A Lady of His Own bc-3

by Stephanie Laurens

  He stopped. “What?”

  “No—I don’t mean he introduced me.” She kept walking; in two strides he was again by her side.

  “You’re not, I sincerely hope, going to tell me that Granville was so mullet-brained he frequented her establishment?”

  Mullet-brained? Perhaps he hadn’t met Mother Gibbs by way of her trade. “Not precisely.”

  Silence for another three steps. “Educate me—how does one imprecisely frequent a brothel?”

  She sighed. “He didn’t actually enter the place—he grew enamored of one of her girls and took to mooning about, following the poor girl and buying her trinkets, that sort of thing. When he started propping up the wall in the passageway, languishing—for all I know serenading—Mother Gibbs said enough. She sent word to me through our workers and the servants. We met in a field and she explained how Granville’s behavior was severely disrupting her business. The local fisherlads didn’t fancy slipping through her door with the local earl’s son looking on.”

  He muttered a derogatory appellation, then more clearly said, “I can see her point. So what did you do?”

  “I talked to Granville, of course.”

  She felt his glance. “And he listened?”

  “Regardless of what else he was, Granville wasn’t stupid.”

  “You mean he understood what would happen if you mentioned his habits to his mother.”

  Looking ahead, she smiled tightly. “As I said, he wasn’t stupid. He saw that point quite quickly.”

  “So Mother Gibbs owes you a favor, and you’ve asked her for information in return.”

  That, in a nutshell, was it—her morning’s endeavor.

  “You are not, I repeat not, going back there alone.”

  His voice had changed. She knew those tones. She didn’t bother arguing.

  He knew her too well to imagine that meant she’d agreed.

  A frustrated hiss from him confirmed that, but he let the matter slide, which made her wonder what he was planning.

  Regardless, they’d reached the High Street. She turned onto the wider pavement with Charles beside her.

  And came face to face with Nicholas, Viscount Arbry.

  She halted.

  Charles stopped beside her. He glanced at her face, noted the momentary blankness in her expression while she decided what tack to take.

  He looked at the man facing them. He’d also halted. One glance was enough to identify him as a gentleman of their class. No real emotion showed in his face, yet the impression Charles received was that he hadn’t expected to meet Penny, and if given the choice, would have preferred he hadn’t.

  “Good morning, cousin.” Penny nodded in cool, distinctly mild greeting; smoothly, she turned to him. “I don’t believe you’ve met. Allow me to introduce you.” She glanced at the other man. “Nicholas Selborne, Viscount Arbry—Charles St. Austell, Earl of Lostwithiel.”

  Arbry bowed; Charles nodded and offered his hand. While they shook hands, Penny said, “Nicholas is a distant cousin. His father is the Marquess of Amberly, who inherited Papa’s title and estates.”

  Which might explain her coolness, but not Arbry’s hesitation. How distant was the connection, Charles wondered. More than the stipulated seven degrees? There was definitely more in the “cousins’ ” interaction that required explanation.

  “Lostwithiel.” Arbry was studying him. “So you’re back at…the Abbey, isn’t it? A fleeting visit, I expect.”

  Charles grinned, letting his practiced facade of bonhomie bubble to his surface. “Restormel Abbey, yes, but as to the fleetingness of my visit, that remains to be seen.”

  “Oh? Business?”

  “In a manner of speaking. But what brings you here with the Season just commenced?” It was the question Arbry had wanted to ask him. Charles capped his inquisition with a studiously innocent, “Is your wife with you?”

  “Nicholas isn’t married,” Penny said.

  Charles glanced at her, then directed a look of mild inquiry at Arbry. He was a peer in line for a major title, appeared hale and whole, and looked to be about Charles’s age; if Charles should be in London getting himself a bride, so, too, should Arbry.

  Arbry hesitated, then said, “I act as my father’s agent—there were aspects of the estate here that needed attention.”

  “Ah, yes, there’s always something.” Charles darted a look at Penny. She’d managed the Wallingham Hall estate for years; if there was anything requiring attention, she would know, yet not a hint of anything resembling comprehension showed in her face.

  Arbry was frowning. “I vaguely recall…I met your mother and sisters last time I was here. They gave me to understand you would be marrying shortly, that you intended to offer for some lady this Season.”

  Charles let his smile broaden. “Very possibly, but unfortunately for all those interested in my private life, duty once again called.”

  “Duty?”

  The question was too sharp. Arbry definitely wanted to know why he was there. Charles glanced again at Penny, but she was watching Arbry; she wasn’t giving him any clues.

  She was protecting someone. Could it be Arbry?

  “Indeed.” He met Arbry’s eyes, dropped all pretense. “I’ve been asked to look into the possible traffic of military and diplomatic secrets through smuggling channels hereabouts during the late wars.”

  Arbry didn’t blink. Not a single expression showed on his pale face.

  Which gave him away just as surely; only someone exercising supreme control would be so unresponsive in the face of such a statement.

  Still blank-faced, he said, “I hadn’t realized the…government had any real interest in pursuing the past.”

  “As certain arms of the government are controlled by those who fought, or sent others to fight and die over the last decade and more, you may be assured the interest is very real.”

  “And they’ve asked you to look into it? I thought you were a major in the Guards?”

  “I was.” Charles smiled, deliberately cold, deliberately ruthless. “But I have other strings to my bow.”

  Penny glanced around, desperate to break up the exchange of pleasantries. Nicholas might be good, but Charles could be diabolical. She didn’t want him to learn more, guess more, not yet. God only knew what he’d make of it, or how he might react.

  Her gaze found Millie and Julia, both with faces alight, hurrying as fast as they decorously could to join her. And the two handsome gentlemen she’d somehow acquired. For quite the first time in her life she thoroughly approved of their blatant curiosity.

  “Penelope! We were just coming to join you.” Julia beamed as the three of them turned. “We got held up in the apothecary’s.” She directed her gaze to the gentlemen; Millie did the same. “Lord Arbry, isn’t it?”

  Nicholas had met them before; he bowed. “Mrs. Essington. Mrs. Essington.”

  Charles turned fully to face them. He was taller than Nicholas; Millie’s and Julia’s gazes rose to his face. They both blinked, then delighted smiles lit their countenances.

  “Charles!” Julia all but shrieked. “You’re back!”

  “How delightful,” Millie cooed. “I had thought, from what your dear mama let fall, that you were quite fixed in London for the Season.”

  Charles smiled, shook their hands, and deflected their questions. Penny heaved a sigh of relief. Now if only Nicholas would grab his chance and escape.

  She was turning to nudge him along, when Julia gaily said, “You both must join us for luncheon—it’s gone one o’clock. If I know anything of gentlemen, you must be ravenous, and the Pelican has the best food in Fowey.”

  “Oh, yes!” Millie’s eyes shone. “We’ve booked a private parlor—do join us.”

  Charles glanced at Penny, then at Nicholas. “Indeed, why not?” His smile as he gazed at Nicholas was distinctly predatory. “What say you, Arbry? I can’t see any reason not to take advantage of such an invitation from such delightful company.”


  Millie and Julia preened. They turned shining eyes on Nicholas.

  Penny inwardly swore. Nicholas couldn’t do anything but agree.

  With Julia, Millie, and Charles providing most of the conversation, the five of them walked the short distance to the Pelican Inn. As the landlord, all delighted gratification, bowed them into his best parlor, Penny hoped Nicholas understood that he was walking into a lion’s den, with a lion with very sharp teeth and even sharper wits beside him.

  She was nursing an incipient headache by the time lunch ended. Predictably, Millie and Julia had filled the hour with bright conversation, retelling all the repeatable local gossip for Charles’s edification. He’d encouraged them, leaving him able to direct the occasional unexpected and unpredictable query at Nicholas, not that he’d learned anything from the exercise.

  Nicholas was clearly on his guard, his attention focused on Charles, his attitude to everyone as it usually was, reserved and rather standoffish. She’d clung to the cool demeanor she always adopted around him; most put it down to understandable distance over his father’s assumption of her father’s estates.

  Little did they know.

  As they all rose and together quit the parlor, it occurred to her that, with Charles now present to draw his attention, Nicholas might lower his guard with her. She’d never given him reason to think she suspected him of anything; he had no idea she knew of the questions he’d asked the Wallingham grooms and gardeners, or of his visits to the local smugglers. He certainly didn’t know she’d been following him.

  She raised her head as they emerged into the bright sunshine. Charles appeared beside her as she went down the steps into the inn yard. An ostler was holding her mare; she was about to wave him to the mounting block when Charles touched her back.

  “I’ll lift you up.”

  She would have frozen, stopped dead, simply refused, but he was walking half-behind her; if she stopped, he’d walk into her.

  They reached the mare’s side. Charles’s hands were already sliding around her waist as she halted and turned.

  Lungs locked, she glanced into his face as he gripped and effortlessly hoisted her up. But he wasn’t even looking at her, much less noticing her embarrassing reaction; his gaze was locked on Nicholas, helping Millie and Julia into their gig.

  “How long has he been here?”

  Slipping her boot into the stirrup he’d caught and positioned for her, she managed to breathe enough to murmur, “He arrived yesterday.”

  That brought Charles’s dark gaze to her face, but an ostler appeared with his horse, and he turned away.

  Nicholas had also asked for his horse—one of Granville’s hacks—to be brought out. He, too, mounted. Without actually discussing the matter, the five of them clopped out of the inn yard together, Nicholas riding attentively beside the gig, she and Charles bringing up the rear.

  She watched Nicholas’s attempts to be sociable. Millie and Julia were thrilled, their day crowned by being able to claim they’d spent time conversing with both the two most eligible, and most elusive, gentlemen of the district.

  “Has he been spending much time down here?”

  Charles’s tone was low, noncommittal.

  If she didn’t tell him, he’d ask around and find out anyway. “It’s his fourth visit since July, when he and his father came for Granville’s funeral. The longest he’s stayed is a week in December, but that was their first formal visit as owner, so to speak. He came down alone in February for five days, then turned up yesterday.”

  Charles said nothing more, but was aware she was watching her “cousin” with an assessing and cynical eye. He wasn’t surprised Nicholas had joined them on their way home; all through luncheon, he’d shot swift glances at Penny, concerned, yes, but not just in the usual way. There was definitely something between them.

  They reached the Essington lane and farewelled Millie and Julia. By unspoken consent, he, Penny, and Nicholas cantered on together.

  Until they came to the lane to Wallingham. Nicholas drew up, his chestnut stamping as he half wheeled to face them. Penny slowed and halted. Charles drew rein beside her.

  Nicholas looked at him, then at Penny. “I, er…” His features hardened. “I had thought, or rather understood, that you believed the countess was still at the Abbey.”

  Penny had an instant to decide which way to jump. Charles, being Charles, would already have guessed she’d left Wallingham for the Abbey because of Nicholas. A nobleman with four sisters, two of them married, Charles would also know there was no social reason behind her decamping; she hadn’t gone to the Abbey to avoid possible scandal. Nicholas, of course, thought she had, because she’d led him to think so.

  But now here she was, staying at the Abbey apparently alone with Charles, to whom she was in no way related.

  She had three options. One, take advantage of Nicholas’s misconstruction and seek refuge at Essington Manor, free of both Charles and Nicholas. Unfortunately, Lady Essington, Millie and Julia’s mama-in-law, was a dragon and would expect her to remain with Millie and Julia during the days, and even more during the evenings and nights. She’d never find out what was going on, and what she needed to do to protect Elaine and her half sisters.

  Alternatively, she could return to Wallingham Hall on the grounds that residing under the same roof as Nicholas was scandalwise preferable to sharing a roof with Charles; no one could argue that. However, she’d then be using the same stables as Nicholas, the same house, and she’d much rather he remained ignorant of her comings and goings while following him.

  Living at Wallingham might be useful if Nicholas lowered his guard while distracted by Charles, but she’d seen enough of Nicholas to be sure that if Charles wasn’t physically present, being distracting, then Nicholas would have defenses aplenty deployed against her.

  All in all, her last option seemed preferable.

  She smiled reassuringly. “The countess’s elderly cousin Emily is at the Abbey, so there’s no reason I can’t remain there, at least while you’re at Wallingham.”

  She glanced at Charles; his expression deceptively open, he was watching Nicholas. His horse didn’t shift. Not by a flicker of a lash did he betray her.

  “Ah…I see.” It was Nicholas’s horse that shifted. After a fractional pause, during which she sensed he searched for some other reason to have her return to Wallingham, he conceded. “I’ll bid you farewell, then.” He nodded to Charles. “Lostwithiel. No doubt we’ll meet again.”

  “No doubt.” Charles returned the nod, but his tone made the comment anything but comforting.

  Enough. With a gracious nod of her own, she set her mare trotting, then urged her into a canter.

  Charles’s gray ranged alongside. He waited until they’d rounded the next bend to murmur, “Where did Cousin Emily come from?”

  “If she’s your mother’s elderly cousin, then presumably she came from France.”

  “Presumably. And what happens when dear Nicholas asks around, innocently or otherwise?”

  She kept her gaze forward. “Until recently, Cousin Emily has been staying with other relatives—she only arrived two days ago to spend some time here, in warmer climes—”

  “Warmer climes being recommended for her stiff joints, I suppose?”

  “Precisely. However, Cousin Emily still prefers to converse in French, and considers herself too old to socialize, so she’s something of a curmudgeonly recluse, and not at home to callers.”

  “How convenient.”

  “Indeed. Your Cousin Emily is the perfect chaperone.”

  She felt his gaze, scimitar-sharp on her face.

  “What is it about Arbry that sent you to the Abbey?”

  She exhaled, but knew he’d simply wait her out. “I don’t trust him.”

  “On a personal level?”

  His tone was uninflected, perfectly even; latent menace shimmered beneath. “No,” she hurried to say, “it’s not personal. Not at all.”

  They rode on; su
re of what his next question would be, she strove to find words to explain her suspicions without revealing their cause.

  “Is Arbry the person you’re protecting, or the person you were following, or both?”

  She glanced at him, eyes widening. How had he seen, deduced, known all that?

  He met her gaze, his own steady. And waited.

  Lips setting, she looked ahead as they slowed for the bridge over the river. She knew him; correspondingly, he knew her. The noise as they clattered over the wooden bridge gave her a minute to think. As they set out again along the well-beaten lane, she replied, “He’s not who I’m protecting. He is who I was following.”

  That said, she urged Gilly, her mare, into a gallop. Charles’s gray surged alongside, but Charles took the hint; as they rode on through the fine afternoon, he asked no further questions.

  She escaped him in the stables, leaving him holding both their horses. He cast her a dark look, but let her go. She reached the house, glanced back, but he hadn’t made haste to follow her.

  Just as well. Last night, after leaving him in the kitchen, she’d gone to bed, but memories had swamped her, claimed her; she hadn’t slept well, but neither had she analyzed. She desperately needed to think, to put together the information she’d gathered and decide what it might reveal, especially to someone used to dealing with such matters, like Charles. Telling him…she accepted she would ultimately have to, but if there was a way to present the facts in a more favorable light, she needed to find it first.

  Entering the house through the garden hall, she halted, wondering where to hide to gain the greatest time alone. She might wish to have the rest of the evening to assemble the facts and cudgel her brains, but of that she held little hope. Charles had never been renowned for patience.

  Persistence, yes; patience, no.

  “The orchard.” Grabbing up her habit’s train, she whirled, reopened the door, and peered out. Charles hadn’t left the stables; he was probably brushing down her mount. Slipping outside, she ran for the shrubbery, then used the cover of the high hedges to make her way to the orchard, currently a mass of pink and white blossom effectively screening her from the house.