by Jane Jackson
Devlin shook his head to clear it of a thought that was as dangerous as it was tempting.
Trampled to a muddy mess by countless hoofs, the track was edged with deep water-filled ruts made by the carts that carried fish, tin or copper ore, animal fodder, and farmers going to and from the markets. A little further on Devlin saw two tall granite posts that marked the entrance to the Casvellan estate. The drive was lined with trees, now bare and stark against the lowering sky.
At the top, Devlin rounded a corner and stopped. He had never seen the house and knew nothing about architecture. But he was instantly smitten. It was built of pale stone in the form of a square block with two smaller wings, an imposing entrance of squared columns, and ornate moulding was flanked on each side by tall windows.
Ignoring the fork that led round to the tradesmen’s entrance, Devlin crunched across the gravel to a front door painted dark green. It looked solid enough to withstand a siege.
Reminding himself he was the equal of any man, and that he was dispensing a favour not asking for one, Devlin rang the bell.
The door opened. An elderly man dressed in black looked him up and down then opened his mouth.
Devlin didn’t give him the chance to utter the words his expression had already signalled. ‘I want to see the justice. I have a packet for him.’
‘You may give it to me.’
Ignoring the extended hand, Devlin shook his head. ‘I must put it into his hands.’
‘I don’t think –’
Stretched thin by the man’s supercilious expression, Devlin’s patience snapped. ‘It’s not your job to think. Go and find Mr Casvellan and tell him Devlin Varcoe –’
‘Good afternoon, Mr Varcoe. Thank you, Bassett, that will be all.’
As the servant bowed and retreated, Devlin found himself face to face with a man of roughly his own age, height, and build. But similarity ended there. Branoc Casvellan’s frock coat and buckskin breeches were expertly tailored, his top boots gleamed, and a discreet gold pin nestled in the folds of his snowy linen. Recalling his brother’s attempts at elegance Devlin bit back a smile.
‘Please come though, Mr Varcoe.’ Casvellan opened a door. ‘We will be private in here.’
Elegantly furnished, the room had blossom pink walls that gave an impression of warmth despite the unlit fire and north-facing windows. ‘You wish to speak to me?’
‘I have something for you.’ Taking the oiled silk packet from inside his jacket Devlin passed it across.
Though Casvellan’s expression didn’t alter, a fractional widening of the eyes betrayed him.
‘You know what it is.’ Devlin said, the words a statement not a question as his mind raced. What was going on? How was his uncle involved? If Thomas knew nothing – and Hedley’s demand for absolute secrecy indicated he didn’t – then it wasn’t related to the business.
‘Where and when was this given to you? Don’t be concerned, Mr Varcoe. I know you didn’t steal it.’
‘Yesterday, in Roscoff.’
‘By whom?’
Devlin hesitated, then realised the pointlessness of it. ‘My uncle.’
Casvellan nodded. ‘We both know the reason for your trip to Roscoff.’
Devlin nodded. ‘I was selling pilchards.’
Surprise softened Casvellan’s austere features, and his gaze held a glimmer of amusement. ‘Pilchards?’
Devlin shrugged. ‘The French are starving yet the markets are closed to Cornish fish because of the war. I was simply –’
‘Acting in the interests of humanity. How very good of you.’
Devlin made a brief ironic bow. ‘The packet is safe in your hands. How it got there doesn’t matter.’
‘As you say. I’m grateful to you, Mr Varcoe. Will you excuse me? I must deal with this immediately.’
As he walked away from the house, Devlin reviewed his impression of the justice. Despite knowing he was a smuggler, Casvellan had treated him courteously and without arrogance. The justice’s views on free trade were no secret. With grinding poverty the only alternative and widespread corruption in the customs service, running contraband seemed almost reasonable. But he had sworn to uphold the law, and in his court any man convicted of smuggling was sentenced accordingly.
Devlin had not expected the justice to offer him refreshment, and appreciated Casvellan’s tact in not sending him to the servants’ entrance to ask for a drink. Perhaps, he mused, had their circumstances been different they might even have become friends … Mocking himself for a fool he turned his face to the cold wind.
He had no need of friends. An outsider since birth he had learned that separateness suited him. He was his own man, owing nothing to anyone. He was closer to the Sweets than he had ever been to his father and brother. But Jared, Inez, and Arf were not his family. He had no family except in name. It was better that way.
A mile from the village ahead of him on the track he saw a limping horse being led by a slender figure. The poppy-red coat and black curls streaming from beneath a beaver hat told him it was Tamara Gillis. He didn’t know whether to be glad or sorry. It didn’t take him long to catch up with her.
‘What happened to you?’
She whirled round. ‘Devlin!’ Her beaming smile was cut short by a wince as she lifted a gloved hand to her grazed cheek. ‘What are you doing here? Were you looking for me?’
He shot her a dry look. ‘No.’
‘So where have you been?’
‘None of your business. What happened?’
‘Silly animal put her foot in a rabbit hole and I went over her head.’
‘You were lucky she didn’t break a leg.’
‘Thanks for your concern,’ she pouted at him. ‘What about my legs?’
She knew exactly what she was doing for instantly his head conjured images his body itched to explore. He crushed them. ‘You’re not limping.’ He would not tell her she was foolish to ride on the moor alone. If her parents could not curb her wanderlust it was certainly nothing to him where she went or what she did.
‘No,’ she sighed. ‘But tomorrow I’ll be black and blue. Still, Roz says that arnica is good for bruises.’
Reluctantly impressed by her refusal to bid for sympathy by simpering or dissolving into tears, he experienced the familiar powerful tug of attraction. And reminded himself once again: you don’t shit where you eat. When a man married he wanted a woman who was sensible and obedient. Someone he could trust to run his house and raise his children. Someone like Inez. Or Jenefer Trevanion, who had shown such devotion to her sister. Tamara Gillis had a fire in her blood. But she was as untameable as the wind. No man with a grain of sense would marry such a girl.
Chapter Five
The knocker thudded heavily against the door. Jenefer glanced up from the list of provisions they needed. She knew Maggie was busy in the kitchen but surely Treeve had heard? The tattoo was repeated indicating otherwise. So where was he? Rarely where he was needed. Sighing Jenefer hurried out into the hall. As she opened the front door her breath caught in her throat.
‘Oh, it’s you.’ The words spilled out before she could stop them. He had been so much in her thoughts though she had tried hard to dislodge him. Now here he was in person: formidable, unnerving.
‘And a good morning to you too, Miss Trevanion.’ Lifting one dark brow Devlin made a mocking bow.
Angry with herself Jenefer tried not to think about her burning face, the hot colour that signalled his effect on her as clearly as if she were waving a flag. ‘I beg your pardon. I thought – I wasn’t expecting –’ She bit her lip then took a deep breath. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Varcoe?’
He smiled. ‘Now there’s an offer.’
Shock punched. She struggled to frame a suitably cutting response but as she opened her mouth he lifted the big basket. Guessing what it held she felt her stomach tighten.
‘Oh no.’ She said before he could speak. ‘Please take it away.’ As surprise lifted his brows she glanced quickly o
ver her shoulder. Fortunately the hall was empty and all the doors closed. It was mortifying but she would have to explain. Though the way gossip raced around the village he probably knew already. ‘My father’s health is causing great concern.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Dr Avers has advised most strongly that he must not have spirits.’
‘Then it’s a good job I didn’t bring any.’ He thrust the basket into her hands, forcing her to take it.
She was surprised at its weight. ‘But – oh. Then what …?’
‘A cod and two fresh crabs.’ He paused. ‘Plus a few yards of lace, some silk, and a bag of wheat flour.’
Her gaze flew from the basket to his face and back. Some she had asked for, the rest she had not. With so much on her mind she had completely forgotten. Now he would expect payment and she had no money. She kept her gaze lowered and felt pinpricks of perspiration at her temples and along her upper lip. ‘Thank you, Mr Varcoe. How much do I owe you?’
‘Nothing.’
That brought her head up. ‘I don’t underst –’
‘They are a gift, Miss Trevanion.’
Knowledge of what was proper fought relief and the desire to accept gratefully. Propriety won. As it must. ‘That is most kind, but I couldn’t possibly –’
‘For your sister,’ Devlin’s tone warned against argument.
‘Oh.’ He had made it impossible for her to refuse. Horribly self-conscious because she had assumed – hoped – the gift was for her, what foolishness, Jenefer’s grip on the twisted willow handle tightened and she forced a smile. ‘How very generous. I know Betsy will appreciate the thought, and your kindness. As I do.’ Nerves had dried her mouth. She moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, saw his gaze flick to her mouth, and cleared her throat as heat surged beneath her skin. ‘Mr Varcoe, about your brother …’
A shadow darkened Devlin Varcoe’s gaze. ‘What about him?’
‘Is he in good health?’
‘As far as I know.’
‘It’s just … we expected him to call last week, after his return from Truro. But we haven’t seen him and Father is growing very agitated. As I said, he isn’t well and anxiety makes him … difficult. When next you see your brother would you ask him to visit as soon as may be convenient?’
As Devlin’s features hardened Jenefer wondered if she should not have mentioned it.
‘I will indeed.’
Had she offended him by asking him to carry a message? She knew, as everyone did, that the Varcoe brothers weren’t close. But she could not call on Thomas herself. And the matter was urgent. She swallowed. ‘I’m afraid there’s something else.’
‘Yes?’ Still polite he was no longer smiling.
‘Lieutenant Crocker has been spending a great deal of time in this area recently, far more so than usual. Betsy has observed him almost every day on the cliffs between here and the far side of the village.’ Jenefer’s grip on the handle whitened her knuckles. Aware of the basket’s contents she had no wish to offend him and chose her words with care. ‘Mr Varcoe, if there is any contraband hidden on our property I would appreciate it being removed as soon as possible.’
Her heart thumped uncomfortably against her ribs. She could feel the fire in her cheeks despite the fact that she no reason to blush for what she was asking. It wasn’t the request. It was his nearness, and the ice in his eyes. ‘If the lieutenant or his dragoons were to find – my father would be held responsible.’
‘Whatever Crocker finds – should he find anything – was not put there by me or my men,’ Devlin was curt. ‘You have my word on that.’
He was a smuggler. He lived outside the law. He had just given her French lace and silk for Betsy. Yet she believed him. Was she mad? Hysterical laughter bubbled in Jenefer’s throat but she forced it down. He was watching her, his brows forming a black bar across his forehead.
‘Are you all right?’
No, she wasn’t, and wondered if she ever would be again. She could not answer for she would not lie. Making an effort she forced a smile. ‘Good day, Mr Varcoe.’ She lifted the basket. ‘Thank you again. You won’t forget to tell your brother?’
‘You can be sure of it, Miss Trevanion.’ His tone sent a shiver down her spine.
Sprawled in his father’s armchair beside the blazing fire, Thomas drained his glass and levered himself upright to reach for the decanter. His hand trembled and fine cognac splashed onto the polished surface of the small table. Bloody Devlin, telling him what to do. It was none of his damn business. Who did he think he was? The scene played over and over in his head. He tried to convince himself he had handled it well. But all he kept seeing was Devlin’s face, bleak as granite, ordering him to Trevanion’s house.
The door opened and his housekeeper appeared.
‘What?’ he snarled. ‘Go away.’
She ignored him. ‘Someone to see you. Says it’s important.’
‘I’m not in the mood.’ When she still didn’t move Thomas blinked at her. ‘Well? Who is it?’
‘Willie Grose.’ She sniffed, letting him know her opinion of the company he kept.
‘That’s enough from you.’ He glared at her. ‘This is my house now and I’ll entertain whoever I like. Anyway it’s business. Go on.’ He waved her away. ‘Do what you’re paid for and fetch him in.’
‘Paid is it?’ She sniffed again. ‘When am I going to see some money then?’
‘I haven’t got time for you now. I’m busy.’
‘Is that what you call it?’ she muttered under her breath as she waddled out.
A few moments later Willie sidled round the door and flinched when it slammed behind him.
‘What’s up wi’ she?’ When Thomas didn’t answer, Willie stood where he was and rubbed his hands uncertain what to do next. ‘Gone cold again,’ he remarked.
‘Have they found him?’ Thomas asked suddenly.
Willie’s shoulders drooped and he shook his head. ‘Nah. Could be days, could be weeks. Depends on the currents.’
Thomas grunted. ‘So what do you want?’
Willie brightened. ‘A drop o’ the old cousin jack would go down a treat. Bleddy freezing out there ’tis.’
‘No, you fool. What are you doing here? Why have you come?’
‘Thought you’d want to hear the news, didn’t I?’
‘What news?’
‘About Harry Carlyon.’
Thomas swivelled round to stare at him. ‘What about him?’
Willie gestured at the decanter. ‘Go on, jest a drop. ’Tis bitter out.’
‘There’s a glass in the cabinet. Mind you don’t drop it. What about Harry?’
Pouring a generous measure Willie took a gulp. ‘Oh yes,’ he smacked his lips. ‘Bit of all right, that is. He been wrecked.’
Thomas jerked upright, spilling brandy onto his breeches and filling the air with sharp fumes. ‘Wrecked? I don’t believe it. Not Harry Carlyon. You’ve got it wrong.’ He refused to believe it. Sobered by shock he could feel the liquor churning uneasily in his stomach.
Willie nodded emphatically. ‘’Tis true as I’m stood ’ere. Riding Officer was waiting for ’n, dragoons and all, up off Coverack. Word is that Harry guessed something wasn’t right. Either there wasn’t no signal, or someone gived ’n the wrong one. But he couldn’t stand out to sea again.’
‘Why not, for God’s sake?’
‘Another storm blowing up wasn’t there? So he tried to sail in under the cliffs where they couldn’t see ’n. Might have been all right if he’d still had his old lugger. But that new cutter of his got a deep keel. I reck’n in the panic he forgot what he was sailing. Struck the rocks and ripped the bottom out of her. Went down with all hands she did, and most of the cargo. Some of it was saved. But Customs got it locked away.’
Thomas was afraid he might vomit. Such detail meant there could be no doubt, and no hope of mistaken identity.
‘Here,’ Willie’s face puckered. ‘All right, are you? Gone white as a sheet you ‘ave.’
Thomas barely heard him. Far from making his fortune he’d just lost every penny of his investment. The cargo Devlin had brought back last week was still underwater. God alone knew when it would be raised. Even when it was distributed it would not make anything like the sum he needed to pay Hedley. Colonel Trevanion was expecting his money and if he didn’t get it he would demand the emerald’s return. Thomas had neither cash nor jewel. What was he to do? Terror engulfed him. Think.
Trembling violently he tossed back the cognac, shuddered, and dragged the back of his hand across his mouth. He poured more, the lip of the decanter rattling against the glass as he fought the dread that turned his guts liquid. He needed time and he needed money. But first he needed to know for certain if Trevanion had been telling the truth. Was the emerald really the last of the gemstones? Or had that just been an excuse? What if the colonel was simply backing out of their arrangement like the other two venturers had? Even worse, what if he’d decided to invest with the Carters or the Rinsey boys instead?
Thomas cleared his throat. It took huge effort to hold his voice steady.
‘Make yourself useful and find me two men. But I don’t want anyone local.’
‘No need to bring in outsiders. If you want a bit o’ help I don’t mind doing whatever ’tis.’
Thomas shook his head. ‘No. You’re known in the village. Besides, it could be dangerous. If only Charlie –’ He shook his head.
‘Always up for a dare, Charlie was,’ Willie murmured, then lifted his head. His face was haggard with grief. ‘And where’s he to now?’ he demanded. ‘Feeding the bleddy crabs.’ He drained his glass. ‘Say I find someone. What’s in it for me?’
‘Same as for them, brandy and tobacco. Keep it or trade it, your choice.’
‘Fair enough.’ Willie nodded. ‘Trouble, is it? I’ll get ’e a couple o’ tinners then. Good in a fight they are. What do ’e want ’em for?’
‘Don’t ask. If you don’t know you can’t tell.’ Thomas swallowed the remainder of his brandy, welcoming the burst of heat along his veins. Panic was replaced by growing excitement. He’d show them. He’d show all of them. He had a plan. By this time next week all his problems could be over and done with, out of his life for good. And that included his hated brother.
