Amanda Scott - [Dangerous 03] (9 page)

Daintry’s protests died on her tongue. Much as she hated to admit it, he was right. Charley would heed him better than she would either herself or Clemons, and if Penthorpe and Charley proceeded without mishap, Melissa would be safe following them. If it looked as if either of the leaders was having difficulty, Daintry would be able to stop her, while Clemons went to help.

Penthorpe was watching her narrowly, and when she nodded, he said, “Good girl. I knew you were not a fool.”

Once again, his attitude stirred mixed emotions. She was grateful for the compliment but wondered at the same time if he thought most women were fools.

The cliff path was easily negotiated, for although there were damp patches, the stiff breeze had dried most of it, and only a bit more than usual care was required. Even Melissa did not seem nervous, and at the bottom, when Daintry drew her silver dun up next to the big black roan, and his rider said, “I will leave you now,” she was surprised and a little disappointed.

“You do not mean to accompany us, then?”

Charley, overhearing, said quickly, “Don’t you want to see the caves, sir? One of them is big enough to house an army!”

“No, thank you,” he said smiling at her. “I have seen them before, and I came this far only because I thought you might require my help, but I see now that you will do very well on your own. Going up that path will be easier than riding down was.”

Daintry could not deny it, but she was sorry to see him go.

Gideon looked back from the cliff top and saw that the three of them were still watching him. He waved and they waved back. Then, Charley, who, true to her aunt’s prediction, had said nothing more about galloping, suddenly wheeled the bay gelding and took off at top speed along the shingle. With scarcely a pause, the other two followed her.

Resolutely, Gideon turned his face homeward, wondering what on earth he had got himself into. In the next hour he repeated that question a good number of times, and though he told himself he did not regret the impulse that had stirred him to deceit, he did regret the deceit itself, for the simple reason that he would have to confess it and take the consequences of his action. That there would be unpleasant consequences he did not doubt for one moment. He had seen enough of Daintry Tarrant now to know that she would not look kindly on even the briefest deception.

She was even lovelier than he had imagined, and there was something about her that stirred feelings he had not known he possessed. He had enjoyed his share of indiscretions, to be sure, particularly as a carefree bachelor on Lord Hill’s staff, but not one of the many beauties who had crossed his path over the years had instantly stirred such feelings in him.

He paid little heed to his direction, for once he reached the bleak heights of Bodmin Moor and saw Rough Tor and Brown Willy rising like sentinels in the northeast, he knew Shadow would carry him home with little need for guidance. He was in no hurry to get there. Having obeyed a command to present himself at Jervaulx Abbey in Gloucestershire as soon as he had rid himself of his commission, he had not expected to find his father in residence in Cornwall a mere fortnight later, and he wondered what his reception would be. The marquess had seemed to have so little use for him at the Abbey that the unpleasant duty that beckoned him to Tattersall had proved something of a relief, in that it had given him an unexceptionable excuse to leave. So lost in thought was he that Deverill Court loomed on the horizon above the west bank of the River Fowey in a what seemed an amazingly short time. Not long afterward he passed through the tall iron gates and onto the gravel drive leading to the house.

The drive was bordered with thick shrubbery, camellias, azaleas, and rhododendrons that, in the early spring, created a magnificent display. Now, though the blooms were gone, the shrubs were lushly green, framing the gray granite house at the end of the drive, backed by its own woods, and looking just as it had since the days of the Tudors. The Tudor house enfolded part of a fortified manor house that had been there when Gideon’s ancestor Richard Deverill acquired the property through marriage in 1353, and little had been changed over the years. The Deverills who lived there were satisfied with what they had and had never felt the need expressed by many of their friends and acquaintances to add on extra wings with each succeeding generation, or to tear down the old to replace it with newer, more modern substitutes. The last major addition to the house had been the northwest tower with its muniments room, in 1627.

Gideon loved the old house, but since the day he had first left it to go to Eton, he had never expected to be more than a visitor there, even after his father had succeeded unexpectedly to the marquessate; and although his brother’s death had altered many things in his life, he still found it difficult to accept the fact that Deverill Court would one day be his. Only the marquess seemed to find that fact more difficult to face than he did. Jervaulx seemed almost resentful of the fact that his primary seat was now a vast estate in Gloucestershire.

Giving his horse into a groom’s keeping, he went inside, greeted the porter cheerfully, then passed through the soaring hall with its elaborate roof supports and vast Tudor open fireplaces to the stair hall, without so much as a glance at the vast collection of arms and armor, pausing only to allow a waiting footman to take his hat and gloves, and to inquire as to his father’s whereabouts.

“Lord Jervaulx is in his book room, my lord.”

Halfway up the stairs, Gideon slowed his pace, and just outside the door of that apartment, catching a glimpse of himself in a pier glass, he paused to straighten his neckcloth and smooth his hair. Then, drawing a deep breath, he nodded at the footman, who had hurried in his wake, to open the doors, and he went in.

“Good afternoon, Father.” The footman closed the door.

Jervaulx, a hawk-faced gentleman with some fifty-five years in his dish, was seated at the large, leather-topped desk, writing. He did not look up at once but continued to write.

Gideon remained silent, watching him.

At last, with a final flourish of his pen, the marquess put it down, leaned back in his chair, and gave his attention to his son. “So, you have come home.”

“As you see,” Gideon said, wishing, and not for the first time in his life, that he could read his father’s thoughts in his expression. But Jervaulx rarely made things so easy. He was never angry, emotional, hurried, or upset. As a boy, Gideon had been terrified of him, certain that beneath the cool surface lurked potential disaster, but over the years, that fear had eased to a certain, sometimes frustrated, wariness.

“One assumes that Tattersall was grateful for your visit,” Jervaulx said. “The news of Penthorpe’s unfortunate demise had no doubt distressed him.”

“He had not yet learned of it and was beside himself with grief,” Gideon said. “It was a shock to him to lose the nephew who had taken the place of a son to him, as you might imagine.” He could not resist the rider, being certain that Jervaulx must be grief-stricken over Jack’s death; however, as was the marquess’s custom, he had let nothing show. Nor did he now.

“You have been all this time at Tattersall Green?”

“Yes, sir, until today.” He had not planned to divulge his visit to Tuscombe Park, but having had enough of allowing his baser instincts to rule, he added bluntly, “I’d promised Penthorpe I’d take word of his death to the young woman to whom he was betrothed. I stopped there on my way here.”

“Anyone who reads
The West Briton
or the
Royal Cornwall Gazette
knows of that betrothal,” Jervaulx said evenly. “Do you mean to say that you have been to Tuscombe Park?”

“Yes, sir.”

“No self-respecting Deverill has set foot there in forty years, but no doubt you simply chose to overlook that fact.”

Gideon returned Jervaulx’s look steadily. “I believed my promise to Penthorpe outweighed such personal considerations.”

“A conscientious man would put honor of family above a request made by an outsider, but one supposes that you will go your own road even when your actions provide distasteful grist for the local rumor mills.”

“I am sorry to have displeased you, sir, but I had to do what I thought was right, and frankly, since I last saw you in Gloucestershire, I had not expected you to be here.”

“The winter Assizes begin soon. In order to achieve fairness, one must have spent some few weeks here, particularly now when there will be many cases involving local miners because of the food shortages and the many mines shutting down—including the Mulberry mines, which employ many men in this very district.”

“I am aware that you served as magistrate here for many years, but surely, sir, that is no longer one of your duties.”

“And just who do you suppose is capable enough to assume the position?”

“I’m sure I don’t know, but—”

“Precisely,” Jervaulx said. “If that is all for now, there is more correspondence to be dealt with before dinner.”

“Certainly.” Gideon bowed and left the room, telling himself that the sooner he straightened things out at Tuscombe Park, the better it would be. The last thing he wanted was for Jervaulx to discover that the local tattlemongers were avidly discussing, not the surprising visit of a Deverill to Tuscombe, but that of the deceased Penthorpe.

Thus it was that the very next day he took courage in hand and returned to Tuscombe Park, determined to make a clean breast of the whole even if it meant ruining himself with the beautiful Lady Daintry. Giving hat, whip, gloves, and cloak to a footman, he was politely informed that Lady St. Merryn was not receiving.

“I will see the Lady Ophelia then,” he said.

“Certainly, my lord. I will take you up directly.”

Following the young man to the drawing room, Gideon saw with relief that Lady Ophelia’s only companion for the moment was Lady Daintry. He waited only until Penthorpe’s name was announced and the footman had gone before drawing breath to speak his piece.

Lady Ophelia said abruptly, “Your charade amused me for a time, sir, but before you make any more pretty speeches, I think you’d better stop this foolish pretense and open the budget to my niece. You look a great deal like your grandfather, you know, so unless I am much mistaken, you are Deverill, not Penthorpe.”

U
NTIL LADY OPHELIA SPOKE
, Daintry had been doing her best to conceal her unexpected delight in seeing him again, delight that had surged into being the moment the young footman announced him. She was certain—though she was likewise quite well aware that many members of her family would scoff at that certainty—that she had never before felt such an interest in a gentleman.

Not only was he handsome and well formed, but his warm, low-pitched, melodic voice was the sort that sent tremors radiating through a maiden’s breast (and other portions of her anatomy), if she allowed her thoughts to dwell upon it. She had spent hours the previous night attempting to keep her own thoughts from doing so, or from considering his extremely attractive smile.

Her ride along the seashore with the two little girls had seemed rather flat after he had left them; and she had wasted a good deal of her time later, when she might better have been sleeping; trying to imagine what it would have been like had he ridden with them, sharing the pleasures of the crisp sea breeze, the haunting echoes when they had ridden right inside the largest cave, the splashing of horses’ hooves as they chased retreating waves, and the thrill of fear when Charley had ridden too far in pursuit of one wave and had nearly been claimed by its successor.

Lady Ophelia’s words acted upon her now like a bucket of ice water, for the chill sweeping over her was the same. It brought her to her feet, which had the effect of shifting his gaze from Lady Ophelia to her, and had she been asked to describe her feelings just then, she would have found the task impossible, for it was as if she were falling with no one to catch her and yet had become suspended in time between the moment of his entry and the moment her aunt’s words had turned him into a stranger again.

The moment passed. Looking directly at her, he said, “It is true. I am Gideon Deverill.”

Her numbness disappeared in a blaze of anger, and closing the distance between them in a few short steps, she slapped him hard across the face before she had realized what she meant to do. From a great distance, she heard Lady Ophelia’s exclamation of dismay, but she paid it no heed.

“How dare you even cross the threshold of this house!”

“I came because—”

“Don’t speak to me,” she snapped. “You are an unprincipled, deceitful scoundrel, and you have no business to set foot on Tarrant land. The Deverills represent all that is reprehensible, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself even to belong to such a felonious family, but to try to pass yourself off as Penthorpe in order to insinuate yourself into my—”

“That’s enough,” Deverill said grimly.

“It is by no means enough! I have much more to say to you, and though you may suppose that because you are a marquess’s son I will not dare to say it, you will, by heaven, hear every word!”

“Do not raise your voice to me.”

“Don’t give me orders! This is my house, and you have no business to be in it, and therefore I will say what I please.”

“If you will just listen to me for a moment,” Deverill said, reaching a hand out to her, “I can explain—”

Whirling away from him, she cried, “I do not want to hear glib explanations. You are a liar and a deceiver, and I will not believe anything you say to me, so—Don’t touch me!”

But he had caught her by the shoulders, and he turned her back to face him, giving her a sharp shake as he said roughly, “Be silent, I tell you, or I will not be responsible for my actions. I allowed you to slap me because I deserve your anger, but if you do not wish to be treated in a like fashion, I’d advise you not to shriek at me like a fishwife or call me names.”

Daintry stared at him, caught off her guard as much by the look of fury in his eyes as by his words. Nearly everyone of her acquaintance tried to placate her when she lost her temper, but he had done nothing of the sort, and she began to think he might make good his threat if she pushed him to it. Refusing to be daunted, however, she narrowed her eyes, tightened her lips, and said with what even he ought to recognize as truly dangerous calm, “You would never dare to strike me in my father’s house with my aunt to bear witness to your violence.”