She forced her breathing to slow. A dance—a moment to slip back in time to a different place—could not be harmful. Could it?
She placed her gloved hand in his and allowed him to lead her to the crowded dance floor. With each step, with each turn and curtsy, with each clap and smile, her fear subsided. The dance lasted nearly half an hour, and by the end she was hot. Breathless. While Mr. Simon left her to find beverages, she stood with her shoulder against the wall, facing the new set of dancers lining up.
A throat cleared behind her, and then a finger tapped her shoulder. She felt a tug on her arm.
Peaceful and flushed, she whirled around expecting Mr. Simon.
But at the sight that met her, her blood slowed in her veins. Breath fled her lungs. She could not move.
Thomas Greythorne, Robert’s older brother, stood before her plain as day, with hair so blond it appeared almost white in the candlelight. Eyes so black they appeared evil, frightening. It was like looking at a ghost, a harsher, darker version than the original.
Thomas smiled, flashing his white teeth against tanned skin.
The room swirled, the thick air pressing in on her. The music’s incessant beat drummed in her brain. Fearing she might faint, Delia regained composure by sheer strength of determination and lifted her chin.
“Thomas.” His name tasted sour on her tongue. “What are you doing here?”
“Is that any way to greet your brother?” The words slid from his lips as unaffected as if they had just spoken the previous day instead of three years ago.
Her stomach turned. This monster was not her brother. No brother would treat a sister the way she had been treated.
She glanced around to see if anyone had taken notice of the newcomer, but the festivities continued, heedless of the horror that had just entered.
She swallowed. Hard. Anger was trickling in, pushing out the fear that had gathered.
There was no need for pretense—to pretend that her association with the family had not ended abruptly. “How did you know I was here?”
“Word travels, Sister.” The appellation dripped from his lips, rich with cynicism and odd amusement. “You didn’t think we could forget you, did you? You are, after all, family. Why, you didn’t even say good-bye before you left.”
She forced herself to meet his gaze confidently and fully—the only way to address a Greythorne. “Your mother requested I leave quietly. And so I did.”
“But now you’re back, and so close to Greythorne House.”
She drew a deep breath, hoping it would steady her nerves. It did not. “I’m here for my charges. Nothing more.”
“So you’ve no intention to visit your family?” He inched closer, the scent of brandy overbearing. “To visit us?”
She pressed her lips together and looked out as the music resumed and the dancers started to move in their sets. “Your mother made it very clear I was no longer welcome.”
He chuckled calmly, as if the conversation were the most casual in the world. “Can you blame her? You betrayed us.”
“I did no such thing.”
He looked around. “So this is where you find yourself. Taking care of someone else’s children in someone else’s home.”
She faced him. “Surely there is a reason for your visit, Thomas.”
He shrugged. “You always were a perceptive thing, weren’t you? A bit too observant and eager for your own good.”
The words evoked memories, bright and flashing, from the recesses of her mind.
He leaned closer. His whisper was close enough to brush the wisps about her face. “You know why I’m here.”
She did know. Yet she refused to step backward. “I don’t know what you are talking about.”
He laughed, louder this time, as if she’d just said something charming, and then fixed his devilishly dark eyes on her. He leaned close again. “Oh, you have always been good at your lies, with those wide eyes and innocent expressions. No wonder my brother fell so quickly for your charms. But the rest of the family isn’t so easily swayed.”
Her breath grew jagged. The word family coming from him was a word to be despised—so dark and ugly it could only be spoken in a whisper.
She flinched.
“Come now, you look like you are almost frightened.”
She straightened her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Of course I’m not frightened.”
He glared down at her, his amusement gone. “Perhaps you should be.”
Chapter 22
“At least Randall had the good sense to retain a pretty governess.”
Jac jerked his head to the approaching voice that rose above the music and dancers’ clapping. Jacob Colliver was now at his elbow, beverage in hand, round face flushed from the heat generated from the energetic, crowded room.
Jac turned toward him. “At least Randall had the good sense to retain a governess at all, for we all know I’d have had no idea how to handle five children.”
Colliver nodded to the east wall, and then Jac saw her—Mrs. Greythorne. She had said she did not plan to attend the Frost Ball, and yet here she was dressed in a gown of pale purple, speaking—nay, laughing—with Mr. Simon.
Jac never thought he would feel jealous of the dour Mr. Simon, but as he watched Mrs. Greythorne smile up at him, comfortable and relaxed, a string of envy pulled within him.
“Pretty, yes.” Colliver took a full glass from a passing servant before returning his attention to Jac. “But is she really the sort of influence you want on young people who bear the Twethewey name?”
Jac stiffened. There was no use pretending he’d not heard the rumor. It was running rampant now. He’d overheard two men speaking of it when he went to meet a tenant at the public house, and already this evening he’d been asked about her twice. “I assume you’re referring to her late husband.”
“What else?”
Jac looked directly at Mrs. Greythorne. Her dark hair fell in soft wisps about her face, and deep dimples graced her cheek when she smiled.
“A smuggler’s bride, Twethewey,” Colliver blurted unceremoniously. “Under Penwythe Hall’s roof. Your uncle would be horrified.”
Heat pricked up Jac’s neck at the judgment, and perspiration gathered at his temples as he turned back to Colliver. “Oh, I’m not so sure.” He was not so willing to buy into the rumor. Not quite yet.
Colliver scoffed, leaning heavily on his walking stick. “I must say I’m surprised. You’re being very nonchalant about what goes on within these walls, especially when you’re on the cusp of such vital changes. Impulsive. Like I’ve told you before, Twethewey, you act quickly. Make decisions rashly. It makes people nervous.” He pinned Jac with his rheumy stare, then tapped the side of his nose and continued on his way to the billiards room.
The dance ended, and the next set of dancers was lining up along the wall in preparation to step into position. He’d lost sight of Mrs. Greythorne and searched for the flash of lavender but did not see it. Frowning, he scanned the room for Simon and, due to his height, found him quickly. But Mrs. Greythorne was not at his side.
Curious, Jac put down his glass and made his way across the great hall, and finally he spied a gown of lavender against the wall. Her back was to him, and she was speaking with a man.
The couple shifted, and he glimpsed Mrs. Greythorne’s face. Worry creased her smooth brow and flattened her lips. The customary flush on her cheeks was absent, and she wrung her hands before her. The stranger now faced him. He was a large, tanned man with thick white-blond hair. He stood nearly a foot over her petite form and was speaking to her closely, as if well acquainted. She was new to the country—no man should be speaking to her so intimately.
After pausing to allow groups of people to pass this way and that, Jac approached them. Not once did Mrs. Greythorne nor the large man speaking with her look in his direction. They were locked in some sort of conversation where the rest of the world did not seem to matter.
This was not the conver
sation of strangers encountering each other for the first time at a country ball. Whatever this was, Jac was not comfortable with it.
He drew quite near, and the man turned first—a tall man, nearly Jac’s own height. Mrs. Greythorne immediately followed suit, lifting her pointed chin toward him, her gray eyes wide. “Mr. Twethewey.” A slight tremor shook her voice. She stepped back and dropped her hands, which had been clenched before her.
Jac returned his focus to the man. “I don’t believe we have had the pleasure.”
“Name’s Thomas Greythorne.”
Jac lifted his brow. “Greythorne?”
Mrs. Greythorne stepped forward, her expression odd. “This is my brother-in-law, my late husband’s brother.”
Andrews’s and Colliver’s words of warning rushed him. When he’d spoken to Mrs. Greythorne about the rumor, she neither confirmed nor denied the accusation. He hadn’t really noticed at the time, but now that he thought back to their conversation when they were walking home from Fairehold Cottage, he realized her comments had been limited. How could he not have noticed?
The expression on the man’s face eased. “Penwythe Hall is an impressive place, Mr. Twethewey. You are to be congratulated on its appearance. I’ve heard of its gardens, even as far away as Morrisea. It does live up to its reputation.”
The false flattery annoyed Jac. “Mrs. Greythorne failed to mention you’d be attending the Frost Ball.”
His light eyebrows rose. “I was under the impression that it was open to all. My apologies if I’ve come uninvited.”
Jac’s jaw twitched. It was not his place to intervene in her family matters, and yet her tightened expression and the pallor of her cheeks awoke something protective in him. He said the first thing that came to mind. “Mrs. Greythorne, I believe Sophy was looking for you. Would you check on her, please?”
Wide-eyed, Mrs. Greythorne responded quickly. “Of course.”
“Will you be back down, Sister?” Greythorne called as she brushed past him. “I’ll be leaving town early tomorrow. I’d like to see you again before I depart.”
“I’ll be back shortly.” She bobbed a quick curtsy before threading back through the crowd until she disappeared through the drawing room.
Jac was not convinced. He’d never seen her quite so rattled. “Mrs. Greythorne seems quite out of sorts.”
“Delia?” Greythorne asked, the use of her Christian name undoubtedly intended to reinforce the intimacy between them. “She was stunned to see me, ’tis all. I look a great deal like my late brother, her husband, you see. I think it was a bit of a shock to her. You know how women are.”
Jac eyed the man. To be true, no, he did not know how women were. He could barely understand them on the best of days. But still, Jac disliked the overconfidence in his voice.
Greythorne continued. “It has been quite a while since I saw her last. I thought I’d surprise her. Perhaps I should have sent word of my coming. You see, we’ve not seen or heard from her since she left our home after my brother’s death. We—my mother and wife—were so happy to hear she was back in Cornwall. Family is always family, after all. Perhaps now we shall see more of her. I feel responsible for her, you know. Even though my brother is dead, she is still my sister by law and by the church. But she is a stubborn one.”
He spoke of her as if he knew her well. In all actuality he probably did. Jac sniffed. “Do you come this far north often?”
Greythorne nodded. “Business from time to time brings me here.”
Jac tilted his head to the side and arched a brow. “And what business is that?”
“I make my living by the sea. I own several cargo ships that sail from Plymouth.”
Jac listened to him speak of cargo and ships, of travels and sailors. No wonder rumors of smuggling abounded. He supposed any man who made his livelihood by the sea would be under constant suspicion of it. After nearly fifteen minutes of chatter, Greythorne popped his pocket watch and checked the hour. “It seems my sister will not be returning. What a pity.”
Jac widened his stance. “I can send up one of the servants for her.”
“I hate to interrupt Delia. Best leave her be. But now that she is here in Cornwall, perhaps our visits can be more frequent.”
Greythorne bid Jac farewell, and his exit was as stealthy as his demeanor. Jac watched the man until he vanished through the crowd. Several moments ticked by before he was able to unclench his jaw. He slid his finger between his neck and cravat and pulled. It was too tight. Too binding.
No, Mrs. Greythorne had neither confirmed nor denied anything on that walk home from Fairehold Cottage, but it no longer mattered. He had seen the fear in her eyes. Heard the tremor in her voice. Involved or not, that man was trouble, and Jac would not allow it.
Chapter 23
Delia gasped for air as she rounded the corner. The interaction with Thomas had stolen her breath, and now her chest burned with shock. Once she was in the corridor’s dark coolness, she pressed herself against the wall, gasping and sputtering as if she had just run a race.
She’d been a fool. She should have known better. Of course the Greythornes would find her if she came back to Cornwall. They had informants in every town and village from here to Devon.
And it was all because of what she knew about their secrets.
She gathered her courage and peeked back around the corner in the direction from which she had just come. She spied the men talking—Mr. Twethewey and Thomas.
Thomas looked so much like Robert, and that had jarred her nearly as much as his presence. But what had even greater impact was that his white-blond hair reminded her of Maria’s curls. The memories cut like little knives, stabbing at her tender heart.
The men shifted, and she could no longer see Thomas’s face.
Oh, how the man could spin tales and exude charm. No doubt he was working his magic on Mr. Twethewey now.
If he knew what Thomas was capable of, Mr. Twethewey would rue the day he ever allowed a Greythorne—any Greythorne—into his house.
She hurried back down the hall, her footsteps falling faster and faster until she was running. Darkness surrounded her in the west wing. She should have thought to bring a candle, but in her haste she hadn’t. Perspiration dampened her skin, and her gown clung uncomfortably to her back and shoulders.
She bumped against the walls as she climbed the curved staircase. Once at the landing, Delia wiped the salty tears from her hot face and opened the door to peer in at the children, only to find Sophy asleep in her bed and Alis slumbering in the chair next to the fireplace.
She blinked. Sophy had not needed her. For whatever reason, Mr. Twethewey had lied to her about the child. Perhaps he’d seen the discomfort on her face. Or perhaps he believed the rumors, knew who Thomas was, and wanted to send him away.
She eased the door closed again and turned the latch. Music and laughter echoed from the gathering floors below. She needed to return to the ball, whether she wanted to or not. She’d not allow Thomas the smug satisfaction of believing he’d sent her running off in fear. But first she needed to compose herself, so she slipped into her own chamber.
It was mostly dark, and she preferred it that way. A faint wash of moonlight filtered through the window, and she glanced around the tiny, simple chamber that was now home. She pushed open her window, allowing the cool breeze to curl in. She gulped several breaths of fresh air. Her heartbeat began to slow. She should tell Thomas what she knew and be done with it. If she did, maybe he would leave her alone.
Even if she would not be free.
No. Then she would be an accomplice to their wrongdoing, and she would become one of them—an outlaw. And the price for that would be steep—just as steep as resisting them.
Her other option was to go to the authorities, but the Greythornes were too powerful. The magistrate of the area was their cousin, and he turned a blind eye for a cut of the profits.
She shivered as the memories cast their ghostly glow on her present. H
ow foolish to think she would be safe in this little Penwythe refuge, with its idyllic seashores, rolling orchards, and ancient gardens. She’d lost sight of how the Greythornes would stop at nothing to get their way. She’d broken their agreement, and they’d found her. Her safety was in jeopardy. What was worse, she might be putting in danger those she held dear just by being here.
With the moonlight as her guide, she unlocked her trunk and dug through the contents, her motions frantic. She longed for comfort, for some sense that she had not always been alone. After pushing aside the letters from her sister, Delia dug to the bottom and retrieved a different stack of letters. Robert’s letters of love, his declarations of adoration, felt rough and cool beneath her fingertips. The missives were from the time before Maria’s death—before his life took a dark turn.
How he’d adored Maria. As their world crashed in around them, she had been the one thing to bring a smile to his face. As the situations surrounding them grew more dire, Delia had pleaded with him to relocate their small family to Scotland, to be free of his family for Maria’s sake, but try as she might, Delia could not free him from the Greythornes’ iron grip. Their approval meant everything to him. He needed it, craved it. In the end, Robert had believed Maria’s death to be punishment for his dishonesty, and Delia could not persuade him otherwise. The spiral into recklessness and self-destruction started that horrific day and did not end until his death.
She looked back into the trunk. Just beneath the spot where his letters had been stored was Robert’s linen shirt. She lifted the smooth, ivory fabric to her nose. It no longer held his scent. After he died, she’d clung to this shirt as if her own life depended on it. She’d worn it while sleeping and covered herself with it during the long afternoons.
Delia hugged it to her chest. He’d not always been harsh and wild. In fact, it was his sensitivity and carefree nature that drew her to him early in their courtship. Over the years his family’s demands crushed that part of him, destroying the tenderness that had been so integral to him.
The Governess of Penwythe Hall Page 15
