by Violet
He wanted to claim her. Hold her in his arms, secure in the knowledge and rights of possession. He wanted to proclaim his possession to the world.
He took her hand as she reached him, raising it to his lips in a formal salute. “Try to remember for the rest of the evening not to gambol like a colt.” Then he released her hand and turned back to the drawing room.
Tamsyn bit her lip. She hadn’t expected fulsome compliments, but something other than a schoolmasterly castigation would have been nice.
Over the next two hours, as the house filled with a laughing, chattering crowd, Julian watched her. She stood beside Lucy at the head of the stairs as Lucy welcomed the stream of guests and introduced Tamsyn. He noted with wry appreciation how, while she spoke English fluently she adopted an exaggerated Spanish accent that made her seem even more exotic and foreign than she appeared. And he saw how the young men gathered around her, laughing uproariously at her every conversational sally, gazing with rapt admiration into her glowing face. And the older men, taking advantage of the license of age, touched her arm and patted her hand, and she smiled up at them and flirted with an innocent charm that clearly entranced them.
It was an amazing performance, Julian thought. No one looking at her now would credit the fierce, lean warrior that he’d first met; or the indomitable fury of Badajos; or the weary, blackened powder monkey on the decks of the Isabelle. All those characters were his, he thought, with an overpowering surge of longing in the maelstrom of his confusion. This consummate performer belonged to the room. She was acting a part and only he knew it.
But the essential Tamsyn belonged only to him. And he wanted to leap forward, sweep her out of that circle of besotted, spotty youths, and proclaim his possession to the world.
Madness. Utter madness. He was as seduced by her performance as the rest of the room. He knew what she was. An illegitimate, half-breed brigand without a scruple to her soul or an ethical bone in her body.
“Amazing likeness, isn’t it?” a voice quavered at his elbow.
He snapped out of his reverie and turned with a polite smile to the ancient lady beside him, bent double over a silver-topped cane. “Lady Gunston, how are you?”
“At ninety-six, young man, one doesn’t answer such a question,” she said with a cackle of laughter. “Help me to a chair and procure me a glass of negus; I can’t think where that ninny has disappeared to.”
Julian obeyed with a smile. Letitia Gunston was a local institution. She never refused an invitation, and her long-suffering companion, almost as old as she was, bore the social round with almost as much fortitude as she endured her employer’s acerbic and continual complaints.
“Here you are, ma’am.” He handed her the negus and sat down beside her. “I added a little extra wine, knowing how you like to taste it.”
Lady Gunston cackled again and took a critical sip of the sweetened flavored wine and hot water. “I’ve had worse.” She nodded and allowed her rheumy eyes to wander around the room again. “Quite an astonishing resemblance, don’t you think?”
“Who, ma’am?” He leaned closer to catch the thin voice.
“That gal.” She gestured with her stick across the room. “Haven’t seen her before. But she’s the spitting image of Celia.”
“I don’t follow you, ma’am.” Julian’s blood seemed to slow.
She turned to look at him. “No, of course not. Celia died when you were still in short coats, I should imagine. Lovely gal, she was, but a mite too lively for propriety. Never knew what she’d be up to next.” She laughed, coughed vigorously, and took another hearty swallow of negus.
“Celia who, ma’am?” He was very cold, his entire body suspended, waiting for the information he knew was coming … the information that would bring his adventure with a brigand to a close.
“Why, Penhallan, of course. Celia Penhallan, she was. Died of some fever in Scotland.” Lady Gunston nodded her head again, peering across the room to where Tamsyn was dancing with some young scion of local nobility. “The hair’s the thing,” she mused, her voice dropping so Julian had to lean even closer to catch her words. “Never seen hair that color before. Can’t see her eyes, though.”
“Violet,” Julian said, his voice seeming to come from a great distance.
“Ah, yes, they would be.” The old woman smiled, toothless and smug. “Celia had violet eyes.” Her head jerked suddenly, and she said, “Fetch that ninny of mine, young man. It’s time I went home.”
Julian went in search of Miss Winston. He was moving through a void, his mind numb. He saw the old lady to her old-fashioned berlin. The liveried footman half lifted her inside, little Miss Winston weighed down with an armful of cloaks and spare reticules struggling up behind her. The driver touched his cocked hat, cracked his whip, and the cumbersome vehicle lurched down the driveway.
Julian stood in the doorway, listening to the strains of music, the muted voices, an occasional burst of laughter wafting from the rooms behind him. Lucy had surpassed herself he thought distantly. If this was her idea of a small reception, he dreaded to think what she’d do with a proper ball.
Celia, Penhallan. Cecile. But how did Celia Penhallan become Cecile, the mate of a Spanish robber baron? How did a death in Scotland square with an abduction in the Pyrenees?
Cedric Penhallan presumably would know the answer.
He walked out on the driveway and turned to the side of the house, heading for the dark seclusion of the orchard. His absence wouldn’t be noticed for a while in the crush inside, and he couldn’t face returning to the social inanities, the fatuous smiles, the mindless chatter. Not until he’d cleared his head.
Penhallan blood ran in her veins. The blue blood of one of the greatest families in the land. But it was bad blood. Tainted with the ruthless ambition of the viscount and the vile and vicious antics of the twins.
God in heaven! In those delicate blue veins so clearly visible beneath the white skin of her wrists, the blood of an outlaw mingled with the blood of a tyrant. He thought of the way she stood, the arrogant tilt of her chin, the way her eyes flared if she was challenged, the set of her mouth if it looked as if she wasn’t going to get her way. Penhallan traits, every one. And the ruthless determination, the blind pushing for her own goals, the way she swept all obstacles from her path.
But Cedric Penhallan would never acknowledge her, even if her claim was cast iron. Not only would his personal pride never permit him to acknowledge a relationship with such a creature from such a wildly impossible background, but if he accepted her claim of kinship, he’d have to explain publicly that the death and the burial and the ceremonious mourning for his sister had all been a sham. And why, in the name of grace, had he perpetrated that hoax? Knowing Cedric, to avoid some scandal. Perhaps Cecile … Celia … had run away from home. Had fled to Spain to escape her brother’s long reach, and Cedric had simply concocted an explanation for the public domain. It made perfect sense.
Julian’s head felt as if it were going to burst. He loathed the Penhallans and everything associated with them. Twenty years ago Cedric had manipulated the lives of those around him for his own purposes, and Tamsyn was the unforeseen product.
And that unforeseen product was beginning to raise Cain with his own view of his world and all his preconceived ideas of the future of Lord St. Simon of Tregarthan. In some perverse fashion he was caught up in a web of Penhallan spinning, and that old manipulation was now at work on his own life.
He faced it clearly, but it did nothing to clarify his present turmoil. It was inconceivable that he should make a life with Tamsyn, and yet he found he couldn’t formulate the thought of leaving her. He couldn’t imagine what it would be like now to live his life without her.
And should he tell her what he’d discovered? Would it do her any good to know? Cedric Penhallan would laugh in her face, destroying that eager dream to discover a family who would make up for the loss of her own.
While Julian was walking through the orchard, Cedri
c Penhallan drove up to Tregarthan. He was deliberately late, and his hostess had left her post at the head of the stairs long before he strolled up them.
He paused at the double doors standing open onto the main salon thronged with brightly clad women like so many butterflies and their more somberly dressed escorts. The musicians were playing a waltz, and he saw Celia’s daughter immediately, twirling gracefully in the hold of a young man in scarlet regimentals.
Cedric remained standing in the door, fixing his gaze on the slight figure. Celia had worn those colors, he remembered. And she too had danced with that lively grace.
“Lord Penhallan, we’re honored.” Lucy hurried across the room toward him, sounding breathless and startled. Her eyes darted in search of Julian, who surely should be there to greet this important guest, but there was no sign of her brother. She bowed and shook hands with the viscount.
“May I procure you a glass of wine … Oh, Gareth.” With relief she saw her husband a few paces away. “Gareth, here is Lord Penhallan.”
Gareth too looked for his brother-in-law. He didn’t feel in the least competent to deal with a man who moved in lofty circles far out of his own orbit, and who was gazing at him with a look of derision from beneath his bushy gray eyebrows. But he searched manfully for a suitable topic of conversation and asked his lordship about his stud.
Tamsyn had felt her uncle’s arrival, just as she’d felt his eyes on her. As the music died, she smiled at her partner and excused herself, refusing his eager offer to accompany her into the supper room.
She walked steadily across the floor. Cedric’s eyes met hers as she approached.
“Oh,” Lucy said, relieved at the diversion. “Permit me to introduce Lord Penhallan, Tamsyn. Viscount, this is my brother’s ward, Señorita Baron. She’s come to us from Spain, the Duke—”
“Yes, I have heard the story,” Cedric interrupted rudely. “It’s common knowledge in the neighborhood.”
“Of course, how stupid of me,” Lucy murmured, flushing.
Cedric made a briefly dismissive gesture and said, “How do you do, Miss Baron?”
“Well, I thank you, señor.” She smiled sweetly as she bowed. “It is an honor to meet you.” Her hand fluttered toward the locket at her neck before she said, “Please excuse me, I have promised this dance, and I see my partner waiting.”
She walked off without a backward glance, but the hairs on the nape of her neck stood up as she felt his eyes on her back and the force of that speculative, menacing gaze swept over her.
Lord Penhallan watched her for a minute; then he said shortly, breaking into Gareth’s elaborate recitation of a race he’d seen at Newmarket, “Good night, Lady Fortescue.” His massive bulk spun with extraordinary agility, and he was gone.
“Well!” Lucy said, outraged. “What a horrible man! How could he be so rude? What did he come for if he was going to leave the minute he arrived?”
“No telling,” Gareth said. “But the Penhallans are all toplofty … think they’re too good for everyone else.”
“Not a St. Simon,” Lucy said, drawing herself up to her full height. “St. Simons are as good as Penhallans in anyone’s book.”
“Yes, I daresay,” Gareth said soothingly. “But Lord Penhallan is mighty powerful in the government. It’s said the prime minister never makes a move without his approval.”
“Well, I think he’s detestable. Thank goodness he’s gone.” On which note Lucy went off to ensure that the tables in the supper room were being replenished.
Julian reentered the house through a side door and thus missed Viscount Penhallan’s brief visit. He glanced into the salon. The company was thinning, but Tamsyn was still dancing. He crossed the floor and lightly tapped her partner on the shoulder. “Forgive me, but I’d like to claim a guardian’s privilege, Jamie.”
The young man relinquished his lady with a jerky bow and went to lean disconsolately against the wall.
“Are you enjoying yourself?”
“Oh, yes,” Tamsyn said, but she sounded distracted, and he could feel the tension in her body as he turned her on the floor. There was an almost febrile glitter to her eyes, and her skin was flushed.
“How much wine have you had?” he asked, steering her off the floor.
“A glass, no more.”
“It must be excitement, then.” Smiling, he took his handkerchief and wiped her damp brow.
“It is my first party since I was seven,” she said with an answering smile, but the attempt at mocking humor lacked conviction.
“I’m going to London in the morning,” he said abruptly, realizing as he said it that he’d only just decided what to do.
“Oh?” She looked at him, and her dismay was a clarion call. “Why?”
“I have Wellington’s business to see to.”
“But you weren’t going for another two weeks.” She nibbled her bottom lip, frowning. “Why so sudden, Julian?” There was a look in his eye that filled her with a deep apprehension. He looked like a man steeling himself to jump off a cliff.
He didn’t immediately reply but drew her backward into a deep window embrasure. His voice was low and grave. “Come back to Spain with me, Tamsyn.”
Whatever she’d been expecting, it hadn’t been that. “Now?”
“Yes.” He brushed a wisp of hair from her brow. “Come back with me and we’ll go campaigning together. And we’ll stay together and enjoy each other until it’s over.”
Until it’s over. Her heart wept at the finality of the words and the closed mind of the man who couldn’t embrace a future with the woman who loved him because she didn’t fit the right mold.
“But I haven’t done what I came here to do,” she said quietly.
“Does it really mean that much to you, Tamsyn? What kind of life would you have in England, even supposing you found your mother’s family and persuaded them to accept you? This isn’t right for you, you know it isn’t.” He gestured to the emptying room, where the musicians still played, though desultorily now. “Let’s go back to Spain. We can be together there in a way we can’t here.”
“Do you care for me?” Her voice was small, her face as pale now as it had been flushed before.
“You know I do,” he said, touching a finger to her lips. “That’s why I’m asking you to do this.”
“But we have no future together? No real future?” His silence was answer enough.
“I suppose not,” she said dully, answering her own question. “A St. Simon could never have a future with an illegitimate brigand. I know that.” She tried to smile but her lip quivered.
“That sounds so harsh,” he said helplessly.
“The truth often is.” She stepped backward and her eyes focused, the sheen of tears vanishing as anger and pride abruptly came to her aid. She would not permit this man to look down upon her, to decide she was not good enough for him. The daughter of El Baron and Cecile Penhallan had no need to stoop to placate and beg a St. Simon. “No, I can’t come back with you. I will do what I came here to do. But I absolve you from the contract, milord colonel, since you can no longer see your way to honoring it.”
She was pure Penhallan now, cold and arrogant, and he fought his own surge of anger at her insolence.
He bowed stiffly. “Of course, you may stay at Tregarthan for as long as you wish. Lucy will continue to sponsor you, I’m sure. I believe you’ll find her a more appropriate sponsor than myself, anyway.”
Appropriate! What had that to do with anything? She turned from him with a curt gesture of farewell, her mouth hard, her jaw set. “I bid you Godspeed, Colonel, and a safe journey.”
He stood there in the embrasure as she walked away, across the nearly deserted salon, and out of the room. Silently, he cursed his own stupidity in making the offer that he’d known she wouldn’t accept. He had made it partly for himself, but also partly for her, a desperate attempt to prevent her from discovering who she was and the inevitable hurt that would follow when Cedric Penhallan laughed her
from his door.
But it was done now, and he wouldn’t wait until the morning to set off for London. If he left just before daybreak, he would reach Bodmin in time to break his fast, and he could cross the moor in daylight.
Tamsyn went up to her tower room without a word to anyone. Josefa was waiting for her, dozing in a low chair by the fireplace. She sprang up full of eager inquiry as her nurseling entered, but her eagerness changed to a cry of distress as she saw the girl’s face.
“I don’t wish to talk of it tonight,” Tamsyn said. “Go to bed now, and in the morning we’ll talk, the three of us.”
Josefa left reluctantly, but she knew the tone—she’d heard it often enough from the baron, and one didn’t argue with it.
Tamsyn shivered as a sudden gust of wind blew through the open window. She could hear the surf pounding on the beach as the wind rose. Hugging her breasts, she went to the window. Clouds scudded across the moon in an ever-thickening band, and the soft sea breeze had suddenly changed into a cold, damp wind. The glorious spell of summer weather seemed to be breaking.
She could hear the voices from the driveway as carriages were called for and the last of the guests left, hurrying now to get home before the weather turned.
Tamsyn didn’t know how long she stood at the window, watching the storm clouds gather, feeling the increasing sharpness of the wind as it rattled the panes of the open window and set the curtains swirling about her immobile figure. The first drops of rain woke her from her reverie. She closed the window, drew the curtains to shut out the now unfriendly night, and undressed, her mind working furiously, finally overcoming the paralysis of shock.
