A Lady's Honor

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  “Those mines on Penmara land are lucrative.” Romsford rubbed his hands together. “If you have no intention of reopening them, then sell them to me so I can.”

  “I’ll open them.” Penvenan smiled. “If I get an infusion of guineas to do so. And I should have that infusion before the summer is out.”

  Romsford snorted. “If you think she’ll wed you, you need to think again. She’s too cold to be any man’s wife. You’d be better off courting the younger one, even if she is used goods.”

  The men laughed together like comrades, which they could only be if they had met on Penvenan’s previous journeys into Truro. If they had, Penvenan had mentioned none of it to Rowan. But there they were, now striding toward the taproom discussing land and ladies as though both were equal in their ability to bring wealth to a man.

  Rowan wanted a bath.

  Even if he never persuaded Elizabeth to care for him, for yet one more reason he must stop her from getting entangled with Penvenan. He had collected a whole list of reasons. It should be enough to persuade her.

  In the hope he still had a few minutes in which he could talk to her, he left his corner and took the steps two at a time. Without bothering to knock, he opened the door to the first room. It was empty, dark, and cold. Two more doors proved to be locked. But the fourth opened onto a parlor warmed on this sunny but chilly day, to a fire on the hearth and a lady in pale blue standing before it.

  She spun on her heel at the opening of the door, then planted her hands on her hips, set her lips into a hard, thin line, and stared at him from beneath lowered lashes.

  “Good afternoon, Elys.” Rowan closed the door. “Thank you for waiting.”

  “I had little choice so as not to reveal my presence to Lord Romsford and Lord Penvenan.” She had taken on that clipped, London tone.

  “I had little choice but to be late.”

  “I know.” For a heartbeat, her shoulders sagged; then she straightened them again and jutted her chin. “What were they about in a comfortable coze like that?”

  “The Penmara mines. Romsford wants to buy them.”

  Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “What would he do with those mines? They haven’t been productive in a decade or more.”

  “He says they only want for some investment.”

  “And he couldn’t settle for a coal mine in Durham?” Her jaw worked as though she ground her teeth. “Is that his excuse for still being in Truro?”

  “I can’t be certain, but it seems so. Penvenan can’t sell the mines, you know, because of the entail. But he needs funds to reopen the mines.”

  Elizabeth’s lip curled. “I thought he was wealthy. Is he just another fortune hunter?”

  “He’s wealthy enough not to be a fortune hunter.” Rowan gripped the back of a chair until his knuckles whitened. “But if he wants to be lord of the manor, he needs to rebuild that manor, and that takes a great deal of the ready. Opening mines as well . . .”

  Let her draw her own conclusions. He wouldn’t tell tales out of school.

  Elizabeth’s face gave away nothing of possible conclusions as to why Penvenan courted her. Face impassive, she leaned just a little forward. “Why can he not break the entail?”

  “One needs three male heirs in direct line to inherit to break an entail. Conan was trying to do that when he invited Penvenan to come to England and help him search for another male heir.”

  “Does the entail break with only one male heir left?”

  “Without three heirs to agree to break the entail it can’t be broken until the last one dies.”

  “And you haven’t yet found another one?”

  “Not in London, but we’re still hunting through the records at Penmara.”

  “I think I don’t like this.” Elizabeth walked to a chair as though she intended to sit, but hesitated. “We cannot talk here now. There isn’t time. Someone is likely to return, and they mustn’t find you here. Are you staying in town with Lord Penvenan?”

  “I intended to, as I’m heading to a horse fair near Redruth tomorrow.”

  “Oh, a horse fair.” Her eyes lit “I wish . . .” She turned her back on him. “Can you make an excuse to return to Penmara? I’d rather ride back than make poor old Miss Pross ride on the box with the coachman.”

  “I’d prefer not to stay here. But can you ride for two hours? Your injuries . . .”

  That bruise on her thigh must still pain her some. Remembering it pained him some.

  He cleared his mind of the image and swallowed. “I’ll find his lordship and tell him I’m returning with your party. I expect he’ll understand me preferring to spend the night at Penmara as opposed to here at the inn.”

  “Thank you.” She kept her back to him, but between a coil of shining brown hair and the stiff collar of her spencer, her neck grew fiery pink. “We’ll have some refreshment here, then leave around four of the clock. You, um, may join us.”

  “I will see what my . . . lord says.” He bowed, though she couldn’t see him, and departed.

  He found Penvenan in a chophouse eating roast beef and potatoes with Lord Romsford. A decanter of wine rested on the table between them, and they appeared altogether convivial. They appeared so convivial Rowan stood on the establishment’s threshold for several moments gritting his teeth some more and praying.

  Lord, I want to serve you, but not with this man. And I want to honor this man you’ve directed me to serve, but I cannot.

  Yet if he dishonored Austell Penvenan, did he not dishonor God’s commands?

  He took a deep breath and strode through the room to the two older men, paused at the table, and inclined his head, awaiting to be acknowledged.

  “What is it, Rowan?” Penvenan’s tone held the impatience he had shown Rowan for most of his life.

  “I’m returning to Penmara, sir.”

  Romsford glared at him from his one good eye. “Do I not know you?”

  Rowan’s hands curled into fists, and he tucked them behind his back. “Yes, sir, I believe you might remember me.”

  “Of course.” Romsford’s upper lip curled. “You played fast and loose with my betrothed.”

  Penvenan scowled at this reference to Elizabeth.

  Rowan gave the marquess a steady look. “Begging your pardon, sir, but I have never played fast and loose with any female. It would dishonor them, myself, and, above all, the Lord.” Rowan bowed. “Now, if you will excuse me, I have an invitation to accept.”

  He strode away at the same measured pace at which he had arrived, every second expecting Penvenan to call him back and order him to stay in town or worse—head to Plymouth and the first ship crossing the Atlantic. But the command didn’t come, and when he turned to shoulder open the door, the older men had resumed their conversation as though he hadn’t interrupted. Snatches drifted through the smoky air, and Rowan paused to listen.

  “If you want to do business with me, Romsford,” Penvenan was saying, “you will forget you tried to betroth yourself to Miss Trelawny. She’s mine.”

  “Title and lands not enough?” Romsford laughed as though Penvenan had made a great joke. “Don’t think I’ve given up there—the Trelawny heiress, that is. I’d come to think of her as—Your man is still here.”

  Penvenan shot a glare in Rowan’s direction that warned him to leave. Dismissed like the servant he thinks of you now. His heart hurt. He had believed he served the Lord then, yet should the aftereffects be so painful if he was right?

  Two things salved his wounded spirit—Elizabeth was neither man’s and never would be. And he had another chance to see Elizabeth—alone. Rowan climbed the steps to the private parlor and knocked on the door. Voices beyond it halted, then the door opened and Elizabeth herself answered it.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Curnow.”

  “Who invited him?” Miss Penvenan demanded.

  Elizabeth smiled. “I did. He’s going to ride back to Bastion Point with me so Miss Pross can ride in the carriage.”

  Rel
ief crossed the spinster’s face. Senara Penvenan glared, and the grandparents gave Elizabeth identical narrow-eyed looks.

  “Come in, Mr. Curnow.” Elizabeth stepped back. “We were just having some refreshment. Tea? Or should I send for coffee?”

  “Why are you treating him like he’s your equal?” Miss Penvenan thrust out her lower lip. “He’s a servant and an American.”

  “He saved my life, Senara. It’s the least I can do for him.” Elizabeth winked at him. “And send for coffee.”

  “That alone shows how foreign he is—coffee instead of tea.” Miss Penvenan sneered at him.

  Rowan smiled and bowed. With Elizabeth being so gracious to him, he could take any number of insults from Senara.

  And Elizabeth had learned her graciousness from her grandmother. Lady Trelawny invited him to sit, and Sir Petrok commenced a dialogue about what kind of horses Penvenan should seek at the fair, what to avoid, warnings about seller tricks. Elizabeth joined in, and between the hot coffee and hotter pasties, a Cornish delight worth taking back to America, Rowan’s heart lifted.

  In another half an hour, after a short verbal tussle between Elizabeth and her grandparents, Rowan rode beside Elizabeth, him on his own mount, her on the mount of an outrider now perched on the carriage box beside the coachman. The carriage and several more outriders thundered ahead, and a groom followed a discreet distance behind. Other travelers leaving the town edged around the cavalcade—farmers with livestock, several small children in a two-wheeled cart, with older children walking behind and a man guiding the horse. Men of business rode, and a girl with a flock of geese darted back and forth to keep her honking charges from biting passersby or getting themselves crushed under feet or wheels.

  Between the tumult and proximity of others, neither Rowan nor Elizabeth spoke for the first quarter of an hour. Gradually, the road out of Truro sorted into lanes leading to villages or up and over the spine of Cornwall to the southern coast. The carriage drew ahead, and the Bastion Point groom Henry, likely with a newly acquired half a crown burning a hole in the pocket of his breeches, fell farther behind.

  Elizabeth glanced back. “Bribery again?”

  “I prefer to call it a fee for service.”

  “Why?”

  “Because it’s more polite.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “No, why the discretion? We were merely discussing entails and how Penvenan cannot break the one on Penmara because there aren’t three male heirs.”

  “Not legitimate ones.”

  Elizabeth arched her brows toward the brim of her hat. “You know of illegitimate Penvenans?”

  “Possibly.” He drummed his fingers on the pummel and frowned at the rutted track that called itself a road. “I should have worked this out sooner, but when she kept refusing to say anything, it made no sense to me. But after your fall . . .”

  Elizabeth was staring at him as though he’d lost his reason.

  He grinned. “I’m rambling because this is difficult to even speculate over, let alone tell you.”

  “Would you like to write it down?” Elizabeth’s eyes twinkled beneath the shadow of her hat brim. “I believe I have a pencil and paper in my reticule.”

  Rowan avoided her eyes and concentrated on her hat ribbons, icy blue satin tied in a bow beneath her left ear, the knot resting on the soft skin he would rather enjoy having the privilege of kissing.

  He wrenched his gaze away from her altogether. “I think Conan was the father of Miss Morwenna’s baby.”

  “What. Did. You. Say?” She reined in and turned sideways to face him. “Morwenna and . . . Conan in . . . um . . . ?” Her color heightened.

  Henry nudged his horse closer, his face registering concern.

  “We have an audience,” Rowan murmured.

  Elizabeth inclined her head and snapped her reins to get her gelding going again. “How did you fix on such a notion?”

  “Why else would anyone threaten her but if she were connected to Penmara in some way?” Rowan waved Henry back and edged his mount closer to Elizabeth’s. “Conan wanted away from the smugglers. If he was trying to stop them from using his beach, and if even one of them suspected more than friendship . . . If Conan and Morwenna were closer than they should be, and the gang somehow knew that, they might be inclined to threaten her and the baby.”

  Elizabeth shook her head once, then again. “But he’s dead now. Why would the threats continue?”

  “To warn the other Penvenans not to interfere with them using their beach and caves. Senara is tucked behind the Bastion Point walls, and Austell Penvenan knows to watch his back.” Rowan took a deep breath. “Which is where you come in.”

  Her head snapped back, and she stared at him with wide eyes and pupils huge and dark. “Lord Penvenan courting me makes me someone they can use to threaten him. He leaves them alone, or I get . . . hurt.”

  “It’s the only idea I’ve come up with so far as to why anyone would wish to harm you.” He made his voice as gentle as he could. “Especially now that he’s been threatened as well.”

  “He’s been threatened? You never told me.”

  “When did I have the opportunity?”

  “You haven’t, but he should have.”

  “He refuses to take matters seriously.”

  “He should.” Moisture glazed her eyes, and she blinked, then turned away. “I know I don’t want to. I’ve never had an enemy in Cornwall. But I know I was pushed, whatever Lord Penvenan and Grandpapa insist, and we mustn’t forget that Romsford’s here now, and he wants Penmara’s mines. Could he not threaten me and Morwenna as a way to . . . to compel his lordship to lease him the mines?”

  “That seems rather diabolical, especially for a peer of the realm.”

  Her rather elegantly long, slim nose wrinkled. “Many peers have been diabolical. And remember, I ran away from marriage to him because the rumors of how his other wives died are not all smoke and gossip.”

  “Is it the only reason you ran from him?” Rowan gave her a half smile.

  She smiled back. “There is other talk, substantiated talk, that his morals are less than stellar. I may not be the most faithful of Christians, but if only half of what I’ve heard of his activities is true, I want nothing to do with him.”

  “Which is why we were all more than willing to help you elude him.” He started to reach out a hand to touch her, caught a glimpse of Henry from the corner of his eye, and dropped the hand to the reins. “I still want to keep you safe, Elys. I’d like to wrap you and Miss Morwenna up in cotton and bundle you off someplace safe.”

  “I expect you’d like your own little harem.” Her tone held sarcasm; her head tilted away from him.

  “I would like to see you ladies safe.” His own speech grew precise, clipped, and he had to force his hands to relax on the reins so the horse didn’t rear. “I would like you away from Penmara until we discover who killed Conan Lord Penvenan and why these threats are coming. I would like to give you the security you seek. I would like to—”

  “But you’re not in a position to do so, are you, Mr. Curnow?”

  The sharpness of her tone sliced through his speech. The razor-edge of her words sliced through his heart.

  “There are just no clues.” He breathed deeply to keep his frustration at bay, at least in his voice. “And no one in the village talks to me about anything but work.”

  “Of course not. You’re an outsider.”

  “Not to put too fine a point on it,” he muttered.

  For the next quarter mile, silence like a rapier hovered between them. Words blazed through Rowan’s head, burned on his tongue, that he wasn’t quite as much of an outsider as she assumed. Tell her, tell her, tell her the truth.

  But if he was right about Conan’s death, about Conan’s fears for Morwenna, about the threat to Morwenna and Penvenan, or the assault on Elizabeth, revealing more about his purpose in Cornwall could get a number of people killed, including himself.

  CHAPTER 18


  ELIZABETH HAD NEVER SEEN A MAN SHRINK IN SIZE. OF course he could not truly do so, yet at the utterance of her pointing out how he didn’t belong in Cornwall, Rowan Curnow appeared to grow shorter, narrower in the shoulders, paler.

  Her stomach shrank, drawing her head down and her shoulders in. “I am sorry, Rowan. That was an inexcusable thing for me to say after all you’ve done for me. I’m unforgivably high in the instep.”

  “And sharp of tongue.” His shoulders straightened, and he pressed one hand to his chest. “Stabbed right through the heart.”

  “You mock me.”

  “And you disparage me.”

  “Disparage. That is a rather big word.”

  “For a mere employé?” He tugged at his forelock like a stable hand. “I know lots of big words, Miss Trelawny. I learned them in college.”

  She startled. “You went to college?”

  “Providence Rhode Island. Brown University class of 1807.”

  “I thought you were jesting about that.”

  “I know you did, but I wasn’t.” He turned his face away, but not before she caught the hurt in his beautiful eyes.

  She dropped her gaze to a patch of white hair between her mount’s ears. The rocks and gorse and clusters of mine buildings they passed suddenly grew blurry. She blinked. She shouldn’t care that she’d hurt him. He’d come chasing her.

  And she’d encouraged him, the first man to dance with her twice in one night, by all but forcing him into a bower and kissing him like some kind of wanton chit from the opera chorus because she didn’t want to be a spinster who had never been kissed and because she wanted to ruin her reputation and because she . . .

  She was a self-centered prig.

  “Why would a man from South Carolina go all the way north to Rhode Island to school?”

  “You know where the states are located?” His eyebrows arched comically high with surprise.

  “I’ve looked at maps of America. It seems so . . . vast.”

  “It is, and full of wild forests and mountains that are so beautiful.” He glanced around them at a countryside that was also wild and beautiful, but in a stark, rugged way marred with mine buildings, too many of which crumbled from abandonment and neglect. “I didn’t want to leave South Carolina, but Penvenan thought it wise I vacate the state for a while to spare my neck.”