Whilst Lowdy contemplated the merits of Devonshire brown, Tamsyn noticed that puce-and-lemon waistcoat through the dressmaker’s window and heaved a sigh. Jack had such confidence to dress as he pleased and yet she no longer envied such a trait but appreciated it. As one peeled back the layers of this rogue, one discovered…yet another layer.
His flash of temper in the carriage had been provoked by a deep hurt, she realised, by his blackguard of a father. Goodness knows what he’d witnessed as a young boy.
Mrs Keverne, a farmer’s wife on the estate, had oft arrived in church with a bruised face, her little ones sullen and quiet. Father had intervened but to no avail and few had mourned the day Mr Keverne had been trampled by a herd of cows.
She poked her head out the door as Jack was dispensing some rogue’s advice to an eager Benjamin. “You could try flowers…though never purple hyacinths. They signify sorrow apparently.”
The lad sniffed. “Reckon my Lucy is as hard-hearted as Cousin Nappy’s pig.”
“Quite so but perseverance, my young swain.”
“Jack?” she called softly. “Lowdy is still deciding and Mrs Pencally is being pinned, but I need to talk to the Helston vicar about our harvest celebrations. The Treloor village church shares the donkey. Can you escort me? It’s only up the lane.”
“Of course. Never a bad idea to call upon the soul doctor.”
Taking his midnight-black sleeve, they wandered the curving lane, past the New Inn, the Six Bells, and the huddle of shops and houses.
Jack showed himself to be in fine fettle, enquiring after the history of Helston and adding his own London banter. He would make such a magnificent husband, she thought, and then promptly tripped over her feet.
Fustian nonsense. The marquess was a rogue and couldn’t be constant longer than a sennight.
“Are you well, Tamsyn? The walk is in part steep.”
“I’m quite well, lost my footing on a stray thought, ’tis all.”
They climbed the sharp slope to St Michael’s Church stood upon a hillock, but before searching out the vicar, they meandered the graveyard for a while, enjoying the coolness beneath the shade of the trees. Tamsyn’s mind stilled in the peaceful atmosphere, and even Jack quietened, content to amble and inspect the headstones.
“Meet me tomorrow, Jack. After dinner. And I shall tell you all.”
There. It was done. She only hoped her courage would outlast her words.
A raven brow raised. “Are you sure? I won’t deny your information could be vital, but memories can hurt like the devil. Are you quite ready?”
Such a considerate gentleman was all she thought as she lifted a hand to caress a stray leaf which hung overhead. “Yes, I–”
Breath ceased as she was whirled back against heat and sweat, a slice of cold biting at her throat.
Harsh words growled past her. “Gimme yer flashy jewels, or I’ll slash yer girl to shreds, yer prinky pox.”
Tamsyn’s eyes snapped shut as faintness overwhelmed her, fear stabbing at her chest like glass shards. In that blackness, she saw the dank cave, a Frenchman holding her tight, whispering death; he’d come for her as promised.
But all at once, her nose wrinkled and she opened her eyes. This villain didn’t smell of salty sea or frankincense but of sour beer and rotten teeth. He was pure bulk with podgy hands and a rough accent.
Even so, that dratted helplessness invaded her limbs, her throat refusing to scream.
The sliver of blade bit deeper, and she stared at Jack in bewilderment as he took a step forward, patting his waistcoat with an inane grin on his handsome face, eyes witless.
“Now hold on,” he was mumbling, “I have my natty watch here somewhere and I know you’ll simplyadorethis as it has a fetching enamel casing but with rather a naughty tableau on the interior.” He slipped a hand inside the garish waistcoat and tears stung Tamsyn’s eyes.
Captain Lynch was right: Jack belonged in the ballroom, not on the battlefield. His smooth hands were not made for danger but waltzing and flirting.
Long fingers fell to his breeches pocket as he took another step. “No, not there. Must be in the other one. Won the splendid item in a bet with Lord F, a cup-shot fellow who eats too many artichokes and never appreciated the painting inside. Indeed, it must be seen to be believed, so hold on a moment and I’ll have it for you.”
Her attacker chuckled, blasted chuckled, the knife moving a fraction away as the flippant dandy now investigated his coat pocket.
One tear fell and she manged a rasp. “Plea–”
A strike of puce, a whoosh of air, a cry. A thud.
