The Many Sins of Cris De Feaux (Lords of Disgrace) (6 page)

‘And were you?’

‘I knew what he was doing, of course I did, even though he kept all the actual details secret. Everyone on this coast knew and I was married to the man, after all. He led a gang of smugglers.’

If she had thought for a moment that she would fob off Cris Defoe with that as an explanation, then she was mistaken, it seemed. ‘Smuggling covers everything from bringing in the odd cask of brandy under a load of herring, to a cover for spying, by way of full-scale organised crime accompanied by murder, extortion and blackmail. Where on that spectrum was Jory Perowne?’

‘You know a lot about it. Perhaps you are a magistrate yourself and I would be well advised not to compound my indiscretion.’ She smiled, lowered her lashes, wondered if she could remember how to flirt.
If I ever knew.

‘No, I am not a magistrate.’ That was a surprise. He had said he was a landowner and most landowners of any standing were justices. ‘I have been crossing the Channel, back and forth, for ten years and one cannot do that without hearing about smugglers.’

There was a little nugget of information to tuck away and muse upon in that comment. Mr Defoe had been crossing the Channel at a time when England was at war with France, even if it was now five years since Waterloo had brought peace again. Had he been in the army? But the way that he spoke made it sound as though he was still crossing over to the Continent on a regular basis. He could hardly be a merchant, not with his clothes and the indefinable air of
ton
nishness that even a country mouse like her could recognise. And
ton
nish gentlemen did not engage in trade.

Perhaps he is a spy himself and he ended up in the sea after being thrown overboard by an arch enemy in a life-and-death struggle—

‘Mrs Perowne? Am I boring you?’

‘Not at all, Mr Defoe. I was merely contemplating the perils of the sea for a moment.’

And wondering why your voice sends little shivers up and down my back when you drawl like that when really I ought to give you a sharp set-down for sarcasm.

Just to prove she had been paying attention she added coolly, ‘Jory was in about the middle of your spectrum. He ran a highly organised smuggling ring with high-value goods and he was not averse to violence when his business was threatened by rivals or the Excise. But he protected the aunts fiercely, the people hereabouts worshipped him and he looked after them. You probably think me shocking for not condemning him, but he was loyal and courageous and looked after his men, and smuggling is a way of life around these coasts.’

‘The Excise must have given you a very difficult time after his death when they were looking for the profits of his activities.’

‘They could not have been looking as hard as I was.’ The villagers had needed the money when their main local industry collapsed overnight with Jory’s death. ‘They bullied me and threatened me and finally allowed that I was just a poor feeble woman led astray by a wicked rogue.’

‘Could Chelford be searching for hidden treasure on the assumption that Jory Perowne hid his ill-gotten gains somewhere on the estate?’ She must have been staring at him with her mouth agape because he enquired, dry as a bone, ‘Is that such a ridiculous idea?’

Chapter Six

D
espite herself, Tamsyn laughed. ‘Ridiculous? No. It is brilliant and I am just amazed that I am such a ninnyhammer that I did not think of it for myself. It is precisely the kind of thing that Franklin would think of—that there must be treasure and therefore a chance to grab it for himself.’

‘Then I suggest we search, locate the hoard and thwart Chelford.’ The thought of hunting for buried treasure seemed to appeal to Cris.

All men are such boys, even the most impressive specimens.
‘Unfortunately, whatever fantasies Franklin might have, I do not believe there is any treasure to be found. The idea that he would think it exists is a good one, but I suspect Jory would have done something truly infuriating with his profits, like putting it in a bank in Exeter under a false name and then forgetting to tell me.’

‘Are you certain there is not?’ Cris’s question had a hopeful note to it.

Yes, he is definitely disappointed.
‘There are no secret caves or tunnels. Or, rather, none that I or the villagers don’t know about. And Jory had more sense than to bury money in the churchyard in a nice fresh grave or any of the other tricks. He would want it earning interest and to be safe, not where someone might stumble across it.’

‘A nice fresh grave?’
Cris sounded incredulous. ‘You shock me.’

‘It is the best way to hide newly turned earth, of course. You wait for someone in the village to be buried, come along that night and do the reverse of grave robbing.’ The question was in his eyes and she thought of teasing him some more, but relented. ‘And, no, I have never taken part in such a thing. I have more respect for my fellow parishioners, although I suspect none of them would be very surprised or distressed if it happened.’ He still looked unconvinced. ‘It is difficult for city dwellers to shake off their preconceptions about us rustics who live on the very edge of the country. We are not neatly divided into dyed-in-the-wool rogues and happy pastoral innocents.’

‘No, I suspect you are all rather more complex than that.’ He watched her from beneath lowered lids, an unsettling appraisal that made her feel anything but complicated.

‘I must go.’ It was far too comfortable sitting here in the sunshine exchanging ideas, teasing and being teased. Tamsyn stood up and Cris followed her. ‘I must see Willie Tremayne and make certain the remainder of the flock are safe.’

‘Of course.’ He made no move to detain her. But why should he? That moment when he had held her so close as she slid from the saddle and she had thought he was about to kiss her had been nothing more than her imagination. Just because he had kissed her once was no reason to suppose he had any desire to do it again.

‘Let me give you a leg up.’

‘No need.’ She was on the log, and from there to the saddle, as she spoke, chiding herself as she did it.

You have no idea how to flirt, do you? You should have let him help you mount, let his hands linger on your foot or perhaps your ankle. You should have thanked him prettily, as a lady should, not gone scrambling on to Foxy like a tomboy.

‘I will see you at luncheon, perhaps.’ She waved her free hand as she urged the horse into a canter along the path that led to the clifftop pastures and did not look back.

When she knew she was out of sight she slowed, reined Foxy back to a walk, which was quite fast enough on the rabbit-burrowed turf, and turned her face into the breeze to cool the colour that she guessed was staining her cheeks. Cris Defoe had done nothing at all, other than look at her with warmth in his eyes and hold her a little too close when she dismounted, and yet she was all aflutter and expecting more. A great deal more.

She had no excuse, she told herself as she reached the stone and turf bank and turned along it towards the gate. Nor was there any reason not to be honest with herself. For the first time since Jory had died she had been jolted out of her hard-working, pleasant routine by a man. A handsome—
oh, very well, beautiful—
man. A man of sophistication and education. Someone who could discuss more than the price of herring and the demand for beef cattle in Barnstaple.

He had kissed her in the sea and now she had woken up from her trance, a rather soggy Sleeping Beauty.
Not much of a beauty... But I want him.
To be exact, and to look the thing squarely in the face, she wanted to go to bed with him, get her hands on that lean body, make love with him. She should be shocked with herself, she supposed. But weren’t widows allowed more freedom? Couldn’t she be a little daring, a trifle dashing? ‘I’m my own mistress,’ she informed Foxy, who politely swivelled an ear back to listen. ‘And I would rather like to be Cris Defoe’s mistress, just for a while.’

He was a man who knew about these things, she was sure. Elegant, sophisticated widows probably indicated their availability to him on a daily basis when he was not stuck in the wilds of Devon. And there was the rub.
Sophisticated.
Tamsyn hooked the latch with her riding crop and let Foxy push the gate open, then reined back to hook it closed again. She could attend the local assemblies at Barnstaple or Bideford looking perfectly respectable and well dressed. She would receive a gratifying number of requests for dances, she was never short of a supper partner, but none of those gentlemen had one-tenth of the poise or
finish
that Cris Defoe possessed. And while she entertained with confidence and knew she had nothing to be ashamed of in her education or her manners, her social skills had never been tested in a London drawing room.

Which was not really the problem, Tamsyn told herself as she urged Foxy into a canter across the level ground of the headland. Put her in a drawing room with a duchess and she was sure courtesy and imagination would see her through. But how did one go about indicating one’s availability to a man, other than by coming right out and stating one’s desires? Or dressing immodestly?

She’d had to do neither with Jory. One day she had bumped into him as she came running across the meadow, late for tea because of a difficult encounter with Franklin. They had clung together, breathless. He had been laughing until he saw the tears she was fighting not to show. They had been old friends, comfortable together. And then their eyes had met and the laughter in his had died, and the comfort was replaced by something that was not at all cosy or familiar, and the next thing his mouth was on hers and...

‘Mizz Tamsyn!’ It was Willie, hailing her from the far gate, his battered old hat pushed far back so his weathered face was clear to see. He looked grim, but he raised a smile for her as she drew close. Behind him he had the sheep penned under the watchful eye of his black and white Border collie, Thorn.

‘A bad business, Willie.’ She stayed where she was, not wanting to disturb the remains of the flock any more than she had to.

‘Aye, it is that. And deliberate, too. The hurdle was dragged out of the gap and thrown aside. There’s no way it could have been pushed out by the sheep, or blown by the wind.’

‘I know, you always wire it back into the gap when it isn’t being used to move the flock.’ She saw him relax a little. ‘Does anyone recognise the dog?’

‘No, it’s not from round here. Scrawny, mean-looking beast, but not mad, I reckon.’

‘Someone brought it in, especially?’

‘Aye, that’ll be it. Someone got a grudge, Mizz Tamsyn? Folks is starting to talk, what with the ricks and all that. Isn’t anyone local—you know that. We all owe too much to you and the ladies, and no one forgets Jory Perowne, not round here.’

‘No, it isn’t a grudge, Willie. I think someone is out to scare us, though. Tell people to look out for strangers, will you?’

‘We will that.’ He grinned suddenly, exposing his tobacco-stained teeth. ‘Not likely to be yon merman you fished out, that’s for sure.’

‘He’s no merman, Willie. Just a gentleman who got caught in the current when he was swimming.’

‘Ha! Fool thing to be doing, that swimming lark. They do say that folks are visiting Ilfracombe specially to get in the sea in wooden huts on wheels and they pay to be ducked by hefty great females. Pay good money! What they be wanting to do that for, Mizz Tamsyn? ’Tis foolishness.’

‘Some doctors say seawater is good for you, Willie.’

‘Huh! Good for drowning in, more like.’

‘Well, they must find something good about it, given how hard it is to get to Ilfracombe with the roads like they are.’

‘That what yon gentleman was doing, then? Sea bathing for his health?’ He nodded, obviously pleased that he had solved the mystery. ‘He’ll be some weedy invalid then, all spindleshanks and a cough.’

‘Not
quite
.’ Tamsyn managed not to smile. There was absolutely nothing spindly about Cris Defoe. ‘But he will be staying with us for a while longer. For his health.’

‘Will he now?’

Tamsyn knew the tone. It could be roughly interpreted as,
Some of us will take a look at him and we’ll sort him out proper if he’s up to anything with Jory Perowne’s widow.
She appreciated their loyalty, but there were times when the fact that the whole close-knit community knew everyone’s business made her want to scream with frustration.

‘Yes, he will. Now, do you think we ought to pay some of the lads to watch the animals at night for a while?’

‘Good idea.’ Willie, distracted from the thought of a strange man under the Barbary Combe House roof, leaned his elbows on the gate and settled down to a discussion of who was reliable and whether one lad alone was more reliable than two or three, all egging each other on for mischief.

* * *

Cris stood up and, now that he was alone, permitted himself the indulgence of a long, slow stretch. His muscles were still sore across his shoulders and deep in his thighs, but the walk uphill had done them good. By tomorrow he would be himself again, and now he needed to walk, stride out and work up a sweat and distract himself from the memory of a pair of amused brown eyes and the novelty of a woman who seemed to say exactly what she thought.

Why that was arousing he was uncertain, and he was not sure he wanted to explore why that should be. It was bad enough, every time he got close to her, to find himself imagining her naked under him as the surf pounded on the beach and the sun beat down hot on his back. The fantasy had kept him awake in the small hours of the night, too. It felt disloyal to Katerina, it disturbed his conscience and it was discourteous to his hostess.

Cris surveyed the rough track that led onwards towards the head of the valley. It looked challenging enough to drive any thoughts of sex out of his head for a while. How the blazes Collins had got the carriage over this road without breaking an axle was a minor miracle, he decided as he jumped a particularly evil pothole. He had thought the roads to Hartland Quay were bad enough, but this area appeared to have had nothing done in the way of road-making since before the Romans.

By the time he walked into the village he had taken off his coat, his body felt warm and limber and he had worked up a healthy thirst. There had to be an alehouse hereabouts. He surveyed the main street, which forked where he stood, the other arm presumably running to his right down to the quayside. The road was lined on both sides with single-storey cottages, some thatched, some with slate roofs. The whitewashed walls bulged and looked as though they were made with clay, but the quality improved slightly as the street rose from the fork, with a few two-storey dwellings, a public house with a faded sign showing a galleon in full sail swinging outside it, a shopfront and, rising behind the rooftops, the stumpy grey tower of the church.

Cris shrugged on his coat again and turned to walk up to the Ship Inn. The street was roughly cobbled, with narrow slate pavements raised on either side and, although he could see no signs of prosperity, neither did it look poor or neglected. A woman came out and emptied a pot of water into a trough of flowers that stood beside her door, stared openly at him, then went inside again, shooing a small child in front of her.

Two more women came down the street, baskets on hips, skirts kirtled up to show their buckled shoes and a glimpse of ankle. They smiled at him as they passed and broke into shy laughter when he doffed his hat. He kept it in his hand as he ducked under the low lintel of the inn door. ‘Good day, gentlemen.’

The half-dozen men in the taproom fell silent, stared at him with the calm curiosity he was beginning to expect, then there was a murmur of greeting before they went back to their ale. He heard the click of dominoes from the table next to the window. The big man behind the bar counter waited, silent, as Cris made his way between stools and settles, then nodded. ‘Good morning, sir. What can I do for you?’

‘A pint of your best, if you please.’ Cris leaned one elbow on the bar and half turned, letting the others take a good look at him. ‘Is this cider country?’

‘No, sir. Nor hops, neither, so we’ve no beer. We brew our own ale. Or there’s brandy,’ the landlord added.

‘Your ale sounds just the thing at this hour.’

The brandy, no doubt, was French and smuggled. Cris picked up the tankard that was put in front of him and took a long swallow, then a more appreciative mouthful. ‘A good brew.’

‘Aye, it is that.’ The man nodded, unsmiling, well aware of his own worth. He went back to polishing thick-bottomed glasses and Cris drank his ale and waited.

Finally one of the dominoes players slapped down the winning tile and shifted in his seat to look across to the bar. ‘You be the gennelman down at Barbary?’

‘I am.’

‘Mizz Tamsyn fished you out the sea, is what we hear.’

‘She found me staggering out and the ladies were kind enough to let me recover at their house.’

‘Huh. Swimming. Don’t hold with it, just makes drowning last longer.’

‘It certainly seemed to go on a long time,’ Cris agreed, straight-faced, provoking laughter from the other tables. ‘I was most grateful to the ladies. Popular landowners hereabouts, I imagine.’

‘Miss Isobel is that and all. A proper lady, for all that she’s a bit scatty sometimes. Miss Rosie does a power of good for the school, too, poor lady, despite her afflictions. But Mizz Tamsyn makes certain it all runs right and tight.’ There was a murmur of agreement round the room.