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“Richard Blakemore has, yes, and he’s brought his son William and their cousin Roger with him.” Pippa laughed uncomfortably, the sound hollow. “Is that concerning?”
“Yes. When he lived here, the man’s reputation reached Graton alongside his smuggled goods.” Gram narrowed her eyes at her tea. “Do not mistake me, we were glad of the sugar and tea—your grandfather was glad of the brandy. Even your papa bought smuggled wine often. But Black Heart Blakemore had a reputation for ruthlessness that frightened me, even then.”
Surely the pleasant-faced man who’d greeted Pippa’s family politely in the churchyard last week could not be so ruthless. His weather-beaten skin had been the only element of roughness on his person. His tone, his smile, his clothing even, had all been exceptionally beyond reproach.
“I will be wary,” Pippa said, hoping to appease her worried grandmother.
“Hmm?” Gram asked, leaning closer and turning her ear toward Pippa.
Pippa suppressed a smile. “I will be wary,” she repeated loudly.
Gram shook her head. “Be more than wary, Pippa. Be vigilant.”
It was difficult to shake the concern deeply coloring Gram’s warning, or the resulting uneasiness which settled deep in Pippa’s bones. Perhaps the Blakemore men truly did embody the wolf in Elinor’s favorite story, shadowing themselves in a cloak of charisma and nice clothing. Gram’s warning was branded onto Pippa’s worries, and she was unable to shake it.
“Elinor’s savior might be handsome, but I would stay far away from him,” Gram said.
Pippa nodded, drinking her tea.
Gram settled back in her seat, adjusting her position. She looked around the platter, scooting aside the small plate of biscuits, confusion clouding her expression. “Now, where are my grapes?”
* * *
When the sun fell through the long windows of the drawing room toward the end of the afternoon, the entire back wall lit orange and red, the wallpaper glowing and a hazy, warm incandescence settling upon the room. It was one of Pippa’s favorite moments of the day. If she could not watch the sun make its final descent over the horizon from the beach, she enjoyed sitting in the drawing room and soaking in the toasty sunbeams.
“Pippa, it is your turn again,” James said, mild frustration edging his words.
She looked to the chessboard sitting on the small table between them and slid the bishop over.
James huffed. “You are not even trying to win.” He knocked over the bishop and removed it from the board.
He wasn’t wrong, and Pippa’s cheeks warmed slightly. She’d been so distracted since her conversation with Gram earlier that day and hadn’t had half a mind to devote to the game. Pushing aside thoughts of the Blakemore men, she analyzed her pieces with greater attention. James must have been giving half an effort, for he could have won by now. She’d been moving her pieces directly into his path.
Sliding her knight around a pawn, Pippa sat back and waited for James to take his turn.
Mabel came into the room, Elinor close on her heels.
“Where is Liam?” Pippa asked.
Mabel pointed at the ceiling. “Napping. And I am going to take this time to catch up on my embroidery. I want to add a vine to that cap I made for Amelia’s new little one.” She sat, pulling her basket closer toward her on the floor. “Or do you think I should leave it be?”
“A green vine? Or whitework?”
“I had thought to do green. She has plenty of whitework.”
“Then yes, I think you should.”
Elinor huffed. “I do not want to embroider, Mama. I want to go outside.”
“And injure yourself further?” Mabel clicked her tongue. “You may go outside to play when I am confident that you will mind your arm. You wish for it to heal properly, do you not?”
“No, I do not,” Elinor said, scowling. “I care not for silly things like arms.”
Pippa suppressed her amusement and looked down at the chessboard to avoid laughing at her niece. Elinor was serious in her stubbornness, and Pippa felt for her.
“You’ll want use of both of your arms if you wish to easily climb a tree,” James said.
Elinor seemed to consider this, and Mabel shot a look at Pippa. Pippa’s hands went up in surrender. “I’ve taught her nothing.”
