The Marsh Hawk (29 page)

But for the servants, Jenna found herself alone in the house, and she decided upon a walk in the garden before nuncheon. Her mother had taken Molly and set out for Bodmin right after breakfast in search of “last minute must-haves,” as she called the decorative finishing touches. Simon had gone to the vicarage, where he'd spent most of the week, and Evelyn was closeted with Olive Reynolds, who was working feverishly on the final alterations of her ball gown.

Evelyn had kept her distance since their confrontation, and Jenna was glad of it. It was Simon, however, whose absence was painful; nothing had eased the ache in her heart, or the longing—the terrible longing—for his arms, for his kiss, for his love. She scarcely saw him except at meals. Then their eyes would meet, blue fire jousting with gray. She couldn't read their message. The line between the passions they exuded was too tenuous. No matter the message, he was unapproachable, and she tried to pretend that it didn't matter. Soon she would keep her bargain; after the ball, she would be free. But would she ever be free again of the invisible cord that joined their hearts? Was she the only one who felt its tug? The worst of it was that there was nothing she could do. She had lost him.

Having walked for some time through the lush Kevernwood gardens, she had become oblivious of time. The overwhelming scents surrounding her. Moss rose, tuberose, honeysuckle, and gillyflower dominated that sector. The clovelike top notes threaded through her nostrils, riding the wind that never ceased to blow along the coast. Like May wine, it made her giddy and light-headed. But that wasn't to last. Before she reached the foxglove and delphinium vignette, the Hollingsworth carriage came tooling into the drive. The dowager stepped down almost before the footman could set the steps, causing the brougham to tilt, and hurried toward Jenna over the lane while Molly and the footman struggled with their purchases.

“Good God, Mother, what's wrong?” Jenna breathed, steadying her. “What's put you in such a taking? You're as white as chalk!”

“No!”
the dowager shrilled, digging her heels in as Jenna attempted to steer her toward the house. “I daren't speak it in that house! Just let me . . . catch my breath . . . !”

“What is it? What's happened?” Jenna demanded, shrinking from her mother's keening whine.

“I met Lady Warrenford at the linen draper's in Bodmin, and she shared a most disturbing on-dit,” the dowager said. “Rupert's put it out that . . . ohhhh, I can't! I can't speak it! It's too dreadful!”

“Can't speak
what
, Mother?”

“Rupert's spread a tale about Simon and Evelyn . . . that they . . . you know!”

“That's absurd, Mother.”

“I know, but, dear, he's slandered Simon all over the coast—even in Town! Do you hear? All London is buzzing with it. Our guests! What are we ever to do?”

“There's nothing to it, Mother. Rupert is jealous. No one will take him seriously. Pay no attention.”

“Rupert is entertaining a French nobleman at Moorhaven Manor—the Comte D'Arbonville. I've never heard of the man, but Rupert is making a show of him at all the local clubs. Rumor has it that he and the comte are going to the gambling dens in St. Enoder tomorrow night. If he ever spreads that tale among the pinks-of-the-ton who frequent those places, Simon will be ruined! Simon should call him out over this, Jenna—if it's untrue, that is.”

“What do you mean, ‘if it's untrue,' Mother?” Jenna snapped. Three words would silence her, but they were words she dared not utter. She couldn't divulge that Simon was Evelyn's uncle. That was one confidence she would not break.

“Well, dear, men will be men, you know, and Simon is a man of the world, as it were. The gel is ravishing, after all, and I've noticed myself that they are rather . . . close for mere obligatory family friends.”

“Evelyn and Crispin are practically extended family, Mother,” Jenna said steadily; it was as far as she dared go. “Nothing more, I promise you. You are not to speak of this to Simon. Is that clear?”

“He needs to know, Jenna! He needs to be told before he learns of it from someone outside the family, dear. He has a right to know what's being bruited about behind his back.”

“No!”
Jenna shrilled a little too loudly, remembering her mother's colorful account of the Marsh Hawk's assault upon Rupert. If Simon heard, he would surely do worse. “You will say
nothing
,” she charged. “You will leave it to me. Tomorrow is Evelyn's ball. Would you have it spoiled by a duel, or worse? Would you bring bloodshed upon us after all of our hard work?”

“And when he finds out that we knew and didn't tell him—then what?”

“Better his anger toward us than Rupert dead at his hands, and him dying on the gallows for it.”

“Aren't you being just a little melodramatic, dear?”

“Mother, I must ask you to trust me. Stay out of this and keep your place.”

“My
place
?” the dowager cried, bristling.

“Yes, your place,” Jenna said, wondering what her mother would say if she knew that her place would be at Thistle Hollow once the ball was over.

“Have you gone addle witted?” her mother shrieked. “Your husband has been accused of fornication and adultery with a mere child! How you can be so calm escapes me.”

“I am calm, Mother, because I know there is nothing to this; so should you be. I'm going inside. Don't you dare think to follow suit until you can do so without calamity written all over your face. You thrive upon chaos, Mother. I will not have you spoil the ball. I will not have you wreak havoc in that house with vicious slander! You will say nothing to Simon—
nothing
, Mother. I turned you out of this house not so long ago for less.”

“Well!” the dowager exploded, indignant.

“You have been welcomed back by my husband's good graces—not mine,” Jenna said, with a raised voice over her mother's bluster. “Behave, or face the consequences. I've reached the end of my tether here, I warn you.”

Jenna went straight up to the master bedchamber. She was in no mood for nuncheon; she needed time to think. This new information had thrown her. All Cornwall knew that Evelyn's come-out ball was being held at Kevernwood Hall. According to her mother, all Cornwall now knew that Rupert and his wealthy friends would be gambling nearby at St. Enoder at the same time. It stood to reason that highwaymen would know as well. Enticed by such an amplitude of fortune, how could the thatchgallows resist? And her score still needed to be settled.

She knew the road to St. Enoder well. It wended its way from Newquay through St. Enoder proper where a juncture with the highway, heading north, led straight to Launceston. Barstow had taken it the night she tried to return home—the night the highwayman who'd killed her father held up her carriage. Her mind's eye conjured the very spot where the brigand must have lain in wait that night. There weren't many patches along that stretch that offered concealment.

She still had the key to the tower in her possession. What if she were to use that key and borrow Simon's costume and pistols? Simon would be occupied with the guests; he would have no need of the tower that night. Especially if no one told him of Rupert's spiteful comments. She could have one of the horses brought 'round early in the evening on the pretext that one of the guests had need of it, and hide the animal in the orchard. Then, later, she could excuse herself by feigning a headache. No one would miss her.

Her mind racing with the possibilities, with a workable plan half-formed, she went down to nuncheon almost cheerfully.

Much to everyone's relief, the unpredictable Cornish weather held for the ball. It promised to be such a glorious evening that the terrace doors in the Grand Ballroom were thrown open to the salt-kissed evening breeze, which was laced with the mingled scents of night-blooming orchids and roses from the arbor beyond. Decked in flowers and candles, the lit chandeliers casting dazzling rainbows of light over the marble floor, Kevernwood Hall had come to life in a way that no one expected.

Carriages began arriving before dusk. As Jenna had imagined, it was no great feat to borrow Treacle just after dark and conceal him in the orchard. Then, dressed in her most fetching gown of patterned silk, the color of peaches and cream, she joined the ball, making the rounds with Simon.

They greeted the Warrenfords, the Eccclestons, Lord and Lady Chester-White, and the Markhams, who joined with Simon's military guests and the aristocratic throngs come from London to welcome Lady Evelyn St. John into society. Only one thing dampened the occasion: the absence of Crispin, whose military duties prevented him from attending, but not from sending a huge bouquet of white old English roses for his sister's debut.

To Jenna's surprise, just when she thought to part from Simon with the imminent approach of several naval officers, he swept her into his arms and waltzed her out on the crowded ballroom floor. Her heart skipped. His warm hand pressed against the small of her back, drenching her skin in fire beneath the clinging peach silk, just as she had fantasized it would at the masked ball. But all that seemed as though it had happened to someone else; so much had happened since. She felt a tug deep inside, stirring her very essence to life in an involuntary reflex of spasms that coursed through her body and threatened her balance. Could it happen like this, on the dance floor, with no contact save the most casual of public intimacies? She disguised her quick intake of breath under the umbrella of a cough.

Her mother had once observed that dancing was nothing more than an excuse to make love in public to music. That dour comment had come about at a ball when no one had asked the dowager to dance. Oh, but if she only knew how true those words were.

“Thank you,” Simon murmured, his voice throaty yet revealing nothing.

“For w-what?” Jenna stammered, hoping he wouldn't notice the blush on her cheeks, or the heat of her body through the cool rustling silk.

“For this,” he replied, nodding toward the gathering. “You've done a capital job. I appreciate it.”

“For Evy,” she said tersely.

“Yes, for Evy,” he parroted.

“I can hardly take all the credit, my lord,” she said, matching his cool tone. “Mother and Evelyn herself did a great deal with the servants' help. I had very little to do with it.”

“Yes,” said Simon, his eyebrow inching up a notch. “But this pains you. Your heart isn't in it, and even so, you've kept the bargain.”

“I always keep my word, my lord.”

He smiled. Albeit cold, she wanted to melt. Every cord in her body was strung to its limit, wanted to snap, ached to give way and let her throw her arms around his neck and beg his forgiveness—beg him to take her up those stairs to that magnificent mahogany four-poster and make love to her again, and forever. That, however, her pride would not allow, though his closeness drove her mad. He smelled of tobacco and wine and raw maleness. Her head reeled with his scent, and she longed for the taste of him. It was torture being in his arms now that it was over, and she bitterly wished she'd never set eyes on the enigmatic Earl of Kevernwood, wished he'd never awakened her to unimaginable pleasures no other would ever be able to ignite.

She would
not
cry. Grinding her teeth and pursing stubborn lips, she blinked back the tears, refusing to be a watering pot for him again.

She hadn't been meeting his gaze, and when he continued speaking, she almost missed her step.

“Do you realize that this is the first time we've danced?” he said.

“And the last, my lord,” she blurted, sorry the moment the words were out.

“Yes, the last,” he mused. “That's what I was thinking. It's just as well. You put me to shame.”

She would not sink to flattery. He was obviously fishing for compliments. She would not stroke his vanity. If this was his method of coercing her to prolong the bargain, he was in for a rude awakening.

Neither of them was aware that the music had stopped until the guests began to applaud.

Breaking his hold with flourish, Simon bowed from the waist and delivered Jenna to her mother's side with practiced military control and no emotion in his face. There he left her abruptly to join a uniformed rear admiral patiently awaiting nearby.

“Lady Jersey isn't here yet,” the dowager fretted, craning her jewel-draped neck in search of the woman. “She's such a boor—notoriously late. She must always make a grand entrance. If she dares to show up in that dreadful chartreuse turban, I think I shall die!”

“It's early yet, Mother,” said Jenna, still shaking from Simon's closeness, and dismayed in spite of herself that he'd dismissed her so casually. “Not everyone has arrived. There'll be latecomers till midnight. You know how these things go.”

“Who is that young man hovering over Evelyn, dear—the tall fellow with the hair à la Brutus?”

“Why, that's young Sidney Hargrove,” Jenna said with a start. “Lord Eccleston's grand-nephew. Don't you recognize him? Where is your pince-nez, Mother?”

“I can't wear that
here
, Jenna!” the dowager breathed. “It doesn't go.”

“Why not?” Jenna snapped, rolling her eyes. “You needn't fear to be noticed. All eyes are on Evelyn tonight.”

Jenna could scarcely see the girl for the press of young gentlemen crowding around her. She frowned, scanning the room with worried eyes, and finally focused upon Robert Nast, who was also monitoring the young bucks surrounding Evelyn. When one of them, tall and lean, wearing black pantaloons, a black tailcoat of superfine, and an elegantly embroidered waistcoat of plum-colored silk, led her out on the dance floor, Nast turned away and moved toward the punch bowl, where he poured himself a claret cup.