“This old rag?” he teased, plucking at the silk-covered buttons. “One tries one’s best.”
“I trust, Lord Winterbourne,” interrupted Sir Jago, a fond smile upon his lips, “that no chill has befallen you after yesterday’s swim?”
“Rude health, I thank you.”
Tamsyn frowned as she noticed a glance and nod pass between the two gentlemen. During her years of silence, she’d become adept at dissecting people’s reactions, quietly watching as their eyes betrayed their lips.
Twisting to the mirror, she double-knotted the grey bonnet ribbons, despite the unseasonable weather.
Lowdy’s revelation last night had distracted her from pondering too deeply on Jack’s dip in the sea, but thoughts now clouded in.
She had guessed he’d not gone for a swim as claimed but presumed he’d lost his footing on a boulder. Yet mayhap it had been no accident. And if so, who lay behind it? Could Jack’s superior be right aboutLa Chauve-Sourisbeing alive?
Watching and waiting…as he’d always promised.
“Tam?” Father’s hands came to rest on her shoulders, strong and steady, and she covered them with her own, realising her breath had shallowed, colour leaching from her skin to match the misty gown.
Bending close, her father nudged the bonnet aside and bussed her cheek. “Winterbourne will protect you, Daughter, never fear.”
She contemplated the striking reflection of Jack in the mirror as he tilted his hat to a rakish angle and cast her a wink.
A London wolf to guard this Cornish lamb.
∞∞∞
Sitting alongside Tamsyn in the carriage to Helston had purported to be a splendid notion in principle.
No colliding knees or watching those rose-pink lips as she nattered with Miss Treherne, but Jack had forgotten the state of the rutted road and the reckless speed of the driver, forgotten the forceful sway which continually threw her against his side.
Heaven preserve him from temptation. Could the coachman not rein in the horses a little?
He shifted on the padded seat, felt her skirts ruck against his thigh, their arms brushing rhythmically. The heat of their bodies…
There’d been no option, of course, because as they’d made to depart, Mrs Pencally had caused an almighty squash by demanding she also sit facing the direction of travel, stuffing her green-faced maid opposite with Miss Treherne.
Maybe the sharp-eyed chaperone secretly enjoyed sitting next to rogues.
“I knew your father, Lord Winterbourne,” she muttered all of a sudden.
Maybe not then.
“A pleasure, I’m sure.”
“No. He was an utter blaggard who once pinched my posterior in Lady Lancaster’s gardens, obliging me to knee him in the twiddle-diddles.”
Chuckles erupted. “Well done, Mrs Pencally.”
“Thank you, my lord. Us girls had more mettle in those days.” She blew her nose with strident authority. “I also know your Great-Aunt Lucille very well. In fact, I held you as an infant, but then my Mr Pencally fell ill and we decamped to the warmer Continent. But I conversed by letter with your aunt for many years and she wrote of your…exploits in London.”
The airless carriage became ever more airless, despite the lowered window, and he was aware Tamsyn and Miss Treherne had ceased their conversation in order to earwig. Solely the maid remained disinterested, eyes fastened shut.
“It’s all true, I assure you.” Rule twenty: best to admit one’s failings – then one could only climb in a lady’s estimation.
The carriage lurched and he threw out both arms to prevent anyone tumbling to the floor. Mrs Pencally to his right remained unfazed, holding onto the strap with an experienced hand, but Tamsyn’s waist met his arm, a silk-gloved hand clutched his knee.
“She always insisted,” continued Mrs Pencally, oblivious to his torment, “that you were a good man.”
He wasn’t. She need only investigate his thoughts at this moment to realise the falseness of that statement.
