“Oh my,” sighed Mrs Tripconey again. “I ought to faint, but then I’d miss the spectacle.”
Tamsyn could only concur with the widow as his black-clad thighs emerged, unnameable protrusions bulging in his battle against the waves.
With no cravat and shirt ties undone, impudent wet skin revealed itself, throat glistening, dark hair peeking through the laces.
“Gosh,” exclaimed Lowdy, “his physique is similar to that of Mr Miggens.”
Both Tamsyn and Mrs Tripconey peered askew, but she would question Lowdy later, as for now all eyes swivelled back with haste. No fribble had ever looked more potent, athletic or delicious.
Like Poseidon himself, he strode through the shallows, feet bare, water sluicing from his tall frame, black hair plastered to his head. He ran a hand through, and a beckoning wet curl flopped over his forehead in a most rakish manner.
Tamsyn gulped, wits scattered to the four winds.
“My lord,” yelled Mr Sewell, limping over the claggy sand. “Are you well, my lord? We supposed you lost? And I thought you couldn’t swim?”
A wet hand slapped Mr Sewell on the back, soaking the small man’s waistcoat. “Said I disliked the water, old chap, not that I couldn’t swim.”
In a flurry, Mr Miggens arrived at the shore. “Jack! What the hell happened?” Fingers patted at the sodden marquess. “Are you hurt?”
Tamsyn frowned.Jack? A tad familiar for a valet.
“I’m well. No need for such a clatter. But I’m afraid you’ll ring a peel over me as I’ve lost my new Hoby boots and the cravat is beyond redemption.”
A sopping dishcloth-like object was extracted from his breeches pocket.
“Wh-what were you doing exactly, my lord?” asked Tamsyn. “Did you slip?”
“Hmm?” he asked, wringing out the material and handing the rumpled item to Mr Miggens. “No, no. I got rather…overheated and fancied a dip, ’tis all.”
∞∞∞
“Someone tried to kill me, Oliver. What do you make of that?”
“Not much, my lord. You cock your toes and I’m deprived of employment.”
“Hah. You were worried, don’t deny it. You fussed like a hen with one chick.”
Jack perused his elegant evening attire of emerald green, although there was no point getting too rum-togged as the females of the house were taking a quiet and sober supper in their rooms.
The day, he would agree, had been exhausting.
Licky pies, fine conversation, fanciful mermaids, enthralling kisses and then an attempt at murder.
He might have to reassess his opinion of picnics.
“You are extremely fortunate, my lord, that you didn’t manage to bash your skull on a rock.”
“Faugh! Worse was trying to remove my Hoby boots under water – damn difficult. I’ll write Mr Hoby a letter. Tell him to add some laces and buttons if I am to continue in this line of work.”
Of course, for a moment, when the wave had surged and its strength had tugged him below, he’d thought maybe this was his fate. A justly end to another Winterbourne devil.
Then he’d recalled Tamsyn’s periwinkle eyes and thought sod that.
“The dunking does not appear to have doused yourbonhomie,my lord.”
“Means someone is annoyed I’m here,” he said, choosing a peridot stickpin. “Perhaps knows of my mission. But who is that someone? Eh? Anyone could have clambered down that trail after me.”
The plot thickened.
