Amanda Scott - [Dangerous 03] (46 page)

Not only had St. Merryn forbidden her to approach Deverill on the subject of the feud but she could not imagine telling him flat out that the whole thing had been his grandmother’s fault. And to try to write out the details of the novel in such a way that they would be clear to him without causing offense would require a good deal more time and skill than she presently had at her command. The best thing, then, would be to send the manuscript back to him with a recommendation that he read it carefully, hinting only that it contained information about the feud and letting him draw his own conclusion just as she had.

That still left Penthorpe to be dealt with, but until he appeared, there was nothing to be gained by fretting about him, although she would have to make her position clear to Lady St. Merryn and the others before they began to write the invitations.

Having reached these decisions, she came suddenly to an impasse. It was all well and good for Aunt Ophelia to prose on about happiness and free choices, but since her own sensibilities seemed determined to bond her to Deverill as strongly as ever a pair of swans might be bonded, and since she was determined not to submit in body or spirit to any man—let alone to one as astute and as accustomed to commanding others to obey his wishes as Deverill was—and since her dream had made it completely ineligible to pretend to form any connection with poor Penthorpe, there could be no resolution other than to remain single and set up housekeeping for herself, with Lady Ophelia’s financial assistance, the minute she was deemed old enough to do so.

That the prospect did not delight her was not a matter to be contemplated since she could think of no other way to retain both her dignity and her sense of personal integrity. Her father would be furious, of course, and she felt guilty at the thought of both breaking her word and of defying him so outrageously, but if it had to be done, it had to be done. It did not, however, have to be done all at once, and she still had to think of a way to do it which would not utterly sink her beneath reproach. In any case, she must wait until she could speak to Penthorpe.

Getting up at last, she allowed Nance to help her into a simple morning frock of rose-striped muslin.

“’Tis a lovely gown, this,” Nance said as she fluffed out the bow of the pink-satin sash and straightened the trailing ribbons. “When do we expect my Lord Penthorpe?”

“Perhaps today,” Daintry said, hoping that for once his lordship would not procrastinate but would travel into Cornwall with all dispatch. The sooner he arrived, the better, for the longer the world was allowed to believe them betrothed, the more difficult the break would be.

When she went down to breakfast, she had the room all to herself, and when she went in search of Lady Ophelia, she learned that her ladyship had already left the house to pay a call in the neighborhood. Although it was late morning by the time Daintry finished her breakfast, her mother had not yet come downstairs, but since Daintry had no wish to reveal her decision only to be drowned in tears and recriminations, she was just as glad.

She would have liked to ride, but since Charley had not yet come in search of her, demanding that she make good her promise of the day before, she decided it would be wiser to remain close at hand in case Penthorpe arrived. She decided as well that she would not be disobeying St. Merryn’s command if all she did was to return Deverill’s property to him, and so she went back upstairs, intending to go to her bedchamber to fetch the parcel, and met Miss Parish on the point of descending.

“Good morning, my lady,” the governess said in her cheerful way. “You have been away rather longer—” Breaking off with an arrested look, she eyed Daintry from top to toe before going on to say, “But you must have returned some time ago, mustn’t you, since you have already changed your dress and are even now coming
up
the stairs, rather than going down, but I bade Miss Charlotte most straitly to come right to the schoolroom when you returned. That naughty child! I do so dislike to scold her, but I fear I must this time. Where is she, if you please?”

“I do not perfectly understand you,” Daintry said, but she was only too afraid that she did understand. “Do you mean to say Charley led you to believe she was with me?”

“There was no
leading
about it, I fear,” Miss Parish said, shaking her head. “She reminded me that you had said you would take her riding today, and insisted that you wanted to go first thing this morning because the sky looked as if it were clouding up to rain. Which it did,” she added with a sigh, “but I collect that you had said no such thing to her, so where can she be?”

“I thought she was still too busy with her lessons to tease me to take her riding,” Daintry said. “If that is not the case, I’m afraid she may have ridden over to visit her cousin again, and if she has done so, she must be punished.” She glanced out the window to see even more dark clouds than before. “It is going to rain soon, so I daresay I had better go after her. Order my horse, will you? I’ll go change into my habit.”

She turned away only to hear her name spoken from below and, turning back, beheld the housekeeper with one of the younger maids at her side. The girl’s eyes were red from weeping.

“Yes, Mrs. Medrose, what is it?”

“Begging your pardon, my lady, but Millie here has something to give you. She was told not to do so before two o’clock, but her conscience began to prick her—as well it should have done—and so she came to me, and I gave her a right good scold, for she ought never to have agreed to such a naughty thing. But here, Millie, you go and give that note to Lady Daintry right now.”

Sniffling, her eyes downcast, the little maid came on up the stairs and handed Daintry a tightly folded bit of paper.

“Who gave this to you, Millie?” But she knew the answer even as she unfolded it.

“Miss Charley, m’lady. Oh, but I didn’t know I oughtn’t to take it. She’s always so merry and kind, m’lady. Oh, please, ma’am, don’t be vexed with me!”

Mrs. Medrose said sternly, “That will do. You go on about your business now and thank your stars Lady Daintry don’t tell his lordship to turn you off without a character. The idea!”

Daintry paid no heed, for she was reading Charley’s note:

Dear Aunt Daintry,

I have gone to rescue Melissa. Todd brought me a letter from her, and there is no more time to lose. Her papa has been very angry ever since he got home, and she is afraid of him, and afraid of what he will do to Aunt Susan, even though Lady Catherine says she will not let him hurt her again, but Melissa does not believe her and hates her, and Aunt Susan can run away again if Melissa does not have to stay with Uncle Geoffrey, for she said she would, only except Uncle Geoffrey will not let her take Melissa with her, and so that is why we are going. Tell Mama and Papa that I was sorry they did not want me to live with them in Plymouth, but it is just as well now, I think, because if they had wanted me to go with them, I should not have been here to rescue Melissa. Do not trouble your head about us. I will take very good care of her.

Your own loving, Charley

PS. Please do not blame Miss Parish, for I told her a falsehood, which I know I ought not to have done, but I could think of no other way.

Daintry stared at the note for several seconds after she had put herself in possession of its contents, fighting tears and wanting at the same time to murder Seacourt. Struggling to contain her emotions, she said with admirable calm to the waiting housekeeper, “Thank you, Mrs. Medrose, you did exactly right. Pray, say nothing of any of this to anyone, if you please. You, too, Miss Parish,” she added, turning back to the governess. “Miss Charlotte has gone to her cousin, just as I feared, but I will leave notes for Lady Ophelia and my brother, so if you will see to ordering my horse for me, that will be all you need do.”

The thought of Charles’s likely reaction to his daughter’s latest start was a bit daunting, but since it was partly his fault and Davina’s for not making it plain to Charley that she was to live with them in Plymouth, Daintry would have no compunction about taking up the cudgels on Charley’s behalf if she did not strangle the child first when she caught up with her.

As she hurried to her bedchamber to change into her riding habit, she realized that although she was fairly certain she knew where the children would go, she was going to need help if she was to return Melissa to Seacourt Head without running into trouble herself. That thought brought another on its heels, that Geoffrey might manage to find the children before she did.

The writing paper and manuscript were where she had left them, and ringing for Nance to help her dress, she sat down at once and wrote to Deverill, praying that he would be at home to receive her note and not have gone out somewhere. Then, dashing off notes to Lady Ophelia and Charles, she tied up the manuscript and slipped her note to Deverill under the string so that he would see it at once. She had just finished when Nance came in.

Ten minutes later, taking the parcel with her, she hurried to the stables and asked Clemons to see personally to its safe delivery. “I can trust no one else,” she said, “and it is urgent that you see this parcel into Deverill’s hands without delay.”

The wiry groom eyed her askance. “I had orders to saddle Cloud, my lady. Surely, you ain’t meaning to ride without me.”

“I go the other way, Clemons, toward the sea.”

“I’ll get one of the lads to saddle up and go with you.”

“I don’t want anyone.” If she did encounter Geoffrey, a stable boy would be of no help to her, and the fewer servants to know about any of it, the better. Clemons looked as if he might argue the point, but then he turned abruptly away, and a moment later, with relief, she saw him ride out of the stable yard.

Wasting no time, she put Cloud to a distance-eating pace, hoping that she would be the first, if not the only, person to realize where the girls were most likely to have gone. An hour later, before she made her way down the steep path from the cliff top, she scanned the shingle below with care. When she saw no sign of life, she breathed a sigh of relief and urged Cloud on, dismounting near the first cave and tying Cloud to a bit of scrub before she approached the entrance.

It was empty, as was the second, but as she crept into the opening of the third and largest cave, she heard voices at last. Even as she realized that at least one of them was masculine, a voice right behind her said, “Step right in, missy, the more, the merrier. Look what I’ve got here, lads!”

A hand in the small of her back propelled her roughly forward toward the dim glow of a small fire. In its light, she saw the frightened faces of her two nieces surrounded by a number of rough men, and as her dismay turned to shock she realized that all her dependence now must lie with Deverill.

G
IDEON HAD SPENT THE
previous day reading documents, and the morning going over estate business with Barton. They had intended to ride out before noon to visit tenants who had requested assistance of one sort or another, but that plan was changed when, just before eleven o’clock, a footman showed Viscount Penthorpe into the estate office.

“Daresay I’m expected at Tuscombe Park,” Penthorpe said when he had shaken hands with Gideon and been introduced to Barton, “but I must have passed the turn St. Merryn told me would take me across the moor. Next thing I knew, I was looking at the River Fowey, and I said to myself, it would be a good thing to drop in and visit you for a few days before going on.”

“Procrastinating again, Andy?” Gideon said with a weary smile. He had not slept well. His thoughts seemed wholly taken up with matters that had nothing to do with estate business, and his ability to concentrate on things his steward wished to tell him had suffered as a result. He was glad to see Penthorpe. “Come along with me, and we’ll order up some food, for you won’t want to wait until five o’clock to dine.”

“I have grown rather accustomed to dining whenever I take a notion to do so,” Penthorpe said, following him upstairs to Jervaulx’s book room and looking around with approval. “Good view of the river and a cheerful fire. Very pleasant.”

“It is my father’s favorite room and has become mine as well. Sit down, Andy. How long do you mean to stay?”

“Trying to get rid of me already, old son?”

“Not at all, but since St. Merryn made no bones about wanting you wedded to his daughter without further ado, I must suppose he will be looking for your arrival with no little impatience.” Seeing without much surprise that his friend did not return his smile, he added gently, “Blue-deviled, Andy?”

“No, no, not in the least. What stuff you say, Gideon! Good God, why should I be blue-deviled? Going to marry an heiress, ain’t I? Bound to bring me a pretty penny when the old lady pops off her hooks. Stands to reason, no sensible fellow could help but be delighted.”

“You had better not count on controlling that money,” Gideon said, pouring two glasses of wine from the decanter on a nearby side table and handing one to him before ringing for a footman. “I’ve learned a bit about Lady Ophelia, and I can tell you she has more than a nodding acquaintance with the Chancery Courts. I’d wager a pretty penny, she will see that money tied up so that no mere male can ever get his hands on it.”

“Is that right?” But Penthorpe did not seem particularly concerned. He stared moodily out the window at the river, saying nothing at all for several minutes. Then finally, and with an air of extreme casualness, he said, “I suppose Seacourt and his family are at home now, too, are they not?”

“I suppose so. I have heard nothing one way or another, only the same declaration you heard, that he intended to take his wife home and keep her there.” He watched Penthorpe’s profile carefully, but there was little reaction other than a slight tightening of his jaw. The viscount had himself well in hand.

A moment later Penthorpe turned and raised his glass. “To your very good health. I saw your father the day before I left. He was looking well, I must say, and actually greeted me as if I were someone and not just a bit of muck beneath his feet.”