by Ruth Owen
And every night when she went to bed she gripped the locket around her neck, and reminded herself over and over again that she was only playing a part.
On Wednesday before the ball Sabrina and Amy traveled to the nearby port town of St. Petroc, to collect the gowns they’d been fitted for the week before. The port was busy and bustling with people, from merchants to sailors to soldiers on leave. Yet, despite the excitement, Amy was unusually quiet. It was not until they arrived at the dressmaker’s that Rina discovered why.
At the modiste shop, Amy burst out with the secret she’d been keeping for over a week. Her grandmother had quietly authorized the modiste to fashion not only a ball gown for her, but to use her measurements to create a dozen day and evening dresses as well. “She believed you needed a wardrobe that was, uhm, more suited to our plain country living,” Amy confessed as the proprietress bought out a dozen new dresses. “We picked the patterns out together. I hope they meet with your approval.”
The unexpected kindness overwhelmed Sabrina. She fingered the sleeve of a lovely robin’s-egg blue morning dress, blinking back tears. Amy and her grandmother had obviously spent a great deal of time selecting outfits which would make the most of her limited attractiveness. It was the most generous gift she’d ever received—and the most undeserved one. One Saturday night she’d be leaving the country. And on Sunday morning Amy and the dowager would realize just how completely they’d been deceived—
“Do you not like them?” Amy asked, her gaze uncertain.
“Like them? I—“In answer, Sabrina enfolded the young woman in an extremely unladylike bear hug. The modiste gasped in alarm, but Rina didn’t care. She closed her eyes and, for a moment, allowed herself to believe that this frivolous, dear girl really was her cousin.
As their purchases were brought to their carriage, Amy took Sabrina on a tour of the village. Like many of the towns in the Duchy of Cornwall, St. Petroc had a history that stretched back to Roman times, when the already prosperous mines were supplying the tin and copper to ports all over the Mediterranean.
“Tin has always been the lifeblood of Cornwall,” Amy explained as they walked along the town’s cobbled main street. “The stones on this road were laid by Roman centurions, so that the tin could be transported easily to the coast through the rough interior. Even the kings of England bowed to the Cornish tinners. In fact, it is said that King James the First was so impressed with Geoffrey, the first Earl of Trevelyan’s fortune that he offered him his cousin as a bride. But the earl did not accept. Instead, Geoffrey risked the king’s ire, and married for love. It is a vastly romantic tale.”
“Indeed,” Sabrina acknowledged. “But I imagine that some of your relatives were less than pleased with your ancestor’s choice. A royal connection would be a boon to Wheal Grace’s profits. No doubt your brother thinks so. He seems to spend every waking moment at the mine.”
Amy shook her head. “‘Twasn’t always that way. Edward used to think of things besides business. Why, I can remember a time, when Isabel was alive…He’s changed since then. Now he spends almost all his time either at our estates in the north, or in London, though I’m not entirely sure what he does there.”
Rina recalled the beautiful opera dancers of Covent Garden whose bejeweled fingers were always twined around the arm of some well-heeled gentry buck. She could easily imagine what Trevelyan was doing in London. She looked down and brushed an imaginary piece of lint from her kid gloves, strangely unnerved by the thought. “Well, he seems to be spending a fair bit of time at Ravenshold now. I suspect he is keeping an eye on me.”
Lady Amy’s lips twitched up. “That is what Grandmother says. But she is glad you are here. So am I. And my brother will come around, you’ll see. Even now I can see that he is softening toward you.”
“Amy, I fear the excitement of the party has addled your wits. Your brother has made no secret of his profound dislike for me.”
“Ah, do not be deceived by his rough manner. Remember, he risked his life to save you the day your bridle broke. And there are times when you are reading or looking into the fire in the evenings, that I catch him watching you. He shrugs and pretends it is nothing, but I have not seen that expression on his face in years, not since—oh, drat, the Larkin sisters are coming this way.”
Rina wouldn’t have cared if the devil himself were coming their way. She gripped Amy’s arm. “His expression. You were going to tell me—”
“Yes, yes,” Amy said, though her attention was clearly elsewhere.
Looking across the crowded street, Sabrina saw two middle-aged women perched on the curb, apparently searching for a break in the rumbling cart traffic. Their eager, almost hungry expressions reminded Rina of a pair of circling vultures. Amy leaned close and whispered furtively. “The Larkins are incorrigible gossips. If they catch wind of who you are, we’ll never be rid of them.”
Sabrina stiffened. Incorrigible gossips were not only unpleasant, they were dangerous. They asked questions—too many questions. Hastily Rina glanced around, her gaze lighting on the entrance of a narrow alley. “I can hide there. Tell them I’ve gone down the lane to another shop or some such thing. You can fetch me after they’ve left.”
Amy gave a quick nod of assent, and Rina slipped into the alley.
Stepping into the alley was like stepping into another world. The tall stone walls cut off most of the fresh air and all of the sunlight. The street sounds died too, muted by the thick, echoing walls. She wasn’t one to jump at shadows, but this place unnerved her. The busy street was only a few yards behind her, yet she felt isolated and alone. Like entering a tomb.
She leaned against the cold wall and tried to set her mind on brighter imaginings. But no matter where she steered her thoughts, they kept returning to Amy’s words about the earl. I can see that he is softening…I catch him watching you. But the girl was mistaken. If Trevelyan was watching her at all, it was only to catch her in a lie. He might have risked his life to save her that afternoon, but he’d never treated her with anything but cold disdain. Which made the quicksilver heat he stirred inside her all the more puzzling…
Muffled voices interrupted her thoughts. They came from the other end of the alley, from behind a crumbling brick wall where someone had tried to block off the narrow entrance. Rina moved toward the sound, grateful to have something to distract her troubled mind. She headed toward the alley’s far end, only half listening to what the low voices were saying, until a single word caught her attention.
“Trevelyan.”
She stole up to the wall, and pressed her ear close to the bricks.
“Cheatin’, that’s what I call it,” said a sharp voice. “We did the deed and not a penny paid.”
“But she ain’t dead,” answered another speaker, whose voice was high and squeaky like a mouse. “The money for the corpse—that was the deal.”
“Well, that ain’t my fault. Wanted to stick her, didn’t I? Wanted it quick and simple, like spittin’ a Christmas turkey. But you, ya bleedin’ sod—you wanted to make it look like an accident. So we used the horse.”
The horse. The runaway? Rina pressed closer to the wall, holding her breath.
“It almost worked,” squeaked the mouse.
“The boss don’t pay for almosts. She still breathin’ and we’re no richer. And if we don’t snuff ‘er soon, we’ll—”
Sabrina’s pressure on the wall dislodged a piece of the crumbling brick, sending it crashing to the ground. She heard a bawdy curse, followed by the sound of scrambling feet. Cursing herself, she dashed around the end of the wall, but she was too late. They were gone.
Her hands balled into tight fists, her Murphy blood boiling. She’d heard only bits of the conversation, but it was enough to convince her that her bridle ribbons had not snapped by accident. Some bastard wanted her dead. Some cowardly bastard who hired his assassins, who couldn’t even face her like a man.
The scrape of boots on pavement made her turn her head. She caught si
de of a tall man and his companion dashing away down the street. “Stop!” she yelled, charging after them. “Stop, or I’ll see you hang!”
It wasn’t a ladylike display, but at the moment she wasn’t a lady. She was Sabrina Murphy, Daniel’s Irish daughter, and she was mad as hell. The craven act of cutting the bridle had terrified her, and almost broken her neck. And almost broke the earl’s too, which just made her angrier.
She ran as fast as she could, but it proved useless. Her long skirt and too-tight slippers were useless in a chase. The villains disappeared into the crowd before she even got another look at them. Cursing once more, she leaned against a shoulder-high crate, breathing in great gasps of air as her heart slowed.
She looked around, considering asking a passerby if they’d seen the villains. But the alley had led her onto the docks, a world of packing crates and barrels and rough men who were as transitory as their ship’s cargo. She’d find no willing witnesses here.
Bending down, she rubbed one of her sore feet. If not for her stylish slippers she’d have caught them. The bastards. Sniveling bastards all of them, especially the man they worked for, this unknown boss. She’d find him out, just see if she didn’t. They’d make a mistake trying to go after Daniel Murphy’s daughter—
Rina stiffened. She wasn’t a gambler’s daughter here—she was Miss Prudence Winthrope, the long-lost cousin to the Trevelyan clan. Prudence had no enemies. Prudence wasn’t even real. But real or not, she had apparently acquired an enemy—an enemy who wanted her dead. And if he was a danger to Prudence, he might just be a danger to the rest of the family as well. Amy, the children, Edward.
She remembered the evening when she’d watched the earl walk alone on the sea cliffs. The mist had been rising, obscuring his form and everything else around him. It wasn’t too difficult to imagine someone hiding, lying in wait for him. Once little push, one well-timed shove, and…
“I must warn him.” Rina pushed her way through the crowd, heading back toward the alley. Edward was arrogant and insufferable. And if he learned she wasn’t Prudence, he’d have her in the bailey quicker than she could say Jack Robinson. But the thought of him in danger left her cold to the core…for the sake of his family, of course. It was simple Christian charity, something she’d have done no matter how much she despised him. And she did despise him, she assured herself as she approached the alley’s entrance. Of that one fact she was absolutely certain—
“Not so fast, pretty Polly.”
Sabrina halted, her way blocked by a substantial man in a frayed navy coat. His shirt was so badly stained that she could barely tell the striped pattern, and he stank of spoiled fish. She wrinkled her nose, recalling a saying she’d heard on the London docks. Old sailors never die. They just smell like it.
“You’re mistaken, sir. My name is not Polly,” she replied, trying to go around him.
He stepped sideways to cut her off. “I’ll wager you can make it ‘Polly.’ If’n the coin is right.”
He held out his beefy hand, revealing a tarnished half-crown. For a moment Rina didn’t comprehend. Then she saw the lecherous gleam in his gaze as it raked over her gaudy gown. Wonderful. I’ve been mistaken for a strumpet.
Rina again told the sailor she wasn’t what he was after and tried to push past him. She didn’t get far. His ham-hock arm snaked out and gripped her hand so hard she winced.
“That coy act ain’t bumping the price, lovey. I got an itch in my pants and you’re the one to scratch it.” He started to drag her toward a stack of crates piled on the side of the dock.
Rina cried for help, but the only response to her plea was a chorus of cheerful, foul suggestions from a nearby group of dockhands. Panicked, her gaze went to the crowd on the street, but the few people who bothered to meet her eyes either sneered along with the dockhands, or shrugged their shoulders in disinterest.
The sailor gave her another bone-jarring yank, pulling her closer to the stacked crates. This cannot be happening, her mind reasoned. Memories of the night Albert tried to rape her rose in her mind. A scream lodged in her throat.
She cast her gaze around the dock in a desperate search for salvation. “Please,” she cried, her voice weak with terror, “won’t someone help—”
“Let her go.”
The quiet lethal command brought the bulking sailor to a halt. The speaker was hidden from Rina’s view by the seaman’s massive body, but it didn’t matter. She knew the voice as well as she knew her own. Her heart soared at the thought that Trevelyan had come to her rescue.
And plummeted as she realized that the sailor out-weighed the early by six stone and topped him by a full head.
Chapter Twelve
Edward’s visit to St. Petroc was supposed to be short and uneventful. He’d come to the port to discuss cargo charges for his tin with the local ships’ merchants—an unscrupulous lot who would sell their own grandmothers if the price were right. Trevelyan knew how to deal with them, and the bargain he’d made was far more equitable than what they’d wanted. He should have felt triumphant when he left their offices on the waterfront. Instead, the only thing he wanted was to get away from the stinking, congested wharf and back to the wild cliffs of Ravenshold.
A commotion on the far end of the dock distracted his thoughts. A sailor and his strumpet were apparently having an assignation in broad daylight. Disgusted, the earl started to turn away. Then he heard the woman cry out.
Prudence?
Last evening, Amy had told him that she and Miss Winthrope were planning a trip to St. Petroc today, but they were visiting the dressmaker, not the docks. He shook his head, vexed anew with his counterfeit cousin. He couldn’t do anything about her voice and image invading his dreams, but he’d be damned if he’d let her commandeer his waking thoughts as well. Once again he started to turn away, casting a final, glaring glance at the hulking sailor and his doxie—
—and caught a glimpse of unmistakable auburn hair.
The sailor’s back was to him, blocking the earl’s view of the woman’s upper body, but a quick glance at the skirt of the disastrously decorated gown told him all he needed to know. He pushed his way through the jeering crowd. “Let her go.”
The sailor craned his thick neck around and shot a glare over his shoulder. “Get your own damned whore.”
“You’ve made a mistake.”
“I ain’t the one makin’ a mistake, mate,” the big man sneered. “I’ve no quarrel with ya—yet. Piss off. You can have her when I’m done.”
Fury rising, the earl grabbed the man’s arm.
The sailor whirled back, his glare boiling to an open threat. He pushed aside his coat, revealing the bone handle of a knife stuck in his broad leather belt. “Leave off —or lose the hand.”
The earl’s jaw pulled taut. “If it’s a fight you want, mate, I’ll gladly—”
“Edward, do as he says.”
Prudence’s words silenced him. Beyond the sailor’s shoulder, he caught sight of a pair of terrified emerald eyes. He stared back at her, completely flummoxed.
“You cannot win,” she pleaded. “He’s got a knife. And he’s bigger than you are.”
The sailor gave a barking laugh. “Right you are, darlin’. In more ways than one!” He gripped her hair and planted a slobbering kiss on her mouth.
Edward’s blood turned to fire. With a feral growl he grabbed the sailor’s shoulders and dragged him backward, shoving him against one of the wooden dock pilings. “Leave, Miss Winthrope,” he commanded though his gaze never left the seaman. “As I said—if it’s a fight you want, I’ll gladly oblige.”
Roaring a foul curse the sailor rammed into the earl. The knife flashed out, catching the sun as it slashed down. Edward twisted, feeling the rush of air as the blade sliced by his chest. The bastard was trying for his heart.
The big man stepped back and studied the earl, as if expecting to see a cringing fop scared out of his wits.
Edward stared back at him with all the lust and power tha
t had been born into him. For years Edward had stifled his passions, fearing the return of the madness and grief that had almost destroyed him when Isabel deserted him. Now his rage coursed through him like fire—his blood sang with it. He saw the uncertainty in the sailor’s eyes, the glint of fear. And he lunged on that fear like a wolf on its prey.
The knife came down again, this time rending his left sleeve. The near brush fueled Edward’s bloodlust. With a battle yell, he drew back his arm and hit the sailor’s jaw with a force that sent the big man staggering backward. The brute grabbed the piling, and his knife clattered to the wooden boards. The glint of fear in his eyes turned to cowardly panic.
“Look, mate, er, your lordship,” he stammered. “I made a mistake—no sense two mates fightin’ over a bit o’ muslin.”
“She’s a lady!” Edward thundered. “You’re a coward and a bully and someone ought to teach you a lesson. But I won’t,” he said, drawing in a deep breath. “I won’t…the hell I won’t.”
