Chapter Four
“Talk of the Devil, and he’s presently at your elbow.”
(English proverb. 1666)
“A fribble,” muttered Tamsyn as she dismounted in the stables of Penrose Manor.
Spriggan neighed in agreement and nibbled her hair, receiving an apple for loyalty.
“Sorry we was too far behind, Miss Penrose,” Benjamin said, hefting the saddle to the tack room, “but never you fret, me and Samuel had that London dandiprat sweatin’ like a furze hook in a dewy ditch.”
Tamsyn grinned. Ben’s Grandfather Thomas had a saying for every occasion – or made one up if he didn’t.
Yet it had to be acknowledged that the Marquess of Winterbourne had not looked sweaty at all.
He’d looked utterly…dry, even beneath a sweltering Cornish sky.
Obviously not expecting female company, the marquess had removed his jacket, revealing enough billowing muslin to clothe two Penrose household maids and a footman. A pale-lemon waistcoat, which wouldn’t remain pale for longer than a gull’s squawk, had shielded his broad chest, and surely a bootjack and fork would be required to prise him from those cream buckskins at night.
He embodied town sophistication…and country ineptitude. Dusted buckskins indeed!
Stomping from the stables and circling Petrok, the resident peacock, she considered his aspect. Dark flashing eyes, strong classical features and curled raven-black locks – he must sleep with curling papers in his hair.
For such a fribble, the only contradiction was that one would expect his demeanour to hold a hint of softness, of dissipation, but he exuded masculine grace and strength, dark stubble adding to the general air of wickedness.
Even here in Cornwall, they’d heard the tales of Lord Winterbourne.
His exploits with a certain Saxony princess had been the talk of Helston for eleven days until Lady Mundy’s footman had run away with three silver teaspoons, a family pug and the daughter of the house – the debate as to order of importance had rumbled on for a further six…until the pug had returned home.
Now here the marquess was. The most famous rogue of London Town under her family’s roof.
Why?
Tamsyn frowned as she clumped through the kitchen door and dropped into a chair to unlace her grimy boots, cook tutting at the state of her through a mist of flour and dough.
News of this dandy’s imminent arrival had been imparted by Father a week ago, that he was to assist in a business matter, but it all sounded more than a little havey-cavey to Tamsyn.
Papa had waffled on, eyes shifting…shiftily.
A business matter? China clay pits? What would a London fribble know of those?
Evidently, she’d have to question Lord Winterbourne…at length. Tamsyn hadn’t spent three weeks assisting Dr Tuffle with his famed work,China Clay – The Geology, Geography and Industry,for nothing.
She dashed up the servants’ staircase from the basement, stone steps cool on her stockinged feet.
For some days, she’d been worried, worried the marquess was coming for her… To question and probe and hence rekindle the horrors of that night six years past, but surely Whitehall no longer concerned itself with such a long-ago event?
And truly, the Marquess of Winterbourne? A Whitehall spy?
Snorting, she paused on the top step, letting dark memories ebb and flow…of lying unconscious in that dank cave for hours until the search party had found them, of then lying bedridden for months with inflammation of the lungs and infection of wounds.
She’d been left pitiful, silent, a quaking mass of hushed terror.
But now that French demon was firmly in her past and there he would remain. Too long had she waited, watched the shadows, dreaded the night he’d return.
Yet he hadn’t.
And she would refuse to let him blight her days any longer.
