And one at the Treloor Inn, if he recalled correctly.
Guilt smote Jack as he sat in the leather armchair and glared at the precious amber liquid.
Feted as a hero by Sir Jago, his conscience squirmed. He’d bedded the daughter of the house. Ruined her. Taken her innocence with a needy rapaciousness.
Except… Jack took a gulp, hardly noticing the smooth smoky burn or spicy flavour. Except… He couldn’t regret a single moment.
And over the past day, it was that which had worried him most. It meant he genuinely was a rogue, seducing a maiden and not giving a damn. He’d adored every thrilling taste. And he wanted to repeat it again and again…and again.
What did that make him?
“You’re an outstanding chap, Winterbourne.”
Spluttering as the brandy landed in his lungs, he peered up with blurred eyes. Witch’s thighs, that was strong liquor – Napoleon must have had the constitution of a horse.
“I… I did what any gentleman would have done.” Faugh, what an absurd reply, but never had he engaged in small talk with the father of a woman he’d seduced. All at once, every word had connotations so he navigated the conversation to safer waters. “We found the fake captain had indeed served in the army. Under the real Lynch in fact, at the Battle of Nive according to papers in his lodgings, but he was court-martialled for looting when he should have been fighting.” He’d also found the bugger had been blackmailing a mail coach lad to open Jack’s letters, but he’d let that lie.
Gazing off into the distance, Sir Jago sighed. “Wickedness lives in all men to some degree.” Those brown eyes returned to pierce Jack. “I was concerned when your name came up, having heard the tales, but Rainham assured me you were a good lad.”
“Well, not all of those tales are true,” Jack insisted.
“Hmm. You’re not quite the rogue I was led to believe.”
He was. He really was. But… “I strive to enjoy life and bring joy without causing hurt, Sir Jago. I’m not sure what that makes me.”
His convivial host leaned over the desk, hands clasped. “When I lost my beloved wife, my own world dimmed to nothing, and I’ve witnessed many a soul become bitter and beaten by life’s trials, so I admire anyone who seeks to elicit joy.” He sniffed his brandy and smiled. “Have you heard us Cornish sing?”
Jack shook his head.
“Cornwall is no Eden for many,” he continued. “Clay pits, the mines, fishing – all precarious ways to earn a wage. But we sing, and it spreads joy, soothes the soul and vents all the bile that a body could hold. Shame you’re not staying longer to hear it.”
“Indeed…” Shifting uneasily, Jack fiddled with his lime-green waistcoat – for once cursing the frivolity of it because he didn’t feel frivolous at all.
“I meant to ask, Sir Jago. Are you aware of any…” He didn’t wish to insult anyone. “…coastal afflictions here in Cornwall? From the sea air, I mean. Shortness of breath and palpitations, lack of concentration, that sort of thing?”
Sir Jago sat back, lounged in fact, with a slight tilt to his lips. “It rather sounds like something I caught years back, but it’s not confined to the coast, I’m afraid.”
Well, at least Sir Jago still lived and breathed, as Jack had wondered if he was to meet his maker at any moment. “So, it cures with time?”
“Personally, I found it never left me, but I wouldn’t worry too much about it.”
Jack loosened his cravat. That’s what he’d concluded. Ignore it and the affliction might lift of its own accord. “Well, Sir Jago, I thank you greatly for your hospitality, kindness and excellent advice. Good health.”
The chap rose, also raising his glass. “And I thank you also, Lord Winterbourne, for saving my daughter in every way – both her life and her spirit. The strongest and most beautiful woman I know.”
Jack stood and drank heartily to that.
Chapter Twenty-nine
“Parting is such sweet sorrow.” (Shakespeare)
So why do it?
“Have you seen my peridot stickpin?”
“It’s packed, my lord. Second portmanteau. Compartment six.”
“Good.” Jack scratched his chin. “Well, that’s it then.” But just in case, he checked beneath the bed, perused the drawers, inspected the wardrobe and faffed with the ink pot. All shipshape, tidy and ready to leave.
