The Defiant Lady Pencavel

by Diane Scott Lewis

  “Indeed, and we are very close, so no one need worry. And I will travel in disguise to preserve my father’s piece of mind. I give you good evening, Madam.”

  Melwyn turned to Lambrick, unable to meet for long his enveloping gaze. “And adieu to you, Lord Lambrick. Our brief association has been...unforgettable.” She hurried toward the stairs. The deep concern in the viscount’s face unsettled her. She wanted to slap and kiss him at the same time. The thought of him bedding a whore rankled her, and she wished she were insane enough to say the hell with her virtue and take a tumble with him out in the barn. But a stubborn streak prevented her from giving him the satisfaction of her body, even though he’d snuck into her soul.

  Trotting up the stairs, she fought a sob as her throat thickened that she might never see him again. Clowenna stood outside her chamber door, arms crossed, a knowing—if a tad pitying— expression on her round face.

  Chapter Ten

  Griffin sipped from his tea, eyeing the elderly man across his five-drawer Chippendale desk in his library where shelves of books in cupboards lined the walls. Under the elegantly coffered ceiling, the smell of paper and old leather calmed him, usually. “I’d have thought you would approve of England procuring antiquities for her museums and studies here.”

  Sir Arthur Seworgan sipped from his own tea, the cup dangling from his bony fingers. His outmoded frockcoat was purple, long-skirted, and showed an old embroidered yellow waistcoat beneath. “I do, but I disapprove of any shenanigans over the legalities. We must always be officially authorized, and so forth.”

  “Of course. Do you have doubts as to my honesty, Sir Arthur?” Griffin set down his cup, wishing he had added brandy to the bland beverage. Lady Pencavel’s unexpectedly upset face at their last meeting swam in the liquid’s surface. He shook the vision away, nearly spilling his tea.

  “I have heard, ah, rumors.” The lanky man leaned forward, resembling a crow with his beaked nose and wizened face. “One does, you know. I only dig and deal in lawfully obtained works of ancient art. You are a man of, shall we intimate, shadowy reputation.”

  “So I’ve heard myself, several times.” Griffin chuckled, though he was certain no mirth reached his eyes. “I keep people guessing, which I don’t mind at all. But if your doubts are too severe, then I suppose we cannot discuss any business transactions.” Disappointment, but not surprise, wriggled through him. Sir Arthur did have a sterling reputation.

  “Good show, old bean. Distract me with a false sense of affront.” The old man snickered, scratching a hand through his sparse white hair. “I only came here to warn you that the officials are circling the carriages, so to speak. They infer that you are smuggling artifacts, and that does not sit well with them.”

  Griffin winced at the pain in his shoulder from the bullet wound. He’d managed to escape the revenuers by sneaking into his secret passage that twisted under the ground for miles to the cellar of Merther Manor. “Then why aren’t the officials here, accusing me? I’m a good friend of the sheriff, by the by.”

  “Friends in high places won’t keep you from gaol, if you are caught red-handed, sir.” Sir Arthur balanced his cup on his bony knee. “I only caution you to be aware. You are a landowner, and I know your tenants and the villagers respect you. You are generous with them, it is said. And the wench at the local tavern sings your praises to the heavens.”

  Griffin had kept her satisfied—yet he’d stayed away from her this time in his residence. He was a man of innate talents in the boudoir, if only Miss Pencavel would allow him to show her. But their relationship was at an end—he realized now he could never sully her. Heart growing heavy, he shifted in his chair and cleared his throat. “I thank you for the warning. I also have a favor to ask of you.”

  “Why should I grant you a favor?” The man’s thin lips drooped into a frown. “You may ruin this enterprise for the rest of us honest folk. I have a standing of being a scholar and expert in the field of antiquities, and a man of impeccable character who is on the cutting edge of this new field of archeology.”

  “That’s why I invited you here. I will invest heavily in your next excavation.” Griffin leaned over his desk, luscious lips invading his mind and giving him too many sleepless nights. “I want you to travel to Langoron House near Bodmin and speak to a young woman there who is fascinated by antiquities. Treat Miss Pencavel as a serious student of the field, as she has assured me she is serious.”

  “A woman? That is highly irregular.” Sir Arthur’s mouth hung open, showing teeth that would benefit from a good scrub. “Not the done thing at all, I must say.”

  “As I said, treat her as a serious student. Tutor her in your field; encourage her as you would a man.” Griffin turned the delicate cup in his hands, whishing it was his ex-betrothed’s lithe body. “And you need have no worry about financing your next excursion.”

  “But a woman...I don’t know.” The old man scratched at his head. “They don’t have the intellect to grasp the particulars that we men do.”

  “She might surprise you. Don’t tell her I sent you, and don’t waver around the more gruesome descriptions.” Griffin leaned back in his chair. He could at least do this for Miss Pencavel. Perhaps the details of what really went on at a dig would deter her from putting herself in harm’s way. And if not, she’d be better prepared when she did venture out. His chest constricted when he thought of her out of his reach, in Italy, among those lecherous Italians, indulging in pasta. “Do this for me and I’ll also introduce you as a friend who should be well taken care of to that very accommodating wench at the tavern.”

  Sir Arthur’s face split into a wide grin. “Now we’re talking, old bean. I’ll do what you request of me post-haste. Let’s hope I can rise to both occasions.”

  ****

  Melwyn sprinkled twelve ounces of oil-soap shaved very fine into a bowl in the stillroom. “It’s still four months until I’m at my majority, and it seems a lifetime away. I could be chipping at stone and earth rather than fashioning Lady Lilly’s silly Soap Balls.”

  “Try workin’ as a maid, with no husband, no children, no house of me own.” Clowenna sighed dramatically as she added three ounces of spermaceti to the soap shavings.

  “We’ll both be adventuresome spinsters and see the wonders of the world.” Melwyn made light of it. Nightly she dreamt of hot kisses, and gold buttons that pressed against her breasts, leaving sensual indents. The first thing she’d do in Italy would be to find a young Italian lover to wipe all thoughts of Lord Lambrick from her mind. She mixed in two ounces of bizmuth dissolved in rose water. She melted the mixture in the wide kitchen hearth and returned.

  “Low wages, cast-off clothes,” Clowenna continued as she added in one ounce of oil of thyme to the soap. “Emptyin’ slop jars, a hard bed to sleep in. Bein’ mistreated by your masters. I’m just a tin miner’s daughter.”

  “In Italy, I’ll find us both lovers, and that will quiet you, I pray.” Melwyn poured in lemon essence and oil of carraways. The light fragrance was pleasing, but she still saw her ex-betrothed’s dark eyes raking over her. Her mouth went dry. She stirred the concoction, hard. “We won’t be lady and servant, but only two women on a mission, to discover ancient artifacts hidden for centuries.”

  “We’ll most likely uncover worms in the dirt.” Her abigail wrinkled her nose. She started to shape the balls. “I don’t care much for worms, but that’s me lot.”

  “We’ll fish with the worms, to save money on food.” Melwyn tried to picture herself baiting a hook with a squiggly, squishy creature, and cringed. “Papa still hasn’t said he’ll give me my inheritance, but I believe he shan’t deny me.”

  “Work your wiles on him.” Clowenna slowly shaped more balls and lined them up on the still room table. “If not, we’ll starve in a country where I won’t know the talk o’ them, since ‘ee still hasn’t taught me no Eyetalion.”

  “My lady, excuse my interruption of your rare foray into domestic endeavors, but you have a visito
r.” Bastian entered the still room, his head barely missing the low lintel.

  “Lord Lambrick?” Melwyn said it so earnestly, the butler backed up a step. She sucked in her breath and almost squeezed flat a soapy ball. “I meant, I hope it’s not Lord Lambrick. I despise the man.”

  Clowenna rolled her eyes. “No one believes that no more.”

  “It is an elderly gentleman. I put him in the front parlor.” Bastian moved aside for his lady to pass. “Shall I bring tea?”

  “I suppose. Visitors always expect tea, and any good hostess provides it, no matter the bother. Charles II’s wife made tea drinking popular in England, but couldn’t produce an heir, the Portuguese cow.” Melwyn wiped her hands on her apron, then removed the garment, hiding her disappointment at the visitor not being Lambrick. But of course, she’d never see him again.

  “Not very charitable to that long ago queen,” Bastian said. “And serving tea is only a bother to the servants and kitchen staff, if I may point that out, m’lady.”

  “You just did, dear Bastian. Forgive my imprudent words. You like being my conscience, and I am humbled. Or as humbled as I can manage.” Melwyn gave him a wry, if sad smile. “However, in Italy I’ll only drink wine.”

  “Then we might fall in them holes ‘ee be diggin’ in.” Clowenna started to dust the soap balls with talcum powder so they wouldn’t stick together, her hands coated with soap and powder. “An’, la, I’ll have to climb in afore the ants eat your flesh an’ heave ‘ee back out. Me work is never done.”

  “On the other hand, I might leave Clowenna here when I sail, to soak up some of your sophistication, Bastian.” Melwyn pushed her hair back into place and pondered who this elderly visitor might be. Another unwanted beau? “Serve the bohea tea, as it’s cheaper than the pekoe.

  She strode down the corridor and entered the parlor. A skinny old man turned to smile at her. He wore a bright blue, garishly embroidered suit with lace cuffs on his shirt sleeves. Her papa was scraping the bottom of the proverbial barrel with this suitor. “I am Lady Melwyn Pencavel. And who are you, sir? Not here for my hand, I do implore.”

  “I’m Sir Arthur Seworgan.” He removed his fantail hat and bowed his head with its wispy white hair. “And you are no pampered princess, I’m relieved to see. There’s color in your cheeks and soap muck in your hair.”

  “Sir Arthur Seworgan? I know about you. I’ve read your treatises on antiquity, digs, and keeping mosquitoes away from sensitive areas of the skin.” Her heart picked up; a famous antiquarian and archeologist stood before her, though he looked as ancient as his discoveries, as if first-hand he’d witnessed the building of the pyramids. “I am elated to meet you, sir. To what do I owe this honor?”

  “I cannot reveal my source, my dear, but I’m here to assist you in your studies.” He seemed to force a neutral expression. “It’s strange for a lovely young girl to wish it, but I hear you are interested in archeology.”

  “What does someone’s visage have to do with interests? Despite what that overstuffed bluestocking said.” Melwyn’s head spun; this couldn’t be happening, her dream coming true. “I’m shocked, stunned, and everything else a giddy girl—if I were one—might say. I’m dedicated in my studies and welcome your presence.” She led him to the small room where she’d spread out her books, papers, quill pens, blotting sand and wax—the space her father had allowed her to utilize.

  “I’ve been researching John Aubrey, who as I’m sure you know, was one of the first to record megalithic and field monuments here in southern England, and was the discoverer of the Avebury henge monument.” She watched Sir Arthur’s eyes widen in surprise. “No, I’m no pampered princess. Where do we start?”

  ****

  Griffin held up the torch as Jacca pried open a crate lid. The dank smell of the tunnel of his underground passage pushed in on him. Roots poked in on the dark dirt walls shored up with wooden posts and bricks. Water dripped here and there in plunks. They’d at last retrieved the hidden loot and maneuvered it into the tunnel.

  “Here one o’ them be, sir.” Jacca sat back on his heels with a grunt. “Them dirty, cracked relics from Italy.”

  “Excellent.” Griffin leaned closer with the flickering torch, the smoky smell sharp. Three small statues, four vases, a leather bag of money. He inspected the bag’s contents, the Centenionalis, Sestertius, Dupondius, a few Quinarius and a Siliqua—all ancient Roman coinage. Spearheads, terracotta pottery, bronze toga brooches were also here. “This looks like the real deal.” Suddenly he thought of how excited Miss Pencavel would have been to peruse these items. But would she balk at the illegalities as Sir Arthur did? He gripped the splintered edge of the lid. “Now we must contact our buyers, and see who is interested.”

  “Broken pottery, ess? I has some cracked crockery at home no one would pay for,” Jacca grumbled as he touched a chip on a terracotta pot. “Me old woman shied a pitcher at me head last night.”

  “She’ll kill you some day. And that’s more reason never to marry, you cranky old sod.” Griffin dropped the lid and straightened. He fought a cringe at his own near brush with death. Were such precarious undertakings worth it anymore?

  “At least in the grave I’ll have peace from her.” Jacca snorted.

  “You should take her to market and sell her, as that transaction has been done.” Women, who needed them! “Leave everything here under wraps until I find a serious customer.” Griffin walked, slightly stooped because of the low ceiling, back toward the steep, hidden stairs. He set the torch in its holder, ran his fingers along the rough wood until he found the hidden latch, pulled, and the door opened with a creak.

  A long ago ancestor had built the tunnel, and hidden stairs, for the same purpose Griffin used it for no doubt. Griffin had played here as a boy, with his brother. They’d pretended to be pirates, how glorious the memory!

  Up the stone steps, swiping at cobwebs, to another secret door, he pushed a second hidden latch, which opened into the old priest’s hole, where during the break with the Catholic Church people hid their priests to worship illegally. The priest’s hole was tucked behind a walnut panel and a sliding painting of Henry VIII—how ironic, the king who broke with the church in the first place so he could marry Anne Boleyn.

  Griffin breathed in the fresher air when he stepped from behind the painting into his library. He poured a shot of whiskey and drank the pungent liquid, savoring the smoky, grainy flavor. He walked the room admiring his many books, the walnut woodwork, brass lamps, Turkey carpets, but yet he was here alone, with no soft arms to hold him.

  He did need children, and legitimate ones, to inherit all this splendor. He must continue the ancient name of Lambrick, to honor his father. He sank into brief sadness, over his lost brother, and thinking how mildly happy his mother would have been to have grandchildren. This large house needed laughter, and grubby little fingerprints on the wainscoting.

  He took another gulp of alcohol. Should he search for a meek-tempered wife, when he couldn’t wipe the perfect oval countenance of Miss Pencavel, the tantalizing taste of her lips—if he could only get her to shut up—from his troubled brain?

  Chapter Eleven

  “I used to wander here as a child. That’s when my interest for uncovering ancient secrets emerged.” Melwyn stared across the sweeping vastness of the Bodmin Moor with its rocky landscape, scraggly heather, and granite tors. “My governess, a bland woman of little character, allowed me to do what I wished, which has added to my unbridled nature.”

  A lapwing twittered and dove through the bog moss.

  “There is much to admire out here on the moor, but this is a secret of mine.” Sir Arthur unlocked a gate, walked with Melwyn past high, pungent boxwood shrubs, and into a hidden garden. Past the gorse and yews, he moved aside brush, to show Melwyn a hollowed out area in the earth, surrounded by crumbling stone walls. He stumbled down and bent to sweep away the dirt from one of the walls, revealing a painted motif relating to Bacchus. “I’ve been excavating this
villa for eight years.”

  “How have you kept this from other archeologists?” Melwyn’s pulse soared. She stepped down into the excavation, glad she wore her leather half-boots and not silk slippers. Her fingers itched to chip away at the dirt, to reveal more of this Roman villa. “I remember trying and failing to climb over that gate as a girl. I think someone might have shot at me.”

  “Possibly. I call this my retreat, where I contemplate my discoveries, writings, and so on. I even have a humble cottage with thatch roof close by.” He pointed to a wattle and daub structure several yards away. “No one else has seen this. People respect my solitude.”

  “And why do you honor me with this...great honor?” She eyed him with suspicion, as if he’d only brought her here to take advantage of her; yet she doubted he had the strength or inclination. He probably hadn’t enjoyed a woman since the last Ice Age.

  “Let us just say you have a benefactor, unknown to you, who insists I tutor you in this field.” The old man winked. “And how could I do so without showing you my villa?”

  Clowenna plodded over, holding the basket of food they’d brought. “La, why do I get stuck with such burdens? Only ‘cause ‘ee bein’ a lady can’t be alone wi’ a strange man.” The abigail tilted her head toward Sir Arthur. “An’ he be one topper o’ a strange man.”

  “You keep hinting at this mysterious benefactor.” Melwyn plucked a leather flask from the basket and drank deep of the lemonade, the tartness refreshing, ignoring her maid’s complaints. “Tell me who it is.”

  “He wishes to remain anonymous, my lady.” Sir Arthur averted his watery gaze.

  “Is it my father?” Then she was struck by an idea, suddenly, out of the blue. Her breath hitched. “It’s my mother, isn’t it? She’s managed to elude the second under-butler, come into a fortune, and finance my interests.”