The Nightingale Legacy

by Catherine Coulter

  “That was nice, North,” she said, and smiled at him. “I’m glad I woke up in time to kiss you back.” She ran her fingertips over her lips and he just stared at those fingers and her lips and thought he’d die.

  “You have the greenest eyes,” he said, not meaning to but doing it nonetheless. “I thought they were kind of a gray-green, but that’s not true. They’re green, not hazel, but pure green. It’s a nice color, like that hawthorn scrub that grows over near St. Erth.”

  “Thank you. Perhaps you could take me there and show me this scrub grass. Perhaps you could kiss me again, North. Perhaps my eyes will change color again.”

  He wasn’t stupid. He took another step back. “No. Forgive me for attacking you and you were asleep, thus unable to say yea or nay.”

  “Yea.”

  “Be quiet, Caroline. You’re still half asleep and don’t know what you’re saying.”

  “But I do know what I’m feeling and it’s very nice. No one has ever kissed me before, North, just you. I never thought a man would stick his tongue into a woman’s mouth. Is it the thing to do? Do all men do it?”

  He stared at her, fascinated. “Yes.”

  “And you were licking my lips, like I was a good meal. It was quite enjoyable once I realized what was happening.”

  “Be quiet.”

  “Why? Can’t I tell you what I wish?”

  He shook his head. “Yes, certainly. But know that when it all comes down to what is proper and what isn’t, I am still a man and you’re still an unmarried, unchaperoned girl. You’re in my house, under my protection. I will try my damnedest not to touch you again.”

  She sighed, looking more frustrated than North’s Portuguese mistress had when he’d smiled blissfully up at her then fallen into an exhausted stupor after only an hour or two of the most perverse, enjoyable sex games he’d ever played in his life.

  “You’re a hard man, North Nightingale.”

  “You have no idea,” he said, and turned away to sit down in a stiff-backed lady’s chair from the previous century that groaned under his weight. “Now, how do you feel?”

  She realized he had himself well away from her now. For the moment she would just have to accept it. When she had her full strength back again, he wouldn’t get away from her so easily. She understood his gentleman’s code. She was in his house, under his protection. He was being noble. She would allow him his spate of nobility, at least for the moment, at least until her head didn’t feel like it would split from her neck. “I feel better than I did last night. Has Owen returned from Scrilady Hall yet?”

  North grinned. “Not yet. I very much like your idea. You told me that Owen needed to get out from under his father’s thumb. I’m wagering that his first thumbless assignment will be a success. Just consider his adversary.”

  She giggled, such a surprise and so very sweet. It locked his knees together. He tried not to respond to that giggle, but he did. He picked up a newspaper from the table beside the chair and read the same sentence five times.

  “What are we going to do about Mr. Ffalkes?”

  He slowly lowered the Gazette. “I’ve given this a lot of thought, sorted through every pro and con I can come up with.” He drew a deep breath. “I think I’m going to have to kill him, Caroline.”

  To his utter astonishment, she said, “Oh dear, I was afraid of that. No, North, that isn’t right. If he’s to be killed, then I will do it. He’s my problem, not yours.”

  North rose and began to pace. “Hell and damnation, you’re a woman and you didn’t shriek or clasp your hand to your palpitating bosom or whimper that killing is awful, and I’d go to the devil. No, you just said you’d do it. It’s difficult for me, Caroline, to hear a female speak like that. The Duchess, maybe, but she has Marcus to contend with and he is a handful and a bastard and she loves him to distraction.”

  “You’ve said a lot there. Tell me, why is it difficult to hear a female speak like that, North? Like a man? Like a logical person? Isn’t a woman allowed to be logical, to think things through and come up with solutions?”

  He nodded and said, “No, it’s outside anyone’s experience. It isn’t done. You’re not what you should be, Caroline. Now, listen to me, and stop all this blather. Men don’t necessarily like the thought of killing. Indeed, I hate the thought of killing a man just because he’s so bloody stupid and stubborn and desperate. If you were only married, then Ffalkes couldn’t—” He stopped, stared at her, an appalled look on his face, then, without another word, strode from her bedchamber, closing the door very quietly behind him.

  “It’s a wonderful idea,” she whispered to the room with its early-afternoon shadows beginning to gather in the corners.

  It was five o’clock that same afternoon when Tregeagle admitted himself after three brief knocks and two long ones, the most warning, Caroline supposed, that she would ever get. He was carrying a heavy volume bound in dark brown moroccan leather. He brought it to the bed and very gently lowered it onto the cover beside her. It looked to weigh both their weights together.

  Caroline eyed the tome, then eyed Tregeagle. “What is it? All the historical reasons why Young Female Persons shouldn’t ever stay more than ten minutes at Mount Hawke?”

  “Ten minutes pushes it,” Tregeagle said, his eyes going to a spot beyond her right shoulder.

  “What is this book?”

  “His lordship thought you might be bored with your forced inactivity. He didn’t wish to spend any more time with you, which is understandable since he’s a Nightingale man. Thus, he asked me to fetch you up a book that might amuse you. This is what I have fetched. It is something in the way of a legend long in the keeping of the Nightingale family. All nonsense, of course, but perhaps it will pass the time until you are fit enough to take your leave of this residence.”

  “Thank you, Tregeagle. What is it?”

  “Why, it’s about King Mark of Cornwall and how he was buried here on Nightingale land with all sorts of treasure, and not in the south at Fowey, where most believe he lived and fought and died.”

  “What do you believe, Tregeagle?”

  “Many Nightingale ancestors have been of a fanciful turn of mind.”

  “Including his current lordship?”

  “His current lordship is too young and too long away from his home for me to yet cast a judgment. His years in the army doubtless affected his fancifulness. One will see in due time. At least he is now showing the good Nightingale sense to stay away from you, a female, who just happens, unfortunately, to be in his house.”

  “King Mark is very romantic. I know all about the legend.”

  He gave her a disgusted look. “Young Female Persons seem to think so. I do believe, though, that the Nightingale ancestors have felt drawn to the poor king since he was betrayed by his queen Isolde and his beloved nephew Tristan—” Tregeagle coughed behind a hastily raised hand and shook his head. “Read the entries, if it pleases you to do so. If I may add, you are looking quite fit, miss. Perhaps after a nourishing pilchard-head soup for your dinner, you will wish to take your leave on the morrow.”

  “Pilchard-head soup, you say, Tregeagle?”

  He nodded, his chin going up.

  “How very thoughtful of Polgrain. How did he know that was my favorite dish? Cook at Scrilady Hall introduced me to the delicious concoction. His lordship must have mentioned it to him. Thank him, Tregeagle. Goodness, with pilchard-head soup, I just might never leave Mount Hawke. Such an unexpected treat. I believe I feel a bit faint and weak just contemplating it.”

  Caroline touched her palm to her brow and tried to look frail and pale. “Ah, but my poor head is beginning to pain me again. The weakness of limb, the frailty of my delicate constitution, the innate delicacy of my female person, why, it’s positively—” She stopped at that for Tregeagle had turned remarkably pale.

  He said, a guard to a prisoner who surely shouldn’t be there, “I will leave you now, miss. Regain your strength. Perhaps you should walk a
bit around the chamber. Perhaps you should sleep rather than engross yourself in that magnificent and interesting volume that is really drivel. King Mark indeed, sending his wretched nephew Tristan to Ireland to fetch him his wife, Isolde, who was a perfidious female as all females are, and just look what happened. The two of them drank a love potion prepared by Isolde’s maid Brangien that had been intended for King Mark and his beautiful bride, and just see what came to pass. The nephew and his wife betrayed him and it is recorded that Isolde killed her maid so she wouldn’t tell the king what had happened. Damnable betrayal, all of it. And that dear King Mark, he let them go. He didn’t behead them or tear out their fingernails and break their bones—no, the precious noble king let them go, damned idiot.”

  “Yes, I suppose he was a fool, wasn’t he? A real fool with no sense of justice.”

  He left quickly, giving her a ferocious frown, at a loss for words, for which she was justifiably proud, and she was left there grinning from ear to ear.

  13

  “CAROLINE, THIS IS Flash Savory, the young man I told you about who helped Rafael Carstairs with some trouble down St. Austell way.”

  “Hello, Miss Caroline,” Flash Savory said, and stuck out his hand.

  He was a handsome young man, all golden, slender, and smiling. She found herself looking at his hand closely before shaking it. “Are you right-handed or left-handed, Mr. Savory, or both?”

  He grinned down at her. “Both.”

  “Ah, that’s fortunate. Either pocket, with incredible speed, I’d wager.”

  “Aye, true enough,” he said cheerfully. “It was before the captain caught me with my fingers in his left pocket, and me with my fast left hand. Near to broke my wrist, he did, but now I’m as honest as that poor dead pilchard whose head is floating in that bowl and is fair to turning my stomach. Is that intended to be a special treat for your guests, Miss Caroline?”

  Caroline shuddered.

  “Dare I ask if you ate the rest of that pilchard, Caroline?” North asked, staring down at the fish head.

  “The napkin must have slipped,” Caroline said, and hastily covered the remains again. She’d grossly underestimated Polgrain or Tregeagle or Coombe, or more likely, all of those female-hating fellows. Tregeagle had positively beamed at her when he’d brought the soup to her and lifted the silver lid for her inspection. It had been close, but she hadn’t gagged, at least not in front of Tregeagle.

  “Why would someone give you a pilchard broth?” Flash asked. “Are you bilious?”

  “No, I don’t believe so. However, there are some gentlemen who believe culinary torture just might relieve them of an unwanted presence, namely a female presence, namely me.”

  She smiled at North as she spoke, but he was frowning down at that damned bowl, now thankfully covered, then toward the door.

  “North, is Flash here to discuss what happened to Aunt Eleanor?” It got North’s attention off his minions, at least for the moment.

  “Yes,” he said. “I thought you might be studying your toenails by now in your boredom. I’ve told Flash everything I know. Now it’s your turn.”

  He and Flash Savory sat near her bed. Flash gave her a white smile that would melt a maiden’s objections quickly, Caroline thought, wanting just for an instant to smile back, but not being able to do it because she was hungry and she was also thinking of her aunt and how Caroline hadn’t been here to help her. No one had been, except the person who had hated her so much as to stab her in the back.

  “I don’t know anything, Flash. I wasn’t here. I hadn’t seen my aunt Eleanor for nearly three years. North took me to St. Agnes Head, to the spot where she was stabbed and pushed over the cliff. Did you discover what happened to her horse?”

  “Yes,” North said. “I checked with Robin at Scrilady Hall. It seems her horse never left the stable, so obviously she wasn’t out riding and didn’t meet her killer that way.” He fidgeted a moment, then said, “I hadn’t realized when I found your aunt that she wasn’t wearing a riding habit, Caroline. I just didn’t think of it. She was wearing a blue gown, but I just didn’t make the connection in my mind that she wouldn’t wear a gown out riding. Damnation, I was a damned man with no sense at all.”

  “I strongly doubt the fact that she was or wasn’t riding her horse makes any difference, North.”

  “That’s right, my lord,” Flash said, nodding. “No use you batting yourself on the head. Miss Caroline is right. It makes no difference. Now, it seems to me that there are several possibilities that present themselves. The dear lady could have been in a carriage or gig with someone, and if that’s the case it was most likely with someone she knew.”

  North said, “Yes, that’s a strong possibility. I did speak to Mrs. Trebaw about the day I found your aunt, Caroline. She said Mrs. Penrose went riding every afternoon, just like clockwork. After you and I discussed her horse, Caroline, I spoke to her again, telling her that your aunt’s horse hadn’t left the stable. It seems then that your aunt must have gone for a walk that afternoon. She was fond of walking, Mrs. Trebaw said, and she went for walks like clockwork, if she wasn’t riding, that is. As to someone coming to Scrilady Hall and taking her for a ride in a carriage, she just doesn’t remember. It appears that’s something she didn’t do like clockwork. When you go back to Scrilady Hall, you should speak to her again, perhaps several more times, try to jog her memory. Also, once you’re back at the hall, and the mistress there, you will automatically have the confidence of the other servants, who wouldn’t even look me in the face, just stood there, shuffling their feet and saying they didn’t know anything.”

  “Nothing unusual in that,” Flash said matter-of-factly. “Servants have to be very careful about whose bread they’re seen buttering.”

  “I will,” Caroline said. “So it seems that Aunt Eleanor met someone away from Scrilady Hall.”

  “Or she was going for a walk and was abducted by a stranger,” North said. “But more likely, by someone she knew. Someone she liked, someone she trusted.”

  “Lots of possibilities,” Flash agreed. “As I said. However, I now know lots of bully boys in Goonbell and Mount Hawke and Trevellas. I’ll start nosing about, all subtle like, you know. The captain says I’m a quiet one with big ears, when it suits me to be so.” He leaned toward the bed, his hands clasped between his knees. “Miss Caroline, do you think young Bennett Penrose could have killed your aunt?”

  This was serious, dead serious. “I don’t know. When I first met him I just saw him as a sulky little boy with a nasty mouth and no spine, although he’s not a boy at all. He’s really twenty-eight. I just don’t know, Flash. When Mr. Brogan read her will, I know Bennett was furious at how things had been left. He was accusing Mr. Brogan of fakery, of being Aunt Eleanor’s lover, of cooking up evil plots and vile things. To answer your question, I think he could, yes. His is not an admirable character.”

  “That’s a good start, Flash. Find out where Mr. Bennett Penrose was when Eleanor Penrose was killed. If he was here in the area, then he goes to the head of the list and I will take great personal pleasure in sticking my face in his.”

  “If she was killed because of money,” Caroline said, “then I should be on that list.”

  “You would be,” North said coolly, “if you’d been in the neighborhood, but you weren’t. I already mentioned that to you, but you were a bit under the weather at the time, as I recall.” He rose. “Now, Caroline, I will speak personally to Polgrain and make certain he delivers you a dinner that won’t frighten off your guests unless it’s covered with a napkin. I’m sorry this happened, not surprised, but sorry.”

  She managed to smile despite the headache that was growing stronger by the moment. “It’s all right, North. I find I’m looking forward to what your men will do next. I admire ingenuity and they’ve lots of it.” She sighed. “I just wish there weren’t malice in there as well.”

  “I say,” Flash said. “What is that huge tome? The Nightingale family Bible, my lord
?”

  North was frowning at the massive tome. “No. What is it, Caroline?”

  “It’s your ancestors’ writings on the belief that King Mark lived and died here at Mount Hawke and not at Fowey. I just started it. The first notes are by the fifth Baron Hawke, Donniger George Nightingale, who was also the first Viscount Chilton. He wrote his opinions back in the beginning of the last century. That would make him your great-grandfather, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, he was the first Viscount Chilton.” North picked up the heavy volume and began paging through it. “I had no idea Great-Grandfather was such a lover of myth. He’s written nearly half of this, and it’s all in journal entries, something like a diary. Listen to this: ‘Over near the abandoned Wheal Weffel, my young dairymaid Barney found a piece of gold jewelry wrapped in a faded and crumbling piece of brilliant gold cloth. He brought it to me, holding it as carefully as a father would his baby boy. It was a gold armlet, very, very old, and on it was etched REX. It belonged to King Mark, of that I’m certain. I will keep it safe for all eternity, and when I find his burial place here on Nightingale land, I will reunite it with that blessed noble king.”’ North looked up. “Very interesting. Where the devil is this gold armlet that Great-Grandfather planned to keep for all eternity? I’ve never heard about it, never seen it.”

  “A dairymaid named Barney?” Flash said, laughing. “And your great-grandfather likened the boy’s reverence to a father holding his baby boy? That sounds rather odd, my lord. However, I would like to see that gold armlet. I wonder how much I could sell it for in London.”

  Caroline laughed. “A goodly amount, I’d say. Oh yes, now there’s a maid named Timmy. This is a house of men, and evidently it’s been that way for many, many years. You’re safe, Flash, you don’t have to worry about being poisoned or terrified out of your wits on a dark night; you’re the right sex.”

  She turned back to North, who was frowning over that huge book that his great-grandfather had filled with an alarming number of pages. She said, “If you’re interested, I’ll give you reports.”