The Passions of Lord Trevethow

by Bronwyn Scott

  ‘She is not for you. I do not want that land in your hands, bringing all nature of strangers to Cornwall. You will corrupt our part of the world. You will bring strangers and strange ideas, and violence and crime. Tell me, is Vauxhall a safe venue? You cannot do it. Women are assaulted there...cutpurses roam the paths. It will be the same for you. The venture will fail to produce the results you want. I will not give my daughter to that. Let me be clear. Your association with her is at an end. We will not welcome you at Byerd House or at the Castle. Good day.’

  Redruth rose and Cassian rose with him, letting his height remind the slighter man that he was a peer, too, that he could not be dismissed so callously. ‘Who told you about the land company?’ Cassian asked, barely keeping his emotions leashed.

  Redruth gave a brief nod in Wilmington’s direction. ‘A better man than you.’

  Cassian wondered when White’s had last seen a brawl. He was going to kill Wilmington. At the moment, Cassian did not mean that metaphorically. A duel suited him. The jealous prig had deliberately set out to ruin him and in the attempt the man had managed to ruin Pen too. Certainly Cassian was seething for what amounted to Wilmington ratting him out on the land company like a snotty-nosed schoolboy playing teacher’s pet, but he was positively livid over what Wilmington had done to Pen and the man didn’t even realise it although the bastard professed to care for her, to have her best interests at heart.

  He could imagine too well the despair Pen must have felt when her father told her. Redruth would not have spared her feelings, would not have sugar-coated what he thought was the truth, that his daughter had been misled by an experienced man of the world all for the sake of her property. It would have triggered all of Pen’s old doubts about him, all of her fears about marriage. Pen, with her broken heart, thinking he didn’t love her, that he had never loved her, that he’d taken her to bed to force her hand if it came to that.

  That beautiful afternoon seemed dishonourable in the aftermath. Now Pen was ruined, her heart broken, her trust in him shattered, her maidenhead gone, given to a man her father forbade her to marry. Cassian only hoped that was all, that their afternoon hadn’t left her with a child. He was regretting not taking precautions now. He’d been so sure of himself, of them, or he wouldn’t have done it. All that surety was gone now. Across the room, Wilmington looked his direction with a triumphant smirk. He knew exactly what had transpired. That did it. Cassian was out of his chair and striding across the room. Wilmington was going to pay for what he’d done to him, but most of all for what he’d done to Pen.

  Inigo met him halfway across the room, blocking his way with a hand on his chest and low-voiced counsel. ‘Don’t do it, Cass.’

  ‘Do what?’ Cassian growled.

  ‘Stir up more trouble. You cannot brawl in here. Remember yourself. You are a duke’s son. You outrank that pissant in every way.’

  ‘This is about Pen, about what he’s done to her.’ He tried to push past Inigo, but Inigo stood his ground.

  ‘Cass, you cannot brawl in here and you can’t duel out there. Duelling is illegal.’

  ‘No one will convict me, assuming I’m caught,’ Cassian growled.

  ‘Assuming you aren’t killed. Cassian, think!’

  ‘By Wilmington? I will not be killed by that rat.’

  ‘Listen to me, you’re angry. You’re not thinking straight. Let’s go somewhere else for a drink and talk it through. You can’t duel a man for telling the truth. He didn’t tell Redruth lies. Wilmington is a symptom of the problem, he’s not the problem. What do you solve by duelling him?’

  Cassian heaved a sigh, reason asserting its slow tentacles.

  ‘Let’s go back to my rooms,’ Inigo suggested, ‘it’s quiet there.’

  * * *

  It was too quiet at Inigo’s rooms off Jermyn Street. Cassian could hear himself think and he had only one thought. He’d lost Pen. The more he thought it, the more devastating the concept became. He hadn’t just lost the land. In fact, he barely thought of the land. He’d lost her: her trust, her affection, her laughter, her stories, her passion for living. ‘I had a second chance with her and I failed. She will hate me for ever.’ Cassian slumped in his chair, his drink untouched. Not even Inigo’s excellent brandy could tempt him. ‘My father was right. I should have told her about the land.’ He’d misjudged everything. He’d tried to take the easy way out.

  ‘Give her the night to calm down. Go over tomorrow and ask to see her,’ Inigo counselled. ‘If you love her, you can’t let Redruth be the one who decides this. Perhaps a show of strength on your part will persuade the earl you love his daughter.’

  ‘He’ll refuse me. He told me as much this afternoon. I am not welcome.’

  ‘Then get a note to Pen. She’ll be worried sick over you just as you are worried over her. Do not let Redruth keep you apart.’

  His friend was trying hard to alleviate his suffering with solutions. But no solution would matter if Pen had given up on him, if Pen believed what he felt for her was all a lie, a strategy to get at the land. Cassian managed a small grin of appreciation. ‘Thanks, Inigo.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For not letting me punch Wilmington in the face, or call him out or make a scene. There was scene enough as it was.’

  ‘That’s what friends are for. Now, why don’t you come with me to the Treleven monthly musicale? Vennor will be there and it will take your mind off things. I don’t want you sitting in a dark room brooding. You will see her tomorrow.’

  That’s exactly what he wanted to do: sit in his rooms and sulk, to give over to the pain of loss rocketing through him. He couldn’t lose her, not now when he’d just won her back. Cassian barely suppressed a groan. ‘Going out is the last thing I want to do, Inigo.’

  ‘That’s why it’s the first thing you should do. Tonight, the best you can do is go out and show the gossips you aren’t beaten. I’ll send my man over to the Albany for your things. Remember, while they are all thinking this is the end, you know differently.’

  He knew he was going to fight for Pen, for them, even if meant giving up the land. His father’s wisdom came back to him. He could not let the dream consume him, blind him to what was truly important. This wasn’t over.

  * * *

  It was truly over this time. Pen watched out the coach window as London gave way to dirt roads and countryside. Cassian had gone out last night. The early-morning papers had reported it just as they were leaving. Her aunt thought the papers would make good reading on the journey. Pen wished she hadn’t seen them.

  Viscount T. was spotted at Sir J. T.’s monthly musicale just hours after having a tense encounter with the Earl of R. at White’s.

  Reports say Viscount T. and Lady P. are officially off.

  One might speculate that the Viscount is already hunting a replacement from among Sir J. T.’s many unmarried daughters.

  Good heavens, why didn’t they just come out and say it? The column wasn’t even trying to be discreet.

  How could she have misjudged Cassian so badly? Twice? There was no one to talk to about it, not even Margery. She was riding with the other servants in the second carriage. Phin was out riding with her father and she certainly didn’t want to talk to him. This was a mess of her father’s making, of Wilmington’s making. Men. Wrecking her life again with their suppositions about what she wanted, what she needed and there was still Wadesbridge to contend with. Her father seemed more determined than ever to see that match happen now. She didn’t want to marry Wadesbridge. She didn’t want to marry anyone.

  Not true, her heart reminded her. You still want Cassian. That was the beginning of a very dangerous game she played all the way until lunch. Would she still marry him, knowing all she knew now, if he pulled up beside this carriage and asked her to come with him? Would life with him be worth it? Would it resemble at least in part some of the glamour he’d dis
played for her or was her father right? Once he had the land he would forget about her, see no reason to dazzle her and she would be forgotten, discarded.

  Would it be worth it to defy her father in order to find out? It was an enormous risk, and a hypothetical one, given that they’d reached their lunch stop and there was no sign of Cassian, although there were plenty of reminders of him. The heath they stopped to lunch on was like the place the two of them had picnicked and where Oscar had played himself into exhaustion. She missed Oscar. Would she ever see her puppy again? The tears started. Better to cry out here on the heath alone where her family couldn’t see than to hear once more how Cassian wasn’t worth her tears.

  She couldn’t possibly explain to them the tears were for the fantasy, for what she’d thought they’d had. In the moment, that fantasy had been very real and, in it, she’d been real. She’d been alive. She’d given her heart, her body, her soul to it. When she was with Cassian she was alive for the first time. He made her laugh, made her think, made her feel. The world was brighter, she had purpose. Hadn’t he felt the same? He’d claimed to. He’d told her about his brother, about his guilt over his brother’s death. Those were not things idly shared. Which was why it was so difficult to believe Cassian didn’t love her. Had he really shared those things just to get her land?

  Pen sat down in the meadow and plucked a handful of daisies, playing a new game, a more dangerous game than the one she’d played in the carriage: if he’d been real, he wouldn’t give up. If he loved her, he would come for her. Perhaps even now, he was at Byerd House, discovering that she’d left. He would know she’d gone home. In this way, things were better than when she’d left Cornwall. He hadn’t known where to find her then. He did now. He could come. It was a rather awful test, though, a blunt one that would not allow her to hide from the truth. If it was true that if he loved her he would come, it had to also be true that if he didn’t come, her father was right. He hadn’t loved her, only the land, and he’d been willing to do and to say anything to acquire it.

  She pulled a petal off the daisy. If he loves me, he will come. She pulled another petal. If he loves me not... Then he wouldn’t. It was as simple as that.

  * * *

  Day one of the journey had passed with no sign of Cassian. Of course, Pen reasoned, he needed time to catch up with them. Day two had passed and she reasoned he couldn’t possibly leave the city immediately. He’d have business to wrap up, farewells to make, plans to cancel. She had reasoned the same on day three and day four, and on into the full first week she was home. July was careening to a close, pleasantly warm for Cornwall, the sea impossibly blue from the cliffs of her thirty-two barren acres. Every time she stood there, she thought of Cassian’s gardens, of his coaster speeding by and looking out over the water. It hadn’t been just his dream. In the time they’d been together, it had become her dream as well.

  Pen picked a daisy. If he loves me, he will come. If he loves me not...

  He might come anyway.

  The problem with such games was that they needed a statute of limitations. When the Season ended, Cassian would come home to Cornwall, but it wouldn’t be because he loved her. It would be because it was simply time to come home. Her test would mean nothing then.

  She tossed away the denuded flower. She was becoming a danger to daisies. Perhaps her game already meant nothing. She would have to give the game up soon and face reality. Wadesbridge was in earnest. He’d driven over with rose cuttings the day before. She was running out of reasons to resist. Why not marry him? If she couldn’t have Cassian, what did it matter? At least Wadesbridge was no risk to her heart, yet that poor, shattered organ wasn’t ready to give up yet. If she waited long enough, Cassian would come.

  But to what end? To break her heart all over again, to make her face an unpleasant truth or to claim her as his own, to push away the last month of pain as nothing more than a misunderstanding fed out of proportion by a jealous Wilmington? She had to recognise that even if he did come, it didn’t necessarily make everything magically better, it might just make it worse. She might have to find a way to live with a broken heart. But she’d never know if Cassian didn’t come.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Cassian could not leave town. The Hawaiian King had the bad form to die, succumbing to the measles along with his wife, and requiring the pomp of lying in state at the Caledonian Hotel and then burial at the crypt at St Martin-in-the-Fields, a process that took the better part of a week. George IV insisted the ton turn out to honour their international guest, perhaps to make up in death for his poor form when they were alive. He never had received them, having put it off until the Hawaiian king had been too ill. There was no question of sneaking out of town even though the burial was temporary. The bones would be sent home eventually, but here he was, along with London’s finest, respectfully laying the Hawaiian King’s bones to rest.

  Sitting in the pew, listening to the service, Cassian couldn’t shake the irony that he was attending a funeral at the very place he’d hoped to be married. And how fitting it was. He’d felt dead since the morning he’d gone to Byerd House and found Pen gone. They were all gone, the knocker off the door and only a few servants left behind to manage closing the house. She’d left without warning, without a note, without any sort of goodbye. He couldn’t blame her for it. She would be furious with him and, even if there’d been a scrap of forgiveness in her heart, she might not have had a choice. Her father held the reins, that much had been clear at White’s.

  He’d written, of course but his letters had been returned unopened. He had no guarantee she’d seen the letters or that the decision to return them had been hers. But there was no hope in that, only the certainty that each day that passed her anger and disappointment in him would be justified. She would think he’d simply moved on when she’d become too difficult of a prize to win.

  Nothing could be further from the truth. He ached for her. He wanted to tell her about Kamehameha. She would grieve his passing: she’d genuinely liked the Hawaiian King and his wife. He wanted to tell her the stories going around about the vigilante, to share the news of the day with her. Or better yet, to walk along the shore at Karrek Sands, or sneak away to their cottage and make love all afternoon. Inigo nudged him. ‘Whatever you’re thinking, it’s not appropriate for a funeral,’ he said, half-joking. ‘But,’ he whispered, ‘I am glad to see you smile.’

  ‘I’m leaving for Cornwall the moment this service is over.’

  ‘Regardless of your reception?’

  ‘Yes. I have to know if there’s any chance of winning her back.’

  ‘And the land?’ Inigo asked, earning a stern look for talking in church from Vennor on his other side.

  ‘It doesn’t matter without her. It’s time to let the dream go. It’s caused so many problems, it hardly seems like a dream any more.’ It had changed him, and not in positive ways. He’d let himself be chained by the past. The dream had driven him, but it had not freed him. He was as captive to that dream as Redruth was to the memory of his wife. ‘The only way to convince Pen, to convince her father that I court her for love, is to give the land up.’ If he were to surrender any claim to it, perhaps there was a chance. That was the only plan he had. He was going to ride to Cornwall, walk into Castle Byerd and declare his suit.

  ‘And your dream?’ Inigo asked.

  ‘It’s as dead as the King. Pen’s my dream now. I’ll find another way to help the economy. I hope that wherever Richard Penlerick is, looking down on us, he understands the choice I had to make.’

  Vennor reached across Inigo and gripped Cassian’s hand. ‘My father believed in love more.’

  Cassian hoped Pen believed in love. He was gambling that Pen also believed in third chances. He’d chosen love, now he hoped in the end love would choose him, that it wasn’t too late.

  * * *

  The end was near. The end of her father’s patience. Th
e end of her freedom. The end of her hope. Her game of waiting for Cassian was nearly over. She sat on the stone bench by the fountain in the walled gardens of Castle Byerd, the ever-loyal Wadesbridge beside her, birds chirping, water gurgling, her heart sinking as he sank to one knee in front of her.

  No, not now. One more day, perhaps. Sometimes one more day made a difference. Although her wishes were pointless. She’d known this was coming. Her father had informed her it was time to move on. She’d had nearly a month to set aside her feelings for Cassian, to come to grips with his duplicity. He’d warned her, too, that Wadesbridge was coming today. He’d brought more rose cuttings from Trescowe and he’d been closeted away with her father most of the afternoon.

  ‘My dearest Penrose,’ he began. ‘It cannot have escaped your attention that I hold you in great esteem.’ No, it couldn’t have. He couldn’t have been more obvious. Or more caring or doting. Why couldn’t she like him? He was a nice man. He was not the villain here. There was no villain unless one counted Cassian, which her father surely did. There were just people who all wanted different things. Her father wanted her safe and married. She wanted her freedom. Wadesbridge wanted to marry her, but she wanted to marry Cassian. As to what Cassian wanted, she couldn’t be sure. Had he wanted only the land? Was that why he hadn’t come? Or had something else detained him? Did he think she’d didn’t want him now?

  ‘Will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?’ Wadesbridge had reached the critical point in his proposal, a jolting reminder of how real things were. She’d come to the point of no return. She had to make a decision. He pressed her hand. ‘I won’t pretend to think I’m the man you want. I’m older, quieter, I lived a more reserved life than your London beaux. But I can make a good life for you. We can have a family—I’m not so old that I don’t want that as well. You will want for nothing.’