“As do I,” she said, raw but composed. “That night… I believe ’twas my temper which kept me alive. I was so angry. I will tell you all, Jack…soon.”
He yearned to kiss her again in answer. Enflame her. Feel her lips quiver anew and never in fear.
But she pulled away.
And anyhow, had he not got what he wanted? Mission accomplished?
Confusion churned his gizzards and he flung himself onto his back, gazing up at the vast array of stars.
Rustling ensued and he realised Tamsyn had joined him in surveying the heavens.
“As a boy, I would stare up at night,” Jack said softly, “and wish I could live on a star. Just me and my brother Vincent.”
“I did the same. But I wished the moths could be with me always.” She sighed, raising herself onto an elbow, no longer looking skywards. “Yet my winged friends always leave by day.”
Jack flung an arm over his eyes.
Bloody Rainham.
Chapter Twelve
“Members who misplace their contributions will be blackballed.”
The Picnic Society, 1812. Pantheon, Oxford Street.
Galloping a frisky Jowlik over the headland, Jack trusted his valet had been able to save him some nosh and a space on the blanket at this al frescoevent.
The piliferous paragon Lynch had been granted an hour of Tamsyn’s lone attention due to Jack being occupied by his report for Whitehall, Mrs Mildern’s predictions of salty toes, and Petrok searching for his nuts.
Distant views to the crystalline sea cheered his spirits, but upon nearing the turn for Lowarn Cove, his first thought was he’d stumbled upon a gypsy encampment. Carts, coaches and itinerant lads meandered, tankards in hand, and horses quietly grazed. A few carriages appeared most elegant and he recognised one with the Penrose crest.
Dismounting, he then sidled up to a thin sweaty fellow with his nose in an ale. “What’s all the commotion?”
“A load o’ gentry wanted to eat outside. Ain’t natural but…” A shrug said it all. “Spent an hour carrying everything down. I hope they’re hungry.” The chap peeked up from the froth. “Oy, are you–”
“My thanks. Can I walk a horse down?”
“Nah, caen’t. Some toytish lady from Truro has blocked it with her swanky coach.”
Jack flipped the chap a sixpence to walk Jowlik and sidled past the Truro monstrosity. Hastening down the path, he mused on how many hampers one needed for a cold collation. Three? Four? Six if champagne was involved?
Damn, that reminded him he’d left his Fortnum and Mason picnic contribution in the saddlebag and he halted in his step, but a clamour filtered from the cove below, sounding for all the world like a jammed London soiree with tittering ladies and booming chortles.
Curiosity beat the potted goose.
He rounded a curve cut deep in the cliff and the path broadened…
Lud.
One long trestle table perched in the shingle of the wide beach with elegant ladies and gentlemen seated upon satin-covered chairs. Pristine white tablecloths blinded the eye, festooned with platters of pewter and porcelain. Goblets of crystal clinked and silver cutlery flashed.
’Twas like a banquet in the Winterbourne dining room except an azure sky and craggy cliffs had replaced ornate plasterwork and Great-Grandfather Eustace’s leering portrait – a pirate and scourge of the Caribbean, who’d browbeaten five islands into surrender with nothing more than his Winterbourne gift of the gab. Upon his return, he’d been honoured with an earldom by Queen Anne for, once again…services rendered.
Some twenty persons had descended the path for this intimatepique un nicheandJack could only stare as Penrose servants struggled over the shingle with food and bottles, whilst others hastily erected a canopy.
Well, piskies’ pinkies, he’d defy anyone in London to put on such a sumptuous display, and he gawked around for a string quartet.
Instead, he caught sight of a red-faced Benjamin struggling with an oversized lacey parasol, no doubt set to cast shade upon the party.
