The Defiant Lady Pencavel (11 page)

“That is private, and the reason I don’t wish a prying wife in my business.” He averted his gaze.

Now he intrigued her. People called him a rogue, but in what way did he deserve that moniker? She’d heard a few whispers as to the truth in London. “You are up to something...illegal, not quite above-board, perhaps?”

Lambrick’s dark eyes flashed, his mouth tightening. “Have a care, my dear. Ignorance is bliss. What have you heard, exactly?”

“Nothing specific.” She
had
touched a nerve, and his fierce look sent shivers up and down her spine. She ached to know more about him, before she let him disappear from her life. “Everyone calls you a rogue, or infamous, and I was only wondering why.”

“Curiosity killed the cat, my lady. In your case, the hellcat.” He arched a dark brow, his expression half amused. “Again, more reason to not want a snooping spouse about me, particularly one with your eviscerating tongue.”

“Then we are in agreement, our betrothal and any connection between us is null and void.” A strange emptiness that he would no longer accost her in parks and pleasure gardens seeped through her. She breathed slowly. “You should be on your way now.”

“Do I detect a hint of reluctance on your part?” His voice came out soft, searching.

“You are wishful thinking, sir.” Melwyn moved toward the parlor door, ignoring the tingle in her flesh at the timbre of that voice. She prayed she wouldn’t stumble. “Do you spend the night, or take a room at the local inn where you may rape a village whore?”

“The whore sounds delectable. I need a warm form in my bed to temper the frigidness here.” He sounded almost angry as he followed her back out into the hall.

“What did your daughter mean, Pencavel, that you’re already married?” The widow nibbled on a chicken thigh, the conversation out here —if not the food—apparently stalled in their absence. “Aren’t you a widower these many years?”

“She was distraught, Madam Whale, that’s all.” Her father sighed deeply. “What shall I do with her? A girl with few prospects now.”

“Forgive me, Papa.” Melwyn rested her hand on her parent’s shoulder. “I spoke out of turn; it was nothing but chagrin at my brusque and cruel rebuff by this knave of a man.” She turned to Lambrick, who watched her carefully. “Though, of course, I wholeheartedly agree with his decision.” Her throat tight, she turned back to her father. “Please, don’t waste your time finding me a husband. As soon as I’m one and twenty, I’d like my inheritance and will procure passage to Italy to join in the continued excavations of Pompeii and Herculaneum.”

“That is preposterous! You will scandalize the region, and bring shame upon your poor father.” The widow licked her greasy fingers. “Not to mention ruin your fingernails.”

“I worry about your safety, my dear. I wish you would rethink this folly, though I’m under no illusion that you will,” Lambrick said, his tone genuine.

“I’ll be fine. Don’t trouble yourself.” Melwyn’s words came out stilted. She moved several steps back in case he might touch her, and she’d fall into his arms.

“You’ve shaved years off of my life already, my girl.” Papa nodded in agreement with the viscount.

“If you insist on this road to perdition, an older woman of sound character is accompanying you, I do hope?” The widow narrowed her already squinty eyes. She brushed a chicken bone from her generous bosom. “For your father’s sake.”

“Indeed, and we are very close, so no one need worry. And I will travel in disguise to preserve my father’s piece of mind. I give you good evening, Madam.”

Melwyn turned to Lambrick, unable to meet for long his enveloping gaze. “And
adieu
to you, Lord Lambrick. Our brief association has been...unforgettable.” She hurried toward the stairs. The deep concern in the viscount’s face unsettled her. She wanted to slap and kiss him at the same time. The thought of him bedding a whore rankled her, and she wished she were insane enough to say the hell with her virtue and take a tumble with him out in the barn. But a stubborn streak prevented her from giving him the satisfaction of her body, even though he’d snuck into her soul. 

Trotting up the stairs, she fought a sob as her throat thickened that she might never see him again. Clowenna stood outside her chamber door, arms crossed, a knowing—if a tad pitying— expression on her round face.

Chapter Ten

Griffin sipped from his tea, eyeing the elderly man across his five-drawer Chippendale desk in his library where shelves of books in cupboards lined the walls. Under the elegantly coffered ceiling, the smell of paper and old leather calmed him, usually. “I’d have thought you would approve of England procuring antiquities for her museums and studies here.”

Sir Arthur Seworgan sipped from his own tea, the cup dangling from his bony fingers. His outmoded frockcoat was purple, long-skirted, and showed an old embroidered yellow waistcoat beneath. “I do, but I disapprove of any shenanigans over the legalities. We must always be officially authorized, and so forth.”

“Of course. Do you have doubts as to my honesty, Sir Arthur?” Griffin set down his cup, wishing he had added brandy to the bland beverage. Lady Pencavel’s unexpectedly upset face at their last meeting swam in the liquid’s surface. He shook the vision away, nearly spilling his tea.

“I have heard, ah, rumors.” The lanky man leaned forward, resembling a crow with his beaked nose and wizened face. “One does, you know. I only dig and deal in lawfully obtained works of ancient art. You are a man of, shall we intimate, shadowy reputation.”

“So I’ve heard myself, several times.” Griffin chuckled, though he was certain no mirth reached his eyes. “I keep people guessing, which I don’t mind at all. But if your doubts are too severe, then I suppose we cannot discuss any business transactions.” Disappointment, but not surprise, wriggled through him. Sir Arthur did have a sterling reputation.

“Good show, old bean. Distract me with a false sense of affront.” The old man snickered, scratching a hand through his sparse white hair. “I only came here to warn you that the officials are circling the carriages, so to speak. They infer that you are smuggling artifacts, and that does not sit well with them.”

Griffin winced at the pain in his shoulder from the bullet wound. He’d managed to escape the revenuers by sneaking into his secret passage that twisted under the ground for miles to the cellar of Merther Manor. “Then why aren’t the officials here, accusing me? I’m a good friend of the sheriff, by the by.”

“Friends in high places won’t keep you from gaol, if you are caught red-handed, sir.” Sir Arthur balanced his cup on his bony knee. “I only caution you to be aware. You are a landowner, and I know your tenants and the villagers respect you. You are generous with them, it is said. And the wench at the local tavern sings your praises to the heavens.”

Griffin had kept
her
satisfied—yet he’d stayed away from her this time in his residence. He was a man of innate talents in the boudoir, if only Miss Pencavel would allow him to show her. But their relationship was at an end—he realized now he could never sully her. Heart growing heavy, he shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. “I thank you for the warning. I also have a favor to ask of you.”

“Why should I grant you a favor?” The man’s thin lips drooped into a frown. “You may ruin this enterprise for the rest of us honest folk. I have a standing of being a scholar and expert in the field of antiquities, and a man of impeccable character who is on the cutting edge of this new field of archeology.”

“That’s why I invited you here. I will invest heavily in your next excavation.” Griffin leaned over his desk, luscious lips invading his mind and giving him too many sleepless nights. “I want you to travel to Langoron House near Bodmin and speak to a young woman there who is fascinated by antiquities. Treat Miss Pencavel as a serious student of the field, as she has assured me she is serious.”

“A woman? That is highly irregular.” Sir Arthur’s mouth hung open, showing teeth that would benefit from a good scrub. “Not the done thing at all, I must say.”

“As I said, treat her as a serious student. Tutor her in your field; encourage her as you would a man.” Griffin turned the delicate cup in his hands, whishing it was his ex-betrothed’s lithe body. “And you need have no worry about financing your next excursion.”

“But a woman...I don’t know.” The old man scratched at his head. “They don’t have the intellect to grasp the particulars that we men do.”

“She might surprise you. Don’t tell her I sent you, and don’t waver around the more gruesome descriptions.” Griffin leaned back in his chair. He could at least do this for Miss Pencavel. Perhaps the details of what really went on at a dig would deter her from putting herself in harm’s way. And if not, she’d be better prepared when she did venture out. His chest constricted when he thought of her out of his reach, in Italy, among those lecherous Italians, indulging in pasta. “Do this for me and I’ll also introduce you as a friend
who should be well taken care of
to that very accommodating wench at the tavern.”

Sir Arthur’s face split into a wide grin. “Now we’re talking, old bean. I’ll do what you request of me post-haste. Let’s hope I can rise to both occasions.”

****

Melwyn sprinkled twelve ounces of oil-soap shaved very fine into a bowl in the stillroom. “It’s still four months until I’m at my majority, and it seems a lifetime away. I could be chipping at stone and earth rather than fashioning Lady Lilly’s silly Soap Balls.”

“Try workin’ as a maid, with no husband, no children, no house of me own.” Clowenna sighed dramatically as she added three ounces of spermaceti to the soap shavings.

“We’ll both be adventuresome spinsters and see the wonders of the world.” Melwyn made light of it. Nightly she dreamt of hot kisses, and gold buttons that pressed against her breasts, leaving sensual indents. The first thing she’d do in Italy would be to find a young Italian lover to wipe all thoughts of Lord Lambrick from her mind. She mixed in two ounces of bizmuth dissolved in rose water. She melted the mixture in the wide kitchen hearth and returned.

“Low wages, cast-off clothes,” Clowenna continued as she added in one ounce of oil of thyme to the soap. “Emptyin’ slop jars, a hard bed to sleep in. Bein’ mistreated by your masters.
I’m just a tin miner’s daughter
.”

“In Italy, I’ll find us both lovers, and that will quiet you, I pray.” Melwyn poured in lemon essence and oil of carraways. The light fragrance was pleasing, but she still saw her ex-betrothed’s dark eyes raking over her. Her mouth went dry. She stirred the concoction, hard. “We won’t be lady and servant, but only two women on a mission, to discover ancient artifacts hidden for centuries.”

“We’ll most likely uncover worms in the dirt.” Her abigail wrinkled her nose. She started to shape the balls. “I don’t care much for worms, but that’s me lot.”

“We’ll fish with the worms, to save money on food.” Melwyn tried to picture herself baiting a hook with a squiggly, squishy creature, and cringed. “Papa still hasn’t said he’ll give me my inheritance, but I believe he shan’t deny me.”

“Work your wiles on him.” Clowenna slowly shaped more balls and lined them up on the still room table. “If not, we’ll starve in a country where I won’t know the talk o’ them, since ‘ee still hasn’t taught me no Eyetalion.”

“My lady, excuse my interruption of your rare foray into domestic endeavors, but you have a visitor.” Bastian entered the still room, his head barely missing the low lintel.

“Lord Lambrick?” Melwyn said it so earnestly, the butler backed up a step. She sucked in her breath and almost squeezed flat a soapy ball. “I meant, I hope it’s
not
Lord Lambrick. I despise the man.”

Clowenna rolled her eyes. “No one believes that no more.”

“It is an elderly gentleman. I put him in the front parlor.” Bastian moved aside for his lady to pass. “Shall I bring tea?”

“I suppose. Visitors always expect tea, and any good hostess provides it, no matter the bother. Charles II’s wife made tea drinking popular in England, but couldn’t produce an heir, the Portuguese cow.” Melwyn wiped her hands on her apron, then removed the garment, hiding her disappointment at the visitor not being Lambrick. But of course, she’d never see him again.

“Not very charitable to that long ago queen,” Bastian said. “And serving tea is only a bother to the servants and kitchen staff, if I may point that out, m’lady.”

“You just did, dear Bastian. Forgive my imprudent words. You like being my conscience, and I am humbled. Or as humbled as I can manage.” Melwyn gave him a wry, if sad smile. “However, in Italy I’ll only drink wine.”

“Then we might fall in them holes ‘ee be diggin’ in.” Clowenna started to dust the soap balls with talcum powder so they wouldn’t stick together, her hands coated with soap and powder. “An’, la, I’ll have to climb in afore the ants eat your flesh an’ heave ‘ee back out. Me work is never done.”

“On the other hand, I might leave Clowenna here when I sail, to soak up some of your sophistication, Bastian.” Melwyn pushed her hair back into place and pondered who this elderly visitor might be. Another unwanted beau? “Serve the bohea tea, as it’s cheaper than the pekoe.

She strode down the corridor and entered the parlor. A skinny old man turned to smile at her. He wore a bright blue, garishly embroidered suit with lace cuffs on his shirt sleeves. Her papa was scraping the bottom of the proverbial barrel with this suitor. “I am Lady Melwyn Pencavel. And who are you, sir? Not here for my hand, I do implore.”

“I’m Sir Arthur Seworgan.” He removed his fantail hat and bowed his head with its wispy white hair. “And you are no pampered princess, I’m relieved to see. There’s color in your cheeks and soap muck in your hair.”

“Sir Arthur Seworgan? I know about you. I’ve read your treatises on antiquity, digs, and keeping mosquitoes away from sensitive areas of the skin.” Her heart picked up; a famous antiquarian and archeologist stood before her, though he looked as ancient as his discoveries, as if first-hand he’d witnessed the building of the pyramids. “I am elated to meet you, sir. To what do I owe this honor?”