The authorities had been lenient over Malcolm’s role in his guardian’s illegal and immoral scheme, but if they knew of Thomas Glendower and his investment accounts, they might not be inclined to be quite so forgiving.
That was a chance Malcolm wasn’t prepared to take. Aside from all else, he’d come to enjoy being Thomas, being the owner of this place. He resented having to leave so abruptly, to decamp and flee, but he was barely twenty-one; there would be time, eventually, for him to return to Cornwall, the manor and Thomas Glendower.
But he shared none of that with Jennings, who had no idea his alter ego existed. He cared not a whit if Jennings thought he was running like a scared rabbit; ego, he’d learned, was a weakness, a failing.
“We’re going tonight.” He met Jennings’s gaze. “I’m leaving most of my things here. I’ll be packed, saddled and ready to ride in an hour. How long will it take you to get ready?”
Jennings was staying at a tiny cottage in the hamlet of Carleen, a mile or so north. He narrowed his eyes in thought. “Shouldn’t take more than an hour to get back to the cottage, pack and clear up, then get back here.”
Curtly, Malcolm nodded. “Good. I’ll meet you on the London road.”
Chapter 10
Midnight arrived; Madeline stood at her open bedroom window and listened as clocks throughout the house whirred, chimed and bonged. Everyone else was sound asleep; they’d got back from the castle more than an hour ago. Happy and tired, her brothers had trailed up to their rooms without her even having to hint; she and Muriel had exchanged fond glances and followed.
The household had settled. Unfortunately, she couldn’t.
Restless, as unsettled as the weather, she’d drifted to the window to stare out at the clouds scudding over the sky, concealing, then revealing the waning moon as they streamed past, driven by a strong offshore wind.
Her room faced inland, overlooking the gardens at the front of the house. From their earliest years, her brothers had claimed the rooms facing the sea; as when younger they’d been noisy and clamoring, she’d moved to this room at the far end of the opposite wing.
When Muriel had joined them, she’d reclaimed her childhood room in the central block of the house; Madeline had grown used to her isolation, to her privacy.
She leaned against the window frame; warm air wafted in, lifting her hair, setting it floating about her face and shoulders. She was smiling to herself, imaging how she must look, when a shifting shadow in the gardens caught her eye.
A deliberately moving shadow. She’d already doused her candle; her eyes had adjusted to the night. She watched long enough to be certain that a man was approaching the house, but he was walking surely and purposefully, albeit carefully, rather than skulking.
Once she was sure he was making for the morning room French doors—a route she knew her brothers occasionally used on nocturnal forays—she left the window, paused, considering, by her dressing table, then hefted the heavy silver candlestick she’d left there, and on silent feet went to the door.
Her slippers made no sound on the corridor runner. She knew the house literally better than the back of her hand; hugging the shadows, she made her way to the head of the stairs.
She knew the male she’d glimpsed hadn’t been Edmond or Ben, but in the poor light she hadn’t been able to tell whether he was Harry or not.
The thought of Harry, of the evidence of his evolving maturity she’d witnessed that evening—and Gervase’s earlier allusion to what might constitute the emerging Harry’s idea of adventure—made her wonder just how much he’d truly grown.
Was the man she’d glimpsed Harry returning from some tryst?
Given the time since they’d returned, it was possible.
If it was he, he’d never forgive her if she roused the household; he’d be embarrassed beyond measure.
But if it wasn’t Harry…they had an intruder in the house.
Straining her ears, she could just detect not footsteps but the faint creak of boards. From the familiar sounds, she tracked the man as he crossed the morning room; standing at the gallery rail, she looked down into the shadowy pit of the front hall, and saw the morning room door open.
Just in time she remembered her nightgown was white; she jerked back into the shadows, then inwardly swore. She didn’t want the intruder, if he wasn’t Harry, to glance up and see her at the top of the stairs. The candlestick was all very well, but surprise—as in her surprising him—would greatly help. But if she’d hesitated for just a second she might have been able to see if the man was Harry or not, but she hadn’t, so she didn’t know, and so now she had to retreat into the gloom behind the old suit of armor facing the stairhead.
And wonder if the intruder would climb the stairs.
As if in answer, a tread creaked. Raising the candlestick, she waited.
Straining through the shadows, she watched as a head slowly came into view.
Immediately she knew who it was. Stunned amazement held her motionless, long enough for him to reach the gallery. He glanced around; lowering the candlestick, she stepped around the armor to where the faint moonlight would reach her, and hissed, “What are you doing here?”
Gervase turned, studied her, then reached out and took the candlestick from her. “I couldn’t sleep.”
His gaze ran over her, from her head to her toes, paused at her bare feet, then, slowly, reversed direction. Blindly, he reached to the side and set the candlestick on a nearby sideboard. “As I was saying, I couldn’t sleep, and as you haven’t yet agreed to share my bed, I thought I’d join you in yours.”
He’d spoken in a rumbling murmur throughout, but his tone had subtly altered, sending delicious anticipation skittering down her spine. However…“You can’t be seri—”
She broke off as his lips covered hers. He’d moved so quickly, pulling her into his arms, she hadn’t even had time to squeak, and then he was kissing her, answering her question in a highly explicit manner—and she suddenly knew why she hadn’t been able to sleep.
Reaching up, spearing her fingers through his hair, she kissed him back. Voraciously.
For long moments they communed in the dark, then he broke off and darkly, nearly breathlessly demanded, “Your room?”
“End of the corridor.” She waltzed him in the right direction. He steered her toward her door.
How they ever reached it, let alone got inside the room with the door shut upon the world, she never knew. But once they were inside, clothes flew, not that she had many to lose, but that left her with more to strip from him, more to goad her impatience to fresh and frantic heights.
Then they were naked, skin to hot skin, hands feverishly reaching, touching, stroking, caressing, stoking the fires that burned from within, making them blaze.
And then they were tumbling into her bed, onto the crisp sheets. She gasped, clung, clutched as he spread her thighs wide, wedged his hips between and with one powerful surging thrust joined them.
They wrestled and rode, laughed, gasped and battled for supremacy even while the conflagration within built, then roared, and came racing through them.
Until it took them, consumed them, seared them and fused them, until she clung, weak and close to weeping with pleasure. Suspended over the void, senses sharp and bright, tense and tight. Waiting….
With one last thrust he sent her spinning, every nerve alight, every sense fracturing into a million shards of glittering, earthly delight.
Warmth welled as he joined her; bone-deep pleasure swelled and spilled through her, golden glory filling her veins as, on a groan, he lost himself in her.
Smiling deliriously, she wrapped her arms about him and, without hesitation or intention, surrendered to the night.
Several hours later, she stirred, then woke to the unexpected sensation of a hard, still-hot, naked male body beside her.
Instantly she knew who it was—her senses didn’t even jump, just purred. Turning onto her side, she looked at him, at the sliver of face she
could see given he was slumped facedown on the pillow beside hers.
She looked, let her gaze caress; unable to resist the temptation, she let her feelings creep from within and stretch. Tentative and strange. What she felt…wasn’t something she’d felt before.
Admitting as much was tantamount to acknowledging that this bordered on the dangerous, that fate’s time—her boon—might already be running out. That if she wanted her heart to remain safe, untouched, untrammeled, then she should think of pulling back, of bringing this liaison to a close.
She shifted her gaze, looking past his shoulder to the open window beyond. To the night sky, still dark and heavy with cloud.
“I’ll leave before it’s light.” At his mumbled words, she glanced at him. He continued, his voice muffled by the pillow, “No one will see or know.”
She hesitated, then lifted one hand, set her palm to his shoulder, savored the width of the muscle, the latent strength, then slowly, following her hand with her gaze, she ran it down the long line of his back to his hip. “So…you’ll stay for a while?”
Her soft whisper hung in the night.
He shifted, rolled onto his side, caught her hand and lifted it to his lips to place a heated kiss in her palm. Through the shadows he met her eyes. “I’ll stay…for as long as there’s night.”
It was she who stretched and closed the distance to bring her lips to his; she who kissed him, then pushed him onto his back.
When she rose above him in the dark and impaled herself on his hard length, she sighed.
Dangerous it might be, but she knew she wouldn’t be giving up this pleasure, giving him up, anytime soon.
Not because she would have to battle to deny him, fight him for every inch of separation, not because avoiding him would be a social and logistical nightmare. Regardless of all else, as she rode him slowly, savoring the heat, the sweet build of passion, knowing the firestorm that would eventually come, feeling his hands close strongly about her waist, feeling the delicious tension rise…no matter the distraction, or perhaps because of it, one truth shone clearly in her mind.
She wouldn’t be curtailing their liaison because she didn’t want to.
Because she didn’t want to deny herself this pleasure.
Because she didn’t want to give up the feelings that along with the glory of satiation filled and swamped her heart.
The next morning they met as arranged near Tregoose, where the road from Coverack joined the road from Lizard Point. Madeline rode between Gervase and Harry as they continued past Helston and out onto the road to Penzance.
Breage was a small village north of the road about two miles west of Helston. The manor house they sought, however, lay to the south, between the road and the cliffs; they followed a narrow lane, then turned up a drive that ultimately led them to the front door.
No groom appeared to take their horses; looking around, they tied their reins to the low branches of a nearby tree. Then, with Gervase at her shoulder and Harry just behind, Madeline walked to the door.
Gervase’s sharp knock was eventually answered by an older middle-aged man, his neat clothes concealed behind a worn apron.
He looked from one to the other, then settled his gaze on Gervase. “How can I help you, sir?”
“Lord Crowhurst, Miss Gascoigne and Viscount Gascoigne to see Mr. Glendower.”
The man’s eyes widened; he recognized the names. He bobbed a bow. “I’m sure the master would be happy to see you, m’lords, ma’am, but he’s been called away. Urgent-like. He left early this morning.”
“Did he, indeed?”
Madeline glanced at Gervase; his eyes had narrowed. Summoning a smile, she took charge. “And you would be?”
The man responded to her smile with a grateful nod. “Gatting, ma’am. Me and the missus do for Mr. Glendower.”
“I confess we hadn’t realized until recently that he’d come to live in the district. How long has he been here?”
“Only a month or so, ma’am. He stayed at Helston at first, but then he said he fell in love with the manor and bought it, and got us in—we were living with my Elsie’s sister in Porthleven, but looking for a post just like this.”
Madeline smiled understandingly. “Hard to come by in the country.”
Gatting visibly thawed. “Indeed, ma’am. Is there anything I can do for you? Take a message for the master, perhaps?”
Brows rising, she exchanged a glance with Gervase, then shook her head. “Do you have any idea how long he’ll be away?”
A cloud passed over Gatting’s face. “No, ma’am. In his note he said he couldn’t say, but that we’d be kept on indefinitely. His London solicitor will send our wages.”
“Well, that’s good news then, at least on your account. How did you find Mr. Glendower to work for?”
Gatting waggled his head. “Gentry can be difficult, begging y’r pardon m’lords, ma’am, but Mr. Glendower was a pleasant gentleman—young, not much past his majority, I’d venture, but he was nice, unassuming, easy to do for. Never any fuss or bother. My Elsie was relieved we didn’t have to move on.”
Harry leaned around Madeline. “Did he say where he was going?” When Gatting looked at him, Harry tipped his head toward Gervase and her. “We might be going up to town, and if he’s there, we might look him up if you could give us his direction.”
“Indeed.” She nodded. “That would be the neighborly thing to do.” She looked inquiringly at Gatting.
Who grimaced. “Aye, he did say it was to London he was going, but he left no word of where. Said just to keep any letters that might come for him, although he didn’t expect any.”
“Did he have another man with him?” Gervase asked. “An agent, or a servant or groom?”
Gatting shook his head. “It was only him. Said he didn’t need any man’s help to get himself dressed or saddle his horse.”
“Did he have many callers?”
“No, m’lord, not a one as far as we know.” Gatting paused, then amended, “Well, Elsie did say he’d had a caller one day, while we were off down to Porthleven. Said there were two chairs in the parlor with cushions squashed. Course, he could have just sat in both himself, but she seemed to think it wasn’t so and someone had called. But howsoever, we didn’t ask.”
“Naturally not.” Madeline smiled benedictorially on Gatting. “Thank you, Gatting, you’ve been most helpful.”
Gatting bowed. “I’m only sorry the master wasn’t here to greet you, ma’am.”
With nods, they turned away.
They didn’t speak until they were back on the track; Gervase reined in just before the main road. “So, we’re left wondering whether our conjecture is correct, and Glendower, having bought two mining leases recently, is in truth our ‘London gentleman.’”
She grimaced. “No agent, or at least none sighted. And the Gattings don’t think Glendower is a wrong ’un.” She met Gervase’s eyes. “One thing I’ve learned is that staff generally know.”
He nodded.
“But,” Harry said, “if Glendower is our man, then if he’s left the area and returned to London the rumors and the offers for leases should cease.”
“True.” Gervase gathered his reins. “If they do, then he’s almost certainly the one behind them, but if he remains absent…”
“Then the problem he’s been causing in the district will simply go away.” Madeline glanced at him. “If he stays away and all our problems evaporate, there’s no reason we need to pursue him, is there?”
Gervase nodded, his expression a touch grim. “That would be my conclusion—and unless I miss my guess, that was his conclusion, too.”
She widened her eyes. “You think he realized we were about to descend on him?”
“Don’t ask me how, but his sudden departure at the crack of dawn seems a little too coincidental for my money.”
Madeline considered, then shrugged. “As long as he remains out of our hair, I’m content to leave him be.” Shaking her reins, she urg
ed her chestnut forward.
As he held Crusader back to let her pass, Gervase’s gaze fell on the bright corona haloing her head; he remembered how it had felt when last night he’d run his hands through it, and decided she was right.
He and she had other fish to fry.
Flicking Crusader’s reins, he followed her onto the road.
At noon that day, eight men, all hailing from the London stews, gathered in the small parlor of a ricketty cottage outside Gweek. They knew each other at least by repute; a motley collecton of bruisers, thieves and cutthroats, they found themselves joined in what would in the general way of their lives have been an unlikely alliance.
As ordered, they’d traveled down to Cornwall singly or in pairs. They’d arrived at the cottage over the previous day.
The cottage, they’d just learned, was to be their home while they performed the duties required by their new master. For all of them the accommodation, cramped and run-down though it was, was a significant improvement over their London holes; when their master, taking up a stance before the cold hearth, asked if they had any complaints, all eight shook their heads.
Even had they had complaints, none would have voiced them; quite aside from the fact the gentleman paid well, there was something about him that discouraged even the most hardened from even contemplating crossing him.
“Good.” The gentleman—he was obviously and unquestionably that, even though he wore a black cloak, a hat low over his brow and a black silk scarf loosely wound around his chin—spoke with the bored accents of one born to rule. “As I informed you in London, I need you to locate and seize a cargo of mine that was due to arrive here, delivered to the banks of the Helford River, nine nights ago. The ship…”
He paused, dispassionately surveying their faces, then imperturbably went on, “Sailed from France, from a port in Brittany, by way of the Isles of Scilly. It was crewed by Frenchmen, not locals, although I was assured the French captain was one of the sort who knew these waters well.”