’t be perfect at everything?”
∞∞∞
“The Penrose estate was listed in the Domesday Book and has been owned by the same family since the fourteenth century. Mostly medieval, the stone-built manor house was remodelled in the sixteenth century by–”
“Yes, yes, Miggens. It’s old,” agreed Jack as he stared at the ancient building before him. It rose from the earth like something from a Gothic novel, all mullioned windows and crenelated parapets – must be the very devil to keep heated and he dare not think of the privies.
A haughty butler – weren’t they always? – deposited him in the study, after informing him he was a day early, but soon enough the door opened and a giant of a man entered. Jack was tall, but this chap had to duck low beneath the stone lintel.
“I’m Sir Jago Penrose, and it’s a pleasure.” A huge paw enveloped his own. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
Gads, with a daughter in the house, it was a wonder he’d been allowed over the threshold.
“A pleasure also, Sir Jago. Thank you for allowing my stay.”
“You’re a day early, you realise?” His gaze dwelled on Jack’s impeccable cravat. “No matter, but I’m afraid we’ve an assembly ball to attend in Helston this evening and everyone is making preparations. You’re quite welcome to come along, of course, unless you’re wearied from your journey?”
After all those days twiddling his thumbs and toes in the carriage, Jack would even attend a debutante’s tea party for some company.
And he could begin the mission: flatter, cajole, gather information, depart.
“I will gladly join you for the ball, if it’s no bother.”
“Splendid. I will have repast and a bath sent to your chambers. Our cook’s hevva cake is of particular acclaim. We leave in little over an hour when you’ll also meet our other house guests.”
Jack prevented his brow from rising. House guests would be a pain in the posterior whilst endeavouring to woo the lady of the house; they opened doors at inappropriate times, stumbled upon illicit conversations and felt the need to interfere – he should know as he’d been one often enough.
“We have Great-Aunt Sarah Pencally in residence as chaperone, in addition to a professor and his assistant who are studying the legends of Cornwall as the library is full of ancient texts and suchlike. Our scholarly professor has already departed for Helston.” He turned with twinkling eyes. “Ostensibly to visit the church but I believe the Blue Anchor Inn to be more plausible.”
Sir Jago seemed a thoroughly decent chap. Jovial but evidently not easily fooled, he had a kind, open manner. Hair, more grey than brown, fell untidily over his brow, astute eyes silently appraising throughout their conversation.
Jack only hoped he would pass muster as a brace of tidy pistols hung on the study wall behind Sir Jago’s desk, and the report detailing his threat to Carlsbrook’s ballocks still lingered.
“I look forward to meeting them all,” he lightly fibbed.
“Good. I shall also introduce my daughter when she appears, but we can discuss other matters tomorrow or else we’ll be late. Remember, ’tis a local assembly, so black breeches not pantaloons, no swords or boots, leave your cane at the door and…” He tapped his lip. “…I believe the Master of Ceremonies forbade coloured handkerchiefs last month.”
Faugh, this local frolic had more rules than Almack’s.
With a friendly pat, Sir Jago accompanied him to the hall where Jack noted his valet lurking beneath the stairs, and he was about to tell him to cease lurking when an attractive bundle of blond dashed across the way, caught Jack’s eye, tripped over a curled rug corner and dropped the basket of roses she was carrying.
“Ah, Lowdy,” called Sir Jago, “allow me to present the Marquess of Winterbourne. And this is Miss Treherne, my daughter’s companion.”
Jack made a refined leg and brought this lady’s fingers to his lips. They trembled somewhat, and he gazed up to meet cheeks the hue of late summer apples.
The rogue within surveyed her form in one glance. Rounded in all the right places, smooth hands, pretty ringlets and sparkling eyes the colour of coffee. Fetching. Shy. Sweet.
“Lord Winterbourne. I’ve heard so much about you,” she enthused.
How inconvenient.
If this lady passed on any wild anecdotes to Miss Penrose, she’d think him an utter libertine. Which he was, but that was beside the point.
“Have you now, Miss Treherne. Don’t believe all those tales, will you?”
The hue deepened to downright crimson.
Lud, how had his reputation travelled the three hundred or so miles west to Cornwall? And surely this ancient duchy had its own rogues?
A valet’s clearing of throat interrupted them. “Miss Treherne, a surprise and a pleasure.”
She stiffened, eyes widening to pools of porter ale, and Jack cocked a brow as Miggens continued to overstep the valet’s code of concealment.
“Oliv– I mean, Mr Miggens.” She swiftly turned, colour fading to turnip white. “Whatever are you doing here?”
After producing an exuberant bow worthy of a true Winterbourne, Miggens then gathered the fallen pink roses and presented her with the basket, gaze devouring the sweet armful.
Intriguing.
Jack had always considered his half-brother a fairly staid fellow, as never had he seen him glance at a woman with such…interest. Curious how the offspring of utter scoundrels often became more moral than a nun.
Not himself, naturally.
“I’m his lordship’s manservant,” Miggens replied.
“Oh, of course. I… Well, ’tis most pleasant to meet you again. I have to…attend Miss Penrose.” And she flew away as though a hawk were hunting her.
Ever more intriguing.
A young freckled maid led them upstairs, winding around the passageways of the ancient house with ease – he’d need a piece of string to find his way in this place – until they came to a sumptuous corner room decked out with everything a man could want: walnut desk, brimming decanters, huge bed.
“Here we are, my lord. And if there be anything I can do for you,” she purred, gazing solely at his buckskins, “send for Lucy.”
“Thank you, Lucy. I believe I’ve all one could need.” Jack flipped her a coin and a smile, before removing the key from the door.
“Best you leave that where ’tes, my lord,” she warned, frowning, “so as them piskies can’t climb through and pester you in the night.”
Temptation beckoned a bawdy jest but for now he heeded the maid’s advice, returned the key and closed the door, deciding to plague Miggens instead.
“Want to tell me all about the delectable Miss Treherne?” he drawled, heading to the side table and prodding the flat cake which sat upon it; crumbs scattered.
“Stubble it, my lord,” Miggens groused. “And don’t touch her,” he added, dawdling to the small adjacent chamber which would suffice as his quarters.
“That tells me all I needed to know.” Jack nibbled at the cake – rather moreish. Sweet and buttery with fat raisins. “I’m interested in these piskies though. Do you suppose they come in pairs?”