Jack grinned. Maybe he was finding his sea legs in Cornwall.
“Watch out for th–”
“Ouch.”
“Branch,” completed Jack as his brother rubbed his forehead and righted himself in the saddle.
Deciding they were both far too cup-shot for more than a vague amble, the ride back to the manor was a leisurely affair except for maintaining Oliver aloft. Jack allowed the horses to map their own way along the bridle paths which criss-crossed harvested fields and hay meadows.
Admittedly, they could have been heading for Timbuktu but the air felt pleasantly cool, the moon shone bright and only the occasional owl rent the silence, so who really minded?
“You’re the best brother I’ve got,” mumbled Oliver, flinging his arms out and losing the reins.
“That isn’t saying much, Oli. Two of our half-siblings are in prison, one lives in Scotland, one made a new start in America and the other two are girls.”
“Still, you’re the best of the bunch.”
Handing Oli his lost reins, they arrived at a stone wall. Damn it, everything appeared different in the dark – but Jowlik snickered his head to the right and he’d lived here longer.
“Shall I sing to lovely Lowdy outside her door upon our return? One of the fishermen taught me some most excellent verses.”
“What seems a splendid idea by night, Oli, is generally a bad one by day. And if you mean that sea shanty of the dollymop and the merman, I’d say it’s best forgotten.”
He gave a mournful nod.
As the fields gave way to open land, Penrose Manor came into view, its turrets no longer Gothic but romantic, its stone walls no longer forbidding but convivial, and as for its blue-eyed maiden… Jack shook his head and then wished he hadn’t.
Oliver squinted blearily. “Are you still feeling odd?”
Indeed. He now thought it might be pneumonia.
Chapter Twenty
But is it art?
“Benjamin?” He caught the young cub hauling an odd-shaped sack across the hall rug. “What the devil is going on this morning?”
Late to rise, Jack had emerged from his chambers without pneumonia but with an aching crown and a wolf in his stomach.
Descending the stairs felt akin to entering Dante’s inferno – servants bustled hither and thither with easels and canvases, cook bellowed instructions for tetty and turnip pie, Mrs Mildern muttered to the butler about red wool, the peacock strained its neck to peep through the hall window and Sir Jago, he noticed, hastily closed his study door on the hubbub, the lock clicking.
“It’s the second Wednesday of the month,” came Benjamin’s reply.
“Of course it is, but just to expand upon that a little, in case anyone is lost, is it the Treloor Saint’s Day? Some Cornish festival? A re-enactment of King Arthur?”
“No, the Ladies Landscape League. Miss Penrose and Miss Treherne are principal members and they’re all meeting at Carn Brea Castle up near Redruth to paint things. Can’t see the point myself.” Ben scratched his nose. “I mean, I can see it, why would I want a picture of it?”
Jack pinched his forehead. How in the hell was he supposed to watch over Tamsyn if she kept gadding all over the countryside?
“Is there room in the carriage for me?” he asked wearily.
Today he’d planned to chat with the fishermen regarding any odd happenings along the coast. After last night’s drunken spree, he hoped to have opened a gap in the harbour wall as the men of Treloor were as tight-lipped as barnacles.
“Do you paint, my lord?”
The Winterbourne London residence held four Rembrandts, two Titians, a Hogarth and a recent Turner. “Not personally, no.”
“Well, it’s a fair way and if you don’t mind me saying, you looks as rough as a rat-catcher’s dog this morning.”
