Chapter Seven
Always be prepared.
(Rules of the Rogue. No. 7)
“Oh, Captain Lynch. I cannot possibly accept such a beautiful present.”
Jack loitered behind the study door, earwigging as some lackwit romanced Miss Penrose in the drawing room opposite.
To all intents and purposes, he was awaiting Sir Jago, who’d asked for a meeting on the hour of ten – another singularity of the country, everyone got up so bloody early – but as yet, he’d not appeared.
A caller, however, had knocked punctually and strenuously at the tenth chime and taken tea with Miss Penrose upon the rosewood settee. The male had then proceeded to court the female with a gift of some type of net.
Now why hadn’t he thought of that?
And how dare someone get in the way of his investigation? How was he supposed to woo if the lady already had a swain? No one had mentioned that, and obviously he didn’t like to poach.
But he would, of course. For Crown and Country.
Footfall behind disturbed him and he twisted his head to witness Benjamin Roskilly enter from the adjoining library, brandy bottle in hand.
“Who’s the caller, Benjamin?” he enquired casually as the lad commenced replenishing the study decanters. “Thrupenny for the information.” And quick as a wink, Jack returned his ear to the peddling of fulsome flattery in the drawing room.
The effusive lad sniffed. “March dust is worth a guinea an ounce.”
Benjamin, he had learned from Miggens, was the general dogsbody of the household – groom, footman and all-round knowledge pot – so Jack would do well to cultivate his friendship. But a guinea?
“How about sixpence?”
“Done. That’s Captain Lynch of the Thirteenth Light Dragoons. My hero,” he gushed, spilling brandy over the tray. “He fought at Waterloo and whopped Napoleon’s arse.” The boy meandered over and held out a palm. “Lost an eye whilst some folk were at the tailors buying fancy rigging.”
Jack raised a brow whilst handing over the silver. “Do not judge a man by his puce waistcoat, my young cub. There is more to most people than they portray.”
“Humph. Pigs may fly but they make unlikely birds.”
“Quite so.” And Jack sauntered into the hall just as this captain fogey was rendering his adieu with a slobber over Miss Penrose’s hand.
Maybe this beau would in fact assist his cause as the lady might appreciate some dry lips on her skin and some decent gifts to unwrap. “Good morning, Miss Penrose.”
“Lord Winterbourne.” She curtsied prettily, wearing a gown of slate grey, hair lustrous and slightly damp – so much for bathing solely on the full moon. “May I introduce Captain Lynch. And this is the Marquess of Winterbourne, our new house guest, Hugh.”
Hugh!
Jack narrowed his eyes. He’d have Miss Penrose calling himself Jack before the week was out or he wasn’t London’s foremost rogue.
Shorter than himself, Hugh had mud-coloured hair and an abundant moustache with overlong sideburns and a firm chin. One eye was covered by a black eyepatch which could be construed as piratical. Dull togs and dusty boots completed his tedious attire.
“Delighted.” They shook hands.
Firm.
Neither flinched.
“I hear you were in the Thirteenth Dragoons.”
“Yes. Sold my commission when a bothersome Frenchie prodded me in the eye at Waterloo.” The captain’s hand rose and he clicked his fingers, the snap echoing about the hall.
Did that mean something? Some coded army cue?
A charging Benjamin practically fell over his feet to hand the captain his cane and hat. Not a word of thanks or coin was produced; instead, he shooed the lad away with a dismissive flick of wrist and Ben bowed his way from the hall, nose in belly.
Gads, if he tried that with Miggens or any other servant of his employ, he’d end up with cold bathwater and salt in his tea.
“Well. Don’t let me keep you,” Jack drawled.
“Not at all, Lord Winterbourne.” The captain smiled, although it was difficult to tell beneath all that moustached bushiness. “Miss Penrose has just accepted my invitation to a picnic two days hence.”
Hell. First point to soldier boy.
“Splendid idea, Captain Lynch. I’d be glad to accept also as I do so adore a picnic,” Jack replied, bringing forth his most benign grin as Miss Penrose’s eyes widened to lakes. “I’ll supply the potted goose meat.”
The moustache drooped.
Second point to the rogue.
“Let’s invite the whole household,” joined in Miss Penrose, lips twitching. “Lowdy, the professor, Mr Sewell and anyone else who would care to join us.”
Game to the lady of the house.
∞∞∞
“Handsome is that handsome does,” muttered Tamsyn as she reordered her wardrobe of grey from light to dark.
“What does that actually mean?”
Tamsyn spun to her companion who sat on the bed sorting through the button box. “I’m not sure, but it sounds apt.”
Truly, how could the arrival of one marquess turn an entire household on its head?
The maids were all aflutter, requiring every one of Mrs Mildern’s dire future warnings to control them. The professor had commandeered two footmen for the alphabetical rearrangement of the library at Lord Winterbourne’s suggestion, and the research assistant Mr Sewell had disappeared to Helston with Samuel – that may not have been due to their new house guest but he received the blame nonetheless.
The disruptive gentleman had also run roughshod over poor Captain Lynch.
“He invited himself to the captain’s picnic.”
“Hmm. More the merrier. Lynch can be rather…pompous.”
“Lowdy!”
“I know, I know,” she said, looking up with a rueful smile. “But there it is. You like him, so I won’t say another word.”
Did she like him? He was the only man to show her any attention…or the only one she had allowed. Most probably because he would understand. He would understand how it felt to be flawed.
But Tamsyn often wondered if the captain would click his fingers and expect a wife to come running. With tea or biscuits. To sing or dance. Or to his bed.
Yet a gentleman like Lord Winterbourne was simply someone to admire from afar with his aquiline nose, silken hair and…lips. Yes, she remembered them on the back of her hand – perfectly dry and so very soft.
She shuddered and sought a different topic.
“I saw you talking with Lord Winterbourne’s manservant earlier.”
A vibrant flush flooded Lowdy’s cheeks. “He’s just a…a valet.”
“You seemed cosy.” Indeed, she’d spied them from a window, walking the grounds, and noted the valet’s attentive manner. He’d even shortened his stride to accommodate Lowdy’s stature – such a thoughtful action as men oft strode on oblivious, leaving a lady to rush along in skirts and silk slippers.
“We were merely discussing old times.” Lowdy made herself uncommonly busy with a gold button, until it spun from her hand and rolled under the bed. “Mr Miggens worked in my cousin’s household whilst I was there.” She picked at the coverlet instead, unravelling a loose thread.
“And?”
Brown eyes the colour of morning coffee gazed up. “He… He was always so nice to me, Tamsyn. Kind and… He’d sneak me jam cakes when the old countess forbade me. Or help me wind the wool she’d left all over the floor for the cats to tangle.”
Tamsyn inwardly cursed. From what she could gather, the Earl of Fowlmere and his mother had treated Lowdy abominably. Left with no option, she had been obliged to accept her distant cousin’s aid after her father had gambled his inheritance away and then conveniently died, leaving her homeless – a gentlewoman with neither prospects nor dowry.
She belonged to the society stratum of nowhere – neither working servant nor marriageable lady.
“Does he have feelings for you? Do you him?”
“I… When the earl told me that he was to marry and I must find a position elsewhere, Oli– I mean Mr Miggens, he held me. Kissed my forehead. Told me all would be well. But I don’t deserve someone that caring, Tamsyn, and I-I left without a word.”
“Don’t deser… Why ever not?”
Yet it appeared that was all she would reveal as her eyes shuttered, brow creasing. “And he is only a valet.”
“A kind, thoughtful and brawny valet,” Tamsyn supplied.
Lowdy’s button nose scrunched. “Brawny is that brawny does.”
∞∞∞
Damn.
Jack plucked a familiar book from the study shelf and tightened his lips.
China Clay – The Geology, Geography and Industry.
It looked well-thumbed and he could only hope said thumb did not belong to the daughter of the house.
A dedication caught his eye.
Dearest Tamsyn,
my sincere gratitude for all the assistance and expertise you contributed to this work,
Dr Tuffle
FGS, FRGS, AWCF
Damn.
Replacing the cursed tome, his gaze caught on a miniature of a young Miss Penrose posing defiantly, blue eyes ablaze.
“You should’ve seen my daughter at sixteen,” a male boomed. “Wild as the sea in November and with a laugh that could knock a man back in awe.” Sir Jago came to stand at his side and drew a finger along the frame. “I thought when she began to regain her voice, some of that spirit might return, but it’s been almost a year now and she… She lives life half-heartedly, seeks to blend in. I see her old self struggle through but…”
Jack accepted the proffered miniature for closer inspection and smiled at her bold gaze. “Your daughter’s reticence did not extend to myself at the assembly ball,” he offered with a chuckle.
“No, indeed, displayed her mother’s pluck. A trait I’ve not seen for quite some time.” A gleam entered those acorn-brown eyes. “And you were the cause. Brandy?”
Smidgeon early but when a man doth to Rome come, he must do as there is done. Or something similar.
Replacing the frame carefully upon the shelf, he wondered at the closeness betwixt father and daughter. “I believe your wife died some years ago, Sir Jago.”
He nodded, handing over a generous dram, sorrow evident. “Yes. She’d relatives in Ireland. A storm struck and the boat foundered. No survivors.”
Jack closed his eyes.
Drowning. Always there were reminders…
“I’m so very sorry for your loss.”
Sir Jago seated himself behind his darkened oak desk, took a sip and paused, no doubt to regather his thoughts. “You must be wondering why I invited you here?”
“It had crossed my mind.” Jack settled into a plush armchair opposite.
“Tamsyn lived in silence for nigh five years. I’d watch her fight for breath and speech, sought to alleviate it with tonics and medicines.” He brushed his brow with an unsteady hand. “That fearful night stole her words, reduced my Tam to a mere shadow, and I am so very afraid that if she doesn’t reveal that fear, silence might return.”
“Did she never tell you of that night herself or write it down?”
Sir Jago shook his head. “Perhaps I should have forced her, but if you had seen her. The blood…”
Bile stirred. “Blood?”
“Of course, you wouldn’t know as we kept it from your Whitehall man. But the bastard… He cut her.”
Jack slugged the liquor in one, rage at the violence men could inflict scattering his thoughts. Sounds of childhood flitted in his head: Mama crying, a striking palm, a scream from the pretty upstairs maid.
Foul temper was another trait which snaked within a Winterbourne’s veins and he felt it rise and crest. But unlike Father, Jack strove to subdue its fierce lash, to observe and guide it toward calmer waters.
The brandy spread its warmth within and temper ebbed.
“How did your daughter come to speak again? Was it gradual?”
“No, not at all. One day last autumn, we heard screaming, raw and shrill from the lake. We ran and… The girls had gone boating, had a picnic, but Lowdy had fallen in, fainted, and although Tamsyn had swum to her, she’d struggled to hold Lowdy’s head above water, their skirts dragging them down, the lake too deep.”
“So they might have drowned had your daughter not found the courage to scream?” Jack paced to the decanters and refilled with shaking hand.
“Yes. A whisper that grew in shivering strength until her cry finally reached us.” Sir Jago fiddled with the ink pot. “I don’t believe she would have let go of Lowdy, even if it had meant her own watery grave. My daughter… I used to believe that only fear kept her silent, which is in some way true, but ’tis more complicated than that. A London doctor told me nothing was wrong with her voice or throat, that she was shamming, but I know my Tamsyn.”
Jack returned to his seat, held Sir Jago’s gaze. “Your daughter, Sir, is most brave.”
“Yes, like her mother.” And he turned his stare to the window, eyes dimmed.
With troubled mind, Jack took a deep breath. Before the hesitant Miss Penrose imparted her secrets, she would need to trust a man.
The problem was, he’d journeyed to Cornwall bearing solely lies and deceit.