Page 36 of The Lyon Rampant

Chapter Seventeen

For Piers, knowing that Miss Belinda Bellamy was in the area was both a gift and a curse. A gift because she fascinated and entertained him, and a curse because of the unpleasant events she brought to mind. He’d done himself a favor by not returning to the Buckleigh Inn despite knowing that, due to her presence, the place now boasted an excellent menu.

His work at Wheal Betty was now done; he was more than satisfied that the place was in capable hands, that it was safe, well-staffed and making a decent profit. He understood now the necessity of getting a second drainage pump—which would increase productivity as soon as it was up and running—and had already placed the order. The only thing still of some concern was the state of the engine house chimney.

He emerged from the building and patted his horse, Jacques, on the rump as he passed. “I won’t be long now, old boy. We can soon head home.”

Gazing around, he noticed that the pale grey cloud evident on his arrival had descended. He must make haste lest the cloud turn to fog. The road was easy enough to find, but all the same, he’d prefer not to have his horse stepping into any ruts or holes or jerking at every sound.

Examining the chimney, he thought he could see what the mine captain had meant about the tilt. But was it just the strange angle from which he was viewing it? He needed to get up top and skirt around the hill to see it from more than one direction. It could cope with a tilt—the furnace still appeared to be drawing properly—but he couldn’t abide a job poorly done and might need to have a word with both architect and builder.

Making his way through the clitter and mine dumps that covered the ground, he eventually reached the track leading to the road. If he walked along the slope just below it, he’d still have a good view of the chimney. The smoke was emerging normally, and nothing seemed to be coming out of the sides of the structure. Good. It was a pity he couldn’t see any detail—the day was becoming gloomier by the minute.

He was about to abandon his inspection when, above the pounding of the engine, he heard what sounded like a high-pitched scream. No—it was either his imagination or one of the great birds that haunted the moor, suddenly appearing out of the clouds with a mournful cry that made the hair on the back of one’s neck stand up.

He would have left there and then had he not heard the unmistakable barking of a dog, followed by a pitiful howling. The two sounds, coming so close together, suggested an accident, so he stood still and shouted, “Ho, there!” in the direction from which he thought the noises had come.

When there was no response, he tried again and was rewarded by the emergence of a dog, bounding out of the mist and throwing itself at him in agitation.

“What’s the matter, boy?” He ruffled the animal’s ears and brushed droplets of mist from its shaggy coat. In reply, the dog uttered a series of distressed cries, then turned away, frantically wagging its tail.

Eyeing the hound, Piers felt a sense of familiarity. Where had he come across it before? Did it belong to one of the miners? Had he seen it in some village he’d passed through on one of his wanders?

The answer failed to come to him, but as soon as the dog started trotting away, he followed without hesitation.

As he went, a few unpleasant scenarios scored their way into his mind, including one of a person falling down a disused mineshaft or catching themselves on one of the confusions of wire and old metal left over from previous mining machinery, rotting like old carcasses on the surface of the granite. Or maybe some foolish walker had lost their way in the low cloud, tripped on the clitter, and tumbled down the steeply angled slope. He must make his assessment first, then call the miners if assistance was needed.

The dog was trotting along a low wall. Orienting himself, Piers realized it was the remaining foundation of a building from a century or two before, demolished long before he’d ever bought Wheal Betty. After a short distance, the dog stopped and whined softly, and when Piers reached the spot, he saw someone sitting on the dirty ground, massaging their ankle.

With a grimace, he realized who the someone was and knew she wouldn’t be thrilled to have him as her rescuer.

Miss Belinda Bellamy.

A combination of the mist and the bonnet covering her ears concealed his arrival. Only when he stood right in front of her, one hand stroking the anxious dog’s head, did she look up. She stifled a scream.

His mouth twitched as he watched a series of expressions chase across her face, ending in a look of resignation. He could also see from the pinched look of her lips that she was in some pain.

“Good afternoon, Miss Bellamy.”

“The same to you, Mr. Darvill,” was her stiff response.

His smile broadened.

“You’ve been most lax in looking after your dog, Belinda. The poor creature raced through the fog to tell me so. Can you not see how worried he is? You really should take more care.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Don’t tease me, sir. I would never deliberately neglect Ordulf. He’s currently my best friend in all the world—aren’t you, boy?”

The dog surged forward to lick her face, presenting an entertaining spectacle as she tried to push him off. Having succeeded, she wiped her face on her sleeve, knocking her bonnet askew, then glared at Piers.

“Are you just going to stand there laughing at me?”

“Not at all. I’m going to be a gentleman and help you up. Assuming you’re not in agony.”

“I just fell over this wretched wall. I knew it was here—I was trying to follow it back to the track, but I got distracted, turned sharply, and tripped over the thing.”

He bent and took her hand, trying to ignore the rush of excitement at the feel of it in his own. He had her on her feet in one pull, but she steadied herself against him for a moment, then tried to stand unsupported.

“I think I can walk back without too much difficulty. Come on, Ordulf. I’m sure Mr. Darvill has far more important things to do than waste his time on us.”