Secrets of Midnight (41 page)

Corisande nodded at Marguerite, who held up the
diamond-framed miniature of V6ronique for her younger sisters to see.

"She looks like you, Corie—a bit like Mama, too,"
Linette said very softly.

"Yes, and all of this is a gift from Mama to us,"
Corisande murmured as she returned the beautiful portrait medallion to the
chest and closed the lid. "Now lie down, all of you. This bed is certainly
big enough that you'll have plenty of room."

She was pleased that there was little complaint. The
covers were soon tucked in snugly, the lamp turned down, and Corisande had
almost reached the door when Estelle's sleepy voice drifted to her.

"Isn't Donovan going to come and tell us good
night?"

"I—I'll go see," Corisande fumbled, not
knowing what else to say.

He wasn't below deck, that she soon realized after a
quick search of the first mate's cabin; the crew's berths were empty, too, all
of the men probably at their posts until they were farther out into the
Channel. She climbed the narrow stairs, a balmy breeze stirring her hair as she
stepped onto the deck. She saw Donovan at once, standing far to the prow,
standing so tall and straight that her throat closed tightly as she remembered
how close that knife had come—Dear God, she loved him so much.

She loved him so very much!

Corisande was astounded, for the first time not denying
to herself the truth of what lay in her heart. For the first time not wishing
for it to go away or that she didn't want it . . . for the first time not
feeling afraid. She felt only one
thing, that
she
wanted desperately to be with him. She must have flown across the deck, for in
the next instant she was standing just behind him . . .

"Donovan?"

He spun, and her stomach sank to her shoes at the
hardness of his expression, the tension in his body.

"Donovan, I—"

"What, Corie? Come to tell me you can't wait for
us to reach Porthleven so you can formally lay your charges against me?"

His voice was a low growl, and she shivered. "Charges?"

"I'm an informer, remember? At least according to
you."

"No, no, I wanted to thank you for helping me find
my sisters," she blurted out, realizing with a sick feeling that Donovan
was clearly in no mood to talk to her. She
stammered,
her thoughts suddenly in a jumble. "I—I would have liked to thank that
other man too—"

"And his American friends?"

She stared at him, wholly confused as he gave a hollow
laugh.

"An Englishman with American friends in a French
port, and we're at bloody war with both of them."

"You—you think those other men were American?"

Donovan shrugged. "I heard them talking among
themselves when Oliver and his crew came running—and it wasn't the
king's
English. Hell, it doesn't matter."

He turned abruptly back to the railing, and Corisande
felt as if she had been dismissed, Donovan's broad back still stiff with
tension.

"I . . . I was wondering how your wound—"

"A scratch. Already seen to, thank you. One of the
crew kindly loaned me a clean shirt."

He said no more, and Corisande didn't have the heart to
press things further. Now was not the time. He was obviously furious with her.
But hopefully tomorrow—

"Your sisters. They're well?"

She started, suddenly encouraged that his tone had
grown softer. "Yes, yes, fine. Estelle, in fact, was asking for you. She
wanted to tell you good night—"

"You tell them for me. You should get some rest
yourself. Bloody big day for you."

His sarcasm hitting her like a fierce blow, Corisande
turned away, scarcely able to see for the tears burning her eyes as she fled
across deck. She didn't stop until she had reached Oliver's cabin, fumbling
with the door in an attempt to close it quietly.

"Corie?"

"Go to sleep, Estelle, go to sleep," she said
hoarsely, grabbing an extra blanket and throwing it around her shoulders before
settling herself in a stuffed wing chair bolted to the floor. "Donovan
said he would see you when you wake up, all right?"

Corisande got no answer; gentle sounds of sleeping came
from the bed while she could but stare blindly into the darkness.

***

"Corie, will 'ee wake up? You girls have slept
right through the docking, 'ee have!"

Corisande blinked open her eyes, squinting at the
daylight streaming in the door. "What . . . ?"

"It's Oliver, Corie! An' I'm telling 'ee, Frances
is damned an' determined to climb up the gangplank herself if you an' your
sisters don't show yourselves to her an' quick! Can't ee hear her bellowing?
Like a cow she sounds, bawling for her calves!"

Corisande started from the chair, suddenly feeling
dizzy from standing up too quickly. She was so groggy she could but mumble a
hoarse thank-you to Oliver as she went to the bed to shake her sisters awake.
Then she heard it, carrying down the stairs from outside, Frances's voice loud enough
to shake the very timbers of the ship.

"Marguerite, Linette, and Estelle Easton, I'll not
be waiten another minute! I don't want to come aboard the ship—I like to feel
the good, steady land beneath me, but I will! An' that goes for you, too, Corie
Véronique! Come out here this very instant so I can see all my girls are safe!"

"Well, did you hear her?" Corisande blurted
out to her sisters, who looked like rumpled ragamuffins as they yawned and
stretched, while Estelle was already clambering from the bed. "Up with you
and go give Frances a hug!"

Estelle and Linette needed no second urging but
skittered from the cabin, as Oliver followed after them, shaking his head. But
Marguerite stood looking at her doubtfully.

"I can't go out there like this, Corie," she
said, glancing down at her dirty flannel nightgown. "And my hair isn't
brushed—"

"I'm sorry but I can't do anything for your hair,"
Corisande said wryly as she took off her cloak. "Here, put this on. It'll
do until you get home."

Smiling gratefully, Marguerite whisked the cloak around
her shoulders and darted from the cabin, leaving Corisande to pick up the chest
and fit it snugly under her arm. Wondering if poor Oliver had had to awaken
Donovan, too, she hastened up the steps, smiling at the brilliant sunny day
that greeted her, smiling in anticipation of seeing him.

Her eyes swept the deck, but he wasn't there. She
imagined he must have joined the noisy crowd milling on the dock. It appeared
much of the parish had turned out to welcome them home, no doubt everyone
having heard of her sisters' plight.

She could see Frances beaming from ear to ear, laughing
and crying at the same time as she hugged first Estelle, then Linette and
Marguerite, then all three at once. And there was her father, beaming as broadly
as Frances and surprising Corisande that he would have braved such a crowd. But
she still didn't see Donovan—

"Corie."

She spun, her eyes meeting Oliver's, and at once her
smile faded as she saw his somber face, his perplexed eyes.

"Lord Donovan left the moment we docked, maybe a
half hour ago now. Didn't say much except to thank me an' that he had things to
do at home. I know 'tesn't my business, but did 'ee have a quarrel with the
man— Corie?"

She'd fled, barreling down the gangplank nearly
straight into Frances, taking only an instant to give the housekeeper a hug
before she thrust the chest into her arms.

"Take that home, Frances, and help Papa find a
safe place for it—
one we
won't forget!"

Frances looked from her to the wooden chest, sputtering
in confusion, but Corisande had already moved on to her father. He was
surrounded by her sisters, so she could only throw him a kiss,
then
she was ducking her way through the crowd, praying that
Pete was still where she'd left him in the Trelawnys' stable.

Chapter 37

"Y-you're leaving, my lord?"

"Yes, for London," Donovan said tersely to
Henry Gilbert, whose large Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed in
surprise. "I'll send word to you as to what needs to be done as soon as—"

"Needs to be done, my lord? Forgive me for
interrupting, but I don't understand."

"You will, Gilbert, you will," Donovan said
cryptically almost to himself, striding into the library. He had hoped not to
encounter anyone, pack a few
things
and be on his way,
but damned if Henry hadn't just been setting out for Porthleven, having heard
that the
Fair Betty
had returned.

It seemed the agent had hired a fisherman to watch for
the ship and then let him know as soon as it was sighted—Gilbert's loyalty
amazed him. But better he be loyal to look after Arundale's Kitchen and the
tinners' welfare when Donovan was gone. Just because he wouldn't be returning
to Cornwall didn't mean he wasn't going to honor his part of the agreement.

"Brandy?" he asked, and Henry looked even
more confused although he nodded. Donovan poured two brimming drinks and handed
one to the agent, then lifted his glass and half emptied it in a swallow while
Henry sipped his cautiously, no doubt recalling well the time he had nearly choked.
As Donovan remembered it, they had just made a toast to his marriage . . .

"Will Lady Donovan be accompanying you?"

Donovan didn't readily answer, tossing down the last of
his brandy.

"M-my lord?"

"No, Gilbert, she will not be accompanying me."
He set down the glass with a hard thunk on the desk, his gaze falling upon a
small stack of letters. "These arrive today?"

"No, yesterday evening, my lord, but you'd already
gone to Porthleven. I heard some news at the mine today,
though,
that I think might interest you. About Jack Pascoe."

Donovan looked up, his scrutiny so intense that Henry
appeared suddenly quite uncomfortable.

"If . . . if you care to hear it, my lord. You
seem in quite a hurry—"

"What news, man? Of course I'm bloody well
interested!"

"Well, my lord, Jack Pascoe's dead. An accident at
Great Work mine, or so they're saying. It seems he'd been drinking before he
came to work his core late last night and he started boasting that he'd brought
the king's excisemen down upon Oliver Trelawny and that one day they'd catch
him red-handed and your wife, too, my lord, please forgive me for saying so. I
heard all this from Jonathan Knill, whose brother works at Great Work and—"

"So what happened to the bastard?" Donovan
broke in with impatience, making Henry Gilbert jump.

"H-he slipped, my lord, slipped and tumbled down
the main shaft. At least that's what the tinners said when the accident was
reported. But I think—well, they've no love for informers around here—"

"So I've discovered," Donovan muttered, the
pain suddenly so fierce inside him that he suddenly wanted nothing more than to
escape it. To hell with packing! He could buy what he needed along the way and
in London. The sooner he was out of this house, out of Cornwall, the better. "Help
yourself
to the brandy, Gilbert," he said
tightly, thrusting the letters into his coat pocket. "A pity that such
fine stuff should go to waste."

He stormed from the library, and Henry Gilbert hastened
after him.

"But—but, my lord, some of those letters I believe
are bills. If you're going to London, shouldn't I see to—
"

"Take them all, man!" Donovan spun so
suddenly that Henry knocked into his arm, causing the letters to scatter to the
floor.

Cursing, he sank to his haunches to help the agent
retrieve them, noticing that one of letters was water-stained, the original
writing upon it nearly faded, although more recent writing clearly indicated it
had been forwarded from Arundale Hall. His heart seemed to stop when he saw
that the letter had come from Lisbon, his fingers trembling as he tore it open and
began to read.

"This one is addressed to you, my lord . . . from
Miss Lindsay Somerset."

"What?" Donovan's voice was so hoarse—God
help him, his daughter had been found! She was safe in Lisbon!—that he could
barely speak.

"From Lindsay Somerset, my lord."

"Are you sure it isn't for my wife?" Donovan
took the letter, hardly able to focus upon the feminine scrawl for the emotion
clouding his eyes while Henry Gilbert could only stare at him. "What are
you looking at, man? Didn't you say you had bills to pay?"

"Yes, yes, my lord, I do. I most certainly do."
Henry fled with a handful of letters back into the library, leaving Donovan
standing alone in the entry hall.

Hell and damnation, what could Corisande's friend want
with him? He pocketed the letter about Paloma and angrily ripped open Lindsay's,
cursing when the top half tore off in his hand and fluttered to the floor. He
swept it up, deciding he wasn't even going to read the damned thing. Why should
he? He had other things to think about . . . his daughter to think about . . .
yet he began to read anyway almost in spite of himself . . .

I hope you don't think it too forward of me
to write to you, my lord, but it is only because I so dearly love Corie and
want the best for her. I've heard only the most wonderful things about you here
in London, and I told Corie so in my last letter—ah, but it's not my purpose
here to recount all of that. I wanted you to know how wonderful Corie is,
too—though I truly hope you've already discerned that for yourself —but she has
such a fearsome temper at times that I felt I must write to you and explain—

"Fearsome temper?" Donovan said with a snort,
reading on.

. . .
explain
that, well, Corie would never admit it, no, not even to me, but she's very
afraid, you know. I wondered a long time why she seemed so set upon scaring
away any young man who came near her, but when you look at her father—what
became of the poor man after her mother died—