“Lord Winterbourne. I’ve heard so much about you,” she enthused.
How inconvenient.
If this lady passed on any wild anecdotes to Miss Penrose, she’d think him an utter libertine. Which he was, but that was beside the point.
“Have you now, Miss Treherne. Don’t believe all those tales, will you?”
The hue deepened to downright crimson.
Lud, how had his reputation travelled the three hundred or so miles west to Cornwall? And surely this ancient duchy had its own rogues?
A valet’s clearing of throat interrupted them. “Miss Treherne, a surprise and a pleasure.”
She stiffened, eyes widening to pools of porter ale, and Jack cocked a brow as Miggens continued to overstep the valet’s code of concealment.
“Oliv– I mean, Mr Miggens.” She swiftly turned, colour fading to turnip white. “Whatever are you doing here?”
After producing an exuberant bow worthy of a true Winterbourne, Miggens then gathered the fallen pink roses and presented her with the basket, gaze devouring the sweet armful.
Intriguing.
Jack had always considered his half-brother a fairly staid fellow, as never had he seen him glance at a woman with such…interest. Curious how the offspring of utter scoundrels often became more moral than a nun.
Not himself, naturally.
“I’m his lordship’s manservant,” Miggens replied.
“Oh, of course. I… Well, ’tis most pleasant to meet you again. I have to…attend Miss Penrose.” And she flew away as though a hawk were hunting her.
Ever more intriguing.
A young freckled maid led them upstairs, winding around the passageways of the ancient house with ease – he’d need a piece of string to find his way in this place – until they came to a sumptuous corner room decked out with everything a man could want: walnut desk, brimming decanters, huge bed.
“Here we are, my lord. And if there be anything I can do for you,” she purred, gazing solely at his buckskins, “send for Lucy.”
“Thank you, Lucy. I believe I’ve all one could need.” Jack flipped her a coin and a smile, before removing the key from the door.
“Best you leave that where ’tes, my lord,” she warned, frowning, “so as them piskies can’t climb through and pester you in the night.”
Temptation beckoned a bawdy jest but for now he heeded the maid’s advice, returned the key and closed the door, deciding to plague Miggens instead.
“Want to tell me all about the delectable Miss Treherne?” he drawled, heading to the side table and prodding the flat cake which sat upon it; crumbs scattered.
“Stubble it, my lord,” Miggens groused. “And don’t touch her,” he added, dawdling to the small adjacent chamber which would suffice as his quarters.
“That tells me all I needed to know.” Jack nibbled at the cake – rather moreish. Sweet and buttery with fat raisins. “I’m interested in these piskies though. Do you suppose they come in pairs?”
Chapter Five
Jack of all trades.
The pink of the London ton sat in Father’s library, newspapers spread over his lap and a glass of brandy clutched close, muttering to himself…
“Never have I read such scandalous lies.” Lord Winterbourne shook his head irritably. “I did not seduce Lady P in the hothouse at the Cholmondeley’s soiree.”
Whilst Tamsyn felt mortified he’d found the stash of old newspapers that she and Lowdy had scoured for gossip on the rogue, he perhaps wasn’t as sinful as the rags proclaimed if his indignance was anything to go by.
Tamsyn faffed with her shawl as she observed him through the ajar door. Maybe she’d been unfairly prejudiced toward him. Maybe he wasn’t such a–
