Despite all that, he had not wanted to sever the connection he had felt with Miss Nethercott during their brief encounters. She was outspoken, as he could never be. She laughed easily, making her eyes twinkle like sunlight on the sea. He had been captivated by her each time they met. He had foolishly imagined himself writing her long missives and maybe even a poem or two, so he could envision her reading them with a smile especially for him.
Then he returned to Cornwall, and she left London for Nethercott Castle and her sister’s wedding. He had not returned to Town nor, he guessed from her comments, had she.
“What brings you into St. Gundred so early?” Constantine asked. The colonel had a house closer to the shore. Even though he was an Army man, as his father and his father’s father had been before him, Pitchford was engrossed by the waves.
“You bring me here.”
“Me?” He took a sip of the coffee because the aroma refused to be ignored any longer. “I trust I have not done anything wrong.”
“You? Done something wrong?” Pitchford chuckled. “You have done everything right so far, save catching the leaders of these wrecking gangs.”
Constantine hid his flinch at the colonel’s unveiled insult. He was accustomed to them by now. Pitchford did not understand why Constantine could not swoop down with a company of soldiers and capture the wreckers. Within his first hours in Cornwall, Constantine had learned it was not that simple.
The web of deceit and half-truths enmeshed every household in St. Gundred, whether its inhabitants participated in wrecking or not. Secrets were kept because of threats, and otherwise law-abiding people turned a blind eye to what happened below the cliffs.
“So why are you calling today?” Constantine asked. “If you wished to have a coze, you would have waited until after your daily fishing trip with Trembeth.”
“So you know I have gone fishing with the curate? You do keep a close eye on everyone in St. Gundred, I see.”
“It is my duty.”
“Will you keep as close an eye on Lady Bannatyne’s sister?”
“I spoke with her yesterday and warned her of the peril of wandering too close to the shore.”
“That is no surprise.” The colonel winked as he sipped his coffee and leaned back in his chair, settling one foot on the opposite knee.
“I have warned every young woman to be wary of the areas where the wreckers gather.”
“You misunderstand me. It is no surprise that you found a way so your path intersected with Miss Nethercott’s. Wasn’t there on dits about the two of you last year or the year before?”
Constantine hoped his laugh sounded more sincere to the colonel than it did to him. “I did not guess a few short conversations and a dance or two with Miss Nethercott were enough to generate gossip that would sustain itself for this long.”
“Come now, my boy. Even though you have done your best to avoid Town, you are wise enough to its ways. You know that when an unmarried earl speaks more than a single word to a single woman of marriageable age, the ton will be intrigued.”
“I do know that, and it is one of the reasons I was pleased to accept an assignment as far from London as I could.” He drew in another deep breath of the coffee’s succulent aroma.
“You were bored, Con.” The colonel held up his hand. “Do not try to dissuade me. I know what boredom is, and when you speak of Town, your voice is filled with ennui.”
“Yes. Seeing the same people at every event and trying to find something new to say was a challenge I could not master.”
“Save for Miss Nethercott.” Pitchford raised his bushy eyebrows. “You have mentioned her, you know.”
“No doubt. With her sister living close to the village, I am sure I mentioned her name once or twice.”
“A few more times than that, I would wager. It has been a balm for ears eager for the latest gossip.”
Constantine wondered why Pitchford suffered a self-imposed exile when the older man could not hide how much he missed the swirl of the Season. His conversation was peppered with Town topics: matchmaking, gambling, clubs. No whiff of scandal was attached to the marquess’s name, as far as Constantine knew, and such matters seldom stayed silent for long. Pitchford’s wife had died a decade before, and his children, including his heir, never missed any gathering in Town. Maybe avoiding his children, of whom he was disappointed, was why Pitchford remained in Cornwall. Or was there another reason? Pitchford led a parsimonious life in his simple cottage. Was it his choice, or had the rumors of the colonel’s past fascination with gambling, so much like his son’s now, made the simple life necessary?
“Be that as it may,” the colonel continued, “the young lady is here. I do not have to ask you to watch over her, because it seems you already are doing so. I would not like to see a young lady of quality become a target of wreckers.” He snapped his fingers. “I have an idea. Invite her to join us for dinner tomorrow evening at my cottage, Con. I wish to meet her.”
“Me? Invite her to your cottage?” He finished his coffee. “Don’t you think that she will see such an invitation as odd?”
“She might not be interested in accepting an old man’s offer for dinner and conversation, but I suspect she will be more than willing to spend the evening with a dashing blade like you.”
“I never imagined you would attempt to be a matchmaker, sir.”
Pitchford laughed. “Did you not give thought to the idea that I might like to meet this young diamond of birth myself? If it makes you feel better, you bring the wine for our feast.” He grew somber as he added, “And it may take the two of us to impress upon her the danger she courts each time she goes near the shore.”
He nodded, hoping the colonel was right. Would Sian heed them? If not, he wondered how they could keep her safe from becoming a pawn in the hands of the wreckers.
* * * *
Sian stepped out of the carriage in front of a grand cottage that dwarfed the ones in St. Gundred. Stone, instead of thatch, covered its roof, and freshly painted shutters flanked the windows. A neatly trimmed garden was filled with flowers.
Drawing the beautiful blossoms would have been great fun, but she had lost her sketchbook somewhere between the cliffs and the hedgerow gate. She had retraced her steps yesterday. It had been for naught. If Lord Lastingham or Mr. Trembeth had found it, she guessed they would have returned it to her. She had written her name on the cover, but she was uncertain if anyone else would connect it to Bannatyne Hall.
She opened the gate in the stone wall that surrounded the front garden. The invitation to dinner with Lord Lastingham and Lord Pitchford had been a surprise, but not her eagerness to accept it. After her truncated conversation with Lord Lastingham, she had many questions. Already she was confused about the wreckers, Lord Lastingham, Mr. Trembeth and Wraith, as well as the anger she had sensed in the village as people turned to watch her carriage drive through St. Gundred.
Something caught her eye. It could not be the sun, which was still high in the sky, even though the hour was past seven. She glanced to her right, startled. Was that mist? Smoke? Or—
She halted the thought before it could form. She did not need another ghost making an appearance! The one in Nethercott Castle’s well house had unsettled her enough with its warnings. She looked at where the wisp had been, and nothing was visible. Relief flooded her.
The cottage door opened, and a distinguished older man appeared. “Do come in, Miss Nethercott. I am Daniel Pitchford.”
She greeted her host and smiled. As he took her shawl and complimented her on her light blue gown, she resisted patting her hair to make sure it remained in place. Helen had decided that tonight was the perfect opportunity to try a new hairstyle with a row of curls along each side of Sian’s face. Her maid swore it was au courant, although Sian had no idea how her maid knew of such matters when they had not been to Town in almost two years.
As Lord Pitchford handed her shawl to a servant, Sian admired the warm coziness of the cottage’s p
arlor. It was a simple house for a man who must have once lived in a place as grand as Bannatyne Hall. Chairs had been gathered in the space between a brocade covered settee and a hearth that must be almost as big as the ones in the kitchen at Nethercott Castle. Windows on the seaside of the house were open to welcome in the salt breezes. Rough ceiling beams were set at a height so even Lord Lastingham would not have to bend his head.
Where was Lord Lastingham? The invitation had come from him, so she had assumed he would be waiting at the cottage. Disappointment more than dismay weighed on her shoulders.
“Miss Nethercott, this is, indeed, a pleasure,” replied Lord Pitchford, drawing her attention to her host. “Con has been singing your praises for the past two days, and I can see he was not exaggerating.” He bowed over her hand and chuckled. “Even though, I daresay he seldom sang on key.”
Sian smiled. How could she not be charmed by the marquess who was doing his utmost to make her feel at ease? She wished she could tell him how impressed she was with both he and Lord Lastingham. Seeking to disrupt the wreckers’ plans put them in jeopardy when they could have, instead, spent their time playing cards and entertaining their friends.
“You were kind to invite me to your home. It was the excuse I needed to persuade my sister’s household not to watch over me every minute like a hen with a single chick.”
“You cannot fault them for worrying about your safety.”
“No, but I am accustomed to walking daily in Yorkshire. Here, I find that is not possible.”
“It is a shame,” Lord Lastingham said he came through a doorway. “And it is because of problems like yours that I have come to Cornwall. I was lucky to find an ally here in the colonel.”
Lord Pitchford gestured for her to select a spot to sit in front of the fire. She chose a chair and was surprised when both the marquess and Lord Lastingham sat on the settee facing her. Even so, she could see where the fabric on the settee’s arms was frayed. No doubt, Lord Pitchford was too busy to notice such homely matters. Her own father had been.
“Miss Nethercott,” Lord Pitchford said, “this is, as I said, a true pleasure. With Lord Bannatyne and his wife so seldom in residence, Con and I have found ourselves with only our own company. Such company, while intriguing at first, soon palls. Your arrival offers a bright glimmer of sunshine into the mists of Cornwall.”
She liked how the colonel addressed Lord Lastingham as Con. It suggested a strong camaraderie between the two men, which they must appreciate living amidst the close-knit community where anyone with less than fifteen or twenty generations in the village was considered an outsider. Or so her sister had told her, only partially in jest.
Lord Pitchford took the lead in the conversation, giving his opinions of everything and everyone in England and beyond. Sian watched Lord Lastingham. Occasionally he nodded in agreement with his colonel. Other times, his face could have been carved of stone, and she guessed he disagreed with what Lord Pitchford said.
She liked observing Lord Lastingham’s features, but she could not help noticing how fatigue had gouged lines around his eyes while Lord Pitchford looked well rested. She silenced her curiosity, because it would have been beyond reproach to voice it.
When Lord Pitchford stood to lead them into the dining room, he said, “Major, please escort Miss Nethercott while I speak to the cook.”
“Yes, sir.” Lord Lastingham set himself on his feet. He held out his hand. “May I, Miss Nethercott?”
“He called you major. I thought you were no longer in the army.”
His chuckle was the low, distant rumble of thunder. “He does not concern himself with something as trivial as to one’s current military status. When we speak in private, I always address him as Colonel or sir. He does not regret the war is over. No sane person would, but he misses his command. Going from overseeing hundreds to supervising this small household has been quite a disillusionment.”
“He could sit in the House of Lords, if he wanted company.” She put her hand on his and let him draw her to her feet. A warmth, both familiar and newly enthralling, surged through her.
“Where he would have to heed others’ wishes rather than giving orders? Unlikely.” His smile brightened his eyes.
She was amazed that they could speak of Lord Pitchford and yet be aware of an unspoken conversation that linked them together through their fingers. His skin was rough, and she wanted to explore it further. When his fingers closed around hers as he lifted her hand to his arm, she could not keep from leaning toward him. The fresh scent of the sea and soap surrounded him, and she savored it as she had when. . .
With a sharp gasp, Sian yanked her hand out of his. That combination of salt and other aromas had not been with Lord Lastingham. It had been when Wraith seduced a kiss from her.
“Miss Nethercott?” Lord Lastingham asked in puzzlement.
“Forgive me.” She put her hand back on his arm, hoping he would not see through her falsehood. “There was a spark from your coat.”
“My apologies.”
“You did nothing wrong.”
“But you were injured because of me.”
She saw the faintest twitch of his lips and laughed. “Lord Lastingham, contrition does not work well when you are trying not to smile.”
“You are as clear-eyed as ever.” He grinned. “Let me escort you to where the colonel will be waiting without any patience.”
“May I ask you one thing first?”
“Most certainly.”
He shifted so he could keep her hand on his arm but still look at her. When she met his eyes, she almost forgot what she wanted to ask him. Could she truly lose herself in that greenness as deep and mysterious as a wood? She was tempted to find out, sinking within them as she sank into his embrace.
It took all her willpower to look away. She realized she was digging her fingers into his sleeve and arm. Loosening her grip, she asked, “Did you, perchance, notice where I dropped my sketchbook? It is a small brown book with my name on its cover. I had it with me by the cliffs, but I lost it somewhere on our way back to the Hall.”
“I am sorry, Miss Nethercott. I did not see when you dropped it. Have you asked the curate?”
“Who often cannot see anything despite his spectacles.” Lord Pitchford strode into the room, offering her a glass of wine. “However, in this case, I quite understand why. You must realize, Miss Nethercott, that no gentleman in your company would be able to tear away his attentive gaze.”
She flushed.
“Forgive me,” the older man hurried to say. “I did not mean to embarrass you with honest admiration.”
The marquess’s comment—and his apology—set the tone for the meal. The food was beautifully prepared and served, but Sian later could not recall a bite she ate. Or even if she ate a bite. She found herself trying to answer questions that Lord Pitchford fired in an unceasing barrage. He wanted her opinions on Cornwall and the enmity between the groups of wreckers, but he gave her no chance to air them. Rather, he complained about the justice of the peace who seemed unable and unwilling to fulfill his duties. A coward who would go rabbit hunting with a dead ferret was his description of the man who had failed, along with the constable, to bring the wreckers to justice.
Not once did he mention Wraith by name without cursing, then begging her pardon. As he spoke Wraith’s name often, she found herself constantly responding, “There is no need to apologize, my lord.” She did not recall saying much of anything else, and she could not help being relieved when, shortly after dessert, she asked Lord Pitchford to excuse her.
“Yes, yes,” he quickly replied. “These long summer twilights do come to an end, and you must be behind the walls of Bannatyne Hall before darkness settles upon what is too often an unsettling night.”
His words sent a cold ripple down her spine, and her smile wavered. She bid the marquess a good evening.
When Lord Lastingham offered to escort her to her waiting carriage, she was grateful. She did not fear
the night as much as she did not trust herself if she encountered Wraith again.
“You must forgive him,” Lord Lastingham said as soon as they reached the gate by the road. “Lord Pitchford often acts as if he still sits in a mess rather than in polite company.”
“As I told him, there is nothing to forgive.” She settled her shawl on her shoulders. “How can I be upset over what was intended to be for my well-being? I preferred that to endless compliments.”
“You do not like to be complimented?” He rested his hand on the fence.
“Usually I appreciate them as much as the next person, but no one is the paragon he suggests I am.”
“Then I trust you will not be distressed when I compliment you by saying that you have a generous heart to forgive him for being so undiplomatic on the subject closest to his heart.”
His roundabout way of speaking warned her that he could not be certain someone might be eavesdropping. She understood, and she did the same.
“I have spoken out of hand so frequently that I cannot fault someone else for the same misdeed.” She stepped toward the gate. “Thank you for an interesting evening, Lord Lastingham. And please thank Lord Pitchford for me again.”
“Would you consider, as we are far from Town and the guardians of propriety, calling me by my given name?”
“Con?”
He grimaced. “Constantine, if you would. Having Pitchford call me Con is a habit of which I have not been able to break him. Will you use my given name?”
“Gladly, if you will use mine.”
“Thank you. Sian is a lovely name, but an odd one.”
Sea Wraith Page 6
