Ladies of Intrigue

by Michelle Griep

  The rhythmic stomping of the horse caught up to her side. “Where are you off to this fine afternoon, Miss Fletcher?”

  She peered up at him yet did not alter her stride. “Not that it signifies, but I go to the apothecary for my father.”

  “Then you must allow me to give you a ride.”

  “Do not trouble yourself. It’s not that much farther.”

  “No trouble at all, since my errand seems remiss at this point.” Bending toward her, Mr. Farris held out his hand. “Come along.”

  This time a frown would not be stopped. Should she? Despite the man’s odious company, riding would be faster, shaving at least a quarter hour—maybe more—from her task, and she’d be back to her father’s side that much sooner.

  Grabbing hold of his hand, she raised her foot to use his boot as a step, then allowed him to hoist her up in front of him. She sat sideways, as she had on Mr. Seaton’s horse, but Mr. Farris sidled against her far closer than Mr. Seaton ever had.

  She faced forward, straining away from him. Pretend this wasn’t a mistake.

  “It is dangerous for a lady to roam alone in this wild countryside.”

  Indeed, for she’d run into him. The retort died an anguished death on her tongue, so dearly did she wish to speak it.

  “It’s a good thing I came along to rescue you.” He scooted nearer.

  The pride of the man! She scowled. “I was hardly in danger, sir.”

  “Still, one never knows with smugglers about. You would do well to think on finding a husband.” His arm reached out, pulling her against him.

  She plucked his sleeve aside, refusing so much as a glance over her shoulder. “You are very forward, sir.”

  “I find I must be in my line of work.” His words warmed her ear, for he bent near, almost cheek to cheek.

  She stiffened. “Put me down. I shall walk the rest of the way.”

  “No, no. I won’t hear of it. We are nearly there.”

  No wonder Esther clung to an excuse to stay away from this determined rake. Helen leaned so far forward, the horse’s mane tickled her nose. Thank God the road opened onto the outskirts of Treporth. With witnesses, surely he’d stop his advances.

  Wrong.

  He grasped the reins with both hands, closing his arms against her—a hold only an intimate couple might dare in public. “With Miss Seaton so occupied, perhaps I should call on you instead.”

  She squirmed. The crazed ride she’d endured with a masked smuggler had been far more desirable than this. “Mr. Farris, if you’ve finished with your job here in Cornwall, I suggest you go back to wherever it is you came from. Now put me down.”

  “London, Miss Fletcher. I hail from London. And there are many ladies in that fine town who are hoping for my return as a bachelor.” His lips brushed against her ear. “But I wonder if you will be the crusher of their dreams?”

  “No!” She wriggled and wrenched—but his grasp was relentless. “Put. Me. Down!”

  “You heard the lady.” A deadly still voice rumbled like a coming storm. “Let her go.”

  Vile words sat on Isaac’s tongue, spiky and bitter. He bit down until the salty taste of blood kept them from spilling. Seeing Miss Fletcher struggling in this man’s embrace left a putrid aftertaste.

  “Mr. Seaton.” Farris smiled down at him, entirely fake. More like the mask of a boy who’d been caught dipping snuff and scrambled for a reason to deny it. He loosened his hold of Miss Fletcher—but did not release her. “Good afternoon.”

  Isaac glowered. “It will be good once you let the lady go as she asked.”

  Dropping his arms, Farris gazed at Miss Fletcher. “Allow me to revise that. It’s a beautiful afternoon, actually.”

  Isaac shot out his hand for Helen to grab hold of, better that than yanking the scoundrel off his horse and pounding him a good one. Wait a minute …

  Helen?

  A charge raced through him. The last time he’d thought of a woman by her Christian name, things did not end well.

  She reached for his hand, allowing him to lower her to the ground. Her face was dangerously close to his as she whispered, “Thank you, Mr. Seaton.”

  Her gratitude—or dare he hope, admiration—stoked the fury in his gut for Farris’s bold moves. He glared up at the man. “Is your business in Treporth not yet finished?”

  “No.” His eyes followed Helen’s step. “There is much here to keep my attention.”

  “Then I suggest you see to your work and leave off the ladies.”

  A leer slashed across Farris’s face. “All work and no play makes one very dull.”

  Isaac’s hands curled into fists. If he listened to any more of this, he’d be charged with assault. He wheeled about and caught up to Helen. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, but good thing you came along when you did.” She slid her gaze to him, a pert lift to her brow. “Or I would have been forced to hurt him.”

  He snorted, remembering their first encounter—or rather his meeting with her very strong knee. “No doubt. Shall I accompany you to … Where are you going?”

  “The apothecary’s, and yes, you may.”

  He matched his step to hers, fighting the urge to speed her along. If he were late to his meeting for such a reason as this, well, then may his punctual reputation be hanged.

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” he glanced over his shoulder to make sure the revenue man was gone, “why did you agree to ride with Mr. Farris in the first place?”

  “I was on my way to town when he came along. I thought it would be faster.”

  “Hmm. I suppose I shall have to remedy that.”

  Her brown eyes studied his for a moment, curiosity adding a lovely sparkle to their depths, yet she said nothing more—nor did he, all the way to Krick’s Powders and Pills.

  Stepping from her side, he bowed, flourishing his hat in one hand. “I bid you good afternoon, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Seaton.” She dipped her head. “I am in your debt once again.”

  He watched as her skirts slipped through the door, then turned on his heel and yanked out his pocket watch. Blast!

  He darted past pedestrians and a few street hawkers selling their wares, running all the way to Mr. Henry Green’s, esquire and banker extraordinaire. He slipped through the man’s office door, out of breath and cravat askew.

  Green looked up from a stack of paperwork. “What’s this? Isaac Seaton late?”

  “Sorry. Had to save a damsel in distress.”

  Green chuckled. “Ever the hero, eh lad?”

  He advanced, pulling out a packet of banknotes from a leather wallet and slapping them on the desk.

  “What’s this?”

  “The rest of what I owe.” He sank into one of the leather high-backs.

  “So …” A smile spread across Green’s face, erasing years from his weathered skin. “Ready to get back in business then?”

  “No.” He sniffed, the scent of spent cheroots and sweaty men striking trade deals thick on the air. “I’m ready to own the business.”

  “Really?” Green reared back, staring down his nose. “And what would that venture be?”

  Isaac planted his hands on his thighs and leaned forward. “An old friend of my father’s recently stopped in for a visit, mourning the decline of the Anglesey mines. Opencast mining was never the way to go, in my opinion, and so I wasn’t surprised. But our discussion sparked an idea that’s since burned out of control.”

  He paused, the concept so stunning yet so organic in its conception, he was almost afraid to voice it aloud, lest it disappear.

  “Yes?” Green prompted.

  “As you know, the Tregonning mines are putting out ore like never before. Why it never occurred to Father or to me is … Well, I suppose we were too focused on supplying mines rather than running one. But Seaton lands touch Tregonning Hill!”

  “Are you saying you want to open a mine?”

  He jumped up, spreading his hands. “Is that n
ot a brilliantly simple idea?”

  Green folded his arms, and they rode the crest of several large breaths before he answered. “Perhaps. But the scope of opening a new mine is immensely expensive.”

  “I know.”

  Green narrowed his eyes. “So why are you grinning at me like a lovesick bridegroom on his wedding night?”

  “You, my friend,” he grinned in full, “are just the man to find some investors. Sir Francis Bassett, George Hunt—”

  Green’s hand shot up. “Stop right there. Your reputation will precede you, Isaac. Bassett, Hunt, and everyone else knows you’ll throw caution to the wind in order to thwart Richard Brannigan. I’d have to be able to assure them you will not continue your vendetta against the man. Your focus would have to be solely your new mining venture. Can you agree to that?”

  He paced the length of Green’s office. A fair question, but one he wasn’t sure he could answer. He and Esther had suffered two years of barely getting by with meager fare and threadbare clothing. Even worse, he’d been unable to buy seed for his tenants—and farming was hard enough on this rugged patch of land even with prime seed. The deprivation, the worry of debtor’s prison, near starvation and disease, all this was Brannigan’s fault.

  Isaac stopped at the hearth and stared into the coals. Was it right to let a thieving bully like Richard Brannigan escape justice?

  Chapter Six

  Outside the cottage, the lonely cry of a collared dove hovered on the air, so bittersweet, Helen couldn’t decide if she should weep or sing along with the beauty of the sound. But neither would do. Not when there was sewing aplenty and her father to tend. She drained her tea and pushed away from the table.

  The bird suddenly silenced, and Helen cocked her head. Horses’ hooves pounded closer. She crossed to the window and peered through the curtain, then stood there, mesmerized. Coming up the drive were two horses. One occupied, the other tethered to Mr. Seaton’s mount. But it was the man that captivated.

  He swung his long leg over the saddle and dismounted, landing on the ground like a reigning king. Morning light warmed his face to a burnished, almost golden hue. La! Everything about the man was royal. From the confidence in his stride to the broad shoulders that could carry the weight of the world he lived in—or she did. What might it feel like to have such a man care for her?

  She jerked back from the glass. What was she thinking? The only safe love was God’s, not man’s.

  Pretend that you are happy. Pretend you are fulfilled.

  A sharp rap rattled the quiet inside the parsonage. She opened the door to Isaac Seaton’s smile flashing brighter than the April morn.

  “Good morning, Miss Fletcher.”

  “Good morning.” Her voice was breathy. A miracle, really, that it worked at all. How was one to speak—let alone think—with such a direct gaze consuming hers?

  “I …” She cleared her throat, willing the traitorous thing to allow words to pass. Pah! What was wrong with her? Surely he wasn’t here to see her. She greeted him with a smile as melancholy as the bird’s cry. “I am happy you called, yet sorry to refuse you. My father still isn’t well enough to receive visitors.”

  “Though I wish your father well, in truth, I did not come to check on him.” He bent, face-to-face, a rogue tilt to his chin. “I came to call on you.”

  “Me?” Her hand flew to her chest.

  He straightened, his grin growing. “I’ve brought you something.” But instead of handing over whatever it was, he pivoted about and strode away.

  Pursing her lips, she hesitated. Was this real? Or was she pretending again?

  She followed to where he untethered a beautiful Irish hunter. Rich brown in colour, surprising flashes of a red undertone gleamed where the sun painted with a broader brush.

  Helen stroked the mare’s nose. “My, but she’s lovely.”

  Isaac’s gaze slid to her, a curious sparkle in his eyes—one that did strange things to her stomach.

  “Yes. I quite agree.” The words were husky, as if, perhaps, he may be speaking of more than the horse.

  Of course he spoke of the horse! Regardless, heat crawled up her neck and flushed her cheeks. She turned to the mare. “What’s her name?”

  “Red Jenny. Jenny for short.” He patted the mount’s strong neck. “And she’s yours.”

  “Mine?” She snapped her face toward his. “But I cannot accept such a gift.”

  “You can … unless you prefer riding into town with Mr. Farris?”

  The question constricted as tightly as Mr. Farris’s embrace of the previous day. No, that was not an experience she wished to repeat. She ran an absent finger along the mare’s muzzle, thinking aloud. “Even so, this is too much. How would I keep her?”

  “There’s a shed around back. I’ll send Sam over to clean it out, lay fresh straw, and deliver some hay and oats.”

  Did the man have an answer for everything? She shook her head. “No, this is well beyond my means, not to mention highly improper, and—”

  “Miss Fletcher.” He planted himself firmly in front of her. “Think of this as a gift for your father, if you please. A means to get him pills and powders when needed. Now, are you going to spout more excuses as to why you should not have ready transportation into town, or shall we take a jaunt around so you get the feel of her?”

  “No—yes—I mean …” She retreated a step from the horse—and the man. “I hardly know what to say.”

  “How about that you’ll go grab your hat and gloves and join me?”

  Should she? Riding the countryside with a handsome gentleman was not at all what she ought to be doing. Her brow pinched. Then again, nothing about this trip had happened as she’d planned. And he was right. Getting to and from town would be a lot easier. Well … for Father, then.

  Whirling, she strode back inside and peeked into her father’s room. By all appearances, he slept peacefully.

  Gwen, the serving girl sitting at his bedside, lifted green eyes toward her. “Everything a’right, mistress?”

  She nodded. “Think you can manage if I’m gone for half an hour?”

  “Aye, he’s resting well.”

  With one last glance at her father, Helen withdrew to the main room of the cottage. Gathering her spencer, bonnet, and gloves, she donned each, mind wandering. Was this the right thing to do? It seemed decadent to ride away a spring morning while her father lay abed.

  But she revised that opinion when she paced back outside and caught sight of Mr. Seaton’s fine profile, all muscle and strength.

  Pretend this isn’t wanton.

  He turned at her approach, holding out a riding crop. “Ready?”

  Was she?

  She grasped the thin rod in her hand. “Ready.”

  Crouching, Mr. Seaton laced his fingers together, allowing a hold for her foot. As she climbed, she caught a whiff of his clary sage aftershave—a fine addition to a glorious morning. She grabbed hold of the pommel and, once seated on the sidesaddle, settled her skirts while he mounted Duchess.

  Jenny took an impatient step sideways, and though horsemanship wasn’t Helen’s mainstay, she knew enough to rein the animal under control before they took off.

  Mr. Seaton led them on a merry ride, past Seaton Hall and through the woods sheltering the manor. Eventually the land opened up onto a grassy flat with a sliver of grey sea beyond. He continued to skirt the edge of the trees, but slowed, allowing her to catch up.

  “How is she?” he asked.

  What a question. The mare was perfect in every way—just like the man. “Wonderful.”

  He said nothing, yet didn’t pull his gaze from hers.

  “I, uh …” Where were her words this morning? She wetted her lips and tried again. “I feel as if I shall never stop thanking you or your sister.”

  “No need. It’s entirely my pleasure. Besides …” He faced forward then, and the loss was as tangible as the clouds suddenly hiding the sun. “It is I who should be thanking you.”

&nb
sp; “For what?”

  “Helping Esther. Not many governesses would so willingly take on the menial task of repairing worn garments for the sake of poor fisherfolk.”

  “Nor many gentlewomen, so perhaps you ought to be thanking your sister. But such a trait runs strong in your family, does it not?”

  He reined Duchess around to face her. “What trait?”

  “Doing the unexpected.”

  “Me?” His brows rose.

  She quirked her lips into a saucy grin. “You are a gentleman smuggler, are you not?”

  With a tap of the crop to Jenny’s side, she urged the horse ahead before he could reply—but then the flash of a brown wing flapped up from the tall grass at the wood’s edge, startling Jenny. The horse broke into a gallop.

  Helen grabbed the pommel. Tight.

  Stay on. Just stay on.

  Wind caught her hat, flinging it behind her. The ribbon cut into her neck. Tears stung her eyes, and the world blurred.

  She bent nearly double.

  Stay on!

  In her mind, she screamed for the horse to stop—but screaming was impossible. So was breathing.

  Her legs ached. Her hands. Her back. How much pain would a body feel before all went black? If she fell now, there was only one of two outcomes.

  Either her skirt would catch, and she’d be dragged.

  Or she’d break her neck.

  “Helen!”

  Was that primal shout really his? Had to be, for Isaac’s throat burned.

  He spurred Duchess headlong after the nightmare. Helen’s horse stretched full-out, racing toward the cliffs. Racing toward death.

  God, no!

  Leaning into his mount, Isaac became one with the horse. An animal. Ferocious in speed and bent on his quarry.

  He drove Duchess on, urging her to pass the runaway mare. Helen’s hat and hair streamed behind her, but she held. Thank God, she held.

  Sound receded. No more thundering hooves. No sea or wind. Just a rush of breath. In. Out. Focus. Focus!

  The instant Duchess gained enough lead on Jenny, he jerked his mount close to Helen’s. Reaching. Stretching. His fingers spread to grab hold of Jenny’s rein, which slapped like a crazed lash, scaring the horse further.