Quieter and more sensitive, Millie fixed Penny with an inquiring gaze. “If you’re sure you don’t need support? We wouldn’t mind coming with you, truly.”
“No—there’s no need, I assure you.” She smiled. “There’s no question of them dying, not yet.” She’d managed not to mention any name; both Millie and Julia were local landowners’ daughters, had married and continued to live locally—it was perfectly possible anyone she might mention would have relatives working at Essington Manor.
“I won’t be long.” She stepped back. “I’ll join you at the Pelican.”
“Very well.”
“We’ll order for you, shall we?”
“Yes, do, if I’m not there before you.”
With an easy smile, she left the sisters and crossed the cobbled street. She followed it slowly uphill, then, hearing the distant tinkle she’d been listening for, she paused and glanced back. Millie and Julia were just stepping into the apothecary’s tiny shop.
Penny walked on, then turned right down the next lane.
She knew the streets of Fowey well. Tacking down this lane, then that, she descended to the harbor, then angled up into the tiny lanes leading to the oldest cottages perched above one arm of the wharves. Although protected from the prevailing winds, the small cottages were packed cheek by jowl as if by huddling they could better maintain their precarious grip on the cliff side. The poorest section of the town, the cottages housed the fishermen and their families, forming the principal nest of the local smuggling fraternity.
Penny entered a passageway little wider than the runnel that ran down its center. Halfway up the steep climb, she halted. Settling her habit’s train more securely on her arm, she knocked imperiously on a thick wooden door.
She waited, then knocked again. At this hour, in this neighborhood, there were few people about. She’d checked the harbor; the fleet was out. It was the perfect time to call on Mother Gibbs.
The door finally cracked open an inch or two. A bloodshot eye peered through the gap. Then Penny heard a snort, and the door was opened wide.
“Well, Miss Finery, and what can I do for you?”
Penny left Mother Gibbs’s residence half an hour later, no wiser yet, but, she hoped, one step nearer to uncovering the truth. The door closed behind her with a soft thud. She walked quickly down the steep passageway; she would have to hurry to get back to the Pelican Inn, up on the High Street in the better part of town, in reasonable time.
Reaching the end of the passage, she swung around the corner.
Straight into a wall of muscle and bone.
He caught her in one arm, steadied her against him. Not trapping her, yet…she couldn’t move.
Couldn’t even blink as she stared into his eyes, mere inches away. In daylight, they were an intense dark blue, but it was the intelligence she knew resided behind them that had her mentally reeling.
That, and the fact she’d stopped breathing. She couldn’t get her lungs to work. Not with the hard length of him against the front of her.
Had he seen? Did he know?
“Yes, I saw which house you left. Yes, I know whose house it is. Yes, I remember what goes on in there.” His gaze had grown so sharp it was a wonder she wasn’t bleeding. “Are you going to tell me what you were doing in the most notorious fishermen’s brothel in Fowey?”
Damn! She realized her hands were lying boneless against his chest. She pushed back, dragged in a breath as he let her go and she stepped back.
Having air between them was a very good thing. Her lungs expanded; her head steadied. Grabbing up her skirt, she stepped past him. “No.”
He exhaled through his teeth. “Penny.” He reached out and manacled her wrist.
She halted and looked down at his long tanned fingers wrapped about her slender bones. “Don’t.”
He sighed again and let her go. She started walking, then recalled the Essingtons and walked faster. He kept pace easily.
“What could you possibly want from Mother Gibbs?”
She glanced briefly at him. “Information.”
A good enough answer to appease him, for all of six strides. “What did you learn?”
“Nothing yet.”
Another few steps. “How on earth did you—Lady Penelope Selborne of Wallingham Hall—make Mother Gibbs’s acquaintance?”
She debated asking him how he—now Earl of Lostwithiel—knew of Mother Gibbs, but his response might be more than she wanted to know. “I met her through Granville.”
He stopped. “What?”
“No—I don’t mean he introduced me.” She kept walking; in two strides he was again by her side.
“You’re not, I sincerely hope, going to tell me that Granville was so mullet-brained he frequented her establishment?”
Mullet-brained? Perhaps he hadn’t met Mother Gibbs by way of her trade. “Not precisely.”
Silence for another three steps. “Educate me—how does one imprecisely frequent a brothel?”
She sighed. “He didn’t actually enter the place—he grew enamored of one of her girls and took to mooning about, following the poor girl and buying her trinkets, that sort of thing. When he started propping up the wall in the passageway, languishing—for all I know serenading—Mother Gibbs said enough. She sent word to me through our workers and the servants. We met in a field and she explained how Granville’s behavior was severely disrupting her business. The local fisherlads didn’t fancy slipping through her door with the local earl’s son looking on.”
He muttered a derogatory appellation, then more clearly said, “I can see her point. So what did you do?”
“I talked to Granville, of course.”
She felt his glance. “And he listened?”
“Regardless of what else he was, Granville wasn’t stupid.”
“You mean he understood what would happen if you mentioned his habits to his mother.”
Looking ahead, she smiled tightly. “As I said, he wasn’t stupid. He saw that point quite quickly.”
“So Mother Gibbs owes you a favor, and you’ve asked her for information in return.”
That, in a nutshell, was it—her morning’s endeavor.
“You are not, I repeat not, going back there alone.”
His voice had changed. She knew those tones. She didn’t bother arguing.
He knew her too well to imagine that meant she’d agreed.
A frustrated hiss from him confirmed that, but he let the matter slide, which made her wonder what he was planning.
Regardless, they’d reached the High Street. She turned onto the wider pavement with Charles beside her.
And came face to face with Nicholas, Viscount Arbry.
She halted.
Charles stopped beside her. He glanced at her face, noted the momentary blankness in her expression while she decided what tack to take.
He looked at the man facing them. He’d also halted. One glance was enough to identify him as a gentleman of their class. No real emotion showed in his face, yet the impression Charles received was that he hadn’t expected to meet Penny, and if given the choice, would have preferred he hadn’t.
“Good morning, cousin.” Penny nodded in cool, distinctly mild greeting; smoothly, she turned to him. “I don’t believe you’ve met. Allow me to introduce you.” She glanced at the other man. “Nicholas Selborne, Viscount Arbry—Charles St. Austell, Earl of Lostwithiel.”
Arbry bowed; Charles nodded and offered his hand. While they shook hands, Penny said, “Nicholas is a distant cousin. His father is the Marquess of Amberly, who inherited Papa’s title and estates.”
Which might explain her coolness, but not Arbry’s hesitation. How distant was the connection, Charles wondered. More than the stipulated seven degrees? There was definitely more in the “cousins’ ” interaction that required explanation.
“Lostwithiel.” Arbry was studying him. “So you’re back at…the Abbey, isn’t it? A fleeting visit, I expect.”
Charles grinned, letti
ng his practiced facade of bonhomie bubble to his surface. “Restormel Abbey, yes, but as to the fleetingness of my visit, that remains to be seen.”
“Oh? Business?”
“In a manner of speaking. But what brings you here with the Season just commenced?” It was the question Arbry had wanted to ask him. Charles capped his inquisition with a studiously innocent, “Is your wife with you?”
“Nicholas isn’t married,” Penny said.
Charles glanced at her, then directed a look of mild inquiry at Arbry. He was a peer in line for a major title, appeared hale and whole, and looked to be about Charles’s age; if Charles should be in London getting himself a bride, so, too, should Arbry.
Arbry hesitated, then said, “I act as my father’s agent—there were aspects of the estate here that needed attention.”
“Ah, yes, there’s always something.” Charles darted a look at Penny. She’d managed the Wallingham Hall estate for years; if there was anything requiring attention, she would know, yet not a hint of anything resembling comprehension showed in her face.
Arbry was frowning. “I vaguely recall…I met your mother and sisters last time I was here. They gave me to understand you would be marrying shortly, that you intended to offer for some lady this Season.”
Charles let his smile broaden. “Very possibly, but unfortunately for all those interested in my private life, duty once again called.”
“Duty?”
The question was too sharp. Arbry definitely wanted to know why he was there. Charles glanced again at Penny, but she was watching Arbry; she wasn’t giving him any clues.
She was protecting someone. Could it be Arbry?
“Indeed.” He met Arbry’s eyes, dropped all pretense. “I’ve been asked to look into the possible traffic of military and diplomatic secrets through smuggling channels hereabouts during the late wars.”
Arbry didn’t blink. Not a single expression showed on his pale face.
Which gave him away just as surely; only someone exercising supreme control would be so unresponsive in the face of such a statement.
Still blank-faced, he said, “I hadn’t realized the…government had any real interest in pursuing the past.”
“As certain arms of the government are controlled by those who fought, or sent others to fight and die over the last decade and more, you may be assured the interest is very real.”
“And they’ve asked you to look into it? I thought you were a major in the Guards?”
“I was.” Charles smiled, deliberately cold, deliberately ruthless. “But I have other strings to my bow.”
Penny glanced around, desperate to break up the exchange of pleasantries. Nicholas might be good, but Charles could be diabolical. She didn’t want him to learn more, guess more, not yet. God only knew what he’d make of it, or how he might react.
Her gaze found Millie and Julia, both with faces alight, hurrying as fast as they decorously could to join her. And the two handsome gentlemen she’d somehow acquired. For quite the first time in her life she thoroughly approved of their blatant curiosity.
“Penelope! We were just coming to join you.” Julia beamed as the three of them turned. “We got held up in the apothecary’s.” She directed her gaze to the gentlemen; Millie did the same. “Lord Arbry, isn’t it?”
Nicholas had met them before; he bowed. “Mrs. Essington. Mrs. Essington.”
Charles turned fully to face them. He was taller than Nicholas; Millie’s and Julia’s gazes rose to his face. They both blinked, then delighted smiles lit their countenances.
“Charles!” Julia all but shrieked. “You’re back!”
“How delightful,” Millie cooed. “I had thought, from what your dear mama let fall, that you were quite fixed in London for the Season.”
Charles smiled, shook their hands, and deflected their questions. Penny heaved a sigh of relief. Now if only Nicholas would grab his chance and escape.
She was turning to nudge him along, when Julia gaily said, “You both must join us for luncheon—it’s gone one o’clock. If I know anything of gentlemen, you must be ravenous, and the Pelican has the best food in Fowey.”
“Oh, yes!” Millie’s eyes shone. “We’ve booked a private parlor—do join us.”
Charles glanced at Penny, then at Nicholas. “Indeed, why not?” His smile as he gazed at Nicholas was distinctly predatory. “What say you, Arbry? I can’t see any reason not to take advantage of such an invitation from such delightful company.”
Millie and Julia preened. They turned shining eyes on Nicholas.
Penny inwardly swore. Nicholas couldn’t do anything but agree.
With Julia, Millie, and Charles providing most of the conversation, the five of them walked the short distance to the Pelican Inn. As the landlord, all delighted gratification, bowed them into his best parlor, Penny hoped Nicholas understood that he was walking into a lion’s den, with a lion with very sharp teeth and even sharper wits beside him.
She was nursing an incipient headache by the time lunch ended. Predictably, Millie and Julia had filled the hour with bright conversation, retelling all the repeatable local gossip for Charles’s edification. He’d encouraged them, leaving him able to direct the occasional unexpected and unpredictable query at Nicholas, not that he’d learned anything from the exercise.
Nicholas was clearly on his guard, his attention focused on Charles, his attitude to everyone as it usually was, reserved and rather standoffish. She’d clung to the cool demeanor she always adopted around him; most put it down to understandable distance over his father’s assumption of her father’s estates.
Little did they know.
As they all rose and together quit the parlor, it occurred to her that, with Charles now present to draw his attention, Nicholas might lower his guard with her. She’d never given him reason to think she suspected him of anything; he had no idea she knew of the questions he’d asked the Wallingham grooms and gardeners, or of his visits to the local smugglers. He certainly didn’t know she’d been following him.
She raised her head as they emerged into the bright sunshine. Charles appeared beside her as she went down the steps into the inn yard. An ostler was holding her mare; she was about to wave him to the mounting block when Charles touched her back.
“I’ll lift you up.”
She would have frozen, stopped dead, simply refused, but he was walking half-behind her; if she stopped, he’d walk into her.
They reached the mare’s side. Charles’s hands were already sliding around her waist as she halted and turned.
Lungs locked, she glanced into his face as he gripped and effortlessly hoisted her up. But he wasn’t even looking at her, much less noticing her embarrassing reaction; his gaze was locked on Nicholas, helping Millie and Julia into their gig.
“How long has he been here?”
Slipping her boot into the stirrup he’d caught and positioned for her, she managed to breathe enough to murmur, “He arrived yesterday.”
That brought Charles’s dark gaze to her face, but an ostler appeared with his horse, and he turned away.
Nicholas had also asked for his horse—one of Granville’s hacks—to be brought out. He, too, mounted. Without actually discussing the matter, the five of them clopped out of the inn yard together, Nicholas riding attentively beside the gig, she and Charles bringing up the rear.
She watched Nicholas’s attempts to be sociable. Millie and Julia were thrilled, their day crowned by being able to claim they’d spent time conversing with both the two most eligible, and most elusive, gentlemen of the district.
“Has he been spending much time down here?”
Charles’s tone was low, noncommittal.
If she didn’t tell him, he’d ask around and find out anyway. “It’s his fourth visit since July, when he and his father came for Granville’s funeral. The longest he’s stayed is a week in December, but that was their first formal visit as owner, so to speak. He came down alone in February for five days, t
hen turned up yesterday.”
Charles said nothing more, but was aware she was watching her “cousin” with an assessing and cynical eye. He wasn’t surprised Nicholas had joined them on their way home; all through luncheon, he’d shot swift glances at Penny, concerned, yes, but not just in the usual way. There was definitely something between them.
They reached the Essington lane and farewelled Millie and Julia. By unspoken consent, he, Penny, and Nicholas cantered on together.