by Violet
“Comes in late from where?” Tamsyn sipped tea, watching as Lucy lowered herself into the water. She had a pretty round figure, with a tiny waist, swelling bosom, and curvy hips. Very pretty, Tamsyn thought a mite enviously, wondering for the first time in her life if she was perhaps rather underendowed.
“Oh, from his clubs, or wherever. Men are never at home. I’d thought perhaps married men might be, but it doesn’t seem to be the case.”
There was a touch of constraint in her voice, and she began to soap her legs busily. “Tell me how you come to be here, Tamsyn. My brother didn’t really say in his letter. He’s not very communicative at the best of times,” she added.
Tamsyn gave a word-perfect rendition of the approved version of her tale. “I think your brother is hoping to persuade you to sponsor me when I make my debut in October,” she added.
“Oh, I should be delighted,” Lucy said with genuine pleasure. “It will be such fun to have someone to go about with. And have dinner with. Gareth doesn’t often dine at home.” She slipped down into the water and switched the subject. “I’ll help you learn how to go on in society while I’m here.… I’m sure it’s very different from Spanish society.… We should have a little party for you. I’m sure Julian would approve. It’s been ages since Tregarthan had a proper party … not since my wedding.”
Lucy was chattering as if they’d known each other all their lives. Tamsyn had never spent much time with other girls; her position as El Baron’s daughter had set her apart in the encampments, but she’d seen and often envied the easy camaraderie of the village girls. In the same way, Lucy’s confidential chatter seemed to assume some kind of shared female experience and viewpoint.
Lucy stood up in a shower of water and reached for the towel. “How do you get on with Julian?” she asked somewhat diffidently. “He’s not easy to talk to, is he?”
“Oh, I think he is,” Tamsyn said, surprised. “I never have any difficulty talking to him.” At least, not when we’re in charity with each other.
“Is he very strict?” Lucy stepped out of the bath. “He always was with me.”
Yes, Tamsyn thought, I’m sure he was. He sets very high standards of behavior for a St. Simon.
“I’m not his sister,” she said neutrally. “He’s merely repaying a favor to my father and following the Duke of Wellington’s orders. He doesn’t like being away from his regiment, and it makes him annoyed on occasion.”
“It’s not comfortable when Julian’s annoyed,” Lucy confided.
“No,” Tamsyn agreed. “It’s not.” Abruptly, she stood up. “I must go and change for dinner.”
“Oh, what are you going to wear?” Lucy was immediately diverted. Swathed in a towel, she bounced over to the bed, where her clothes lay waiting to be hung in the armoire. “We should coordinate our gowns so we don’t clash.”
Tamsyn blinked. “Clash?”
“Yes … you know. If I wear a pink gown and you wear puce, we’ll look awful.”
“I don’t have a puce gown,” Tamsyn said with relief.
“No, it’s a horrid color. It was just an example.” Lucy riffled through the pile of material. “Now, which do you think?”
Tamsyn pretended to devote her attention to this clearly important question. Lucy’s china-blue eyes were not as sharp or as piercing as her brother’s, but they were a lovely color. Her skin was fair, and her brown hair had chestnut glints in it, much less startling than her brother’s thick red-gold thatch.
“The dark blue,” she said at random. “How long have you been married?”
“Ten months.” Lucy held the gown up and examined it in the mirror. “Yes, I’ll wear this.”
“And your husband sleeps in his dressing room?” Tamsyn was not known for her tact.
Lucy flushed. “When he comes in late, he’s usually foxed. Men are like that.”
Tamsyn looked doubtful. “Are they?”
“Oh, well, you wouldn’t know because you’re not married, dear,” Lucy said, adopting a slightly patronizing air. “When one’s married, one learns a great deal about men.”
Tamsyn scratched her head. Lucy was a year younger than Tamsyn, and it didn’t seem that she knew anything at all about anything very much. But that, of course, was only to be expected. She was a virtuous, sheltered English lady. Heaven forbid she should come face-to-face with some of life’s grittier realities. “I daresay Spanish men are different,” she said neutrally. “I’ll see you downstairs.”
“Oh, no, I must come and see your wardrobe,” Lucy said, dropping the towel and shrugging into a wrapper. “I do so love shopping, don’t you? Perhaps Julian will let us borrow the landaulet and we could go into Bodmin, or maybe even down to Truro. We could buy matching outfits.” Linking her arm through Tamsyn’s, she ushered her out of the room. “Which bedroom do you have?”
“The corner room in the east tower.”
“Oh, yes, that’s such a lovely room.” Chattering gaily, Lucy pranced down the corridor, arm firmly linked in Tamsyn’s.
Julian, appearing at the head of the stairs, caught sight of the two disappearing into Tamsyn’s apartments, the sound of Lucy’s bright prattle hanging in the air.
Tamsyn wouldn’t be fool enough to defy him, he reflected, entering his own apartments. They hadn’t made up their quarrel, but he couldn’t believe she would ruin her own plans just to get back at him.
She was a damnable, manipulative, seductive hellion. But she was neither a fool nor vindictive. Untying his cravat, he strolled to the window, looking out across the lawns to the sea. Why did he find her so impossible to resist? He wanted to go back to Spain, go back to his men and his friends, fighting and dying in the broiling summer heat. He wanted to forget all about this bloody-minded brigand … didn’t he?
He tossed the cravat to the floor and shrugged out of his coat. He’d spent the afternoon riding around the estate, visiting his tenants, asking questions of the older ones, the men and women who’d been on Tregarthan land for the last fifty years or so. He’d been asking if anyone remembered the disappearance of a young girl from one of the families of the landed gentry. No one had anything to offer. There’d been a Penhallan daughter who had died in Scotland. An elaborate funeral, the family in mourning for a year. Everyone remembered that. But no disappearances on trips to Spain.
He stepped out of his britches and went to the wash-stand, splashing cold water on his face. Perhaps Tamsyn was the daughter of some minor landowner from farther south, beyond Truro, toward Penzance.
He buried his face in a towel, scrubbing briskly. He had until October to find them. And if they couldn’t be found, then that was Tamsyn’s problem. He’d have fulfilled his end of the bargain.
Tamsyn, having finally persuaded Lucy to return to her own apartments, thoughtfully flicked through her own selection of gowns, brushing her hair while Josefa fussed around her.
Her mind was racing as she realized just how Lucy’s arrival could be turned to good account. The idea for a party at Tregarthan was ideal for her purposes. It was essential that Tamsyn be accepted in society when she exposed Cedric Penhallan. It was essential that she be seen to be respectable, to be under the protection of a powerful family; otherwise, no one would give credence to her story. But people would listen in horror to die friend and confidante of Lady Fortescue, the protegee of the Duke of Wellington, the unofficial ward of Lord St. Simon.
And once she’d told her story, it would be over. She’d have to flee the colonel’s wrath with all dispatch, abandon this burgeoning love, and return to her old life that now offered only a barren landscape.
“Por Dios!” she muttered, absently walking away from Josefa’s fingers busily hooking her gown.
“Ay … ay … ay!” Josefa cried, following her. “Stand still, niña.“
Tamsyn stood still, staring down at the carpet. If only there was a way she could do what she had come there to do and keep the colonel in ignorance. If she could do that, then just possibly she might be
able to change his view of her. Show him another side to the unscrupulous adventuress that he believed her to be. It didn’t seem possible that she could feel for him the way she did without there being some reciprocation. Perhaps he just needed to look into his heart, and then all his preconceived prejudices would vanish.
But first they had to make up their quarrel. She examined her reflection in the mirror, putting her head to one side, trying to see herself as the colonel would see her. She saw an insignificant figure in a green muslin gown. He’d teased her about her height often enough, but usually only when he was annoyed. Perhaps she should wear some of the jewels. Maybe the emeralds would give her more stature. Then she shook her head. She was as she was, and she’d never given it a second thought before. But later tonight, when they were at peace with each other again, she would ask Julian exactly what he did see when he looked at her.
Sir Gareth was the only occupant of the drawing room when she entered. He turned from the sideboard where he was pouring himself sherry. “Ah. Good evening, Miss … uh, Tamsyn.” He smiled. “We’re ahead of the others. But Lucy always takes hours over her toilette.” His eyes ran over her, automatically appraising. “May I offer you a glass of sherry, or madeira, perhaps.”
“Sherry, please.” Tamsyn was aware of the appraisal. She’d come across Gareth Fortescue’s type before. Lord Pendragon had been a case in point. Such men habitually examined all women who might be considered even vaguely eligible to receive male attentions. It was second nature.
She took the glass he offered. “I understand from the colonel that your family home is in Sussex. I’ve never been there. Is it as pretty as Cornwall?”
“Softer,” he said. “We have a quieter sea and the South Downs instead of the blasted moors. Bodmin, Exmoor … and of course Dartmoor; that’s in Devon, but it’s close enough.”
“We crossed Bodmin Moor on our way here. It was certainly a bleak, unfriendly spot.” She sat down, returning his scrutiny. He had a large, sensuous face with fleshy lips topped by a bushy curled mustache, gray eyes under drooping lids, curly dark hair. Attractive in his way … and he knew it.
The frankness of her gaze startled Gareth. He was accustomed to covert assessments of his charms; women didn’t in general make their interest quite so blatant. He stroked his mustache in a habitual gesture and smiled, his eyes narrowing.
Tamsyn supposed he couldn’t help this performance. Kindly, she changed the subject. “You’re something of a judge of horseflesh, I gather.”
“I pride myself on being so,” he said, taking a seat opposite her, his inviting lethargy banished by enthusiasm for the topic. “But I’ve never seen an animal like that beast of yours. You must be a capital rider.”
“The colonel has his reservations on that subject,” she said demurely, taking another sip of sherry.
“On what subject?” Julian inquired from the doorway.
Tamsyn looked up quickly, seeing him now with the eyes of acknowledged love. He was in morning dress, gleaming tasseled Hessians, coat of gray superfine, plain waistcoat, and cream pantaloons, his cravat simply tied. She was so accustomed to seeing him in uniform that it always took her a minute to adjust to his civilian dress. She glanced at Gareth, also informally dressed, but his cravat fell in elaborate folds, and he wore several gold and diamond fobs in his striped waistcoat. His coat didn’t sit as well on his shoulders, Tamsyn thought critically, suspecting pads. And his thighs in the skintight pantaloons were a mite pudgy.
“My horsemanship, milord colonel,” she replied. “I was about to explain to Sir Gareth that I was permitted to ride Cesar only around the grounds.”
Her smile was both complicit and appealing, and it stunned him. There was a quality to it he didn’t remember seeing before. Something beyond the sensuous, inviting mischief her smiles usually implied. She took another sip of her sherry, draining her glass, as she waited for a response to what she hoped he would accept as an overture.
“There’s nothing wrong with your horsemanship, Tamsyn,” he stated, keeping his voice light, hiding his response to that smile. He turned aside to pour himself sherry. “Not when it comes to mountain passes. It’s just a trifle unorthodox for the English countryside.”
“May I have some more?” She extended her empty glass.
He refilled her glass and offered Gareth the decanter. “I imagine Lucy’s still fussing with her dressing.”
“Women,” Gareth said largely. “You know what they’re like.”
It seemed a frequent refrain of his brother-in-law’s, Julian reflected acidly. He glanced again at Tamsyn; she was trying to hide her laughter, and his own sprang unbidden into his eyes.
“Not all women, Sir Gareth,” she said sweetly. “Convent-reared Spanish girls are taught to eschew all the vanities. Hence my short hair. It makes one’s toilette very simple.”
“Ah … ah, yes, of course,” Gareth agreed, somewhat nonplussed. He examined her again over the lip of his glass. A most unusual-looking girl, he concluded. But there was something devilishly appealing about her … devilishly inviting … despite the short hair and the slight figure in the unadorned gown.
“Am I late?” Lucy came tripping into the room, a vision in her dark-blue silk gown over a half slip of cream lace, a diamond comb in her soft hair, that had been coaxed into ringlets drifting over her bare shoulders.
“It was worth waiting for, my dear,” Gareth said gallantly, taking her hand and raising it to his lips.
Lucy blushed, unaccustomed to compliments from her husband. Suddenly she became aware of a curiously charged atmosphere in the drawing room, a pulsating tension as if something forbidden and dangerous lurked below the surface. She looked at the other three and could detect nothing in their expressions to explain such an odd sensation.
“Shall we go in to dinner?” Julian put down his glass, offering his sister his arm.
Gareth, with alacrity, offered Tamsyn his, and they went into the dining room. Julian drew out the chair at the foot of the table for Lucy, and she looked startled, then laughed. “I’ve never sat here before. But I suppose I must … just until you get a wife, Julian.” She gave him a shy smile as she took her place. His eyes were unreadable and he made no response, merely taking his own place at the head of the table.
Lucy was flustered, wondering if she’d said something indiscreet, but she couldn’t imagine how such a self-evident truth could be construed as tactless or inappropriate. She glanced at Tamsyn, who was helping herself to a dish of deviled chicken legs with hungry enthusiasm. Gareth, busily approving the claret in his glass, also didn’t appear to notice anything untoward in her statement, so she decided it was just her brother’s manner. He’d never welcomed personal comments.
Tamsyn, however, had heard both the remark and the conspicuous silence it generated. Perhaps Julian found the subject uncomfortable in her presence. Maybe he thought it would be indelicate to refer to the possibility of marriage in front of his mistress. It was probably just one of those gentlemanly conventions Cecile had told her about. Thrusting the melancholy conclusion to the back of her mind, she picked up a succulent chicken leg and took a delicate bite.
Julian noticed Gareth’s eyes fixed on Tamsyn across the table as she deftly stripped the meat from the bone with her teeth. His brother-in-law was fascinated by her, and Julian could understand why. There was something astonishingly sexy about Tamsyn gnawing on a bone.
“Tamsyn, in polite English society we don’t eat with our fingers,” he corrected, before Gareth’s fixed stare became too obvious. “I know I’ve mentioned it before.”
“Oh, yes, I forgot,” she said hastily, putting the bone down and licking her fingers. “It seems silly to use a knife and fork, though, when fingers and teeth are so much more efficient.”
Gareth’s laugh resounded around the room, bouncing off the paneled walls. “Very silly,” he agreed. “There’s far too much nonsense about such things. Why shouldn’t one eat with one’s fingers if one wishes?”
“I imagine Spanish customs are very different from English,” Lucy said with a rather rigid smile. “It must be hard for you to remember everything.”
“It is,” Tamsyn said frankly. “I’m hoping you won’t mind helping me, Lucy. I’m sure your brother would be glad to be relieved of some of the burden. I know he finds it onerous.”
Her smile deepened as she looked at Julian, and two dimples appeared beside her mouth. He wondered why he hadn’t noticed them before. Her cheeks were a trifle flushed, her eyes very bright. The footman refilled her wineglass, and Julian found himself counting. It was her third glass of wine, after two glasses of sherry.
She continued in this unusual fashion throughout dinner. The only effect it seemed to have was to make her sparkle. Julian knew from experience that Tamsyn rarely did anything without purpose. Clearly she wanted to make up their quarrel.
Gareth was obviously fascinated with Tamsyn, his eyes following her every move, his rumbling laugh greeting her every sally, and Lucy became increasingly silent. Tamsyn was not encouraging him in the least, but then that wasn’t necessary to get Gareth Fortescue’s attention.
When the ladies withdrew to the drawing room, Gareth sniffed his port appreciatively. “Lively little thing, isn’t she? I’d always thought Spaniards were devilish straitlaced with their women … convents and duennas and so forth. But that chit’s as lively a piece as I’ve come across.”
“You always did have a delicate turn of phrase, Fortescue,” Julian said with a touch of ice. His brother-in-law had imbibed heavily and was looking very flushed, his eyes a trifle unfocused.
“Oh, beg your pardon, St. Simon.” Gareth smiled expansively. “No offense meant, of course. Dear little innocent, of course. Father was some Spanish grandee, didn’t you say?”
“And a close acquaintance of Wellington’s,” Julian stated.
“Wealthy, I should imagine? These grandees tend to be, I gather.” Gareth hiccuped and selected a grape from the bowl in front of him.
“So I understand.”
The subject was not proving promising, and even Gareth finally got the message and lapsed into a doleful silence. The prospect of the long summer months in the company of his unforthcoming and straitlaced brother-in-law, with no Marjorie to spice the mixture, began to seem less attractive than it had.
