A moment of silence told its own tale—no one could give an explanation as to how the sort of lantern smugglers used to signal one another and to get about at night ended up in a child’s nursery. The lanterns consisted of a long tube that allowed the user to direct the beam without being seen from the sides or behind. From the top of a cliff, it would be perfect for suggesting the lights of safe harbor to a ship in a storm.
The lieutenant looked smug. His men looked proud of their officer. All the guests’ faces were set, and the elder Trelawnys aged, their faces lined with fatigue.
Her lips bloodless, her eyes dilated, Morwenna swayed as though too heavy a burden had been thrown upon her shoulders. She began to crumple. David’s arm encircled her tiny waist without a thought, and he nestled her against his ribs as close as those battered bones could bear. Over her head, Jago Rodda glared at him. Tristan merely looked disgusted and turned away. Beside him, Morwenna tucked her head against his shoulder, shivering as though she suffered an ague. She was such a little thing, he suspected he could pick her up despite his weakened state. Her looks, her delicacy of form, her state as an impoverished widow of a murdered man, urged David to protect her as he would his sister or any female in his family.
But she’s not in your family. The admonition wasn’t much use. He might believe the evidence condemned her as part of the wreckers, perhaps even the leader, but that suspicion didn’t stop him from wanting to shelter her.
“You can unhand her, Chastain.” Jago spoke softly between his teeth. “Sir Petrok will see to all this.”
David didn’t move. Neither did Morwenna.
Sir Petrok stepped forward so less than a yard separated him from the lieutenant. “Anyone could walk into Penmara and plant that lantern. It’s scarcely habited.”
“Or habitable,” Jago muttered.
Morwenna stiffened, then sagged farther.
“The servants say no one has been about who shouldn’t be,” the officer said.
“Servants with family in the village involved in the trade.” Sir Petrok curled his upper lip. “You are naïve to believe them.”
“And you are hindering me from the performance of my duty.” The lieutenant took a step closer to Morwenna. “I must take her into custody.”
A violent shudder raced through Morwenna. “My baby.” It was a breathless whimper.
Sir Petrok stepped forward and barred the officer’s path to Morwenna. “No, you do not. Trelawnys do not go to jail with common criminals.”
“They do if they are common criminals,” one of the men muttered.
Sir Petrok shot him a withering glance, then turned back to the lieutenant. “I will see that my granddaughter does not leave the parish.”
“But, sir—” The young officer’s face reddened.
Sir Petrok’s face hardened. “Do you doubt my word?”
Morwenna’s breathing quickened.
David increased his hold. “Are you going to faint?”
She shook her head against his shoulder but made no move to straighten.
“Would you like me to help you to a chair?” David shifted, bracing himself to half carry her to the nearest chair.
Jago saw to it no need remained. He brought a chair to the hearth, and David eased Morwenna onto the cushion. It was the chair David had been sitting in a few moments earlier. He’d felt like some sort of specimen on an entomologist’s display cloth. Now, Morwenna, her dark beauty smoldering against the gold brocade, looked like some exotic jewel, a pearl beyond price.
A pearl that might have come too close to costing him the price of his life. She was a Trelawny, and the evidence of his father’s connection to the family had disappeared.
He lived because of her. But of course. She needed information from him, needed to know how much he knew. He should despise her, fear her. He did distrust her, and yet . . .
The sight of the revenue officer stalking from the room, his spine too rigid, drew David’s attention away from Morwenna to Sir Petrok. His mouth was set in a hard, thin line, and his eyes blazed. “The idea that my granddaughter was involved with that wreck, with murder—” He looked at David. “And here’s evidence of her kindness to the only survivor. Did my granddaughter ever seem to have a murderous nature to you, Mr. Chastain?”
“No, sir.” But she had drugged him, or ordered him to be drugged, whatever she claimed.
“Did she take so much as a farthing from you?”
“No, sir.”
Not as far as he knew.
Sir Petrok looked back to his guests. “Let us proceed down to dinner and put this behind us.”
“I would like to go to my room.” Morwenna’s contralto voice shook ever so slightly. “No, the nursery.”
“I’ll take you.” Rodda held out his hands to her. She placed hers in them and stood. “You are kind, but go down to your dinner.”
“And so should you,” David pointed out.
“She doesn’t need company right now,” Rodda said.
David shot him a look of exasperation. “Don’t you know those who hide look guilty?”
And those who are fools help their potential enemies.
“She needs to lie down,” Rodda insisted. “To suggest she spend hours in company is cruel. To suggest such a lady can be guilty of anything is worse.”
“I am not a fair maiden for knights to joust over.” Morwenna surged to her feet. “I believe Mr. Chastain is correct, and I should go down to dinner.”
Not in the running for Morwenna’s hand in marriage, David didn’t join Pascoe and Rodda’s squabbling about who would escort Morwenna down to dinner; he trailed behind her and the other men, admiring the way the fine gown flowed around her, shifting from light to shadow like water rippling through sunshine and clouds. Instinct strained toward the notion that no lady so beautiful could be guilty of a crime so great as causing a ship to wreck. He might think that her grandfather believed her not innocent—were he not her grandfather. But no doubt a Trelawny defended another regardless of his personal doubts.
Or perhaps he was also involved and such doings were a part of his vast wealth? On the other hand, could not the materials have been planted for the revenue men to find?
Deep in thought, David sauntered into the dining room and took the only seat left—one to Lady Trelawny’s left, the least important seat at the table, he suspected. She smiled at him graciously, for Lady Penvenan sat to her grandfather’s right. The grandmother nodded to her husband, and he bowed his head to ask a blessing over the food. From what David knew of the upper classes, this wasn’t the usual practice. It surprised him. It disconcerted him. The gentry might attend church for appearance’s sake, but Mama complained how the country was being led by hypocrites, godless men who only pretended to have faith. Trelawny’s prayer wasn’t for form, as he hadn’t asked the vicar to say it.
Less at ease now than before the blessing, David merely stared at the bowl of white soup set before him, though Lady Trelawny had dipped her spoon into her bowl, signaling that everyone else could eat.
“Is it not to your liking, Mr. Chastain?” Mrs. Kitto asked.
David started, then picked up the soup spoon. “Not at all. My mother makes it often.”
“His mother doesn’t have a cook?” Mrs. Rodda spoke loudly enough for David to hear, as he suspected she intended, since she couldn’t address him directly from her seat across the table.
David pursed his lips to stop himself from responding.
Lady Trelawny shot him a quick smile. “Does your mother enjoy trying her hand at cooking?”
“On the cook housekeeper’s day off, yes.” He tasted the thick soup made with milk and veal broth.
Mama’s was better, so much better that he ached for a bowlful. He ached for his family, for his father . . .
He wanted to set his spoon down and excuse himself. Every bone in his body ached. Every muscle in his face ached from smiling and making polite conversation.
“Do you have brothers and siste
rs, Mr. Chastain?” Mrs. Kitto spoke from his other side.
He gave her the same answer he had given Morwenna. Conversations flowed around the table, only an occasional phrase or sentence reaching him with clarity, as he exchanged pleasantries with Mrs. Kitto, then more so with Lady Trelawny, as fish replaced the soup and fowl replaced the fish, then a haunch of venison appeared, all accompanied by sides of vegetables usually not available in late winter and early spring. David chose sparingly from the dishes, spooning out the fine fare with as careful a hand as he dealt out answers to the questions with which the two ladies peppered him. He feared if he said too much he might slip up and admit he knew the allegedly missing Trelawnys had been in England in the past month, and he suspected them of having something to do with his father’s demise.
By the time the butler carried in a trifle, David was certain he would collapse face-first into the fruit, cream, and cake confection. He clenched his jaws against a yawn, but he had to taste it. Mama loved trifle. No one made better trifle than she did. And if they didn’t find the missing money, she wouldn’t be able to afford the ingredients in the height of summer when cream was more plentiful and thus less expensive, let alone this time of year when most cows were still carrying young.
This trifle was good, thick and rich, dissolving on the tongue like ambrosia. Mama would approve. Papa would tease her . . .
Not again.
The smooth pudding stuck in his throat. He swallowed, but a lump had formed, and he set his fork across his plate.
“Do not tell me you dislike trifle, Mr. Chastain.” Lady Trelawny shook her head of golden-white curls. “I won’t believe you.”
“Probably not used to such rich fare,” Mr. Rodda murmured from the other side of Mrs. Kitto.
“It’s very good.” David swallowed again. “I believe I’m fatigued is all.”
“Of course you are.” Mrs. Kitto patted his arm. “I’m sure Phoebe will release you to your bed if you ask her.”
“Of course.” Lady Trelawny inclined her head. “If you are unwell, we never hold a guest against his will.”
David hoped he wouldn’t have to test that claim. For now, he intended to stay to the conclusion of the meal, until the last guest departed. Guests sometimes talked, especially men without ladies present. Once Lady Penvenan was gone, perhaps they would talk about the accusations against her.
The ladies rose and departed for the drawing room and coffee. The butler carried in pots of steaming coffee, set them on the dining table, then withdrew, leaving the seven men alone, five of whom turned to David.
“So what do you recall of the wreck?” the elder Rodda inquired.
David shrugged. “Very little. I was asleep when we struck. I was thrown from my berth, realized what had happened, and got myself dressed before going on deck as fast as I could. We were already taking on water far too quickly. I thought we might capsize, so I went into the sea. The next thing I remember with any clarity was waking up at Penmara.”
“Did you not think it odd Lady Penvenan was nursing you?” asked the younger Rodda.
Sir Petrok scowled at him. “What are you implying, Jago?”
“I didn’t particularly care who was nursing me.” David answered the question, then thought perhaps it wasn’t the truth. He had cared. What man wouldn’t want an angel looking down upon him when he woke in pain and confusion?
“I was just thinking that he must have suspected her ladyship’s involvement,” the younger Rodda said to Sir Petrok.
“If I had any suspicions toward her ladyship,” David said, “I wouldn’t express them to you or a dinner party at large.” Realizing how rude he might sound, he glanced to Sir Petrok, ready to apologize.
He met an approving glance and affirming nod from Sir Petrok. “I would hope you would come to me, lad.”
“Or maybe he went to the revenue officers,” Tristan Pascoe suggested.
“That’s enough.” The man’s father looked from Sir Petrok to David. “Please forgive my son. He has been dangling after Morwenna—er—her ladyship since coming down from university. And he’s jealous of any man who so much as speaks to her.”
David laughed with the first genuine amusement he had experienced since learning of Papa’s treachery. “I am hardly in her ladyship’s league.” He held up his hands, callused and scarred. “I design and build vessels, none large enough to sail farther than Dieppe.”
Pascoe turned red.
“And where would our fishing folk and coastal merchants be without work like yours?” Mr. Pascoe smiled upon David.
“Or our smugglers,” the elder Rodda murmured.
“Please, please.” Mr. Kitto raised his hands. “Let us cease this sparring. Will we be seeing you at services next Sunday, Mr. Chastain?”
“If you wonder if I attend church regularly, yes, sir.”
“I doubt he is well enough recovered for the trek into the village.” Sir Petrok rose. “Let us join the ladies. Perhaps they will civilize our conversation.” He didn’t lead the way, but stood aside and allowed the others to pass. When David trod into the corridor, Sir Petrok fell into step beside him. “If you wish to return to your room, no one will blame you.”
“A not so subtle hint, sir?”
Sir Petrok laughed. “Not at all. You simply look done in. If you wish for some reading material, the library is here.” He paused at a set of carved double doors. “You are always free to come here at any time. If I am there and wish not to be disturbed, I post a footman outside here in the hall.”
“Thank you, sir.” Gratitude rushed through David. None of the books from Penmara had come with him. “May I—that is—perhaps I could acquire some writing materials in the village?”
“The library is well stocked with ink, quills, and paper of whatever quality your writing requires. Feel free to write in the library or take supplies to your room. I will frank any letters for you.” With a nod, Sir Petrok opened one of the doors, then climbed the steps to the first-floor drawing room.
David entered a treasure trove of books, fine furnishings, and objets d’art, all glowing with the patina of age and care by the light of a fire and several lamps. Such luxury, such waste, to burn coal and oil in a room no one was using. Unless Sir Petrok had planned this side excursion for David and the room had been readied for him. No doubt the boatbuilder was only given so much access to the guests.
“For which I am grateful.”
More of Jago Rodda and Tristan Pascoe, and David might have forgotten himself and planted one of them a facer.
He raised his right hand. It was easily half again the size of one of Pascoe’s, and nearly as much of Rodda’s, as was David himself. Striking him would not only be against everything he believed in, it would likely land him in a prison cell. But the men’s comments were beyond acceptable, jealous or not.
As he began to peruse the shelves for a copy of Joseph Andrews, the book he’d been reading at Penmara, David admitted that the ground wasn’t thick with ladies as beautiful as Morwenna Trelawny. If only she would smile, she would probably slay everyone in sight. Not that she frowned. Her mouth simply showed no emotion whatsoever except for an occasional quiver of that lower lip that gave him ideas he shouldn’t have for a lady whom he didn’t know.
Perhaps Papa had been right. In one of their last conversations he said David should find a wife. If he was thinking of kissing ladies he barely knew and certainly didn’t trust, he shouldn’t remain single.
But now they didn’t have the money for David to marry, unless they acquired several good commissions, customers willing to advance payment so they could buy building materials.
Oh, Papa, why did you do it?
Suddenly too weary to stand any longer, he sank onto the chair behind the desk. As Sir Petrok told him, a shelf to the side of the desk held stacks of paper, and the top of the desk held a tray with bottles of ink and quill pens with tips neatly trimmed. The paper wasn’t large enough for him to set down any of the designs forever runni
ng through his head, but he could write a letter.
He selected plain foolscap, ink, and a pen and began to write to his oldest brother, Martin, to ask after the state of the boatyard. He was just about to write, I have no intention of leaving Cornwall yet, when the door opened and someone gasped.
Morwenna stood framed in the opening, her hand to her heart.
“Am I that frightening?” He offered her a smile.
She closed the door. “You looked like my cousin Drake sitting there.”
“And that startles you?”
“Grandfather banished him nearly two years ago for coming close to getting caught smuggling once too often.”
David’s eyes widened. “A lawless bunch, you Cornish gentry.”
The corners of her mouth pinched. “Drake thought it a lark. My husband did it to survive.”
“And where did he get banished?” David picked up the sander and dusted his letter without the comment regarding when he would leave. Just because he sealed the missive didn’t mean it would remain that way.
“Barbados or Jamaica. I forget which. We have plantations at both.”
“And slaves?” David shook the sand into a tray set for that purpose, then folded the parchment with care.
Morwenna shook her head. “Not now. The last time we heard from Drake, he said he had managed to free the last of them.” She ventured farther into the chamber. “That was a year ago. We haven’t heard from him since.”
“And you haven’t heard from your parents since . . .?”
“A little longer.”
“Indeed.” David picked up the wax jack and pressed out a lozenge. “You seem to misplace relatives with abandon.”
“Two wars rather get in the way.” She brought him a candle. “This works better than the lamps.”
David accepted the candle, held the flame close enough to soften the wax, but not near enough to burn it. When the wax glistened, he pressed his thumb onto the softened surface to seal the letter. “It’s been good for shipbuilding. We’ve made several cutters for naval captains.” He set the letter on another tray where others already lay waiting for the post. “Where do you expect all these relatives have gone?”
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