Page 40 of The Lyon Rampant

“You don’t sound it, but nor does he. You call him by a French name.”

“He is, indeed, French and was christened Pierre de Villiers. We, however, are as English as you can get. Although my wife hails originally from Cornwall, so I’m not sure if that even counts as English.”

“I’m more British than you,” commented Mrs. Carlyle, entering with the tea tray. “You Saxons are all the same—think you own the place. There has been a kingdom of Cornwall for centuries, and it’s always possible there will be again.”

The parson laughed. “It is surprising, Miss Bellamy, is it not, that with such differences of origin, we have achieved an entente cordiale? But you look puzzled. Has Pierre not told you his story? Or perhaps I’m mistaken, and you’re not well acquainted. I wouldn’t put it past him to kiss a young lady he’d only just met.”

Piers’s mother busied herself pouring the tea. “You shouldn’t listen to gossip when it relates to our son, husband. They are strange people up in London, who do and say peculiar things. We’ve brought Pierre up to tell the truth, and I know when he’s with us, there’s no play-acting. If there were, we’d see right through it.”

Belinda was enjoying this informal insight into the world of Mr. Piers Darvill, theater owner and entrepreneur, renowned rake of London. And it was far better that they were talking about him than that they should start to question her.

“I still don’t understand about the French part,” she ventured.

“So, he really hasn’t told you his history.” The parson laid down his cup. “I cannot be surprised by it, because we know how much his past hurts him.”

Mrs. Carlyle settled herself at the foot of the chaise longue and met Belinda’s eye. “Is the tea alright? Not too hot, not too cold? Is your ankle bearable, or should I make you a willow bark infusion? It’s horribly bitter, but I have some fruitcake that would take the taste away.”

“I’m most comfortable, thank you. Pray, do go on about Mr. Darvill—I mean, Piers. Why do you call him Pierre?”

“That was his name when he came to us—it seemed advisable to change it in the light of the constant warring between his country and ours, and there are spies and traitors everywhere, so who can you trust? Our son has been raised an Englishman, and he made some of his fortune hereabouts before he headed to London. He never took our surname, even though we adopted him officially, but he Anglicized his name before he bought the theater. He thought he might get a better deal if he appeared English through and through. An astute businessman is our Pierre.”

Belinda was struggling to understand how someone as exceptional as Piers had been raised by this very ordinary but pleasant couple. Perhaps there was something in his blood?

“I’m sure he wouldn’t mind us telling you the whole story.” Mrs. Carlyle leaned closer to Belinda. “He’s not ashamed of who he is.”

Belinda nodded encouragingly. This was truly an afternoon of revelations, and she realized that she hadn’t enjoyed herself so much in ages.

“The De Villiers family were aristocrats who owned land in Northern France. They were regular visitors to Court and tragically got entangled in the terrible events which saw the murder of so many families whose only crime was to have been born into privilege. Pierre was just small when his parents were sent to the guillotine—they had wisely left him behind on their country estate on that last, fateful visit to Paris. The servants at the château were all loyal to their master and mistress, and as soon as they saw which way the wind was blowing, they smuggled the boy to the coast, and by various twists and turns of Fate, he came to land at Plymouth.”

At this point, Mr. Carlyle took up the story while his wife returned her attention to her cup of tea, all the while smiling warmly at Belinda.

“In the interim, letters had been exchanged—secretly and at great risk—between the French servants and their friends in England, and eventually, I was approached, as being a man of good character and discretion, to find a family who would adopt Pierre, hide his origins, and keep him out of harm’s way. My wife and I looked like we would be remaining childless, so we felt that this must be God’s way of remedying that situation.”

“Not that Pierre was likely to live quietly in the countryside,” Mrs. Carlyle added. “He was quick, clever, and a boy who became bored easily, so he set his mind to learning all about mining. You are familiar with mining?”

Belinda shook her head.

“Ah, the metals and minerals are the lifeblood of West Devon and Cornwall. God has favored us with the opportunity to dig prosperity from the ground—although the labor is hard, and the ground unforgiving.”

“Tell her what we mine, Mr. Carlyle—she may not know.”

“I don’t want to bore the young lady. We haven’t asked her anything about herself yet—she must think us frightfully rude.”

“Oh, no, indeed! Do go on.” The more they talked, the less she had to, which meant she needn’t reveal anything of significance. She was so glad she’d taken the name Mrs. Coyle when she’d come to Devon to give birth to Adam, or the Carlyles might have known her straightaway as the mysterious widow at Buckleigh. That would create all manner of complications . . .

“When he reached his majority, Pierre came into the inheritance his parents had managed to smuggle into England and bought the run-down Wheal Betty with it. He dug deep and made her bear once more.”

“He considered changing the name to Wheal Charlotte.” Mrs. Carlyle pulled a face at her husband. “You know, after that woman he took up with when he went up to London. It’s been Wheal Betty since my grandparents’ time and probably even before that. What’s the point in changing your mine’s name? I’m so glad he was persuaded not to.”

“Now then, Mrs. Carlyle, you’re doing exactly what our son asked us not to do behind his back—gossip about him. Anyway, is it not believed amongst the superstitious Cornish that to change the name of a mine can change its luck as well?”

This was all utterly fascinating—Belinda was learning so much. But the conversation was cut off abruptly when the sound of hoofbeats out in the road slowed, then halted outside the door.

Excitement fizzed through Belinda’s veins—it must be Piers! He entered the room, the doorframe just about accommodating his height, brushed at his trousers and apologized for not changing his clothes after riding. Then he bestowed a heart-warming smile on Belinda that set her pulses racing.

“How’s the ankle?”

“Comfortable.” She didn’t trust her voice to say anything further.

Mr. Carlyle stood to greet his son. “When can the doctor come?”

“Dr Franklin is unavailable due to an outbreak of typhoid at Plymouth. But Dr. Fielding is on his way as we speak. He seems a pleasant enough old gentleman.”

Belinda’s limbs went numb, and her breathing became shallow. Not Dr. Fielding? Not the man who had supervised her lying-in and knew her as Mrs. Coyle? She was about to be unmasked in front of these delightful people. Would she never be free of her shameful past? The joy of her discoveries about Piers shattered into a thousand fragments.

Piers stared at her, anxiety taking the place of his puzzled frown. While his parents were distracted, he knelt beside her and whispered, “What’s wrong?”

She told him swiftly, then clutched at her chest. If her heart didn’t stop pounding like a hammer on an anvil, she’d fall into a dead faint.

Piers remained beside her, taking her hand in a firm, confident grip. “Trust me,” he said softly.

When Mr. Carlyle turned to see Piers on his knees by the chaise longue, he gave his son a long, enquiring look.

“We’ve spent so much time chatting to Miss Bellamy about you, boy, that we’ve barely found out anything about the young lady herself. Tell me, how is it that you come to be here together?”

“The answer’s simple.” Piers rose to his feet, still holding Belinda’s hand. “Miss Bellamy is my fiancée.”