Chapter Ten
One can’t be hanged for illicit thoughts.
The wooing of Miss Penrose over turbot and lobster was proving problematic.
More problematic, in fact, than the occasion of Carlton House, when Princess Caroline had laid her hand upon his left knee beneath the dining table whilst the Duchess of Randall had caressed his right.
He shuddered. The life of a rogue wasn’t all plain sailing.
Tonight, he’d been seated beside Miss Penrose but almost wished he hadn’t. His skin prickled when their arms brushed as though he’d the ague. Perhaps he did.
As luck would have it, the formidable Mrs Pencally had the snuffles tonight and so had kept to her rooms, but the professor’s conversation piece of blood-thirsty giants was hardly the most suitable backdrop to a romantic foray.
What he couldn’t fault was the setting – an intimate table that would seat a mere twenty or so was gazed upon by ancient Penrose family portraits, one of whom he guessed to be Sir Jago’s wife as her smiling eyes were a vivid blue, pink lips aquiver as though set to laugh at Jack’s ineptness in gaining her daughter’s attention.
Miss Penrose and Miss Treherne mostly kept to their own conversation, debating the length of time between arias at the various operas.
Not long enough apparently.
Something had changed since yesterday. He’d sensed it all evening as Miss Penrose seemed more guarded, eyes colder than deep-sea pearls. His arrival in Helston had reached the local Cornish gossip rags quicker than hell could scorch a feather, along with a few old stories of his more insalubrious exploits, which might explain the prevailing wintry looks.
He signalled the footman for another glass of claret, observed Mr Sewell pick every bone from the fish and then prod it with suspicion – not a coastal man then.
“Have you met Lord Byron?” enquired Miss Penrose, gazing at him over the scallops, her hair surpassing the walnut table for shine. “I do so love his poetry. What is he like?”
“Moody, pretty and drinks like a fish.”
“And Mr Brummel?” Miss Treherne mumbled through squab pie. “Are you acquainted with him also?”
Faugh, what was it with these pretty fellows?
“Moody, pretty and owes me fifty pounds.”
“And Mr Keats–”
“I must tell you the story,” Jack enthused, before they could enquire after Blake or that doleful Shelley fellow, “of my Aunt Lucille, the highwayman and a dog called–”
“Roger?” Miss Penrose finished, not looking up whilst she scraped the last of her cream sauce from the plate and licked her spoon.
He cleared his throat. “Why, yes.”
“And would that Lucille be Lady Marsden also?” She tapped her lip, blue eyes now assessing. “I’ve heard that story. Lady Marsden attended the same Seminary for Young Ladies that my Great-Aunt Sarah did. Bosom friends. Visited here two years ago.”
A candle spluttered and died in the silver candelabra, casting her face to shade, and he fell silent to imagine all the delicious ways he could quieten Miss Penrose.
Pudding arrived: cooked apples bloated with fruits and smelling of sweet brandy.
He’d lost her attention for good.
When had London’s foremost rogue ever been forced to compete with a stuffed fruit?
Fingering the silver spoon, his gaze wandered to the centrepiece of a mermaid crafted from icing and marchpane, her tail scaled with slithers of rose petal. Delicate yet strong in her own perfect domain.
“Looking forward to Captain Lynch’s picnic tomorrow,” slurred the professor all of a sudden. “Capital idea.”
Mr Sewell glanced up. “Are we to place blankets on Goonhilly Downs?”
“I believe he’s planning Lowarn Cove. Cooler down there.”
