A Lady's Honor

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  “Miss Trelawny, your servant.”

  No, another man’s servant, once and for all announced that he was not good enough for Elizabeth of Bastion Point. If anyone outside her family learned the identity of the man she’d kissed in that ballroom bower, or if anyone learned she’d spent hours alone with him in the night, her humiliation would be complete. Her ruin would be complete.

  But he would be there to pick up the pieces and help restore her reputation. If only she’d look at him with those beautiful, ice-blue eyes, he could reassure her.

  She looked at Miss Penvenan instead and started to say something. A tap at the door and entrance of two footmen bearing trays interrupted her.

  “Set those here.” Lady Trelawny indicated the low table before her. “Elizabeth, will you serve our guests?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Elizabeth rose with alacrity and began to pour tea into cups of china as thin as eggshells. Her hands, slender and long-fingered, moved with a dancer’s grace, lifting the steaming silver pot, sending black tea jetting into the cups, exchanging pot for sugar tongs or milk pitcher according to each person’s wishes.

  Each person except for Rowan. She pointedly did not ask him his preference. Maybe she would ignore him altogether. He settled himself on the window seat and watched her, waiting for how she’d manage that without insulting his employer, the new Lord Penvenan.

  She carried a cup to him first, then to Miss Penvenan, who sipped hers immediately and grimaced. “You did not put in enough sugar, Elizabeth. You know I always take two lumps.”

  “Of course I did not forget, my dear.” She gave Miss Penvenan a gentle smile and proceeded to serve the grandparents.

  “I really dislike bitter tea,” Miss Penvenan pronounced. “At least my brother was able to provide us with good tea, if nothing else.”

  No one else spoke as Miss Penvenan babbled about tea, and Elizabeth finished serving the important people.

  At last, with only two cups left on the tray, she turned toward Rowan. “Mr. Curnow, is it? Milk? Sugar?” She kept her gaze downcast as she posed the question.

  “Nothing, thank you.” He willed her to look at him.

  “You must have used small lumps of sugar,” Miss Penvenan persisted. “Will you bring me another one, please?”

  Elizabeth hesitated. For a moment, Rowan thought she’d set down his cup and take the sugar to Miss Penvenan first.

  “Senara,” Lady Trelawny said, “why do you not stir your tea and try it again? Elizabeth has another guest to serve.”

  “Guest.” Miss Penvenan sniffed, but she stirred her tea.

  Elizabeth crossed the red-and-gold carpet to Rowan, her head bent over his cup as though she needed to watch it or her footsteps. Lamplight gleamed in the rich coils of her mahogany hair held with gold pins he so wished to tug loose.

  The silver spoon upon the saucer tinkled like tiny bells announcing that her hands were not quite steady. But the gaze she shot his way held that cool reserve that had enchanted him from the first time he saw her.

  He smiled and took the cup from her. “Thank you, Elizabeth. I—”

  She turned away from him before he could speak further, leaving him holding a cup of tea he didn’t want. He detested tea. He wanted coffee, strong and black, hot and bitter. Nor did he want any of the delicacies arranged on the serving plates—sweet biscuits and tiny cakes with candied flowers on top. He preferred the hardy fare of men who labored for a living—the substantial Cornish pasties with their potato and gravy filling, or pork pies and thick stew.

  He accepted an offer of the sweets for another chance to say something to Elizabeth. But this time she looked through rather than at him, as she offered him a tiny plate with one hand and the platter of refreshments with the other.

  “Miss Trelawny . . . ,” he began.

  Again, she walked away from him, set the remaining delicacies on a table beside Miss Penvenan, and took her own cup of tea back to her chair.

  “You’re so thoughtful, Elizabeth.” Miss Penvenan slid three more cakes onto her already empty plate. “You know we can never afford to make sweets at Penmara. Sugar is just too dear.”

  “I am quite certain Cook can send a basket home with you.” Elizabeth glanced at Penvenan. “I am certain you have already told the grandparents of how your arrival came about, so do please forgive me for asking out of my own curiosity, but when did you reach Cornwall?”

  “Yesterday morning, coincidentally.” Miss Penvenan spoke around a bite that took up half of one of the cakes. “Do you not think that—”

  “Senara,” Sir Petrok interrupted, “refrain from making even slanted accusations against Lord Penvenan.”

  “Lord Penvenan, indeed.” Senara’s lower lip, dusted with sugar crystals, jutted like a chicken roost.

  “Mr. Penvenan will do.” Penvenan smiled. “I was in truth in Truro night before last and the week before that, but have been in England for several months. Rowan and I were residing in London to take care of business there.”

  “Or send threats to us here,” Senara Penvenan muttered.

  “And I never met you?” Elizabeth turned her head, no doubt so she couldn’t accidentally glance at him out of the corner of her eye.

  His lips twitched, and he stiffened the corners to stop himself from smiling or, worse, laughing aloud at her endeavors to pretend he wasn’t present.

  Penvenan chuckled. “We didn’t move in such exalted circles as you, Miss Trelawny, though I believe we attended a ball or two together. We simply did not have the privilege of being introduced.”

  “She would never consider it a privilege.” Senara grumbled around a bite of cake, then stuffed another piece into her mouth, only to begin choking, as tears ran down her face.

  “Shall I take her to my room?” Elizabeth offered.

  “I’ll take her to a guest chamber.” Lady Trelawny rose with a rustle of silk and the grace her granddaughter had inherited.

  Rowan stood with the other two men.

  “I want to know what is being done to find my brother’s killer.” Still seated, Senara fixed a ferocious glare upon Sir Petrok.

  He nodded. “Of course you do. As magistrate, I will ensure that the coroner makes enquiries of anyone who might have been out and about; however, those involved in the trade aren’t likely to talk for fear of prosecution, and those who are not won’t talk for fear of retribution.”

  And now without Conan, discovering which was which was nigh on impossible.

  Rowan raised his teacup to mask his lips tight with anger.

  “As magistrate,” Miss Penvenan was saying, “you should already know who the criminals are.”

  “Conan didn’t even know for certain who the smugglers are,” Penvenan began. “What one doesn’t know—”

  “I don’t think it was one of them anyway.” Miss Penvenan’s voice rose on a note of hysteria.

  Lady Trelawny held out her hand to Miss Penvenan. “Do come with me, Senara. I think you should perhaps stay with us until matters surrounding Conan’s death are settled.”

  “Stay here at Bastion Point?” Miss Penvenan’s eyes widened, and she sprang to her feet, amazingly not spilling a drop of tea or crumb of a cake. “May I take my tea?”

  “I’ll send for fresh.” Lady Trelawny clasped Miss Penvenan’s elbow with a grip that appeared kindly, but from the set of her jaw, only a little softened with her advanced years, suggested defying her was unwise.

  Elizabeth got to her feet. “Shall I join you?”

  “Remain and take care of our guests,” Lady Trelawny flung over her shoulder.

  The door opened at her approach, no doubt a footman lingering in the corridor for just such an operation, and closed behind them with only a flash of a dark blue livery-clad arm and gloved hand.

  The men sat. This time Elizabeth reseated herself on the settee beside her grandfather, lifted the teapot, then glanced at Sir Petrok as though not certain what to do with the silver jug.

  “I think we could al
l use a little more tea, my dear.” Sir Petrok turned to Penvenan. “Do not hold Miss Penvenan’s behavior against her. She’s overset by her brother’s death and the potential loss of the only home she has ever known, for all it is falling down about her ears.”

  Elizabeth filled Penvenan and Sir Petrok’s cups.

  “Even when Conan Lord Penvenan wrote to us,” Penvenan said, “I never realized in what terrible straits he found himself. Our branch has prospered so, I never thought the English branch would not also.”

  Sir Petrok sighed. “I am afraid Conan’s late father made some unwise investments in ships that were not insured. If he had not, Conan would not have smuggled, and would likely still be with us.”

  “So you think smugglers killed him, sir?” Rowan asked.

  “I do. My grandson does.” Sir Petrok’s lips thinned at the mention of his grandson. “I know Conan wished to stop the trade, and they may have feared he would betray them if he did.”

  “He did wish to stop.” Penvenan began to stir his tea, chime, chime, chime of silver on china, a sound that set Rowan’s teeth on edge. “That is why he sent for me.”

  “You were brave to make the crossing,” Sir Petrok said. “Were you not concerned your secretary would be taken up for a British subject and pressed into the navy?”

  “I was born after 1783, sir.” Rowan glanced at Elizabeth, who had returned to her seat, ignoring him. “By three years. But it was close. The captain who stopped our brig wasn’t much inclined to accept my papers as legitimate proof of my citizenship being American and not English.”

  Penvenan smiled. “I think it was his uncouth way of speaking that convinced the man in the end.”

  “That Brown University education wasted.” Rowan made the claim in another effort to garner Elizabeth’s attention.

  She didn’t so much as hesitate in lifting her cup to her lips, let alone flick him even half a glance.

  “This impressment of Americans,” Penvenan continued, “is a practice that needs to cease or there will be trouble between our countries.”

  “Another conflict is the last thing Great Britain needs.” Sir Petrok set his empty cup aside. “But that is incidental to what is about here. You say Conan asked you to come?”

  “Yes. He hoped for assistance to save Penmara.” Penvenan gave Rowan a look he well understood—say nothing more than essential.

  The reminder was unnecessary. With Conan Lord Penvenan dead by foul play, the stakes increased on Penvenan’s and potentially Rowan’s lives.

  “He said he hoped to marry in the next year.” Penvenan smiled at Elizabeth. “And he didn’t want to have nothing but the lady’s dowry to start their new life.”

  “We had hoped for a union between Elizabeth and Conan,” Sir Petrok admitted.

  Elizabeth shook her head. “I could never have wed Conan. He was like a brother to me.”

  “Your friendship is why we thought it would be an excellent match, considering . . .” Sir Petrok hesitated.

  “Considering I never took in London?” Elizabeth grimaced, but cast her grandfather an affectionate look. “I expect you’re correct in that. We would have gotten along better than most. But now . . .” Her face crumpled, and two tears chased down her pale cheek.

  Rowan had his handkerchief in his hand before he realized he intended to offer it to her. But she was too far away from him, and Penvenan reached her first with his own linen. “We’re all distressed.”

  Elizabeth flashed him a warm smile and accepted the handkerchief.

  “Sir Petrok,” Rowan ventured to break the awkward silence, “Lord Penvenan and I understand you have a fine stable here. Would you be willing to lend us horses until we are able to procure our own?”

  It didn’t work. She smiled at Penvenan instead of him. “You ride, my lord?”

  “Please, Mr. Penvenan will do. And, yes, Rowan and I are used to riding nearly every day. We have a fine string of horses on the South Carolina plantation and a horse farm in Virginia.”

  “Then you, sir, are more than welcome to join us. We ride on the beach when the tide is out.” She turned her smile on her grandfather. “At least we used to. Do you still?”

  “We do, though at a more sedate pace than you prefer. Ah, I believe that is my bride approaching.” Sir Petrok rose.

  Rowan heard the footfalls then, as light and quick as a girl’s. He stood, taking the opportunity to dump his tea into the pot of an unsuspecting plant.

  Of course Elizabeth chose that moment to look his way. He grinned at her before she turned to address her grandmother.

  “Is Senara all right?”

  “She’s resting. I admit I slipped a drop or two of laudanum into her tea.” Lady Trelawny grimaced. “She never noticed the taste with all that sugar she likes, the poor child. Losing her brother has overset her greatly, and she always overindulges in sweets when she’s overset. Lord Penvenan, do you have all you need at Penmara? I’d invite you to stay here, but under the circumstances, I think the less Senara sees of you, the better, if you feel safe at Penmara.”

  Penvenan bowed. “We will be safe enough. I’ve ordered a number of provisions to be sent out from Truro once I saw the state of things in the house, and the housekeeper assures me she’s a passable cook.”

  “Indeed she is.” Lady Trelawny nodded. “Plain but edible fare.”

  Rowan’s stomach twinged at that notion. Hardy fare, he hoped, as he had eaten nearly nothing for the past day.

  “Then we will take our leave.” Penvenan bowed to her ladyship and shook hands with Sir Petrok. He clasped Elizabeth’s hand far too long—long enough for her color to heighten into a beautiful pale pink that enhanced the icy blue of her eyes.

  Rowan’s stomach decided it wasn’t hungry after all. With a brief nod to his host and hostess and what might be construed as the cut direct to Miss Elys Trelawny, he followed Penvenan from the parlor.

  A footman directed them to the massive front door, where their carriage awaited departure.

  “How did she manage that?” Rowan asked as soon as a footman slammed the door behind them.

  Penvenan laughed. “The skill of breeding and fifty years as chatelaine of this great house, I expect. No doubt she sent for the carriage before returning to the parlor.”

  “Overstayed our welcome?”

  “I expect so, but we’re uncouth Yankees and can get away with a little rudeness. I didn’t want to leave without working out how to see Miss Trelawny again. Fine maneuver with the horses.”

  “Fine for you.” Rowan doubted he kept the bitterness from his tone.

  Penvenan gave him what could only be construed as a pitying glance. “As things stand right now, Rowan, Miss Elizabeth Trelawny is above your touch.”

  “And you’re going to take advantage of that fact.” Rowan’s hands balled into fists. “You know, and yet you—” He ground his teeth together.

  If he said more of what he thought of the older man, he would only make matters worse between them than they had been for the past ten years.

  “My dear boy,” Penvenan said, “she might have kissed you when she thought you were some lordling at a ball, but now she knows who you are, she didn’t even look at you. I’d say a lady who is that high in the instep isn’t worthy of your attention.”

  “So you intend to spare me by courting her yourself? And what about her safety if she’s associated with you?”

  “Do you honestly believe the smugglers will care whom I court simply because I am Conan Penvenan’s heir?”

  “Conan believed so. He warned us—”

  Penvenan laughed. “No one will dare harm a Trelawny lady, and I will have need of her dowry to restore Penmara properly.”

  Her dowry, the immoveable barrier between Rowan and Elizabeth. She believed every poor man who courted her wanted her inheritance. She would never believe it of a rich man like Austell Penvenan.

  Many times over the past decade Rowan had found himself despising Austell Penvenan, but not so much
as he did in that moment of the older man being absolutely right about Miss Elizabeth Trelawny.

  CHAPTER 9

  SENARA’S CIRCUMSTANCES WERE DREADFUL, YET ELIZABETH found herself wishing Grandmama hadn’t been quite so inclined to offer their neighbor shelter in these troubling times. Between the coroner’s inquest regarding the cause of Conan’s death—by person or persons unknown—the graveside funeral service attended only by the men, and Senara’s frequent histrionics over the loss of her brother to the knife of a murderer and her home to a suspicious cousin who was a stranger to her, Elizabeth saw little of either of the grandparents during the next few days. When she did see them, Senara or another neighbor was also present.

  “I’ve served more tea in the past three days than I served in a week in London.” Elizabeth glared at the decimated tray that had contained tea and yet more sweet biscuits after visits from the vicar’s wife and several other ladies. “Cook has likely gone through an entire cargo-load of sugar cones.”

  “Even I think I’ve had enough cakes for a while.” Senara brushed sugar crystals off the skirt of the black dress Grandmama had unearthed from the Bastion Point attics and had her own lady’s maid alter to fit the shorter female. “Perhaps Cook should serve some of those cheese biscuits instead.”

  “Or nothing at all,” Elizabeth muttered.

  Grandmama shot her a sharp glance, a warning to be nice.

  Teeth clenched, Elizabeth strode to the window to take a good look at the sky and the beach below.

  Rain every day, though not stopping the endless stream of callers, had prevented her from riding on the beach—or anywhere else. It had kept her from going for walks along the cliffs. Either activity would have gotten her away from Senara’s constant accusations against Austell Penvenan, as exercise was not an activity Senara enjoyed. Instead, to keep her quiet, Elizabeth provided Senara with tales of London and an ever-present supply of Minerva Press novels unearthed from the bottom of one of Elizabeth’s trunks that had reached her with a cryptic note from her mother.