‘‘No.’’ She sipped her brandy and avoided his gaze. ‘‘Situated as we are so close to the tip of the peninsula, we see a good deal of wreckage washed in by storms. And’’—she lowered her voice—‘‘bodies as well. It’s a fact of life here, I’m afraid. We do what we can. If we can identify them, we attempt to contact their kin. If not, we provide a burial. A pauper’s grave, but it’s the best we can do.’’
The brandy soured in his stomach. ‘‘You speak of storms,’’ he said. ‘‘Could something more sinister be at fault?’’
He glanced again at the man in the corner, who this time did not return his gaze but sat fingering the brim of the tweed cap that lay on the table before him.
‘‘You wouldn’t be the first to ask that question,’’ Kellyn said in an undertone that had him leaning across the table to make out the words. ‘‘But it is a question I cannot answer.’’
He studied her for a long moment and decided to follow his gut in trusting her. ‘‘Have you ever noticed changes in the harbor lights?’’
She shot two quick glances to the right and left. ‘‘Why do you ask?’’
However much affinity he might feel toward this woman, he thought better of mentioning Sophie’s name. ‘‘Something I thought I saw last night. The quay seemed dark, and I thought I detected the glow of torches not far from my property.’’
‘‘The Irishman.’’
‘‘Who?’’
‘‘Grady. A sailor from Kinsale, on the southern Irish coast. Some say he’s mad, given to skulking up and down the coast at night in his sailboat, venturing into areas other mariners avoid at all cost.’’
‘‘What’s he up to?’’
‘‘Claims the fish that come in to feed at night practically jump into his nets.’’
‘‘You sound skeptical.’’
‘‘I don’t know. Some think he’s searching for something. Others say they’ve heard him ranting about mermaids and mystical sea creatures.’’ She ran a forefinger along the rim of her cup. ‘‘You needn’t worry about him. He’s harmless. But it was likely his boat lanterns you saw. Unless, of course, it was after midnight. Grady’s always back in port well before midnight.’’
In truth, Chad didn’t know what time Sophie had seen those lights. The odd actions of an addled Irish mariner might well explain things . . . unless that mariner had been seeking something other than fish and mermaids.
Chad thanked Kellyn for her hospitality and got to his feet. He glanced at the corner table. The man and his tweed cap were gone.
Chapter 6
The tabby screeched and darted in a blur of orange fur out of Sophie’s hurried path as she circled the feed shed. She kept going, hoping to slip into her aunt’s house without encountering any of the family.
Would they ask her where she’d been all morning?
A golden hen flapped its wings and clucked angrily as she passed the henhouse door. Her attention dwelled elsewhere, on features chiseled to perfection, on a pair of cognac-colored eyes. Eyes that held inscrutable secrets in their depths and allowed her only brief glimpses of the man within.
He had seemed to believe her about Henry Winthrop, that Sir Henry and his wife could be capable of fraud, and that the man would sacrifice Sophie’s reputation to save himself. No one else had been willing to accept her side of what happened. Or if they had suspected the truth, as Sophie believed her mother did, they still blamed Sophie for involving herself in what was none of her business.
Even now, bitterness rose inside her at that thought. If widows and orphans were being cheated out of a better life, wasn’t it every decent human being’s business?
She had hoped, for the briefest instant, that she had discovered an ally in the Earl of Wycliffe, but in choosing not to help her he had proved as harsh and inhospitable as the landscape to which her family had banished her.
As she came around the vegetable garden, words hissing through the open kitchen windows stopped her short.
‘‘. . . shouldn’t have let her come.’’ Her uncle’s voice.
‘‘What else could I have done?’’ her aunt replied. ‘‘Obviously they’d packed her off before my sister’s letter even arrived.’’
‘‘Could’ve sent the shameless hussy straight back, rather than letting the old man’s coach pull away without her. Now she’s our problem.’’
‘‘Don’t be calling her names. And it isn’t as though they didn’t send quite a lot of money to help with her upkeep.’’
Sophie winced at a sudden thud, like a fist hitting a table. ‘‘I’m no tenant farmer in need of handouts. I own my land and I can damn well feed my family and a host of guests besides.’’
‘‘Oh, there’s no pleasing you,’’ Aunt Louisa scolded. ‘‘And anyway, sending the poor lamb back would have been too great an affront to my sister.’’
‘‘God’s teeth. We don’t answer to your family, Lou.’’
‘‘Well, and after all, it’s not my family we need worry about,’’ Aunt Louisa returned. ‘‘It’s those St. Clair relatives of hers.’’
‘‘High-flown busybodies.’’ Uncle Barnaby gave a snort. ‘‘And this one’s the worst of the lot.’’
‘‘No, she isn’t, Barn. You’d be foolish to think it. It’s to that grandfather of hers we must pay heed. He’s the one to fear. His newspaper and his fortune have made him a powerful man. But let it be. The girl shall be gone in a few weeks.’’
‘‘She can cut a fair scrap of trouble in that time.’’
Sophie’s indignation mounted like a boiling tide. How she wished to push her way into the kitchen, let them know she had heard every bit of their spitefulness, then pack her bags and leave without another word.
If only she had somewhere else to go.
‘‘Don’t worry,’’ Aunt Louisa soothed. ‘‘I’ll keep a sharper eye on her from now on. It’s unlikely that while she’s here you’ll be called upon again to—’’
‘‘What the devil do you think you’re doing?’’
With a gasp, Sophie whirled to discover her cousin Dominic looming a few steps away.
‘‘Oh!’’ She pressed a hand to her bosom. ‘‘You startled me. I’m merely returning from my walk.’’
‘‘You’re eavesdropping. Don’t deny it.’’
‘‘Very well,’’ she said with a shrug. ‘‘I won’t. But am I so terribly in the wrong when the conversation is clearly about me? Besides, I thought it more prudent to remain outside until the discussion reached its conclusion, rather than embarrass your parents by letting them know how much I’d heard.’’
‘‘Think you’re clever, don’t you?’’ His long stride toward her made her flinch and want to pull back, though she held her ground. At twenty years old, Dominic was tall, broad shouldered, a younger copy of his father in both his endless scowls and his quelling rudeness. ‘‘Think you’re better than we are, don’t you?’’
‘‘I don’t think any such thing.’’ Still, she couldn’t help the downward sweep of her gaze. He had been tending cattle and sheep, and his clothing showed it. Though prosperous farmers, the Gordons were nowhere near as wealthy as the St. Clairs. The lifestyles of the two families could not have been more dissimilar, but in Sophie’s mind that didn’t make one better than the other.
She glanced back up at his face in time to catch not only an expression of outrage but also, much briefer, a flicker of humiliation sparked by her perusal of his clothing.
If his attire, his way of life, even his family caused Dominic shame, what fault of hers? She would not be bullied; nor would she suffer anyone to put words in her mouth.
She stretched herself taller. ‘‘If anyone sees himself as better than others it’s you, Dominic. You’ve been looking down your nose at me since I arrived. And while I fail to understand your aversion to me, let me assure you I shan’t lose sleep over it.’’
Heart beating in her throat, she pushed her way through the kitchen door. Beneath the table Heyworth, a bearded collie
too old and blind now to be entrusted with the Gordons’ sheep, emitted a soft whine and thumped his tail in greeting. Aunt Louisa stood before the stove, sliding hunks of mutton from a cutting board into a stockpot. At the work counter Rachel plucked feathers from a beheaded chicken. Sophie averted her gaze. In her experience meat was something that arrived at the dinner table on decorative platters and covered in savory sauce.
‘‘Sophie.’’ Aunt Louisa turned, using her forearm to sweep strands of hair from her perspiring brow. ‘‘I didn’t know you were back.’’
‘‘Only just, Aunt.’’
Rachel continued plucking and dropping the feathers into a bucket at her feet and absently humming a tune. Sophie hadn’t been aware of the girl’s presence during her father’s tirade. Did her younger cousin agree with him? She hoped not.
Of Uncle Barnaby she neither saw nor heard any sign. He must have exited through the front rooms while she had been occupied with Dominic. She wondered if he and Aunt Louisa had reached any useful conclusion concerning her, if they had agreed upon a satisfactory course of action to forestall the trouble she was likely to cause.
‘‘Where ever do you wander to, child?’’ Aunt Louisa washed her hands under the water pump before taking a seat at the table.
‘‘The village, mostly. I’ve been studying the architecture of the homes and buildings in the area.’’
Her aunt picked up a new knife and chopped at a milky white onion. ‘‘Can’t imagine a young thing like you working up much enthusiasm for rough stone and graying timbers.’’ She traded a look with Rachel.
Did Sophie detect more than idle curiosity in Aunt Louisa’s voice? Would she find herself having to dodge her cousins, sent to spy on her activities?
Let them try. She was not the only member of this household harboring secrets. Uncle Barnaby wasn’t simply irked at the intrusion of a stranger into his private life. Both his and Aunt Louisa’s words indicated something more.
It’s unlikely that while she’s here you’ll be called upon again to . . .
To what? Could it have anything to do with last night, and the altered harbor lights both Aunt Louisa and Uncle Barnaby had refused to acknowledge? Perhaps she misread their meaning entirely, but Sophie couldn’t shake a nagging suspicion.
With a sigh she opened a cupboard and plucked an apron from the top of the pile. ‘‘What may I do to help, Aunt Louisa?’’
‘‘Here, dear.’’ She pushed a colander across the table. ‘‘Shuck the peas, if you would.’’
Sophie dragged an empty bowl closer and picked up the first of what seemed an endless number of pods.
Images of rugged strength and aristocratic elegance filled her mind. The Earl of Wycliffe could at once calm her fears and raise her ire, treat her with the greatest respect while somehow awakening her most unladylike sensibilities. The notion alarmed her. He alarmed her, or rather, her untenable reaction to him did. She had been sent to Cornwall to escape an undeserved scandal, yet here she was, courting true scandal by entertaining the notion that the earl had wanted to kiss her . . . that she would have let him. . . .
‘‘Oops! Sorry, Aunt Louisa.’’ She bent to retrieve the peas rolling across the floor. If she ever wished to be restored in her family’s good graces, it would be in her best interest to stay well away from the Earl of Wycliffe. But he had given her an idea. ‘‘Aunt Louisa, may I borrow the dinghy this afternoon?’’
‘‘Whatever for?’’
‘‘It would make for an enjoyable outing.’’ And a good look at the shoreline between here and Edgecombe. Lord Wycliffe was right: closer inspection of the coast might disclose any number of revelations secreted at the base of the bluffs.
‘‘It’s going to storm today. Can you not smell it in the air?’’
‘‘Tomorrow then.’’
‘‘It’s too dangerous.’’ Aunt Louisa brought her knife down with a thwack that made Sophie blink and Rachel flinch. ‘‘You don’t know our currents, Sophie. The tide has conquered far stouter sailors than you’ll ever be.’’
‘‘But to have come all this way and miss out on viewing the coastline from the water’s edge . . .’’
‘‘Well, I suppose if you have your heart set on it . . .’’
Sophie experienced a burst of hope until Aunt Louisa continued, ‘‘Have Dominic take you.’’
After trying nearly every key he’d found hanging from the hooks in the former butler’s office, Chad finally managed to unlock the boat chain and remove it from around Edgecombe’s front gates. Just beyond them the provisions he had ordered the day before were waiting. Of Reese he saw no sign. Nor of anyone else, for that matter; the road was deserted.
He carried in the crates and sacks and took them down to the frigid storage vaults beneath the kitchen. Kellyn had been correct about the wine. One of those vaults served as a wine cellar, its walls lined with shelves holding a variety of his father’s favorite vintages from France, Spain and Italy.
Cradling a Bordeaux in his palm, he couldn’t help wondering if this or any of the others had been acquired through smuggling. But no, even with his finances diminishing, Franklin Rutherford would never have resorted to illegal means to maintain his lifestyle.
With the sun rising over the moors, Chad set off for the village on Prince. The crisp, almost eye-stinging clarity of the air this morning would suit his objectives perfectly. He stabled Prince behind the Stormy Gull, paid Kellyn for the supplies and made a brief inquiry.
Armed with the information he needed, he trudged down the muddy lane to the quay, where a bracing sea breeze swept his open coat out behind him and filled his mouth with the taste of brine. The salty atmosphere thickened as he approached the piers. Inexplicable knots formed in his stomach.
He’d never feared water, neither while swimming nor boating, which he had enjoyed since his earliest years at the family seat of Grandview, situated on the gentler coast of the eastern Lizard Peninsula. Penhollow’s waters were far from mild, but that didn’t explain the tension presently mounting inside him like a weed-choked tide.
Upon reaching the first pier, he understood. A mucky, debris-laden swell lapped at the pilings, giving off a pungent stench. Rancid seawater. Briny decay. The odor triggered an image, a flash of horror.
The little apparition on Blackheath Moor.
He scrubbed a hand across his face and shut his eyes to block out the blinding glitter of the sun. An inner voice insisted that once again his imagination, and not angry spirits, dogged him.
He gave his head a hard shake and continued past the few schooners and sloops that had not yet set sail for the day. At the farthest slip a single-sailed vessel some dozen feet long bobbed up and down, tugging at its lines. Onboard a stocky fellow busily made adjustments to the rigging. A shoulder-length mane of red hair and a beard that reached his chest identified him as the sailor Chad sought.
‘‘Aye, I’m Grady.’’ The Irishman’s hands went still over the rigging as he regarded Chad with a squint. ‘‘And who might be wantin’ to know?’’
‘‘I’m Lord Wycliffe, and I’d like to hire your services for the morning.’’ He held out a handful of coins.
The man leaned over the gunwale and peered at the offered payment. A grin revealed darkened gaps where his front teeth should have been. ‘‘Come aboard, mate. Grady’s your man.’’
According to Kellyn, the folk of Penhollow considered the Irishman to be bordering on madness. But she had also told Chad that no other sailor would likely take him where he wished to go. Only Grady would brave the currents close to the cliffs near Edgecombe, having done so countless times in the past without mishap. The luck of the Irish, perhaps.
The mariner rowed out past the moorings and into the channel before hauling in the oars and hoisting the sail. The wind filled it and the boat shot forward, slicing like an arrow through the waves. They rode the wind currents south, toward Edgecombe. From his coat pocket Chad drew a wooden spyglass edged in brass.
‘‘L
ookin’ for mermaids?’’ Seated at the stern of the boat, Grady offered another gap-toothed smile that made Chad reconsider the wisdom of having placed his welfare in the man’s hands. ‘‘You won’t find any. Not by day.’’
‘‘I wish to learn whether it might be possible to anchor a boat near my estate.’’ He knew his excuse for today’s excursion would sound preposterous to anyone familiar with these waters, but better to appear foolish than to admit he was searching for proof of misplaced harbor lights and approaching ships at midnight. At least until he knew for certain whom he could trust.
‘‘I can tell ye the answer to that one, mate. Plain and simple, no.’’
‘‘I’d like to see for myself, if you wouldn’t mind.’’ Judging by the size of this craft, Chad simply didn’t believe Sophie would have mistaken its night lanterns for the glow of shore lights. And even if it had been Grady out prowling the coast, it still didn’t explain why the quay had gone temporarily dark, if indeed it had.
She didn’t seem the sort of woman to imagine things or to make up tales. Chad raised the spyglass to his eye and perused the coastline.
‘‘Ye’ve got one hell of a lot o’ pluck, mate, stayin’ on at Edgecombe.’’ The mariner raised his voice to be heard above the wind and surf. ‘‘Never thought to see the place lived in again after your da passed, God rest ’im.’’ He made a quick sign of the cross.
Chad’s stomach clenched. He lowered the spyglass. ‘‘You knew my father?’’
The Irishman shook his shaggy head. ‘‘By reputation only. Came here just after he passed.’’
Chad studied the other man. ‘‘Why do you say I have pluck? Do you believe Edgecombe is haunted too?’’
Grady crossed himself again. ‘‘As surely as the moon haunts the night sky, mate.’’
‘‘Why? What have you seen?’’ He held his breath. If Grady spent his time sailing at night, he might know something about Sophie’s harbor lights.
‘‘Only know what I’ve been told. Voices. Lights in the windows at odd hours of the night.’’ Grady held the rudder and steadied the sail through a snapping gust.
Dark Temptation Page 8
