“It’s worth its weight in gold, for a man wi’ your connections.” Mr. Shadedeal stood. “But we’ll go in the back where we can talk private-like, an’ I’ll show you.”
“What do you know of my connections?” Griffin rose, wariness prickling on the back of his neck. He followed the man down a short hallway, pondering why a viscount was skulking about seedy taverns, with murky characters, where he could be murdered at any moment. The adrenaline rush, no doubt!
In a fetid back room, Shadedeal pointed to several crates. He pried one open and pulled out a long gun. “I has fifty of the sleekest flint-lock, muzzle-loaded, Charleville muskets.”
“Guns? I don’t deal in weapons of any type. You have been grossly misinformed.” Griffin’s face heated in anger. “And you show me vile French muskets, named after the armory in Charleville-Mézières, Ardennes, France? These guns are known to be inaccurate in their firing as they are smooth bore barreled.”
The man scowled and fingered the walnut stock. “These are standard French infantry muskets, good for firing from mass formations. What matters what you smuggle?”
“It matters. I will never dirty my hands with goods such as these—if I happened to smuggle at all, which I don’t admit. And I’ll never have anything to do with France. Besides, these weapons are slightly smaller than the British made Brown Bess.” Griffin turned to leave, his frustration rife.
“Will you report me to the constables?” Shadedeal asked in an accusing voice.
Griffin paused, wishing he could do just that. But any such ministrations would put the spotlight on him and his own fraudulent pursuits. “No. I will leave you to your evil gunrunning.”
“I don’t believe you. You quality lie an’ cheat us poorer folk.” The man tenderly placed the musket back in the crate, then lunged at Griffin with a suddenly whipped out knife.
Griffin grabbed the man’s arm before the blade nicked his chest. They struggled, wrestling to gain the superior advantage. “Dammit, man, I won’t let you kill me. I have a betrothal to overturn, and a damsel to harass. And my tenants count on me to take care of them.”
Shadedeal grunted, shoving the knife near Griffin’s nose. Griffin saw his life pass before his eyes, and thought, I still have much more living to accomplish. He shoved the man away, then punched him in the jaw, sending him crashing to the floor. The knife skittered away against the skirting board.
Griffin snatched out his pistol. Swiping his arm across his now sweaty brow, he said, “I’d shoot you, you worthless brigand, but I don’t wish to waste a bullet. And I’m a gentleman, and would never shoot an unarmed man. Stay in that corner and don’t follow me.” Griffin backed out of the room, pistol pointed. He stalked from the tavern, chiding himself for being a fool to have come here.
Chapter Eight
The Pencavel coach barreled down the London road toward the West Country. Melwyn felt her teeth judder as the wheels hit each bump and rut. She mused again on Miss Bookbinder from the day before. “I see how some women can think they’re superior to other women, and nationalities. If I’ve behaved that way to you, I apologize.”
“Did a statue fall on your head in that museum, m’lady?” Clowenna asked in all seriousness from the seat across.
“You’re right, why change our relationship now.” Melwyn glared out the window, slumped against the squabs. Rolling green hills, heath and heather and quant villages passed her vision. The air smelled light of foliage and farmland. “At least it’s Sunday, and public coaches are forbidden to operate, so we have the road mostly to ourselves.”
“You’re in a hurry to reach home, an’ be rid o’ Lord Lambrick for good?” Clowenna picked up the book that her lady had purchased in London.
Melwyn traced a finger down the coach window. “I’m preparing myself for monumental changes. I was rash to leave home. I should have considered my father’s feelings. That dumpy duchess is correct in that I will harm my family name if I don’t do things properly.” She stretched her sore back muscles, regretting that she should have to bow down to any propriety—and she wished she’d ever met the handsome viscount.
“An’ what o’ goin’ off to Italy to dig?” Her abigail watched her with probing eyes as she groaned at another bump. “Won’t that harm your father’s name?”
“That’s why I’ll go as a widow...a faux widow of course. It would take too much time to marry, and then pray my husband dies the day after.” The thought of Lambrick dying filled her with a sudden sadness. Melwyn had feelings for the man she didn’t want to have. Just remembering his kisses heated her inside like a coal brazier. His deep voice made other parts of her body sizzle as well.
“I think ‘ee likes the viscount more than ‘ee will admit.” Clowenna grinned provokingly. She glanced at the book’s illustrations. “What’s this epic called again, since ‘ee still hasn’t taught me to read?”
“It’s titled Excavation Exposé, or How to Sneak off to Italy to Explore ancient Strata during Wartime with the Loathsome French.” Melwyn had been thrilled to purchase this tome at Joseph Johnson’s in St. Paul’s Churchyard. She prayed she could put it to good use.
“An’ what’s this pot o’ cream for?” Clowenna lifted up the glass jar beside the book.
“Aunt Hedra insisted I take it. It’s to keep the skin soft. In countries like Italy and Egypt, the sun is supposed to be merciless.” For the first time, Melwyn wondered if she’d ever have the right, or monies, to leave England. Her spirits sagged like wilted petals. Would her father let her have her dowry money? She stuffed away her doubts like swatting at bees. “The cream has spermaceti in it; a product I should know nothing about.”
“Ess? I might know somethin’, given the nature of me mam.” Her abigail said it softly, with a derisive edge to her voice.
“What about your mother?” Melwyn straightened in the seat, her curiosity growing. Clowenna had come to her at the age of almost sixteen, when Melwyn was but ten, and never had mentioned her past before.
“Never mind, m’lady. She’s not important.” Clowenna’s normally ivory skin flushed a shade of pink. She grabbed the wrist strap as the coach lurched. “I’d rather talk o’ his lordship.”
Melwyn slumped back again, and reluctantly ruminated more on the viscount. “If I do like the man, which I couldn’t possibly, it’s only a passing fancy.” She dug her fingers into the buttery leather seat and hoped to be right. She scanned the road, imagining that a man in a dark cape would ride up at any moment, pretending to be a highwayman, but in actuality would be Lord Lambrick. She shook off that silly fantasy. “Love, or rather I should reiterate just plain ‘like’ is a weakness that deters one from their true purpose.”
“I never said nothin’ ‘bout love.” Clowenna snickered in that self-satisfying way of hers.
“A trip of the tongue, you witchy jade.” Melwyn crossed her arms in disgust, or was it something else? Why did the mere idea of Lambrick put her out of sorts, trouble her sleep, discombobulate her? She should be eager to end their association.
The coach slowed at a mushroom shaped building, a toll house. The toll-taker ran out and demanded payment from their coach driver. When given, the official opened the gate, which had pikes inserted in the top to prevent people from jumping the gate to avoid paying their fares.
Their coach rambled on, jolting through a rut. “These turnpike trusts are supposed to keep up the roads, but do a poor job,” Melwyn grumbled, her mind hardly on road issues, but straying to firm clutches in gardens, on terraces, and on the back of horses.
****
In the shearing shed of Merther Manor, Griffin watched the men, hired shearers who roamed the countryside in search of this type of work, prepare the sheep. He’d enjoyed this as a boy, and now and then peeked in to observe.
He and his brother had lent a hand in the shearing when younger. Those were happy, carefree times, long before the weight of responsibility closed in on them both. His shoulders tightened, aggravating his recent wound. The bruises
on his knuckles from hitting Shadedeal had turned yellow, but this new injury was more serious.
Against his surgeon’s advice, tomorrow he’d leave for Bodmin to give Miss Pencavel his decision.
The shearers cleaned the wool, removing burrs and other debris as the sheep bleated in annoyance. The air stank of feces and sweating animals. But this was life, not the showy halls of Almack’s where dandy fops wasted their days.
One man held the sheep with its skin taut, his hand under the ram’s jaw and around its nose. Another sheared its belly with clips of a sharp blade, removing the wool from the breastbone down to it scrotum. The wool came off in wooly bundles, the air soon thick with hair. He sheared around the throat, neck and head, down each shoulder, then the buttock and tail.
“Taking the noose or no, sir?” Jacca came to stand beside him, coughing in the confluence of fuzz. “Not that I can recommend the leg-shackled-to-a-hag state.”
“Miss Pencavel is far from a hag, sorry to say.” Griffin chuckled dryly. “I’m leaning heavily toward no, but my mind is conflicted, oddly enough.”
“Shouldn’t o’ chased her about in that there London, ess?” His bailiff studied him. “‘Ee was courtin’ trouble, pardon me spoutin’, with that illogical behavior, sir.”
The shearer swept aside the mounds of wool, ready for the next sheep. He wiped the gathered lanolin from the previous animal from his blades.
“I don’t know what came over me with the girl. She called me mad, and I’m beginning to believe I am.” Griffin stepped outside to breathe deeply. He raked his fingers through his hair. “I can’t trust myself near her. But hopefully I’ll come to my senses and be the clear thinking, callous to women, libertine I’ve always been.” He’d never felt so out of control around a woman before, and he didn’t like it for one moment. He clenched his fist.
“How’s the shoulder?” Jacca coughed again and spit on the ground. “Had me a mite scared after what happened t’other night. ‘Ee probably should o’ stayed in bed longer.”
Griffin touched his bandaged arm and winced at the pain. “I’m too restive to lounge about like a lazy old hound. Thought I’d lost my life, or at least my reputation. The second such incident in a few days’ time. Maybe I’m getting too old for such wildness.” Perhaps the nagging hurt in his flesh would keep his mind off the succulent Miss Pencavel.
****
“He made no promise, the blackguard. But he should be here in a day or so to straighten out the situation, then we will decide how to proceed.” At Langoron House’s dining room table, Melwyn dug her fork into the stinky pickled smelts. Inside, her heart did a strange flutter at the anticipation that she might soon face Lord Lambrick. At night she still dreamt of his steamy kisses as her body tingled. Would he coldly dismiss her as his future wife? But wasn’t that what she sought all along? She shoved a bite of the densely fishy fish into her mouth, then glanced at her father. “I know how I will proceed, but I suppose it should be done appropriately.”
“A marriage, how splendidly sweet. However, it isn’t proper to refer to your intended as a blackguard.” The Widow Whale, a woman as corpulent as her name, simpered. Her neck folds pushed down on the scarf wound around her plump shoulders. She took a bite of the boiled chicken in hog’s tongues and stared at Lord Pencavel pointedly, then back to Melwyn. “And never talk with food in your mouth, dear. Especially with fish on your breath.”
“We’re not at all certain there will be a wedding.” Papa sighed lamentingly as he fingered his glass of claret. “My daughter has not been the most cooperative of perspective brides. In fact, she hasn’t been the easiest of children to raise, as I have tried to do, as a widower all alone.”
“Every woman needs a good man to keep her in line.” The Widow popped a piece of duck braised in bacon into her plump mouth. “My late husband always ruled with a strict hand. And this abode cries out for a woman’s touch. We could plan a double wedding, Pencavel. How quaint that would be. ”
“And not very likely with the first wife still alive as far as we know,” Bastian whispered as he held a platter near Melwyn’s shoulder. “Some hind-saddle of mutton, m’lady?”
“Thank you, Bastian. Papa is still delusional, as you can see.” She picked up the serving utensils and dished the gamey-smelling mutton onto her plate. “I don’t wish to be the one to dissuade him in his beliefs.”
“My Dear Elvira, I have long thought of remarrying, and you would be my premier choice.” Her father forced a slice of the duck into his mouth and chewed slowly. “If I’m up to it, woe is me, after all my travails.”
“Premier choice? How kind of you to say so, sir.” The widow primped at her graying curls with its elaborate toupee. She still wore black trim around her cuffs and edges of her spencer jacket, even though Mr. Whale had been dead for nearly ten years. “Being married is essential for a woman.”
“Is it essential? Did you love your husband, Mrs. Whale?” Melwyn asked sardonically. She recalled Mr. Whale as a loud, foul-tempered man, as skinny as his wife was large.
“What has love to do with marriage?” The woman chortled, her beady eyes above fat cheeks squinting. She sucked the marrow from a woodcock bone. “Love is written in silly poems, and frivolous romantic novels, which I’m certain a girl like you must indulge in.”
“I’m currently reading the Le Antichità di Ercolano; it’s fascinating with its copperplate engravings of the ancient Roman artifacts unearthed in Italy,” Melwyn took a sip of her claret, the rich red taste comforting, “from the two cities that were entombed for centuries after the eruption of Mount Vesuvius in 79 AD.”
The widow blinked several times. “I have no idea what that alludes to. Please pass the fried sausages.” She turned to Melwyn’s father. “How much money does it take to run your estate? What I mean is, you haven’t run through all your funds have you?”
“She means is there any blunt left for her to squander if she could—which she cannot—become Lady Pencavel,” Bastian whispered when he served the ragoo of cauliflower to Melwyn.
“You’re so perceptive, dear Bastian.” Melwyn laughed, easing the tension inside her. “You’ve been my, well, my bastion, throughout my life. I’ve long appreciated you.”
“You mean I’ve plucked you from trees, wiped your skinned knees, and once kept you from burning down the house?” The butler never even cracked a smile, yet his eyes twinkled.
Melwyn laughed again, then turned to the widow. “I can refuse this affiancing. I am allowed that honor, especially if the man has a less than reputable reputation. And as I told Papa last night, that is what I—”
“You’d be ruined beyond repair, little miss!” The widow waved away the proffered cauliflower, her glower sharp. “You should accept what life gives you and be thankful.”
The front door bell rang. Melwyn dropped her fork with a clack. Her heart jumped, and she hated the darned muscle for its traitorous behavior. She resented this man who made her feel like a scatterbrain. “Lambrick can’t be here now.”
“Am I to meet this infamous Lord Lambrick?” The widow looked uncertain, but her gaze turned curious. “I did hear he is a man of ill-repute, but not ill-favored.”
“Unfortunately, the betrothal was many years ago, before any question of character emerged.” Papa sighed and sipped his Madeira, as the claret had run out. “His father was a dear friend, and decent to the highest degree, except for his occasional tippling.”
“I will see who it is. Excuse me, sir, Miss and Madam.” Bastian left the dining room.
“I’d still like to know what the viscount’s less-than-stellar repute is, but no one will tell me.” Melwyn hopped to her feet indecorously, scraping back her chair. “I must retire upstairs to spiff myself up. Do excuse me as well.” She hoisted her skirts and scurried up the stairs to her chamber.
Clowenna was there sewing the hem of one of Melwyn’s gowns. The abigail glanced over in annoyance. “What be ‘ee in a fluster about now, m’lady?”
�
�I think his wicked lordship is here, to either free me with his blessing, or make my life difficult.” As she spoke this, she wasn’t sure which outcome she wanted. What an enigma! A puzzle of the first magnitude.
“An’ now ‘ee don’t know which to want, ess?” Clowenna stuffed the sewing into her sewing basket. “Should never ‘a let him kiss ‘ee, what, three times be it now?”
“As if I had a choice. He forced himself on me.” Melwyn’s body quivered, remembering his smoldering lips, the taste of his breath, his strong fingers kneading her shoulders. “If we weren’t betrothed I’d have Papa shoot him.”
“Your da couldna tame your mam, so I’d not count on him too much.” Her abigail stood and smoothed down her cambric apron. “Now ‘ee be hidin’ up here under the bed, or goin’ out the window? Does ‘ee want to shinny down the vines wi’ all an’ sundry seein’ your ankles?”
“Neither, you incessant harpy. I will face the varmint like the stalwart lady I am.” Melwyn snatched a brush from her vanity and ran it slowly through her locks.
“You’re many things, m’lady, but ‘lady’ not usually be one o’ them.” Clowenna snatched the brush and started to style Melwyn’s hair. “But we has had our fun, haven’t we?”
“And I’m determined to go on doing whatever I wish with no interference, and lug you along with me.” Melwyn made up her mind. Lambrick could go to the devil. Other men’s kisses could bring her just as much enticement, if she paused long enough between digs to need enticement. “I’ll tell my so-called intended I don’t intend to bother with him at once.”
“I won’t hold me breath.” Clowenna tried to tie a ribbon in her lady’s hair, but was refused. “I think this fellow has dug under your previously hard skin, so to say.”
The Defiant Lady Pencavel Page 7
