“I’m an awful person,” she whispered. Resentment of others was a bitter emotion – it destroyed one’s soul and hid true self. Spiteful words were so much easier than admitting one’s own flaws.
A hug engulfed her, warm and fragranced with lavender. “Don’t be a goosecap, Tam, and besides, you are probably right about the marquess. The earl called him a licentious scapegrace with the morals of an alley cat.”
That didn’t particularly console, the earl being a distant cousin of Lowdy’s, who’d used her as both hostess in London and unpaid companion for his mother until he’d found a wife; then surplus to requirements, Lowdy had been turfed out.
The wretch.
Tamsyn stared into Lowdy’s dark-brown eyes, so dissimilar to her own. “I do not know what I would do without you.”
“Pfff. I would be homeless if not for you and Sir Jago. And probably dead. Or a harlot, which would be worse.” She grinned, revealing dimples. “And Lord Winterbourne is doubtless unintelligent. Most rakes are. I remember a Lord Whitely in London and he too was handsome and had the reputation of a scoundrel yet couldn’t count past ten. That’s probably why the marquess is a day early.”
Tamsyn smiled. “You have the right of it. Surely Lord Winterbourne can’t be perfect at everything?”
∞∞∞
“The Penrose estate was listed in the Domesday Book and has been owned by the same family since the fourteenth century. Mostly medieval, the stone-built manor house was remodelled in the sixteenth century by–”
“Yes, yes, Miggens. It’s old,” agreed Jack as he stared at the ancient building before him. It rose from the earth like something from a Gothic novel, all mullioned windows and crenelated parapets – must be the very devil to keep heated and he dare not think of the privies.
A haughty butler – weren’t they always? – deposited him in the study, after informing him he was a day early, but soon enough the door opened and a giant of a man entered. Jack was tall, but this chap had to duck low beneath the stone lintel.
“I’m Sir Jago Penrose, and it’s a pleasure.” A huge paw enveloped his own. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
Gads, with a daughter in the house, it was a wonder he’d been allowed over the threshold.
“A pleasure also, Sir Jago. Thank you for allowing my stay.”
“You’re a day early, you realise?” His gaze dwelled on Jack’s impeccable cravat. “No matter, but I’m afraid we’ve an assembly ball to attend in Helston this evening and everyone is making preparations. You’re quite welcome to come along, of course, unless you’re wearied from your journey?”
After all those days twiddling his thumbs and toes in the carriage, Jack would even attend a debutante’s tea party for some company.
And he could begin the mission: flatter, cajole, gather information, depart.
“I will gladly join you for the ball, if it’s no bother.”
“Splendid. I will have repast and a bath sent to your chambers. Our cook’s hevva cake is of particular acclaim. We leave in little over an hour when you’ll also meet our other house guests.”
Jack prevented his brow from rising. House guests would be a pain in the posterior whilst endeavouring to woo the lady of the house; they opened doors at inappropriate times, stumbled upon illicit conversations and felt the need to interfere – he should know as he’d been one often enough.
“We have Great-Aunt Sarah Pencally in residence as chaperone, in addition to a professor and his assistant who are studying the legends of Cornwall as the library is full of ancient texts and suchlike. Our scholarly professor has already departed for Helston.” He turned with twinkling eyes. “Ostensibly to visit the church but I believe the Blue Anchor Inn to be more plausible.”
Sir Jago seemed a thoroughly decent chap. Jovial but evidently not easily fooled, he had a kind, open manner. Hair, more grey than brown, fell untidily over his brow, astute eyes silently appraising throughout their conversation.
Jack only hoped he would pass muster as a brace of tidy pistols hung on the study wall behind Sir Jago’s desk, and the report detailing his threat to Carlsbrook’s ballocks still lingered.
“I look forward to meeting them all,” he lightly fibbed.
“Good. I shall also introduce my daughter when she appears, but we can discuss other matters tomorrow or else we’ll be late. Remember, ’tis a local assembly, so black breeches not pantaloons, no swords or boots, leave your cane at the door and…” He tapped his lip. “…I believe the Master of Ceremonies forbade coloured handkerchiefs last month.”
Faugh, this local frolic had more rules than Almack’s.
With a friendly pat, Sir Jago accompanied him to the hall where Jack noted his valet lurking beneath the stairs, and he was about to tell him to cease lurking when an attractive bundle of blond dashed across the way, caught Jack’s eye, tripped over a curled rug corner and dropped the basket of roses she was carrying.
“Ah, Lowdy,” called Sir Jago, “allow me to present the Marquess of Winterbourne. And this is Miss Treherne, my daughter’s companion.”
Jack made a refined leg and brought this lady’s fingers to his lips. They trembled somewhat, and he gazed up to meet cheeks the hue of late summer apples.
The rogue within surveyed her form in one glance. Rounded in all the right places, smooth hands, pretty ringlets and sparkling eyes the colour of coffee. Fetching. Shy. Sweet.
