“Carstairs?”
“We’ve had no word of him, but that doesn’t mean Royce, hasn’t. Our ex-commander has a tendency to share only what he feels one needs to know.”
“We heard that he—Dalziel—is now Wolverstone.”
Charles nodded. “He was Marquess of Winchelsea all through his years of service, not that we ever knew. It was one of those twisted, only-in-the-British-nobility tales.”
“Regardless, his reputation is all but legendary. How long were you under his command?”
Logan and Charles settled to discuss wartime espionage. Linnet’s attention drifted. Soothed by the steady rocking of the carriage, she focused on the now black night outside, the wind raking the trees bordering the road.
No icy drafts penetrated the carriage. Registering that, she looked more closely, despite the enfolding dimness noted the superb craftsmanship, the luxurious trim. This wasn’t just a carriage—it was a very expensive carriage.
Presumably Charles’s—the earl’s.
She was out of her depth socially, but she’d already heard enough of Charles’s exploits, seen enough of him, to know he was a man very much like Logan. A man of action and adventure, doubtless infinitely happier riding into battle than doing the pretty in some hostess’s drawing room.
She could manage Charles, deal with him and any like him. Which was just as well.
She hadn’t made any final, reasoned decision to fall in with Logan’s insistence that for her safety, and that of those connected with her, she should travel on with him.
Yet here she was.
The rush from the inn and the battle in the narrow yard had made any further arguing moot. After seeing the cult’s members face-to-face, seeing Logan trying to defend against three simultaneously—something no swordsman, no matter how brilliant, could be certain of doing and living to tell the tale—she was no longer focused on rejoining the Esperance and setting sail for home. Not yet.
Given the icy fear she’d experienced in that poky little, yard, given the aftermath still fading from her muscles, from her very bones, she would stay with Logan and travel on with him until his mission was complete.
Not for her safety, but for his.
That she could tip the scales in engagements such as the one in the yard—the most likely type he would encounter in winning through to his goal, wherever in England that was—owed nothing to starry-eyed, foolhardy optimism but was simple fact. Men never expected a woman to fight. They discounted her presence, her ability, and that instantly gave her, and the side she fought on, an advantage, one she was well equipped to exploit.
She paused, pressing her mind to rationally examine her decision—an impulsive one, yet all her instincts screamed it was right. No matter which way she twisted the facts, she came up with the same answer—the same best plan.
She would continue on with Logan, guarding him while he guarded her, until he reached his goal and successfully concluded his mission. Then she would bid him farewell and return home to Guernsey, to Mon Coeur, leaving him to the life he would live—would choose to live—once he returned to the world in which he belonged.
Glancing at him, then at Charles, she gathered her cloak closer and settled into the well-padded seat.
Minutes later, the carriage slowed, then turned right. Looking out, she glimpsed a signpost, managed to decipher Totnes. “Where are we heading?” She looked at Charles, remembered. “Paignton Hall, I think you said.”
Charles nodded. “It’s south of Paignton itself, on the coast beyond Totnes. It’s Deverell’s—Viscount Paignton’s—family seat.”
“My other guard?” Logan asked.
“Indeed. There were four of you coming in, and Royce could call on eight of us, so you each have two guards to conduct you to our erstwhile leader’s presence. You’ll be relieved to learn that for the occasion he’s wintering on his estate in Suffolk, and not at his principal seat, Wolverstone Castle, on the border in Northumbria.” Charles glanced at Linnet, smiled reassuringly. “Paignton Hall is our refuge for the moment—a safe place to take stock. The Hall is built into the husk of an old castle—quite neat. They have the views, the position, the outer walls and the bailey, but not the drafts.”
His gaze slid over her; his expression, his smile, what she could see of it in the dimness, turned decidedly wry. “Penny, my wife, and Deverell’s wife, Phoebe, are going to be utterly thrilled to meet you. If I could just mention, if you could avoid giving them too many ideas, Deverell and I will be forever grateful.”
Linnet stared at him. She was tempted to ask exactly what he meant, but … he’d just informed her she was going to be staying at an aristocratic residence—part castle, no less—in the company of ladies, and all she could think was that she had only one gown—and that a traveling gown—with her.
Still smiling, Charles shifted his gaze to Logan. “I meant to mention—we have a connection of sorts through our fathers. Along the lines of my father the earl knew your father the earl. Apparently they first took their seats in the Lords on the same day and remained acquaintances ever after—connected via a shared ordeal, you might say.”
Slowly, all but unable to believe her ears, Linnet turned her head to stare at Logan. He was an earl’s son?
His gaze on Charles, he shrugged lightly. “My father died some years ago—he never mentioned the acquaintance, but we weren’t close.”
He asked about Charles’s home, which was, apparently, Lostwithiel Castle—a real castle, drafts and all—in Cornwall.
Linnet heard, but wasn’t truly listening. Traveling on with Logan was leading her into waters far deeper, and more strewn with reefs, than she’d foreseen.
As if to emphasize just how out of her depth she was, their arrival at Paignton Hall went entirely counter to her expectations.
The Hall itself was everything Charles had promised. But from the moment the carriage halted in what was clearly the old inner bailey and she followed the men out onto the cobbles, in a nod to feminine decorum allowing Logan to hand her down, nothing went quite as she’d expected.
For a start, a beautiful, willowy blond in a simple woollen gown came rushing down the steps to fling herself into Charles’s arms. He caught her with a laugh, kissed her soundly—but then she pulled back and pinned him with a narrow-eyed look. “You’ve been fighting. I can tell. Have you been wounded?”
The quality of Charles’s smile as he slung an arm about the lady’s shoulders was breathtaking. “Such confidence in my swordwork. But no—I didn’t take so much as a scratch.” He looked up as another couple descended the steps to join them, the gentleman dark-haired and distinguished looking—a somewhat less obvious version of Logan and Charles—the lady on his arm with dark auburn hair, and a kind, openly welcoming smile on her face.
They proved to be their host and hostess, Viscount and Viscountess Paignton. Charles made the introductions.
While the men shook hands, Paignton—who went by the name of Deverell—expressing his disgust that he’d missed the action, both ladies, far from turning up their aristocratic noses as Linnet had fully expected, smiled delightedly and welcomed her eagerly, touching fingers, then turning to flank her as they escorted her up the front steps. “You truly are most welcome,” Phoebe, Viscountess Paignton, assured her. “I had no idea Monteith was bringing a lady with him, but I’m delighted he did.”
Linnet looked from one delicate face to the other, sensed sincerity and a certain determination behind both, and felt curious enough to admit, “The truth is, I had no idea I would be traveling on with him. I found him shipwrecked on my land on Guernsey, my household cared for him until he regained his strength and his memory, then I brought him to Plymouth on my ship, but I expected to leave him there and sail home—”
She broke off as they halted in the lamplit front hall and Lady Penelope waved her hands to halt Linnet’s words. “Wait, wait! I’m already dying with envy. First let me say that along with Phoebe here, I am most sincerely thrilled to see y
ou, because you clearly know something about this mission all our men are about to embark on, so you can tell us—give us a feminine view of the matter. However, my head is reeling, filled with avidly green jealousy.”
In the better light, along with Phoebe, Lady Penelope ran her shrewd gaze down Linnet, taking in her jacket, leather breeches, high boots, and her cutlass still riding at her hip, then she pointed a delicate finger at the cutlass. “Don’t tell me they allowed you to fight alongside them?”
Linnet looked from one openly amazed face to the other, but could detect not a single hint of censure. “I didn’t actually ask their permission.”
Lady Penelope blinked, asked of no one in particular, “Why didn’t I ever think of that?”
Intrigued, Linnet added, “I have two daggers in my boots, as well.”
“Did you account for any of the attackers?” Phoebe’s eyes had hardened, her chin firm.
“Two. But we didn’t wait to check if they were dead. It started off as nine to three, and once we’d accounted for the first nine, there were more coming, so we ran.”
“May I?”
Linnet turned to find Lady Penelope with a hand hovering by her—Linnet’s—thigh, fingers waggling, wanting to touch her breeches. Bemused, already fascinated by these totally unexpected gently bred females, Linnet nodded. “Of course.”
The Countess of Lostwithiel ran her hand over the fine, butter-soft leather, felt its quality, and heaved a long, wistful sigh. “Please call me Penny—and I would really love a pair, like that. Can I inveigle you into telling me where you got them? On Guernsey, or farther afield? Not that I care—I’ll send Charles anywhere.”
“Actually, they’re from much nearer to hand.” Linnet grinned at Penny’s eager expression. “Exeter—there’s a leathermaker there I convinced to make them for me. I can give you his direction.”
Penny clasped her hands to her bosom, her face alight. “Wonderful! I’ve just decided what Charles can get me to make amends over me having to miss the action in this latest adventure.”
“I’m still working on what to wring from Deverell,” Phoebe said. “But I have another question. You said you conveyed Monteith to Plymouth on your ship. You own a ship? Do you sail it?”
Her lips curving irrepressibly, Linnet snapped a jaunty salute. “I’m afraid I left my captain’s hat on board, but I’m Captain Trevission, owner of Trevission Ships, and in particular, the barque the Esperance.” She glanced over her shoulder at Logan, lightly frowned. “Mind you, I’m not, at this precise moment, exactly sure where my ship is. My crew were seduced into letting me be carried off it, but I suspect the Esperance is currently riding in Plymouth Sound, safely tucked among His Majesty’s warships.”
The men had followed them into the hall. Logan heard her comment, smiled crookedly, and inclined his head.
“I think,” Phoebe said, tucking her arm in Linnet’s, “that you and I, Penny, should escort Captain Trevission to a nice guest room, and learn just how she’s achieved such things in no more years than we’ve had.”
“Indeed.” Penny took Linnet’s other arm. “Clearly there’s much here we can learn.”
When Phoebe paused to give instructions to her kindly butler and her efficient-looking housekeeper, Linnet glanced back at the three men, and saw Charles’s and Deverell’s faintly concerned expressions—remembered Charles’s, comment about not giving their ladies ideas—and finally understood.
Smiling, she looked ahead and allowed Penny and Phoebe to sweep her up the stairs. “Actually, there is one thing you could help me with.” Reaching the head of the stairs, she glanced at Penny, confirming, as they started along the corridor, that they were much the same height and not dissimilar in shape. “In return for the direction of my breeches maker.”
“Anything!” Penny declared. “At the moment, I would even gift you with my firstborn—he’s been a handful all day, wanting to follow his father, of course.”
Linnet laughed. “Thank you, but I have one of those—well, not mine, but one of my wards. But I really do need some gowns.”
“My wardrobe is yours.” Penny smiled intently. “Just as long as you tell us all you know.”
“All,” Phoebe said, halting at a door along the main corridor, “that our dear husbands are keeping to their chests.”
She set the door swinging wide, then ushered Linnet in. “Now—how about a bath?”
She had, Linnet decided, landed in some strange heaven.
She’d never had feminine companionship like this—freely offered, from ladies of her own class, her own generation. It was … a revelation.
Under Phoebe’s direction, a bath had been prepared, and Linnet had luxuriated, then Penny had arrived with a selection of gowns, all of which she’d insisted Linnet take, assuring her, “I always pack so much more than I need.”
While Linnet had dressed, then dried and combed out her hair, the other two had perched in the window seat and they’d talked. They’d shared bits and pieces of their lives openly with her, and she’d found herself reciprocating.
She and Penny had exchanged tales of horses and riding, shipwrecks and sailing, and she’d listened with rapt attention while Phoebe had explained about her agency, then, they’d listened with real interest while she’d described Mon Coeur and explained about her wards.
Phoebe had instantly volunteered her agency should any of Linnet’s brood ever want to find work in England. “I can always place well-educated young women, and even young men, as companions or personal secretaries.”
Linnet had had no idea aristocratic ladies were so engaged and active.
When she’d said so, Penny had pulled a face. “The sad truth is, a lot aren’t, but we are, and all those you’ll meet when you reach Elveden—the end of your journey—are like us, too. We have the position, the wherewithal, and the ability, and so we do. Sitting and embroidering is definitely not for us.”
Phoebe had laughed. “In fact, not many of us can embroider. Minerva, Royce’s wife, does, beautifully, and perhaps Alicia might. But most of us are not, as one might say, accomplished in that direction.”
Linnet had grinned. “In that respect, at least, I’ll fit in.”
By the time the three of them went downstairs to join the men for dinner, Linnet was, to her very real surprise, relaxed, at ease, and indeed, in that moment at least, enjoying herself.
Not that she didn’t have a bone or two to pick with Logan, but that would have to wait until later.
Over dinner, the others were eager to hear about Logan’s mission thus far, from its beginning in India to when he and Linnet had arrived at the Seafarer’s Arms.
Reassured that all was well with Linnet—very aware that it was at his insistence that she’d been forced into a world she wasn’t accustomed to, and that any consequent unhappiness would lie at his door, and thus relieved and cravenly grateful to Penny and Phoebe for smoothing her way—Logan set himself to succinctly but comprehensively satisfy their curiosity.
Linnet listened, too, no doubt adding flesh to the bare bones he’d previously revealed to her, but she left all questions, to the others. Charles and Deverell were experienced interrogators; they knew what to ask to clarify his story.
When it came to Linnet’s part in it, he didn’t hold back. She blushed at his compliments, his very real praise, tried to deflect attention by claiming it was no more than anyone else would have done—which argument none of the others accepted.
Penny waved Linnet’s words aside. “There’s no help for it—you’re heroine material. No point trying to clamber off the pedestal. You’ll just have to get used to the height.”
Which shut Linnet up. Logan thought she was dumfounded, which in his admittedly short experience was a first.
He took pity on her and quickly summed up their time in Plymouth, which brought them to the present and Paignton Hall.
They paused to allow the empty dessert dishes to be cleared.
When the footmen had withdrawn, Deve
rell asked, “So your mission’s a decoy run?”
When Logan nodded, Charles said, “From the way Royce is managing the four individual threads of this action, I suspect Delborough’s most likely a decoy, too. Hamilton I’m not sure about.”
Logan thought of his comrades, of Gareth, and especially Rafe, about whom he’d yet to hear definite information. He stirred, looked down the table at Deverell, then across it at Charles. “So what now? Where to from here?”
Deverell raised his brows at Phoebe, at the other end of the table. “Shall we repair to the drawing room to make our plans?”
Phoebe nodded decisively. “Yes, let’s. Aside from all else, we ladies aren’t about to leave you gentlemen to swap secrets over the port. If you want any spirits, bring the decanters with you.”
Deverell checked with Charles and Logan, but as none of them felt the need for any further bolstering, they left the decanters on the sideboard and fell in on the ladies’ heels as they led the way to the drawing room.
A minor distraction occurred when the respective nannies ushered in the Deverell and St. Austell children to say their goodnights. Logan watched as Linnet smiled and shook hands with Charles’s two little boys, and Deverell’s eldest daughter and his son, admitting that yes, she really was a ship’s captain, that yes, her ship was a big one with lots of sails, an oceangoing vessel, not a sailboat, but that as yet she hadn’t ordered anyone to walk the plank.
Satisfied, the children smiled huge smiles, bobbed bows and curtsies, and chorused their goodnights.
Penny and Phoebe handed their youngest children—Penny’s daughter, Phoebe’s second girl—to their husbands to jiggle, kiss, then return to the nannies’ waiting arms.
When the door finally shut behind the small cavalcade, Penny fixed her eyes on her husband’s face. “Right. Now cut line, and tell us what your orders are.”