“The guards hereabouts are fools, Biggins; they’re protecting the man. Can’t you see that? Kevernwood built those hospitals with money he robbed from the ton on the highway at gunpoint!”
“There’s bad blood between you,” the Runner observed, shaking his head. “Word’s out in Town that he stole your intended, that he bested you in a duel, and that you didn’t exactly take being bested in a gentlemanly way, if you take my meaning. Now, if I’d known about that I’d have hauled him in—and you along with him. Dueling is against the law. But accusing him of highway robbery . . . you’ll never make it stick. Have you got any proof of what you’re accusing? Because, if you don’t you’re going to be the ton’s latest laughingstock.”
“I have no tangible proof,” Rupert said. “That’s where you come in. I will soon have enough, with your help. I’m going to set a little trap for Kevernwood. We’re going to catch him red-handed.”
“You’re going to have to,” Biggins blurted. “He’s got to have the goods on him when he’s caught for me to make an arrest. He can go about all masked and gotten-up in highwayman gear, even hold up a coach at gunpoint, like he did to you—to settle a score, I have no doubt—if he’s of a mind, but if he doesn’t actually steal anything, we can’t touch him.”
“You just leave that to me.”
“Mmm. I think you’re a bedlamite is what I think, but since I’ve come all this way, let’s hear this crack-brained plan of yours.”
“Saturday next, Kevernwood is holding a come-out ball at his estate in Newquay for that little chippie he’s been seen with all over town. Half the ton is scheduled to attend—”
“And you expect him to stage a robbery in the midst of that—right under the noses of the ton?” Biggins interrupted. “Hah! Why would he trouble himself to take to the highway when he’s got half the wealth in England right in his own ballroom?”
“No, you nodcock! I’m planning to offer him another shot at me.”
“Now, why would he take it, sir? You’ve just said he already accosted you once. What else has he got against you?”
“There are to be a number of young blades at that ball,” Rupert said through his teeth, ignoring the question. “At least one of them is expected to make an offer for the little ladybird he’s been diddling. Damaged goods, I daresay, but fine-looking damaged goods. At least one of those bucks is going to make an offer, I’ll be bound, but not of marriage when I get through. I can guarantee it. I’ve seen to it that a certain young rake, whose reputation excludes him from such events, has received an invitation. ’Twas easy enough to forge. He’d do the job nicely with the little chippie. Oh, don’t look so shocked. She might even enjoy it. That aside, I’ve passed the word that Simon Rutherford means to foist off his leavings upon society now that he’s married. My plant might not be the only young buck standing in line.”
“You mean to set him up? Oh, now—”
“Let me put it this way,” Rupert cut in. “I’ve seen to it that he’ll know I was the one who spread the rumor. He’ll hear it from someone close to him—someone he trusts. And when his bride—the bride he stole from me—gets wind of her husband’s lurid adventures with the little chit, I might just have her back. The Marsh Hawk killed her father, you know. Oh, yes! Once she finds out that she’s married the thatchgallows, I’ll have her back, you can bet your mother’s last quid upon it. How grateful she will be when she learns that it was I who brought her father’s murderer to justice!”
“I get the drift all well and good, but how is this going to prove Kevernwood is the Marsh Hawk? And you say he killed Baronet Hollingsworth? The Marsh Hawk has never harmed anyone, to my knowledge. Besides, I’ve never heard tell of him targeting military personnel, and old Hollingsworth served in the Colonies. You’re going to need tangible proof to back up your accusations in that cause.”
“I’m not going after him in that cause; only in mine. I’m putting it out that I’ll be heading for Darby’s gambling hell in St. Enoder, with a foreign houseguest—a high-in-the-instep, avid gamester, notorious for carrying more blunt than is prudent to squander in such places. St. Enoder is close enough to Kevernwood Hall for the Marsh Hawk to easily slip out and make an appearance with no one at his blasted ball the wiser. It would be too tempting to let pass by. What better alibi than a houseful of the ton’s elite? I’ve heard even Lady Jersey herself will be there. He’ll show all right. We will be waiting for him, and I’ll yet see Kevernwood dance the Tyburn jig.”
“We? What we?”
“Do you speak French?”
“After a fashion. Not fluently by any stretch. Why?”
“It will have to do. Hopefully, you won’t have to do much talking. You shall be the Comte D’Arbonville, my very affluent houseguest, and I’ll supply all the ‘evidence’ you need to tempt the Marsh Hawk. I’ll get it all back, after all, once you collar the bounder.”
“You’ll never pass me off as a foreigner. I haven’t a talent for playacting. You should be soliciting down ’round Drury Lane for a professional. Besides, I’m not plump enough in the pockets to make a show worth robbing.”
“Drury Lane? There isn’t time for that, you want-wit!”
“I don’t know,” the Runner hedged, rubbing his chin.
Rupert fidgeted during the moment it took for the information to impact the man, wondering if all Bow Street Runners were as dense. It was the perfect plan; why couldn’t the gudgeon see it?
“Come, come, man, I haven’t all night. Do you want to catch the Marsh Hawk or not? I can easily find another.”
“I want to catch the Marsh Hawk, yes. Not lose my position for falsely accusing the earl of Kevernwood. I’ve got my reputation to consider, and I think you’re daft!”
“You’ll see how daft I am come Saturday, Biggins.”
“That’s another thing,” said the Runner. “You haven’t much time to put all this in place—three days, counting Saturday.”
“Leave the fine points to me. You’ll come to the Manor and stay on as if you were the comte. My parents needn’t get wind of this. Then, Saturday at dusk, we’ll ride the road to St. Enoder all night long if needs must until he holds up that coach. We’ll have to get you up in something less provincial, for God’s sake. That rig screams Bow Street. You need to look the part.” He raised his tankard. “Well then, it’s settled. To our mutual gains.”
“Aye, sir, our . . . mutual gains,” said the Runner, making a halfhearted salute. “But I still think you’re bloody daft.”
By Friday morning, Jenna was exhausted, but the house was nearly in readiness. The marble floors had been cleaned and polished to a mirror-bright shine, and neither a cobweb nor a speck of dust could be found. The faded, threadbare furniture had been replaced with fresher pieces from the closed-off upper regions. While they were for the most part painfully outdated, they made a far better appearance than the relics they replaced. At least they couldn’t be held up to ridicule, and it wouldn’t appear that the Rutherfords were putting on tick. All that remained was to prepare the food and deck the Grand Ball-room out in floral array, which would commence after the dinner hour.
But for the servants, Jenna found herself alone in the house, and she decided upon a walk in the garden before nuncheon. Her mother had taken Molly and set out for Bodmin right after breakfast in search of “last minute must-haves,” as she called the decorative finishing touches. Simon had gone to the vicarage, where he’d spent most of the week, and Evelyn was closeted with Olive Reynolds, who was working feverishly on the final alterations of her ball gown.
Evelyn had kept her distance since their confrontation, and Jenna was glad of it. It was Simon, however, whose absence was painful; nothing had eased the ache in her heart, or the longing—the terrible longing—for his arms, for his kiss, for his love. She scarcely saw him except at meals. Then their eyes would meet, blue fire jousting with gray. She couldn’t read their message. The line between the passions they exuded was too tenuous. No matter the message, he
was unapproachable, and she tried to pretend that it didn’t matter. Soon she would keep her bargain; after the ball, she would be free. But would she ever be free again of the invisible cord that joined their hearts? Was she the only one who felt its tug? The worst of it was that there was nothing she could do. She had lost him.
Having walked for some time through the lush Kevernwood gardens, she had become oblivious of time. The overwhelming scents surrounding her. Moss rose, tuberose, honeysuckle, and gillyflower dominated that sector. The clovelike top notes threaded through her nostrils, riding the wind that never ceased to blow along the coast. Like May wine, it made her giddy and light-headed. But that wasn’t to last. Before she reached the foxglove and delphinium vignette, the Hollingsworth carriage came tooling into the drive. The dowager stepped down almost before the footman could set the steps, causing the brougham to tilt, and hurried toward Jenna over the lane while Molly and the footman struggled with their purchases.
“Good God, Mother, what’s wrong?” Jenna breathed, steadying her. “What’s put you in such a taking? You’re as white as chalk!”
“No!” the dowager shrilled, digging her heels in as Jenna attempted to steer her toward the house. “I daren’t speak it in that house! Just let me . . . catch my breath . . . !”
“What is it? What’s happened?” Jenna demanded, shrinking from her mother’s keening whine.
“I met Lady Warrenford at the linen draper’s in Bodmin, and she shared a most disturbing on-dit,” the dowager said. “Rupert’s put it out that . . . ohhhh, I can’t! I can’t speak it! It’s too dreadful!”
“Can’t speak what, Mother?”
“Rupert’s spread a tale about Simon and Evelyn . . . that they . . . you know!”
“That’s absurd, Mother.”
“I know, but, dear, he’s slandered Simon all over the coast—even in Town! Do you hear? All London is buzzing with it. Our guests! What are we ever to do?”
“There’s nothing to it, Mother. Rupert is jealous. No one will take him seriously. Pay no attention.”
“Rupert is entertaining a French nobleman at Moorhaven Manor—the Comte D’Arbonville. I’ve never heard of the man, but Rupert is making a show of him at all the local clubs. Rumor has it that he and the comte are going to the gambling dens in St. Enoder tomorrow night. If he ever spreads that tale among the pinks-of-the-ton who frequent those places, Simon will be ruined! Simon should call him out over this, Jenna—if it’s untrue, that is.”
“What do you mean, ‘if it’s untrue,’ Mother?” Jenna snapped. Three words would silence her, but they were words she dared not utter. She couldn’t divulge that Simon was Evelyn’s uncle. That was one confidence she would not break.
“Well, dear, men will be men, you know, and Simon is a man of the world, as it were. The gel is ravishing, after all, and I’ve noticed myself that they are rather . . . close for mere obligatory family friends.”
“Evelyn and Crispin are practically extended family, Mother,” Jenna said steadily; it was as far as she dared go. “Nothing more, I promise you. You are not to speak of this to Simon. Is that clear?”
“He needs to know, Jenna! He needs to be told before he learns of it from someone outside the family, dear. He has a right to know what’s being bruited about behind his back.”
“No!” Jenna shrilled a little too loudly, remembering her mother’s colorful account of the Marsh Hawk’s assault upon Rupert. If Simon heard, he would surely do worse. “You will say nothing,” she charged. “You will leave it to me. Tomorrow is Evelyn’s ball. Would you have it spoiled by a duel, or worse? Would you bring bloodshed upon us after all of our hard work?”
“And when he finds out that we knew and didn’t tell him—then what?”
“Better his anger toward us than Rupert dead at his hands, and him dying on the gallows for it.”
“Aren’t you being just a little melodramatic, dear?”
“Mother, I must ask you to trust me. Stay out of this and keep your place.”
“My place?” the dowager cried, bristling.
“Yes, your place,” Jenna said, wondering what her mother would say if she knew that her place would be at Thistle Hollow once the ball was over.
“Have you gone addle witted?” her mother shrieked. “Your husband has been accused of fornication and adultery with a mere child! How you can be so calm escapes me.”
“I am calm, Mother, because I know there is nothing to this; so should you be. I’m going inside. Don’t you dare think to follow suit until you can do so without calamity written all over your face. You thrive upon chaos, Mother. I will not have you spoil the ball. I will not have you wreak havoc in that house with vicious slander! You will say nothing to Simon—nothing, Mother. I turned you out of this house not so long ago for less.”
“Well!” the dowager exploded, indignant.
“You have been welcomed back by my husband’s good graces—not mine,” Jenna said, with a raised voice over her mother’s bluster. “Behave, or face the consequences. I’ve reached the end of my tether here, I warn you.”
Jenna went straight up to the master bedchamber. She was in no mood for nuncheon; she needed time to think. This new information had thrown her. All Cornwall knew that Evelyn’s come-out ball was being held at Kevernwood Hall. According to her mother, all Cornwall now knew that Rupert and his wealthy friends would be gambling nearby at St. Enoder at the same time. It stood to reason that highwaymen would know as well. Enticed by such an amplitude of fortune, how could the thatchgallows resist? And her score still needed to be settled.
She knew the road to St. Enoder well. It wended its way from Newquay through St. Enoder proper where a juncture with the highway, heading north, led straight to Launceston. Barstow had taken it the night she tried to return home—the night the highwayman who’d killed her father held up her carriage. Her mind’s eye conjured the very spot where the brigand must have lain in wait that night. There weren’t many patches along that stretch that offered concealment.
She still had the key to the tower in her possession. What if she were to use that key and borrow Simon’s costume and pistols? Simon would be occupied with the guests; he would have no need of the tower that night. Especially if no one told him of Rupert’s spiteful comments. She could have one of the horses brought ’round early in the evening on the pretext that one of the guests had need of it, and hide the animal in the orchard. Then, later, she could excuse herself by feigning a headache. No one would miss her.
Her mind racing with the possibilities, with a workable plan half-formed, she went down to nuncheon almost cheerfully.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Much to everyone’s relief, the unpredictable Cornish weather held for the ball. It promised to be such a glorious evening that the terrace doors in the Grand Ballroom were thrown open to the salt-kissed evening breeze, which was laced with the mingled scents of night-blooming orchids and roses from the arbor beyond. Decked in flowers and candles, the lit chandeliers casting dazzling rainbows of light over the marble floor, Kevernwood Hall had come to life in a way that no one expected.
Carriages began arriving before dusk. As Jenna had imagined, it was no great feat to borrow Treacle just after dark and conceal him in the orchard. Then, dressed in her most fetching gown of patterned silk, the color of peaches and cream, she joined the ball, making the rounds with Simon.
They greeted the Warrenfords, the Eccclestons, Lord and Lady Chester-White, and the Markhams, who joined with Simon’s military guests and the aristocratic throngs come from London to welcome Lady Evelyn St. John into society. Only one thing dampened the occasion: the absence of Crispin, whose military duties prevented him from attending, but not from sending a huge bouquet of white old English roses for his sister’s debut.
To Jenna’s surprise, just when she thought to part from Simon with the imminent approach of several naval officers, he swept her into his arms and waltzed her out on the crowded ballroom floor. Her heart skipped. His warm
hand pressed against the small of her back, drenching her skin in fire beneath the clinging peach silk, just as she had fantasized it would at the masked ball. But all that seemed as though it had happened to someone else; so much had happened since. She felt a tug deep inside, stirring her very essence to life in an involuntary reflex of spasms that coursed through her body and threatened her balance. Could it happen like this, on the dance floor, with no contact save the most casual of public intimacies? She disguised her quick intake of breath under the umbrella of a cough.
Her mother had once observed that dancing was nothing more than an excuse to make love in public to music. That dour comment had come about at a ball when no one had asked the dowager to dance. Oh, but if she only knew how true those words were.
“Thank you,” Simon murmured, his voice throaty yet revealing nothing.
“For w-what?” Jenna stammered, hoping he wouldn’t notice the blush on her cheeks, or the heat of her body through the cool rustling silk.
“For this,” he replied, nodding toward the gathering. “You’ve done a capital job. I appreciate it.”
“For Evy,” she said tersely.
“Yes, for Evy,” he parroted.
“I can hardly take all the credit, my lord,” she said, matching his cool tone. “Mother and Evelyn herself did a great deal with the servants’ help. I had very little to do with it.”
“Yes,” said Simon, his eyebrow inching up a notch. “But this pains you. Your heart isn’t in it, and even so, you’ve kept the bargain.”
“I always keep my word, my lord.”
He smiled. Albeit cold, she wanted to melt. Every cord in her body was strung to its limit, wanted to snap, ached to give way and let her throw her arms around his neck and beg his forgiveness—beg him to take her up those stairs to that magnificent mahogany four-poster and make love to her again, and forever. That, however, her pride would not allow, though his closeness drove her mad. He smelled of tobacco and wine and raw maleness. Her head reeled with his scent, and she longed for the taste of him. It was torture being in his arms now that it was over, and she bitterly wished she’d never set eyes on the enigmatic Earl of Kevernwood, wished he’d never awakened her to unimaginable pleasures no other would ever be able to ignite.
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