Page 25 of The Cornish Mermaid

“I was generalizing a little when I said I lived in Reading,” she said. “In fact, the apartment I share with my friend… Miss Armstrong… is just outside Reading. In Caversham.”

He inclined his head. This sounded like the truth. “And your friend? You said she was away. When might she be expected back?”

The hunted look returned, but she recovered her composure swiftly. “I’m afraid my friend, Ti-, Miss Christina Armstrong, has gone to stay with friends in the country indefinitely. The apartment will be closed up.”

He pressed his lips together in thought. Again, this had the ring of truth about it, and yet, instinct told him she was not telling him the whole truth. Why would she feel the need to lie? She must live somewhere. Everyone did, even the poorest man. Might she be some kind of adventuress? The idea didn’t shock him as much as it could have, and the corners of his lips curled in amusement.

Perhaps, as Jago wouldn’t need him for a while, he would remain at Ormonde for a week or so in order to disentangle the mystery surrounding this singularly attractive young lady. Which made him think of his mother. That she would have something to say about his arrival with a young lady in tow, even one with a maid for respectability, was definite. That she would be outspoken about it was certain. The twitch of his lips became more pronounced, and he fought to control it. This was going to be interesting.

He straightened his face as the horses turned between the tall, granite, Cornish-dolphin-topped pillars of the main entrance to the park, and into the long carriage drive up to the house.

“Good morning, Mrs. Lennox,” he called out to the woman standing outside the gatehouse, who bobbed a curtsey as they passed. “The head gardener’s wife,” he explained to Miss Lucas’s raised eyebrows. “Drat it. The news that I’ve turned up with a young lady and her maid in tow will be all over the estate in next to no time.” And this time his mouth really did manage a rueful smile. “The tongues of the local gossips will be wagging.”

Miss Lucas appeared not to have taken in his words. She was too busy gazing around at Ormonde’s extensive, rolling parklands.

The drive curled through ornamental woodland in a loop nearly half a mile long, then headed along an avenue lined with great lime trees on both sides. Beyond them, lay the deer park and, down in the dip, the lake that had been laid out by Capability Brown for Kit’s great-grandfather.

As the drive swung around the top of the lake, Ormonde Abbey came into view, the house haphazardly tacked on to the remains of the old abbey that had stood abandoned for nearly a century after the Reformation. Successive wings had been added to the house by each generation of Carlyons, and now it sprawled across the landscape at the top of a slight slope, surrounded by ancient beeches and cedars of Lebanon, spreading their wide arms across the lawns.

Kit looked across at Miss Lucas. Her mouth had fallen open.

Chapter Eleven

Morvoren

Morvoren shut her mouth with such a clack her teeth jarred. The house that had come into view at the end of the long avenue of limes was the most beautiful place she’d ever seen. It sprawled like a National Trust stately home, its ancient stone-built beauty in its own way as much a part of the landscape as Jago’s humble farm.

Of course. Ormonde Abbey. She knew her history. Which of Kit’s ancestors had won favor with a king in order to take over the abbey lands, and when? A feeling of participating in history as it unfolded coiled in her apprehensive stomach.

In the back of the carriage, Loveday was clearly having the same reaction as Morvoren, to judge from her gasps of surprise and an “Oh Lordy Lord!” that came squeaking out.

Morvoren turned to look at Kit. “This is where you live?”

He nodded with a slight smile. “Welcome to Ormonde, Miss Lucas.” He tapped the horses lightly with the end of his whip and their trot sped up.

She couldn’t stop staring. If he lived here, in this beautiful house set in what looked like a lot of land, why on earth had he been down in Cornwall taking part in dangerous smuggling activities with his not-at-all respectable uncle? Was he short of money? It didn’t look like it, although she knew, this time from reading historical romance novels in her teens, that often large estates like this were no indication of great riches. A lord could be land rich but cash poor, so maybe that was it, especially if he, or his predecessor had a gambling addiction. That was it. Kit must be an impoverished member of the aristocracy.

Kit brought the phaeton to a halt in front of the central tower, which had a flight of wide stone steps leading up to huge double doors. As the wheels crunched to a standstill, one half of this door opened, and what could only be a butler emerged. The very fact that she was accepting there’d be servants in this house came as a surprise. Was she getting used to being in 1811 and assuming it would be like the books she’d read as a teenager? For the first time, the thought that this might be fun crossed her mind.

The butler, his solemn face devoid of curiosity, made a low bow and stepped up to hold the horses’ heads while Kit looped the reins around the brake and jumped down from the carriage. With quick steps, he walked around to Morvoren’s side and offered her his hand. “Miss Lucas.”

Well, no going back now. She put her hand in his, and, holding the skirts she was beginning to get used to out of the way with her spare hand, stepped down onto the gravel. Kit turned to the butler, if that was what he was. “Roberts, can you take Miss Lucas’s maid around to the servants’ quarters and see she’s looked after? And send our luggage up. Miss Lucas will be staying in the blue bedroom.”

And with that, they abandoned poor Loveday to the butler’s ministrations, and Kit, drawing Morvoren’s hand through his arm, escorted her up the steps and in through the open front door.

After the bright sunshine of the day, it took Morvoren a moment or two to become accustomed to the somewhat gloomy interior of the house. She blinked a few times and stared around. She was in a stone-flagged hallway, with a door ahead and a substantial flight of stairs rising to the right, up to a shadowy half-landing.

“This way.” Still in possession of Morvoren’s hand, Kit led her through the next door and into a large, wood-paneled hall. A stone fireplace stood at one end, surrounded by upholstered sofas. Toward the other end, a row of silver candlesticks decorated an enormous dark oak table with a large number of matching chairs tucked in around it.

But the thing that struck Morvoren most was the paintings, and one in particular. Above the fireplace hung a very large picture of a man in a silvery wig and tricorn hat astride a prancing grey horse. To the right of this painting hung another. A portrait. Of Kit.

The one from the museum.

If she’d had any doubts about her foreknowledge, this rid her of them.

Before she had the opportunity to ask any questions, though, a footman materialized from nowhere, or so it seemed.

“Ah, Albert,” Kit said. “Where will I find my mother and sister?”