He pottered to the hall window, an early mist blanketing the ground outside. A few trees had cocked their toes in the storm, trunks uprooted as though a giant had plucked them from the ground, and a handful of slate tiles lay shattered in the garden having narrowly missed a lichen-clad statue of Theseus.
Ambling to his own door, he dithered at the brass handle. The honourable path would be to ask for her hand, to marry without delay, as after all a babe could be forthcoming. For the first time in his life, he’d had no self-control, had given it no thought. Last night his mind had emptied of all but Tamsyn.
But this morning, she’d been so very…practical.
He should be overjoyed.
When sat on the bed, he’d watched for signs of distress or sadness but all he’d seen was calm acceptance and smiling lips.
Where was the vixen from last night, who’d demanded more?
He should be overjoyed.
Damn, he hurt.
∞∞∞
“The only two things of which be sure are death and quarter day.” Ben shoved a cap haphazardly onto his head and clomped away as the gravediggers began the job of buryingLa Chauve-Sourisfor ever.
Jack kept stride. “I’ve been glad of your company today, my lad.”
In actual fact, the send-off for the fiend and his cohort only comprised the two of them, and even that seemed one too many. Sir Jago had been inclined to bury them in a field once the magistrate had been advised, but it had been Tamsyn who’d shaken her head and said they should both be laid to rest at the back of the Treloor churchyard.
Forgiveness? Or as a permanent reminder of their demise? Jack hadn’t asked.
“Good riddance to bad rummage, I say. Can’t believe I was so bumfoozled by…whatever his name was.”
With a pat to the lad’s back, they wandered from the churchyard. “Don’t be too down in the mouth, young Ben. Do you know, I once mistook the Duke of Longston for a footman, passed him my hat and gloves and asked for a sniff of the household’s finest cognac.”
The lad chortled. “Your advice on Lucy worked a treat. We’re off to market together next Thursday. Said I could buy her a pint of ale.”
“Hmm. Congratulations but remember my golden rule number twenty-two: sweaty palms could also mean you’ve chosen the wrong jacket for the weather.”
“Eh? That don’t make no sense.” He scratched his chin. “I suppose you mean…they that have marbles can play and they that ain’t must look on.”
Jack opened his bone box to ask but, from the corner of his eye, caught Ben’s amused grin. “I wish you well, Ben. You can always ‘bumfoozle’ the poor girl into your arms. I’ll be sorry to miss it.”
The lad halted mid-stride. “Are you headed up-country?”
“Of course, back to London the day after tomorrow. No one in Cornwall has need of me now.” The words brought a vague discomfort to his guts, but then he’d also foregone breakfast.
Instead, he’d written up another report and listened to Mason’s painful story.
The chap had been a cryptographer at Whitehall, but the murder of his sister had compelled him down a different path, his work giving him access to relevant files. Five months previous, he’d noted Rainham’s interest in the Tamsyn Penrose incident and decided to take matters into his own hands, resigning his employment and crafting his façade as research assistant.
All to avenge his beloved sister.
“Pfff,” replied Ben, wiggling his eyebrows, “like Jan Tresize’s geese, some are never happy unless they’re where they ain’t.”
Jack grinned. “Plum as bun dough, my lad.”
∞∞∞
For this evening’s celebration, Sir Jago uncorked a 1788Grande Fine Clos du GriffierCognacin the study which, according to Cornish smuggler’s legend, had been obtained from the drinks cabinet of Napoleon himself no less.
A second bottle could be found at the Blue Anchor.
Another at the Six Bells.
