Besides, she knew what the future days, months and years held for her – nondescript serenity and quiet solitude with no carnal activity whatsoever.
Mrs Mildern turned to Lowdy once more. “Now, my pretty Miss Treherne, let us see.”
Tamsyn’s companion frowned at the endearment and she wondered why because Miss Lowdy Trehernewaspretty. Blond with huge brown eyes and a curvy figure, most of the footmen, village boys and gentlemen of the area became puppies in her presence – eyes eager, paws impatient, and as for their drool…
Thrice a year, Tamsyn’s father travelled to London on business and had oft brought back presents – ribbons, silk cloth or earnest doctors – and two years past, he’d brought back…Lowdy, having seen her request for employment pinned up in a draper’s shop near Greenwich.
No doubt her time-honoured Cornish name of Loveday Treherne had caught Papa’s eye, although Lowdy herself had no ancestral family in the area.
They’d become firm friends despite Tamsyn’s inability to speak in those dismal days, and now Lowdy was one of the family.
A seagull squawked at the wide-open window, causing Tamsyn to leap like a mackerel.
Unseasonably dry for nigh two weeks, today’s sultry west wind stole one’s wits, and she pulled at her cotton sleeves and flapped cook’s dinner menu about.
Mrs Mildern was now muttering about overly starched neckcloths, but even Lowdy had lost interest, staring at the hevva cake instead with unmitigated longing.
∞∞∞
The Winterbourne residence. No. 6 Berkeley Square, London.
“Have you packed my peridot stickpin, Hamilton?”
“No, my lord,” answered the apprentice valet as he attempted to shove another sapphire tailcoat into the third leather portmanteau.
Jack raised his booted feet to the desk and perused the notes from Rainham whilst keeping an eye out for further packing oversights.
The report from Carlsbrook was fairly detailed, remarking that the French smuggling ring had disbanded, or at least moved on after the attention drawn by the Lowarn Cove inciden–
The bedchamber door was flung open. “Tea and biscuits for sustenance, my lord.”
“Tea, Mrs Shepherd?” he queried, having requested ale and a slice of pork pie from the housekeeper.
“Don’t want you ending up like your father, do we, Lord Winterbourne? Pickled in claret then marinated in whisky.”
“No indeed, Mrs Shepherd.”
He sipped as a breeze filtered through the open window, bringing scents of muggy London, and even the sweet tea couldn’t disguise the waft of river. At least the countryside would smell fresh and…fresh.
Which reminded him. “What about my sky-blue waistcoat, Hamilton? Can’t travel without that.” A certain sartorial sophistication would be required to entice this innocent miss.
“Er…”
Peeking up, Jack noticed the beleaguered fellow riffling through the already packed second portmanteau.
These preparations would go without a hitch if head valet Miggens were here but he’d popped to Bond Street in search of what he’d deemed “appropriate attire for the country”.
The fusty fellow would probably return with a humdrum mud-brown jacket and concealing moor-green waistcoat, matched by a pair of no doubt practical but nevertheless unembellished boots. Useful for tramping the woods, hopeless for wooing.
Back to Rainham’s notes: Miss Tamsyn Penrose. Found delirious in a cave at Lowarn Cove with dead boy six years ago. Now with twenty-two years – so not such a child – she’d been struck silent for five years and had never spoken or written of the incident. Details on how she’d regained her voice were lacking.
Fragile girl. He would need to treat her with the utmost gentleness.
Infiltrating experienced society ladies held no trepidation, yet the notion of this mission left a peculiarly bad taste in his mouth, rather like Almack’s lemonade. She was innocent, young, wretched and…innocent – had he mentioned that?
This would also require… “Have you packed my coquelicot waistcoat?”
“No, my lord, Mr Miggens said to leave–”
