The Defiant Lady Pencavel

by Diane Scott Lewis

  Clowenna grimaced. “It be Buckett.”

  “Really? How ill-fated. As is ‘horse-head’ I suppose. And your mother actually ran a brothel? I do pray that you weren’t ill-used. My poor excuse for a mother probably recommended you for my maid.” Melwyn pulled open the inn door, her head full of differing emotions. “Well, I’m glad of that at least. Widow Byrd and Mrs. Buckett will soon be off to Italy and fame and fortune.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  In sleep, Griffin tossed and turned, then flipped in the sheets on his four poster bed. Blue eyes and a mocking laugh disturbed his dreams. He reached out his hand to touch her face, half-wanting to strangle her instead. He moaned and squeezed his down pillow. Then brown eyes that matched his own replaced the blue. He saw his own cocky smile, no, only similar; his brother Alan stood before him, youthful, and vibrantly alive.

  “What ails you, Griffin? You look like you’ve swallowed too much of Godfrey’s Cordial.” Alan repositioned the arrow in the nock of his bow. The cool breeze over the field ruffled his blond hair. The shadow of Merther Manor stretched behind them.

  “Well, I am in dire pain. It’s your commission into the army that troubles me. We’ll soon be at war with France, I’ve little doubt, after their overthrow of their king, heads on bloody pikes, and all that followed.” Griffin’s anger coated over his fear. “Father wants you to go into the church. You should have persevered with that calling.”

  “Father means well, but has no imagination. The clergy vocation is too tame for the likes of me, and you know it. We are both rebels, dear brother.” Alan drew back his arrow and released it. The point found its place in the target with a thud. “What a great sport, catering to society’s tastes for the gothic and medieval.”

  A footman rushed forward and pulled the arrow out, then ducked out of harm’s way.

  “You don’t think you’re too old to go? What do you know about the military? Are you going to throw Bibles at the enemy?” Griffin stroked the sleek yew wood of his bow.

  At four and twenty, his brother had entered then left seminary school, and shocked the family when he’d asked their father to purchase a commission with the 8892nd and Two-Thirds Regiment.

  “Very droll. I’ll hobble on crutches and creaking knees to my fate. But I’ll exchange a Bible for a musket.” Alan laughed. His handsome face lit up. His slender body looked muscled in his white breeches and fine Holland shirt. He’d flirted with many a willing young lady, but never became serious with any of them. A tendency shared with Griffin.

  “Not amusing. What if anything happened to me? You are the spare heir.” Griffin cringed inside at the thought he could lose his only sibling. He nocked his arrow, gripped the bow in his left hand, pointed his left shoulder at the target, and pulled back the bowstring with his right fingers. The tension of the gut bowstring, his tightening arm muscles, redirected his disturbance. The arrow sliced through the air and also hit the bull’s eye with a thwack.

  The footman dashed over the scythed grass and retrieved again. The autumn air rustled the crimson and golden leaves above their heads, the breeze mossy with dying foliage.

  “Never fear, Grif, the Lambrick brothers are invincible.” Alan winked, nocked another arrow and shot once more. This time he was slightly off center. “Ah, we may have lost our colonies, but such sport proves England’s unity, greatness and patriotism, and other such blather.”

  “And our exclusion of the middling class in our archery clubs, to also prove our worth in the aristocracy.” Griffin chuckled sardonically. Then he frowned. “Are you doing this to prove your worth since you probably won’t become viscount?” The idea pierced him inside. “I won’t be the catalyst for such foolhardiness.”

  “I suppose I needed a challenging purpose, and preaching to the parishioners, begging for tithes, and eating supper with people I don’t like—who would probably not be able to afford the food and fine wine I prefer—didn’t hold the same thrill. Besides, moldy churches make me cough.” Alan ran his hand through his hair, reminding Griffin of himself. His brother turned his gaze on him. “Marry a sweet heiress, father children, and get on with your life.”

  “Does the heiress need to be sweet? I might like a girl with a little fire and bite. A woman of substance to heat up my bed.” Griffin laughed too loudly. He hadn’t yet made up his mind to the sort of woman he would want to be his wife—easier to ignore what society deemed as inevitable for a future viscount. Then he stepped closer to Alan. He wanted to smell the familiar scent of their youth, the stables, the cricket field, the shearing shed, now, even in his dream, knowing it fleeting.

  “I’d advise you to quit your more dangerous pursuits.” Alan stared toward the cove, his expression growing serious, then his features appeared to melt like hot wax. “Which one of us will be shot first?”

  “It’s too late for that, don’t you understand?” Griffin almost shouted. He reached out to touch Alan, but his brother started to fade, like smoke in the wind. Griffin’s hands grasped nothing until he felt an item, soft and pliable.

  He awoke with a jerk, clutching his pillow against his heaving chest.

  ****

  Clowenna leaned over the rail of the two-masted, square-rigged, packet boat, again losing her lunch in the slurping waves that bashed the hull.

  “Perhaps we should have hired a coach for this leg of our journey,” Sir Arthur said. The old antiquarian looked a little green around the gills as well. The wind rippled the lace around his scrawny throat.

  “A coach would have taken forever through Portugal, Spain, skirting through France, then into Italy, not to mention the danger, in the middle of skirmishes and battles.” Melwyn rubbed her own stomach as the boat rocked. She held tight to the rail as sea spray sprinkled her flushed face. Would they ever reach shore? She was sick of the stink of brine and mildew. She’d paid a high price for her freedom, but hated to complain aloud. “Soon we’ll be immersed in relics and ancient dust.”

  Sails loomed up near the horizon; a ship bobbed on the choppy Mediterranean Sea that appeared to stretch on forever.

  A sailor on their ship raised his spyglass and scrutinized the vessel. “Ship ahoy! She looks Frenchie, Captain! A 74-gunner, I believe!”

  “Oh, la, we’ll languish in a French dungeon, we will,” Clowenna cried as she swiped her kerchief across her mouth. “We’ll die in the Bastille!”

  “The Bastille was torn down at the beginning of their revolution.” Melwyn’s heart thumped and she stood on tiptoe to study the ship. Her abigail’s melodramatic behavior and illness unsettled her further. “Be brave, Mrs. Bucket.”

  The sailors swarmed the rigging, rearranging the sails. Shouts permeated the air.

  The captain, a stout man of middle years, stepped to Melwyn’s side. “Mrs. Byrd, we’ll attempt to outrun that ship. We’re too small to engage her.”

  “Oh, dear, I’m too old for this falderal. I should have insisted on staying in England.” Sir Arthur checked his pulse, his large nose bobbing like a toucan. “I hope my affairs are in order.”

  “Are we fast enough to outrun her?” Melwyn asked; a sudden excitement seized her. She held on to her fluttering hat, its riband whipping against her back. “We must be, having fewer cannon to weight us down.”

  “We shall see. You and your party should go below.” The captain tipped his salt-encrusted hat brim and left them.

  “I’m not hiding below. This is what I came for, adventure! I want to feel the burn! And live life to the fullest!” Melwyn laughed, her mind on this, and not her other issues and heartbreak. Sir Arthur and Clowenna eyed her in trepidation.

  “I must protest, my lady, and insist that you come below with me.” The old man clasped her arm. “I’d prefer drowning to being blown to bits by cannon shot, so to speak.”

  The packet’s sails billowed with wind, the rigging creaking, the ship lurching as it cut through the water. The French warship sailed closer, tall and menacing.

  “I’m perfectly capable of making
my own decisions, sir.” Melwyn shook him off and gripped the rail with both hands, the spray dampening her hair and cheeks. Her pulse raced. She couldn’t drown now, not after traveling this far, and deserting Lord Lambrick for good. “I will ride this out like a carved figurehead. A mythical being reminiscent of Minerva.”

  “She’s lost her mind, I fear.” Clowenna groaned. “An’ I only lost me biscuits.”

  A shot fired from the warship. The cannon ball splashed into the water, thankfully far short of their vessel.

  Melwyn froze, having second thoughts about this particular adventure. Her knuckles white on the rail, she hated to lose face and retreat. Her tiny cabin was like a rollicking box, portending death.

  She turned to her right, and swore she saw land in the distance. Her feet slipped an inch on the slick deck. “Land ahoy! Over there! I see it!” she shouted, before the sailor in the crow’s nest had the chance. He spewed a salty expletive at her.

  “We’re saved, thank the good Lord.” Sir Arthur raised his bony arms to the sky. “However, do forgive me for long neglecting my faith, and so forth.”

  A rocky coast appeared, dotted with a few shrubs. Olive trees and junipers grew higher on the slopes. The smell of earth and plants was heavenly.

  “Italy, at last!” Melwyn sighed as their vessel slipped into a cove, evading the warship in tall reeds. She sagged in relief against the hard teak rail. “We are meant to be here. To forge on, successfully.” Fate was not against her, she would prevail. “Something incredible awaits me, I’m certain of it.” Her anxious proclamations eased her frazzled nerves. Prying her fingers loose from the rail, she knew she’d behaved very imprudently just now, and regretted it—a little.

  “Include me in your big event, so I can survive.” Clowenna sucked in her breath, her wide brow furrowed. “That be too close. I’m about to lose me supper, an’ I hasn’t eaten it yet.”

  “You are always included, my weak-stomached companion. We’re on to Pompeii.” Melwyn laughed, this time not like an idiot. She embraced her abigail, but dark sensual eyes in the corner of her thoughts reprimanded her recklessness.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Griffin stood in the former solar of Merther Manor and forced a polite smile at the pretty-enough young woman before him. “I appreciate you coming to call on me today. We might get to know one another better. What do you do for pleasure, Miss Trefoile?”

  “I’m honored to be invited, sir. I embroider not too badly. And I paint, but it’s a bit mediocre. I play the pianoforte, with average skill I’ve been told.” She fluttered her stumpy eyelashes, her light brown eyes devoid of spark, as dull as watered down broth.

  “And what is your opinion of the economic crisis or the war?” He took a sip of the too-sweet sherry as the girl’s parents watched from the other side of the room. He expected nothing profound on these topics, but he hoped against hope.

  “Oh, I have no opinion. No one usually cares what I think on such lofty subjects.” She giggled and it raked like spikes along his spine. “My father warns me not to ponder anything too deeply.”

  Could he suffer years of being wed to such a twit? Yet this is what he sought, a slow-witted girl from a respected family on which to father an heir—despite his recent declaration in that disconcerting dream he’d tried to forget. Her large dowry was also of value, but he hated to think of himself as mercenary, and he didn’t need the money.

  “Indeed.” He rolled his shoulders to ease the tension there, taking another quick sip of sherry to numb his frustration. “I suppose you’ve been trained exclusively in the running of a household and a large staff of servants?”

  “I hope so. I am a muddle-head at math, and I never could master any other language, except English.” She hunched her shoulders in her ivory-colored, round gown, the hue doing nothing for her too-pale skin. Her dark red hair was also unfashionable by the current standards. The girl had been shown at a few Seasons with no takers, and was no longer in the first bloom of youth at five and twenty. Although alabaster skin was a sign of the aristocracy, she could use some time in the sun.

  “Isn’t this marvelous; I have such expectations.” Mrs. Trefoile smiled broadly, as if already redecorating the room and reordering Griffin’s life.

  “I pray we aren’t here on a fool’s errand. I won’t have my girl played false.” Mr. Trefoile nodded his pudgy face, his eyes flinty. He rubbed his paunch.

  “And what are your views on marriage and husbands?” Griffin asked the daughter. He had invited the Trefoiles here to force himself into making a commitment, and they were close neighbors. Still, they hadn’t spent much time together, and Miss Trefoile was usually in her schoolroom—learning little as it turned out.

  “Oh, that I’m to be an obedient wife, and do whatever my husband wishes.” She grinned with too much gum and he cringed.

  “I once wished for a woman like that as well, but now I see the idiocy of my ways,” Griffin whispered to himself.

  The mischievous eyes and lively smiles of Miss Pencavel crept in and he wondered how she fared in Italy. Sir Arthur had promised to keep him informed, since it was Griffin’s money, and for no other reason.

  “A faring, sir? Baked fresh moments ago.” Mrs. Loveday proffered a tray of biscuits. She smiled knowingly. “I hope everything goes well. You are such a nice, suitable, young lady, Miss Trefoile.”

  “Oh, thank you. You are too kind.” The girl giggled like a silly goose again.

  “Subtle, as usual, Mrs. Loveday.” Griffin picked up a biscuit and bit into it, the ginger taste tangy and rich. “I do like spice better than bland, unfortunately.”

  “Bland is easier on the stomach, and easier to manage. Perfect for a man of...particular activities and proclivities, sir.” His housekeeper nodded and carried the tray over to the Trefoiles. “Unlike another peppery, foul pot of stew I won’t mention.”

  “If you want to wallow in monotony, and though I know you care about me, you don’t always know what’s perfect for my singular tastes.” Griffin glared after his housekeeper, then looked down again at Miss Trefoil. He had no desire whatsoever for her, and realized, suddenly, it would be as unfair to her as it was to him, to bind her to a husband that would only use her for cold breeding. Even if many marriages were contracted in this fashion, it was not for him.

  “What are we discoursing about?” Miss Trefoile gave him another of her vapid smiles. “I’m completely lost.”

  “Indeed you are, my dear. Have you ever heard of Pompeii?” he asked, certain of her ignorance. A streak of warmth threaded through him at his new design.

  “Is it some sort of hair tonic?” She flushed, but it didn’t improve her pasty skin.

  “No, it’s a place I’ve always wanted to travel to, war or no war.” He gave her a swift bow. “If you’ll excuse me, and do forgive me if I’ve given you or your family the wrong impression, but I have plans to make.”

  He strode from the room, his graciousness shocking him. That Pencavel minx had burrowed under his skin, changing him into someone he no longer recognized. But now he didn’t mind the transformation.

  ****

  Melwyn swiped sweat from her forehead and kicked pumice dust from her half boots as they walked down the cobbled Consular Way. “It’s a shame that the previous king of Naples had most of the artifacts stolen for his own aggrandizement.”

  “The spoiling of Pompeii has gone on for too long.” Sir Arthur hobbled beside her, his lace cuffs flapping. “Wall paintings and pottery were destroyed in the first unplanned excavations decades past, until scholars—such as I—complained.”

  “Are ‘ee certain that volcano won’t erupt again, buryin’ us alive?” Clowenna, aka Mrs. Buckett, held on to her hat brim, the blue ribbon waving in the brief hot breeze. She glared over at the formation in question that thrust up like a thumb in the distance.

  “There’s no certainty when it comes to volcanoes.” Sir Arthur coughed loudly, rubbing his back. “I’m getting too old for this, I fear. And wi
th the French and Austrians fighting in and around Tuscany, I don’t feel safe.”

  “Italy does have a much more sultry sun than England, even in September. And I’m sick of hearing about this war. Let the French have their revolution—as long as they don’t fire at me again.” Melwyn wiped grit from her eyes, praying the soldiers wouldn’t bother with Pompeii. She didn’t want her first official dig interrupted. “Over here, I read they’ve uncovered the Theatre area, the Triangular Forum and the Temple of Isis.” She walked toward the massive columns that looked baked reddish-brown in the relentless sun. The volcanic dust swirled around her feet. The light smell of verbena and lemon carried on the air.

  “Why do we care how these people lived? If all the good items was pilfered, why bother?” Clowenna sat on a plinth, a basket in her lap. “Me feet ache like the devil.”

  “There is still so much to uncover. An entire, bustling city was blanketed over in 79 A.D. Many undetected treasures await.” Melwyn studied the architecture, her heart thrumming at being here and involved. The only sour note was, she expected Lord Lambrick to rise out of the dust at every turn, perhaps dressed as a gladiator.

  “Now, my dear, why are you masquerading as a widow? You didn’t by any chance marry and lose a husband while you were at Merther Manor?” Sir Arthur mopped his brow and studied her with his myopic eyes.

  “No, banns must be called for three consecutive Sundays before anyone can marry. I wasn’t away that long.” She swatted aside a fly, and banished Lord Lambrick looming over her, threatening to rip her bodice, from her memory—however, inside she twinged. “I need the widowed status for propriety, although I detest propriety since it’s too limiting. Let’s move on.”