by Kate Pearce
Although she was still going to hightail it in another direction if she encountered Lucien de Roye.
Her luck held, however, and she didn’t meet him. In fact, there were few guests around at all. She ran into a kind fellow as he left the billiards room, but nothing Mr. Lancaster said triggered a reaction. She found a young boy in the library. Toby Priske said he was looking for a lost poodle, but he also seemed to be strangely contemplating . . . pouring ink into a gentleman’s tea?
Tamsyn shook her head and pulled her shawl close. One thing she was learning from this experience—the male mind was a strange thing, indeed.
Unfortunately, her own mind kept drifting, focusing on a certain gentleman’s—as well as the stretch of his broad shoulders, the feel of his arms, and the heat of his kiss. Hoping to distract herself, she tried a different tactic, and began to search out the servants.
She didn’t get much practice seeing untruths with her questions, but she did begin to get a picture of what it was like to live here, in this castle and in this community. And it didn’t sound nearly as bad as Marjorie had predicted. She asked each person she ran into about his or her favorite local spot and almost wished they’d fibbed in their answers, so she could see the beauty that they described.
But the servants mostly seemed happy to answer her questions and ask a few of their own, so she continued on, until she heard giggling coming from the portrait gallery.
Two of her sisters were there, poking fun at the ancestral portraits.
“Mother tired of our chatter and sent us to learn something about our ancestors,” reported Gwyn.
“And what have you learned?” Tamsyn asked with a grin.
“That they seemed to have passed a questionable fashion sense from generation to generation,” said Rose.
Tamsyn laughed. “Their fashions were dictated according to the custom of their time, as are ours.” She waved toward a lady in wide panniers and stiff stomacher. “She’d likely think us wanton and fast for going about in muslin.”
“It’s the Elizabethans I always feel sorry for,” Gwyn said. “Those ruffs look horridly uncomfortable.”
“And those short pantaloons on the men,” Rose groaned, “all puffed up and beribboned. Look, here’s a whole collection of them.” She made a face at a mid-sized painting of a group.
“Isn’t that the kirkyard in Bocka Morrow?” Tamsyn stepped closer.
“Oh, yes, I believe it is. Gryff took us there, remember? On our last visit?”
“I remember.”
Gwyn nudged Rose. “One of the maids told Mama that you were outside talking to him on the terrace.”
“Yes. I bumped into him in the passage. Quite literally.”
“And what were you talking about?” Both sisters waited expectantly. “Hmmm?”
“Nothing!” she protested. “Oh, I beg your pardon, he did make it clear that he thinks I belong in London, not Cornwall.”
“Well, of course you belong in London,” Rose agreed.
“But that doesn’t mean you cannot also belong here,” Gwyn continued. “Honestly, why do men always try to fit everything within tidy little boxes?”
“It’s as if they are blind to nuances,” nodded Rose. They exchanged a look, and rolled their eyes.
Tamsyn stared at her sisters. “They are, aren’t they?” Just as her parents tried to fit her into Marjorie’s marriage minded mold. But the girls were right—and Gryff was wrong. She didn’t have to choose London or Cornwall, one life or the other. She was nuanced. She lifted her chin. “Thank you, girls.”
“Well, I’ve had enough education,” Rose waved a hand. “Now, I’m off to primp before tea. I caught a glimpse of the newest arrival last night, before Father closeted himself away with the man. Good heavens. Trust me, my dears, you’ll want to look your best when we all meet up again.”
“I’ll come.” Gwyn turned to Tamsyn. “You, too?”
Tamsyn was looking at the painting again. “I’ll be along soon.”
“Suit yourself.”
The girls left and she stepped closer to the painting they had been discussing. It looked like a gathering of village notables, with everyone in fine dress and drawn together around a temporary stage beyond the church. One of the gentlemen in the painting had caught her eye. An old man he was, bald, and with stick-thin legs clad in the tight fitting hose of the day. But it was the brooch holding his shoulder cape that had caught her attention. Even this smaller version showed the intricate design and the head of a bird in relief. It looked identical to the one in the carving downstairs.
Curious. Could it be the same brooch? It wasn’t a child wearing it, but then again, the child Grindan would have been long gone. This painting had been done hundreds of years after the time of the Domesday Book and that carving below. But if the story was a local legend, perhaps the brooch had become a family heirloom? The Cornishmen did seem to love a good story.
With a shrug, she set off. She was beginning to feel like she’d been embroiled in a story herself. Well, perhaps she had been. Just like a heroine in a story, she had layers, and no matter what Gryff said, she was going to do her best to make sure she had the happy ending she wanted.
Just as soon as she figured out what that might be.
Gryff threw down his quill. Three times he’d added this column. Three times he’d calculated a different sum. And he still hadn’t driven the taste of Tamsyn from his mind.
Lord, but she’d been sweet. And soft. And curved in all the places that made a man itch to feel more.
Sighing, he gave up his task and strode away from his study and through the house. Tearing the leather strip from his hair, he let it fly loose, his headache easing and his breath coming more evenly once he reached the cloistered court that was still his mother’s favorite retreat.
“Good afternoon, dear.” She beckoned him. “Are you finally ready to tell me what’s got you stamping about, grumpy as a hungry bear?”
“No,” he growled. He should have known she’d realized something was going on. The bad joints in her hip kept her largely confined to the house and this garden, but his mother still knew everything that occurred on the estate—and beyond.
“Oh, dear.” Her lip quivered. “You truly must have been an ass.”
He laughed out loud, and then sighed. “I fear so.”
And that was the crux of it, wasn’t it? The thought that had distracted him all day, in the same way that the memory of Tamsyn’s lips beneath his had tortured him all night. He had rushed to judge her. All jokes aside, he was a big enough man to admit when he’d been wrong—and he feared he’d been so last night.
He’d let his own shortcomings—and their old misunderstanding—alter his view of her. But he couldn’t judge her on what had proven wrong—or on his own failings. It was true that London did not appeal to him, but he didn’t know her well enough to judge what she would like, or where she would thrive.
“Mother,” he asked abruptly. “How did Aunt Morwen act when she discovered she had the Sight?”
“I don’t think I can answer that question. She’s always had it. She was born with it.”
He frowned. “How could you tell?”
“Oh, she always saw things we did not, and talked to creatures we couldn’t see. Even in her cradle, she laughed at things that weren’t there. It’s a part of her, and always has been. Why do you ask?” She turned her head sharply. “And why do you not ask her?”
He kept silent and sighed when his mother’s grin spread across her face.
“So. She would know why you were asking, would she?” She sat back. “Who is she?”
“Are you sure you don’t share in my aunt’s talents?” He rolled his eyes.
“Come now. Tell me all. You’ll feel better.”
He told her, and finished with a sigh. “So there it is and I don’t feel better, for I fear I judged her too quickly.”
“I should say so. Most girls would be a blubbering mess, confronted so suddenly with
such a circumstance. The fact that she’s not hiding in her room or tearing her hair up on the parapets speaks well of her.”
“That thought did occur to me—too late.” He groaned. “I’m sorry for it—but I’m afraid I’ve bollixed everything up.”
“It does seem so.” His mother shook her head. “Now, what will you do about it?”
“I’m going to go for a walk and figure that out,” Gryff said. He pressed a kiss on her forehead and strode quickly through the gardens. A dilemma like this required the peace and consolation of the forest. He let his feet guide him toward the newly reacquired pixie barrow. Perhaps they would take pity on him and send him a sign, letting him know what he should do.
He didn’t hurry, so he wasn’t yet at the turning that would lead to the barrow when he heard a strident barking. Not one of his great hounds, yapping like that. Curious, he left the path and pushed through the underbrush, moving toward the ceaseless racket. After a few minutes hacking, he emerged from a thicket at a curve in the stream. A high bank had formed and below the dark hole of an animal burrow stood a little black poodle, covered in mud and happily haranguing whatever creature might be hiding there.
“By Merlin’s beard, I hope whatever is in there is worth all of that caterwauling.”
The dog stopped immediately and came to stand at his feet, hind end wagging in ecstasy, like he’d been waiting for Gryff all along.
“Aye, then. I suppose you are the lap warmer of some lady guest at Keyvnor?”
The dog yipped once.
“Well, then, come on,” Gryff sighed. “I did ask for a sign, after all.”
“Tamsyn, there you are.” Her father approached as she entered the parlor, stopping her before she could go further. “I’m glad you are here. Marjorie is still in the village, drat the girl. I want you to meet a new arrival to the castle, a man here to consult with Hunt about a matter in the will.” He leaned in close. “There is no title, but quite a sizeable fortune, and he cuts a dash in Town—received by all, even the highest sticklers.” He nodded sagely. “This could be quite a useful connection for you girls, next Season.” Turning, he urged her on. “If not something more.”
Tamsyn gave a little laugh. “Fine, Father, I hear you.” The message could not be clearer—but neither could the image of Gryff fixed firmly in her head.
Following him to where her family had grouped before the fire, she craned her neck to see.
“Ah, here you are, Tamsyn dear.” Her mother turned, all smiles. Her movement opened a gap, so that Tamsyn could see at last the man who had them all in a tizzy.
She stilled, utterly unable to move.
“May I present to you my eldest daughter, Lady Tamsyn?” Her mother urged her forward.
She couldn’t make herself bend, curtsy, smile, speak a greeting—any or all of the things that she knew she must do. She could only stare.
Her father beamed, her sisters simpered. But Tamsyn was caught by the sight of the man before her—his form old and stooped. His clothes were rich, but the brightness of his linen could not hide the age spots or the stray hairs that bunched in places everywhere but his head. The smoothness of his superfine coat could not disguise his wrinkled skin or emaciated form.
Her mother elbowed her. “Tamsyn, meet Mr. Rowancourt.”
“Oh. I—uh, do excuse me,” she stammered. “How nice to meet you.”
Her brain was spinning and her heart pounded. Rowancourt? Wasn’t that the name Gryff had mentioned, in his story of the stranger who wanted the parcel of his father’s land? Where the pixies were supposed to dwell?
“And a pleasure to meet you, my lady.” The man sent her father a charged look. “Every daughter you present to me is more beautiful than the last.”
It was a pretty compliment to the girls, but Tamsyn sensed it was her father that the man was interested in. She looked wildly from him to her family, but they all seemed thrilled with the visitor. What did they see, when they looked at him?
“Truly, this one is special,” Rowancourt continued. “You must feel right at home here in the wilds. You have the touch of mist and magic on your brow.”
Her sisters tittered.
Tamsyn wondered just what he saw when he looked at her?
“Mr. Rowancourt was telling us the best places to keep our horses in London, Tamsyn. We told him what a grand rider you are.”
“I suspect beauty and talent run together in all of your family,” he said smoothly.
Tamsyn met the stranger’s gaze directly. His eyes were the only part of him that didn’t look on the verge of collapse. They were large and grey and she could almost swear she could see something swirling there, like a storm cloud. “Thank you, sir. You are kind. My father said that you have come for the reading of the will?”
“Did he?” The man drew back. “Yes. It’s just a small matter. I’m sure all will be put to rights.”
She blinked, not having to feign confusion, but determined to find out everything she could. “Do you mean that you have come on your own? You were not summoned by Mr. Hunt?”
“Now, now,” her father interrupted. “I’ve assured Rowancourt that Hunt is a fine man and an upstanding solicitor. He’ll see everything is done just as it should be.”
She watched the stranger closely. “Have you met Mr. Hunt yet, sir? Father is right, he seems irreproachable.”
“I haven’t met him, but I will soon enough.” The old man arched a brow at her. “And I think that you, my lady, have an idea that no one is truly as they present themselves to the world.” He gave a little bow. “Save for the present company, of course, which must be even more pleasing on deeper acquaintance.”
Her sisters laughed again, thinking he was being flirtatious, but Tamsyn knew he was fishing for clarity just as she was. “On the contrary, sir. If my time here in the last few days has taught me anything, it’s that people are often more than what they seem.” She tilted her head. “Oh, and you also must ask Father to introduce you to Mr. Drake, the castle steward. He’s been with the family for a long time and knows everything about the castle and the people here. Surely he might be helpful in your business.” She paused. “Or have you met him already, as you were getting settled in?”
“No, but I got in late in the evening.” The stranger smiled at her mother. “Enough of business matters, they are sure to bore young ladies. We were going to have tea.”
But it was too late. Tamsyn watched the truth form before him, an image of the old man standing over a confused looking Drake, while the steward handed over a file of papers. She looked closer even as the image began to fade. Rowancourt looked the same, but that was a younger Mr. Drake.
She fought to contain herself as they sat down to tea. She couldn’t eat a thing and let her sisters carry most of the conversation. Eventually a notion dawned on her. She leaned over to Gwyn and asked, “What color would you call Mr. Rowancourt’s hair?”
“Wheat?” Gwyn answered with a sigh. “Or Starlight on Wheat?”
“Hmmm,” was all the reply Tamsyn could manage.
“His hair is all well and good, but that chin? Those cheekbones? I vow, such bone structure is crying out to be immortalized in marble.” She giggled. “Forget the portraits, we should ask Father to begin a collection of sculpture—and to start with him.”
Tamsyn made another noncommittal sound. Surely they must all be seeing the well-favored man that her father’s vision had shown her this morning. She was the only one who could see the truth.
But what did all of this mean? She didn’t know. She only knew she had to tell Gryff.
And that thought made her heart pound for a completely different reason.
“Isn’t it exciting, Tam?” Rose asked. “Mr. Rowancourt travels with his own peregrine falcon. I saw it when he arrived last evening. I swear, it is the largest bird I’ve ever seen—and certainly the largest I’ve ever been close to.”
“Falconry is somewhat of a lost art,” their visitor said. “But I am happy to demo
nstrate when I travel, and have found some new recruits for the old sport.”
“He’s going to show us this afternoon,” Rose said with enthusiasm. “Have you finished, sir? Might we go out now before the rain starts again?”
“Rose!” her mother admonished. “Calm yourself. You will convince Mr. Rowancourt you don’t know how to behave.”
“No, indeed, ma’am. I am always happy to invite excitement about my beloved Piran. He is a very worthy bird.” He set down his tea cup and stood. “Come, I am more than willing to show him off.” His tone became sly. “And there is always such interesting quarry in this part of the country. We will do our best to entertain you all.”
Tamsyn stood along with everyone else, but she drew her mother aside. “I’m sorry, Mother, but I think I will go up to my room. I’m feeling tired and I’d rather not turn missish at the sport. And I’d rather miss the hawking than dinner.”
Her mother sighed. “If you must, but you are right, it would be best to come to dinner. I suppose you aren’t sleeping well, either?” She shook her head. “I vow, if I get my hands on whoever is pounding upon the harpsichord so late . . . “
“Yes, Mama.”
Her mother rolled her eyes. “Is it the thought of the hunt? When I was a girl I would never have let that stop me.” She heaved a sigh. “Oh, very well. If you see Marjorie, send her out. She’s not the sort to let a little blood keep her from pursuit of a gentleman.”
“Yes, Mama.”
She watched her mother trail after the rest, then ran back to her room. Who or what was that man? Rowancourt was the same name Gryff had used. Was he back here trying to get that patch of Lancarrow land once again?
She had to get word to Gryff. But how? She couldn’t charge over there, her parents would have twin fits. A message then? Perhaps Mr. Drake would help her. She took up her shawl again and set out. She was hurrying down the main stairwell, heading for the first floor when she heard barking outside. The main door opened—and in strode Gryff, a muddy poodle in his arms.
