Sir Jago seated himself behind his darkened oak desk, took a sip and paused, no doubt to regather his thoughts. “You must be wondering why I invited you here?”
“It had crossed my mind.” Jack settled into a plush armchair opposite.
“Tamsyn lived in silence for nigh five years. I’d watch her fight for breath and speech, sought to alleviate it with tonics and medicines.” He brushed his brow with an unsteady hand. “That fearful night stole her words, reduced my Tam to a mere shadow, and I am so very afraid that if she doesn’t reveal that fear, silence might return.”
“Did she never tell you of that night herself or write it down?”
Sir Jago shook his head. “Perhaps I should have forced her, but if you had seen her. The blood…”
Bile stirred. “Blood?”
“Of course, you wouldn’t know as we kept it from your Whitehall man. But the bastard… He cut her.”
Jack slugged the liquor in one, rage at the violence men could inflict scattering his thoughts. Sounds of childhood flitted in his head: Mama crying, a striking palm, a scream from the pretty upstairs maid.
Foul temper was another trait which snaked within a Winterbourne’s veins and he felt it rise and crest. But unlike Father, Jack strove to subdue its fierce lash, to observe and guide it toward calmer waters.
The brandy spread its warmth within and temper ebbed.
“How did your daughter come to speak again? Was it gradual?”
“No, not at all. One day last autumn, we heard screaming, raw and shrill from the lake. We ran and… The girls had gone boating, had a picnic, but Lowdy had fallen in, fainted, and although Tamsyn had swum to her, she’d struggled to hold Lowdy’s head above water, their skirts dragging them down, the lake too deep.”
“So they might have drowned had your daughter not found the courage to scream?” Jack paced to the decanters and refilled with shaking hand.
“Yes. A whisper that grew in shivering strength until her cry finally reached us.” Sir Jago fiddled with the ink pot. “I don’t believe she would have let go of Lowdy, even if it had meant her own watery grave. My daughter… I used to believe that only fear kept her silent, which is in some way true, but ’tis more complicated than that. A London doctor told me nothing was wrong with her voice or throat, that she was shamming, but I know my Tamsyn.”
Jack returned to his seat, held Sir Jago’s gaze. “Your daughter, Sir, is most brave.”
“Yes, like her mother.” And he turned his stare to the window, eyes dimmed.
With troubled mind, Jack took a deep breath. Before the hesitant Miss Penrose imparted her secrets, she would need to trust a man.
The problem was, he’d journeyed to Cornwall bearing solely lies and deceit.
Chapter Eight
“And, after all, what is a lie?
’Tis but the truth in masquerade.”
(Byron)
“I was only trying to assist you in your romantic endeavours,” Jack rasped as Miggens yanked his cravat into a bountifulL’orientale, nearly wrenching noggin from socket.
He squinted at the morning sunshine which impudently peeked through the pale-green curtains. It was so damn…bright in the country.
“Well desist, my lord. And I do not wish to hear any more of your absurd rogue’s rules either.” He knotted the cloth till Jack could scarcely prattle.
Well, there was gratitude for you.
Adherence to his rules had resulted in four weddings thus far and seeing his half-brother settled would be thecoup de grâce. Of course, there was the small matter of a class disparity to solve between Miggens, a by-blow manservant, and Miss Treherne, a gentlewoman with titled cousins.
Nothing could be done about Oliver’s ignoble birth – excepting forgery of church documents – but a marquess’s acknowledgement of his brother, together with the lumping unentailed estate in Somerset he’d offered him, could make anyone acceptable.
However, the stubborn fusty guts had stated he didn’t want a Winterbourne’s charity…despite being half a Winterbourne himself.
Pride and all that balderdash.
