It was fairly maddening that this London fop should reveal such a truth, but so it was.
“We should return,” she said. “I don’t know where Lowdy and your man have got to.”
His lips curved into a wicked grin as the suave seducer returned, ruby signet ring glinting in the sunshine, the scar as incongruous as his embroidered copper silk waistcoat in this land of slate and tor.
A misplaced peacock.
“Do you know, I think they lost us on purpose, Miss Penrose. Perhaps I’m not the only rogue in town.”
Chapter Nine
An ostentation of peafowl.
“Take note, Miggens.”
The valet in question licked his pencil.
“A clay pit venture presents unique challenges due to the intensive labour, slow drying times and relative quantity of recoverable clay in comparison to the quartz-mica slurry produced, which is such that…”
Jack puffed his relief as Miss Penrose finally took herself from the library carrying both newspaper and frown. Late last night in bed, he’d cribbed the first three chapters of Dr Tuffle’s mighty tome on china clay. Mid-way through the fourth, he’d fallen into a guilt-ridden sleep.
All this deception sat as heavy in his gut as cook’s clotted cream scones. Mostly his missions involved experiencedfemmes fatales, spies or Rookery cut-throats, not a brave lady with hair the colour of rich earth and a spirit which beguiled.
He’d thoroughly enjoyed yesterday: the invigorating gallop over the moors so unlike a sedate trot down Rotten Row discussing Lady Whitehead’s hat or Mr Talbot’s latest wager. Miss Penrose had displayed a broad knowledge of estate matters, appreciative of local concerns, and she’d listened with kindness to his reminiscence of Vincent’s death, a hurt he rarely mentioned.
She was without artifice. And he was so full of it.
But after the ride and an early dinner at which Miss Penrose had declined to attend, beingindisposed, Jack now felt a tad frustrated.
How could Miss Penrose succumb to his charm if she either avoided him or kept asking ridiculous questions concerning clay filtration as she had over breakfast? There were only so many ways to deviate from a subject and choking on a kipper had now been used.
“Never have I been so stumped in a philanderous pursuit, Oliver.”
“If in London, my lord, how would one entice the lady?” Miggens asked, placing a lump of hevva cake on the windowsill for the seagulls. “Surely it cannot be so dissimilar.”
Jack stared, incredulous. “I’d take her to Gunter’s for an ice or Astley’s circus to see the lions. Woo her with a waltz or escort her to the theatre. Present her with a posy or gift her a fan. Take her to Hyde Park to feed the ducks or visit Vauxhall Gardens. Go see the Tower of London or–”
“Perhaps a visit to Helston would be provident. One could buy a trinket,” his valet suggested, eyes widening as three more seagulls joined the two on the sill in an altercation over a currant.
“Hmm. You’re not just my brother in nose, are you? I’m obliged to make a few house calls anyhow as I was besieged at the assembly ball with invitations and a plethora of cards.”
Miggens raised a brow, although the haughty affectation was diminished by his shooing hand as six gulls now swarmed the open window, their beady eyes resembling a Rookery thug who’d just spied a weak pigeon on his patch.
“None of that, Miggs. I shall be calling on gentlemen alone as I require all my hardihood for Miss Penrose.” He ignored the snort and pondered. “My presence, however, has caused a bit of a rumpus, and I can’t step into a seedy tavern without some chap shaking my hand or a woman pressing her…attentions. Therefore, I require your assistance.”
“I…” Seagulls now nipped at Miggens’s gently flapping fingers, their yellow beaks diving with venom, and Jack rolled his eyes. His half-brother had the body of a lion but the heart of a dove. He strode over and sharply clapped his hands, the bullies retreating to the apple tree to watch and wait. Jack slammed the window shut.
No doubt they would gain their revenge from on high when he dared walk the gardens.
“I need you to ask the locals about Miss Penrose and the incident six years ago. What do they know of it? Were they not aware of a French spy ring in their midst?” Jack scrutinised his valet’s dapper attire. “Discreetly, of course. Wear something woollen that smells of fish and trawl the inns and hostelries.”
“Not my usual haunts,” he muttered, dabbing at his bloodied hand.
“Yes, we all know you prefer a reading room at the circulating library but remember when you glug that ale with a doxy in your lap that you’re doing it for England.”
A sniff conveyed his valet’s reluctant compliance, and Jack fingered a leather-bound book with silver script denoting its subject of mermaids. Perhaps he’d peruse that in bed and use Dr Tuffle’s book against the malevolent piskies instead. “Whilst you’re busy, I’ll make my house calls. Hopefully Miss Penrose will attend dinner tonight and I’ll be able to whittle down her resolve.”
“Perchance a different tactic might be in order, my lord.”
