The Defiant Lady Pencavel (13 page)

“Why don’t we find out, m’lady?” Clowenna shook out a chemise from Melwyn’s portmanteau, her gaze alight with mischief.

“What do you mean?” Melwyn sat on her bed, hiked up her skirt and two petticoats, and untied her gold filigree silk garters from above her knees.

“I mean, ‘ee need some adventure afore you leave England. Still over two weeks till you’re of age, an’ no promise o’ money to sail. We could travel to that there Merther Manor an’ see what the man be up to.” Her abigail sat beside her. “I could question his servants, now couldn’t I?”

“That sounds foolhardy to the extreme.” Melwyn rolled down her stockings, her mind tumbling over this suggestion. The possibilities of seeing Lambrick again did entice yet unnerved her. “Why would I care to be anywhere near that blackguard, in his own home, under his jurisdiction?”

“To uncover the true criminal that he be?” Clowenna poked her shoulder with a forefinger. “‘Ee could snoop about that huge manor ‘ee refuses to be mistress of. No secret your da controls your inheritance. If we prove his lordship be a miscreant, it might shock the master into givin’ ‘ee control. How else is we to live abroad?”

“You are a conniving wench, whom I’ve taught well. But—it still sounds insane.” Melwyn rubbed a cramp in her calf from her climbing about the villa. “Lord Lambrick might never allow us to stay there, and would mistrust our motives.” The remembrance of intense dark eyes sent shivers along her shoulders. She sighed. “Dash it all, I like it. We’ll do just that, and I am curious about the manor. I’ll send a letter announcing our impending visit, but we’ll leave here before he’ll have the chance to refuse us.”

****

Griffin stared across into the pasture at his flock. The sheep were Dartmoor, a descendent of Cornish Heath. Medium sized and short legged, the animals were classified as Lustre and Longwool. They were shorn now, and looked bedraggled as they munched at the grass.

He smiled in appreciation that their wool financed his other activities and the upkeep of his home.

He breathed deeply of the mossy smell of the pasture, the stink of sheep. Then the scent of linseed oil reached him, and he turned. Mrs. Loveday, his housekeeper, approached.

“Good afternoon, sir.” The slender older woman with the pert face smiled her sweet smile he remembered from throughout his life. “They’re fine specimens, your sheep.”

“Indeed they are. The estate is well managed as when my parents were alive, don’t you agree?” Here was one woman whose approval he’d always sought.

“It is. But when will you wed, sir? You need a fine lad to leave this estate to. Don’t let it pass to a greedy cousin, or some-such nonsense.” She tugged at her mobcap lappet. “Since your beloved brother died in the war with those frog-eaters, there is no heir.”

Griffin stuffed aside the mention of Alan. He loathed to think about his younger brother who died in the Austrian Netherlands, fighting the damned French. His stomach clenched. This tragedy gnawed at him, but it was best to leave the past in the past. 

“You ask me about my marriage prospects every day. Before, I could put it off, but I am rethinking that decision as I am growing older.” He should pursue a docile, insipid girl, but the idea made him downhearted. For some reason, the blistering spirit of Miss Pencavel was much more to his liking. However, he had little hope of ever taming such a hellion into a recognizable domestic pattern.

“Your dear, if very ordinary parents, would have been exceedingly pleased to see you happily settled, sir.” Mrs. Loveday patted his shoulder. “And perhaps it is time to curtail your dealings—though I know nothing about them—in your secret tunnel.”

“It may be time to desist, if I’m not yet certain. A woman would heartily disapprove, as you’ve just proven.” He turned around to view his home. Built in the Elizabethan era, where comfort took place over defense in more peaceable times, Merther Manor was constructed in an H shape with tall many-paned mullioned windows in its golden brick facade. The roofline was curved in a Flemish influence. “I released Lady Pencavel from our contract, and I’m sure she was delighted.”

“You were always a wayward boy, but this may be for the best, m’lord.” Mrs. Loveday lowered her eyes. “If I may speak out of turn, you do know about her mother?”

“A shame that the poor girl must live under such a dark shadow. However, I didn’t think it common knowledge. Most of the
ton
in London seemed ignorant.” He harbored sympathy for Miss Pencavel? Griffin shrugged it off. He must move on, trudge forward, march into battle...philosophically of course.

“She isn’t good enough for you, sir. Inclinations like that could run rampant in the blood.” The older woman shook her head in lament. “The servants wouldn’t be safe.”

“Lady Pencavel professed a clean slate to me.” Nevertheless, women could find many ways in which to finagle.

A horse galloped in the distance. When horse and rider drew closer, Griffin stiffened as he recognized the sheriff of the Padstow region.

Rawlyn Tremayne reined in his mount, and lifted his bicorn hat. “Good day to you, Grif. Mrs. Loveday, it’s always a pleasure.”

“Is it a pleasure, Raw? What brings you out to my estate?” Griffin considered the sheriff a friend, but any lawman on his property presented a problem. “Do I have poachers?”

“We’re the profoundly honest people we’ve always been.” Mrs. Loveday smiled benevolently at the sheriff. “Nothing to see here.” She excused herself and scurried back into the manor.

“Merely a social call, pray?” Griffin asked, studying his friend. “I have some fine Canary we could partake of, if you are so inclined.”

“Don’t I wish, my good sir.” Raw dismounted and swiped his hat over his dusty breeches. “I’m afraid I’ve had more complaints from the excise men, and because of that, the High Sheriff is concerned.” His horse snorted and stomped a front hoof as if in agreement. 

“In what capacity are these unfounded complaints, exactly?” Griffin turned from the man to hide any guilt, and started to walk toward the elegant, studded front door of his home.

“The revenuers say they were here about three months ago, and almost caught smugglers down in the cove.” The slender sheriff followed, his gaze noncommittal, his boots scuffing the gravel drive. “They’re certain they shot one of them.”

“Is there a body somewhere in the cove I should know about?” Griffin did his best arched-brow-in-irony as he paused before his door. He twisted at the front latch. “It would be decomposed by now.”

“Wounded, only, I believe.” Raw looked him up and down, and up again, his brow now arched as well. “How is your health?”

“Couldn’t be better, thank you for asking.” Griffin’s shoulder had completely healed by this time. He refrained from touching it. “If this incident happened months ago, why are you questioning me about it now?”

“I put if off for as long as possible, but pressure is being applied.” Rawlyn shrugged, but it seemed in exasperation. “I do have a job to perform, no matter our relationship.”

“I understand your unenviable position.” Griffin had behaved himself these past months, hoping everything would quiet down—or perhaps just slowing down himself. He disliked putting his friend in such quandary. “What else is the High Sheriff, the redoubtable John Enys, concerned about?” 

“That a man of good lineage and huge property holdings could be delving into illegal deeds.” Rawlyn stood, arms akimbo, scrutinizing Griffin. “I’ve warned you before, Grif. Soon I’ll be forced to act.”

“I pay my taxes on time, finance a war I wish had never happened, and have never sired any by-blows—that I’m aware of.” Griffin gave his what he knew to be disarming smile. He pressed a knuckle into the knot of tension on his nape. “He should leave me to my own devices.”

“A lawless land is not to Mr. Enys’s liking.” Rawlyn crimped his thin lips. “Don’t force me to investigate you too closely. Why must you play the daredevil? Find more acceptable pursuits.”

“Acceptable as the rest of my class? Drinking myself dotty on port? Gambling away my fortune, perchance? Dying in a duel over a perceived insult?” Griffin leaned against his door, his jaw tight. “I invest my money into the people here, my tenants, that’s what drives me.” And the thrill of being devious and clever, he didn’t say.

However, he was starting to admit to himself that his nocturnal exploits didn’t hold the same incentive as they did before he’d met a certain golden-haired vixen.

****

The hired landau driver hurried his team along the road to Merther Manor under scattered oak and beech trees. “You ladies without male escorts, tisk, tisk; wouldn’t have happened in my youth,” the middle-aged man grumbled. “‘Tis not safe at all.”

“Don’t be nettlesome, sir. Why do we women have to be treated like children?” Melwyn swayed in the seat and smacked his shoulder with her glove. “Women have sought rights to no avail for centuries. Christine de Pizan in the fifteenth century defended the value of women in her,
The Book of the City of Ladies.
And Englishwoman Aphra Behn was an abolitionist and a spy for Charles II. She also wrote plays deriding forced marriages.” 

“Me da was right; they should never teach women to read—or write, God preserve us.” The driver slapped the long reins over the horses’ sweaty backs. “Preggers an’ barefoot, that’s the way to keep ‘em.” 

“I’m still waitin’ to be taught.” Clowenna glared at her mistress as they jostled along. The silk flower on her straw hat bobbed up and down with the vehicle. “All this talk o’ women’s rights, an’ where’s mine?”

“We’ll start in the morning with your ABC’s and P’s and Q’s.” Melwyn nearly fell of the seat at the next jolt. She grabbed the wrist strap. “My dearly appreciated but impatient maid.”

“Criminey, what’s this world come to? Teachin’ lowly
servants
to read and write?” The driver groaned then spit out onto the road. “You should be whipped, Miss. You are not natural.”

“And you are an impertinent bounder. Do you realize you are speaking to an earl’s daughter?” Melwyn had never hidden behind her father’s rank before, but couldn’t resist the opportunity. Her stomach roiled at the ride, and the idea that any moment she’d reach Merther Manor. “I’ll have you know that in 1696, that’s a
hundred
years ago for an oaf such as you, sir, reformer Mary Astell wrote a thesis called
A Serious Proposal to the Ladies
. Her astute observations stated that the male patriarchic system was responsible for the differences between men and women. Education, or the lack of it for women, was the signature factor in this issue.”

“Oh, la, here we go; she’s off on a tangent.” Clowenna pulled her hat brim low as if she could pretend she was invisible. “I shoulda listened to me mam and become a laundress.”

“So, in conclusion, saying I’m not natural, or
not
a woman of my time, is ridiculous and flawed.” Melwyn sat straighter and stared out from the open landau. Astell also warned against attraction being a factor in marriage, when understanding should prevail.

A long drive through spreading oaks led past a well-scythed lawn. A brown hare raced across the path, ears twitching, then disappeared into the ferns.

Around the next bend, an H-shaped Elizabethan manor came into view. The afternoon sun glistened off its honey-hued facade and curved gables, and shone off the many-paned windows, turning them to diamonds.

Melwyn leaned out from the carriage and gasped. “A magnificent place, I must admit. Too bad its owner is such a scalawag.”

“We has no proof o’ that yet.” Clowenna swiped dust from her face. “That’s why we’re here, m’lady.”

The landau bowled up the gravel drive. Under the manor’s front portico stood two men, one tall and lean, the other shorter and quite slender.

Melwyn’s pulse hammered when she saw the taller of them was Lord Lambrick. She was definitely attracted, but understanding him seemed beyond the pale.

The driver reined in his team, hopped down and started to unload the women’s luggage.

Melwyn alighted, straightened her clothing and straw hat, and swiped a tendril of hair behind her ear.

Lambrick glared over, then strode toward them, his gaze thunderous. “What is this, Miss Pencavel? I was not expecting a visit from you.”

“‘Tis a whole lotta trouble, if you ask me,” the driver muttered. “The pretty one has too much brains in her head. And the muffin-faced one is set to rise above her place. I’m havin’ fits, I am.”

Melwyn sauntered closer, her flesh heating at beholding again the viscount’s handsome visage. Danger exuded from him. “You didn’t receive my letter? I do apologize. I thought I’d drop in and be neighborly, since we were almost related to one another, through a disastrous but thankfully cancelled betrothal.”

Lambrick strutted up to her, and whispered, “Since you deem it ‘thankfully’ cancelled, then you have no reason to be here. You are tempting fate, and me. What is your ploy, Miss Pencavel?”

  His warm breath on her cheek made her shiver. He was correct, she was tempting fate to put herself this close to him, but she couldn’t back down now. Risk and daring were part of her makeup. Ever since her mother had abandoned her, she was convinced that life was “anything goes.” She had managed to hold onto her morals as far as sexual misconduct was concerned. So far, anyway.

“Will you invite me in, or be cruel and send me away?” She made her voice demure and watched him from under her lashes. “We are quite exhausted and need a good wash, and an offer of food wouldn’t be unwelcome.”

“Please, you must introduce me, Grif...that is, Lord Lambrick.” The thin man joined them, the gaze in his narrow face assessing. He grinned, stretching his suntanned cheeks wide. “To this very lovely lady.”

“Sheriff Tremayne, this is Lady Pencavel. A tentative, sort of—the jury is still out— friend of mine,” Lambrick spoke through stiff lips. “I must have forgotten about her, ah, visit.”

“Good to meet you, my lady.” The sheriff bowed and tipped his cocked hat. “I’ll be on my way now, Grif. Remember, people are watching, so have a care. I beg of you.” The man mounted a horse and rode off in a surge of gravel.