The Defiant Lady Pencavel (14 page)

Lambrick opened his front door, gesturing for Melwyn to enter. He sent out two footmen to haul in the luggage, and Clowenna. Melwyn walked into a cool, spacious entrance hall with an ornate plaster ceiling that soared like froth above her head.

“What did the sheriff mean by ‘people are watching’?” She waved her gloves between them as she stepped across the black and white checkerboard marble floor.

“That’s none of your concern, my dear, so keep your pretty nose out of it.” He put his hand on her arm, and she nearly jumped out of her skin. Why did his touch affect her so? He smelled like grass, sheep and infinite peril—if peril could have a scent.

She moved away from him in her swirling rose velvet traveling dress with short jacket. She twirled the matching riband on her hat. “Does he speak of me, being here, vulnerable, with no chaperone?”

“No, not at all, though your reputation will be under scrutiny. However, it’s been questionable for a few years, at your own doing. Your travels about the county with just your abigail—such as today, haven’t gone unnoticed.” He thrust his hands behind his back as if to resist further touching. “Shall I have my housekeeper show you to a room? Or are you here to share mine?”

“As usual you overstep yourself, sir. I will not be compromised. My travels were always of a business nature, even if that shocks your male sensibility.” She stared at a naked statue in an alcove, her mouth dry, her stays growing too tight. She’d made a huge mistake in coming here; she couldn’t deny that she wanted this devil’s spawn, though aloud she’d deny it vociferously. Taking a slow breath, she faced him. “Call your housekeeper before you say anything you, or I—or anyone else in our vicinity—may regret.”

Chapter Twelve

“Deuce it all, just what I need, that barbed-mouthed brat under my roof. Why is she here? What does she want, after so brazenly rejecting me before I had the chance to reject her?” Griffin gulped his brandy in the library, the smoky, smooth taste not quite soothing down his throat.

“‘Ee covet the chit, don’t deny it, sir.” Jacca bent over a tally book on the large desk. “Your smitten face tells it all.”

“I won’t deny it, yet smitten is too harsh a word. But to
have
her is to marry her in our society. And neither of us wishes marriage, even if I need it to pass along my prestigious name.” Griffin rubbed his face in confusion, and he disliked being confused and not in total control. He’d been with his share of women, and enjoyed their favors; however, none had captured his heart, or lingered in his thoughts after the relationships ended. “I’ll need to find a compliant, dull wife, set her to breeding, and neglect her because she’ll bore me.”

“Sounds like the perfect plan.” Jacca dipped his quill in ink and scribbled more numbers. “Should o’ done that meself.”

“A man should be able to have two wives, one for respectability, and one for titillation.” Griffin poured himself another brandy from his cut-crystal decanter.

“That’s what a mistress be for, sir.” Jacca dusted sand over the page to dry the ink. His craggy face crinkled further. “If I was ever so lucky to have one, me harridan of an old lady would kill me if I enjoyed meself.”

“Regrettably, I don’t want a mistress anymore. I desire the unpredictable Miss Pencavel. And she’s already turned me down for an illicit tryst, at least twice.” Griffin hoped it was only desire he felt for her, and not something more treacherous...like love. He shuddered at the thought. To love such a brash, untamable creature was opening himself up to disaster and discontent. He gulped more brandy. Her intractable nature was what attracted him to her; she was a lot like him—yet he couldn’t be in love with himself! Or could he?

“Find out why she’s here, sir.” Jacca put the quill in its leather holder and wiped ink-stained fingers on a cloth. “Maybe she’s changed her mind about the tryst.”

“I plan to, as soon as I finish this alcohol. I need a little Dutch courage.” Griffin tipped up the snifter and upended the beverage, which burned down to his stomach. “I’ve always been the most courageous, some would say reckless, of men. How dare this wisp of a girl presume to transform me.”

“Looks like she already has,” Jacca replied sagely.

Griffin slammed down the snifter. “We’ll just see about that.” He left the library and stormed up the stairs, and down the long gallery of elegantly paneled wood, past solemn portraits of upstanding Lambrick ancestors. He knocked on the guest-chamber door.

The moon-faced maid opened it, her gaze wary. “Might I help ‘ee, your lordship?”

He rocked on his heels. “I will speak to your mistress at once.”

“She’s in slight dishabille at the moment. Could ‘ee come back later, sir?” The maid started to close the door. “Or tomorrow would be better.”

“At the risk of being a rude host, I will speak to her now.” He pushed open the door and was caught up in the sweet fragrance of lemon, not to mention the enticing view of Miss Pencavel in a flowing pink, silk dressing gown, her blonde hair in disarray over her shoulders.

“You are an insistent fiend, aren’t you, my lord?” She pulled her robe close, even if her eyes glinted in amusement. “Have I no privacy?”

“Not when you invade my household with no prior notice.” He stepped into the room, his pulse thrumming. “I want to know exactly why you are here.”

“A reasonable request, I will admit, even if I did send a missive in the mail. You cannot trust mail service these days.” She ran her fingers through her tresses. “And since I have ostensibly invaded, I won’t stand on ceremony.” She sashayed closer. “I’m here to find out who you really are.”

“A very dangerous prospect, my lady.” His stomach tightened, with her too near body, hidden badly in the flimsy garment,
and
the idea she might discover his secret operations. “Since we are no longer betrothed, why is that of interest to you?”

“I am a woman who does not mince words, I find you enigmatic and therefore fascinating.” Her perfect eyebrows rose as she appeared surprised by her own admission. “An
unfortunate
prospect, on my part.”

“She’s that stubborn, an’ in love wi’ ‘ee, milord.” The maid smirked and exited quickly through the connecting door.

“My abigail exaggerates, of course.” Miss Pencavel’s cheeks flushed scarlet and she turned her back to him. “Disregard what she said, and even what I just said. I’m overtired from the journey.”

Could this little minx love him? His chest heated with the oddest feeling. It must be the brandy. “Are you here to reinstate our association, Miss Pencavel?” To his shock, the idea didn’t revolt him as it once might have.

“That’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard. We’re both free to do what we want. Well, you much more than I.” She walked away, her form outlined alluringly in the silk. “I can tell you have no care for me, as you keep mentioning my less than pure reputation. Is that why you rejected me?”

“You are a confounding creature. You sought the dissolution of our contract as well as I.” Griffin bristled, irritated at the sympathy that rose inside him. He wanted to embrace her, to press her silken body against his hard-muscled frame. “Aren’t we both satisfied with the outcome?”

“I daresay we are.” She gave him a drained smile. “It was a moment of madness for me to come here. Do forgive me.”

“No, I apologize for my boorish behavior. I shouldn’t have barged in on you just now.” Griffin went to the door; he had to leave, to collect himself, to wipe her scent from his nostrils. “I will see you later, for supper, where I hope you’ll have more clothes on.”

Back in the corridor, he marveled at their polite banter. He’d spent many years perfecting his impervious exterior, to not plunge the depths of his loneliness. He could not allow this young woman to unmask him—nevertheless, he’d still enjoy her in his bed.

****

Melwyn entered the adjoining room and threw a brush, purposely badly aimed, toward her abigail’s head. It thwacked on the wall behind her. “I should thrash you, which I am allowed to do. But I feel for you as a woman stuck in a degrading profession. Why
did
you say that I love him, you tattling slyboots?”

“Because ‘ee do, that’s all, m’lady.” Clowenna picked up the brush and plucked out a loose bristle. “Look, the ivory be chipped.”

“And my papa says
I
don’t know how to dissemble. Of course, I did just admit to Lord Lambrick I was here to find out who he is.” Melwyn flopped down on the maid’s hard, narrow bed. “I should never have allowed you to talk me into coming to Merther Manor. Did you see the way he looks at me? First, as if he could strangle me, then a minute ago as if he might gobble me up for pleasure.”

“Ess?” Clowenna tossed the brush on the bed, opened her sewing basket and began to thread a needle. “He loves ‘ee, too, but won’t admit it neither. You’re both mulish blockheads an’ must know how the story will end.”

“What does it matter? The situation is impossible. If we did marry, which we won’t, we’d tear each other apart like two angry bears being baited. He’d never allow me to pursue my interests. And...I seriously doubt he loves me.” Heart heavy, she shifted on the straw mattress, relieved hers was of soft feathers. “Anyway, I will sail to Italy, and drag you and now Sir Arthur with me, if he can survive the voyage.”

“Only if your papa gives ‘ee your money.” Clowenna sat in a chair, pulled out a black, woolen stocking, and began to thrust her needle in and out, mending a tear.

“Very well, we are here. So as soon as it’s dark, we’ll sneak about the house and find out if his lordship is smuggling.” Melwyn smiled hesitantly, back to her original purpose. “We need to search for secret passageways. Smugglers always have them in their homes.”

“An’ hope it will scare your papa into givin’ ‘ee your portion, no strings attached.” Her maid’s needle continued to swipe in and out of the material as she deftly stitched.

“That sounds preposterous, and a contrived plot-point, now that I ponder it, but we’ll carry through with our plans.” Melwyn stood, shoving any thoughts that she could love a crook and
he
might love her far away. The smuggling aspect didn’t bother her, but the idea that this man had such sway over her emotions did. “Lay out my darkest dress, and wear yours; we must creep like phantoms through the house.”

Hours later, after pleading illness to keep from attending supper with Lord Lambrick, Melwyn opened a tinderbox, struck steel to flint, and lit a pilchard-oil lamp. Dressed in her dark blue dress, she and Clowenna crept along the corridor.

“Did you find out anything from the servants while eating in the servants’ hall?” Melwyn waved the stink of the fish oil from her face as she whispered.

“Ess. A footman told me to look in the library for a secret passage.” Clowenna inched along in her dark bed gown, the loose wrap worn by servants.

“That sounds far too accommodating on such short acquaintance.” Melwyn stopped at the head of the stairs and scanned the area. Her skin prickled with nervousness.

“I spoke to the only surly servant who don’t like it here, cause the others raved about the benevolence o’ the viscount. His handsome an’ burly valet worships him.” Clowenna smiled then shrugged. “But there’s always one malcontent in the bunch.”

“Brilliant. I hope you obtained directions to this library.” After instructions, Melwyn started down the stairs, cringing if one creaked, her maid on her heels.

Thunder rumbled outside, and rain began to splatter on the manor roof.

“It would rain,” Clowenna said in a tense whisper, “Now it’ll feel all spooky.”

“Is there something you need, Lady Pencavel?” The housekeeper loomed out of the gloom like a spider, her question almost an accusation. “A tincture, since you aren’t feeling well? Or so you said.”

Melwyn jumped, wriggling the lamp’s flame. She steadied her breathing. “I need fresh air, a short walk; that will revive me.” This woman had been churlish from the start, as if Lambrick were her son and not her employer. “It’s nothing to trouble yourself with, Mrs. ...Loveday, was it?”

“Yes, it’s Mrs. Loveday, trusted keeper of the peace and linen at Merther Manor since his lordship was a child.” The housekeeper raised her pert chin and scraped suspicions eyes—fine wrinkles pronounced in the shadows—over Melwyn. “Shall I accompany you on your late night promenade, my lady? Bring you an umbrella, perhaps?”

“I have my dear abigail with me, so no need to bother.” Melwyn raised her chin in her finest earl’s daughter pose—she could duel chins with the best of them. “I adore the rain. So please retire at once.”

The woman glared her up and down. She twisted at her mobcap lappet. “I’m well aware of who your mother is. Do you need directions to the servants’ hall?”

Melwyn swallowed a retort. She must maintain an even temper as she was prowling around someone else’s home. “No, I most resolutely do not. Goodnight.”

“I will retire, with one eye open, you may be assured.” Mrs. Loveday grasped her skirt and mounted the stairs ever so slowly.

Melwyn waited until the footsteps in the gallery above faded. She blew out her breath. “Strident old biddy. If I was mistress here, I’d have her sacked.”

“‘Ee still has the chance,” Clowenna reminded. More rain pounded on the roof.

Down another gloomy corridor, Melwyn and her abigail entered a large room that smelled of leather and smoke. The light from the lamp barely touched on the numerous shelves of books. A large walnut desk, a smaller neoclassical desk by Maggiolini, and leather chairs filled out the area.

“Run your hands along the books, to try to find a latch or lever of some type,” Melwyn whispered, the lamp flame flickering in her gush.

“I’m doin’ it, over here in the dark in case ‘ee hasn’t noticed,” Clowenna groused. “Keep your knickers on, m’lady.”

“We don’t wear knickers yet.” Melwyn traced her fingers along the smooth and tooled leather volumes. “Though why is beyond me, and it’s extremely inconvenient at times.” She felt along the shelves, frustrated that she found nothing.

“I don’t feel naught but books an’ more books. Who has time for so much readin’?” Clowenna grumbled, then the sound of tripping and a thud. “La, and damme, I walked into a picture frame.”