A Lady of His Own (5 page)

He considered going near enough to push the swing higher, but he didn’t think he could get so close without her knowing. Not that she’d hear or see him, but she’d sense him the instant he got nearer than two yards.

That had been the case for as long as he could remember. He could effectively silence enemy pickets, but sneaking up on Penny had never worked. He’d only succeeded the previous night because, unsure of her identity, he’d kept his distance until the last.

Now, however, there were things she had to tell him. He needed to make clear that, no matter what she thought, she had no choice; telling him, and soon, was her only option. After meeting Arbry, he wasn’t prepared to allow her to keep her secrets to herself for even one more day; he needed her to tell him so he could effectively step between her and all he’d been sent to investigate, including, it now seemed, her “cousin” Arbry.

If he could separate her from the investigation, he would, but he couldn’t see any way of managing that yet.

One step at a time. He needed to learn all she knew about this business. Had she been any other woman, he’d already have started plucking nerves of various sorts, but with Penny such tactics weren’t an option, at least not for him. His plucking her nerves was too painful for them both. Just lifting her to her saddle that afternoon had been bad enough, and he hadn’t even been trying. He’d distracted her by asking after Arbry, and she’d recovered quickly, but…not that way. All he could do was be water dripping on stone.

He strolled toward her, deliberately making noise. “Tell me—why did you choose to come to the Abbey?”

Penny glanced at him. Slowly swinging, she watched as he leaned against a nearby tree trunk; hands in his breeches’ pockets, he fixed his dark gaze on her.

They’d been lovers once. Just once.

Once had been enough for her to realize that continuing to be lovers would not be wise, not for her. He’d been twenty, she sixteen; for him, the encounter had been purely physical, for her…something so much more. Yet their physical connection continued; even now, after thirteen years and her best efforts to subdue her susceptibility, it still sprang to quivering life the instant he got close. Close enough for her to sense, to be able to touch—to want. Even now, looking at him leaning with casual grace against the tree, the breeze stirring his black hair, his eyes dark and brooding fixed on her, her heart simply stopped. Ached.

Her susceptibility irritated, annoyed, sometimes even disgusted her, yet she’d been forced to accept that regardless of him having no reciprocal feelings for her, she would always love him; she didn’t seem able to stop. That, however, was something he didn’t know, and she had no intention of letting him guess.

Forcing her eyes from him, she looked ahead and continued to swing. “Nicholas is no fool. If I was following him out of the Wallingham Hall stables, he’d notice.”

“How often have you followed him?”

She swung a little more, considering how much, if anything, to reveal. “I first realized he was visiting places no nonlocal gentleman such as he should know of in February. I don’t think he’d started before then—none of the grooms were aware of it if he had—but in February he spent all five days he was down here riding out. I’d done the same then as I did this time, coming here to the Abbey when he arrived, so I didn’t realize he was also riding out by night until it was too late.”

His silence made it clear there was a lot in that he didn’t like. Eyes on the corn rising green in his fields, she said nothing more, just waited.

“Where did he go? Smugglers’ haunts, I assume, but which?”

She hid a resigned smile; he hadn’t missed the point of her seeing Mother Gibbs. “All the major gathering places in Polruan, Bodinnick, Lostwithiel, and Fowey.”

“No farther afield?”

“Not as far as I know, but I missed his nighttime excursions.”

“Did you ask Mother Gibbs what he’d been doing in those places?”

“Yes.”

When she didn’t elaborate, he prompted, his voice carrying a wealth of compulsion—no, intimidation. “And?”

She set her jaw. “I can’t tell you—not yet.”

A moment passed, then he said, “You have to tell me. I need to know—this isn’t a game.”

She looked at him, met his eyes. “Believe me, I know it’s not a game.”

She paused, holding his gaze, then went on, “I need to think things through, to work out how much I actually know and what it might mean
before
I tell you. As you’ve already realized, what I know concerns someone else, someone whose name I can’t lightly give to the authorities. And regardless of all else, you, in this, are ‘the authorities.’ ”

His gaze sharpened. For a long moment, he studied her, then quietly said, “I may represent the authorities in this, but I’m still…much the same man I was before, one you know very well.”

She inclined her head. “My point exactly. Much the same, perhaps, but you’re not the same man you were thirteen years ago.”

That was the matter in a teacup. Until she knew how and in what ways he’d changed, he remained, not a stranger but something even more confusing, an amalgam of the familiar and the unknown. Until she understood the here-and-now him better, she wouldn’t feel comfortable trusting him with what she knew.

What she thought she knew.

Recalling her intention in coming to the orchard, she rubbed a finger across her forehead, then looked at him. “I haven’t yet had a chance to work out what the snippets I’ve learned amount to—I need time to think.” She stopped the swing and stood.

He straightened away from the tree.

“No.” She frowned at him. “I do not need your help to think.”

That made him smile, which helped her thought processes even less.

She narrowed her eyes. “If you want me to tell you all, soon, then you’ll allow me a little peace so I can get my thoughts in order. I’m going to my room—I’ll tell you when I’m prepared to divulge what I’ve learned.”

Head rising, she stepped out, intending to sweep past him. The trailing skirt of her habit trapped her ankle.

“Oh!” She tripped, fell.

He swooped, caught her to him, drew her upright. Steadied her within his arms.

Her lungs seized. She looked up, met his eyes.

Felt, as she had years ago, as she always did when in his arms, fragile, vulnerable…intensely feminine.

Felt again, after so many years, the unmistakable flare of attraction, of heat, of flagrant desire.

Her gaze dropped to his lips; her own throbbed, then ached. Whatever else the years had changed, this—their private madness—remained.

Her heart raced, pounded. She hadn’t anticipated that he would still want her. Lifting her eyes to his, she confirmed he did. She’d seen desire burn in his eyes before; she knew how it affected him.

He wasn’t trying to hide what he felt. She watched the shades shift in those glorious dark eyes, watched him fight the urge to kiss her. Breath bated, helpless to assist, she waited, tense and tensing, eyes locked with his, for one crazed instant not sure what she wanted…

He won the battle. Sanity returned, and she breathed shallowly again as his hold on her gradually, very gradually, eased.

Setting her on her feet, he stepped back. His eyes, dark and still burning, locked with hers. “Don’t leave it too long.”

A breeze ruffled the trees, sent a shower of petals swirling down around them. She searched his eyes. His tone had been harsh. She wished she had the courage to ask what he was referring to—divulging her secrets, or…

Deciding that in this case discretion was indeed the better part of valor, she gathered her skirts and walked back to the house.

S
WEEPING INTO THE
A
BBEY
’
S DRAWING ROOM AT SEVEN
o’clock, just ahead of Filchett, she fixed Charles, watching her from before the massive fireplace, with a narrow-eyed glare, then stepped aside to allow Filchett to announce that dinner was served.

Unperturbed, Charles nodded to Filchett and came to take her hand.

Steeling herself, she surrendered it, but didn’t bother to curtsy. As he laid her fingers on his sleeve and turned her to the door, she stated with what she felt was commendable restraint, “I would have been quite happy with a tray in my room.”

“I, however, would not.”

She bit her tongue, elevated her nose. She knew better than to waste breath arguing with him.

Half an hour after she’d regained her room, a maid had tapped on her door and inquired whether she would like a bath. She’d agreed; a long, relaxing soak was just what she’d needed. The steam had risen, wreathing about her; her thoughts had circled, constantly returning to the crucial question. Could she trust Charles, the Charles who now was?

She still wasn’t sure, but now understood she couldn’t—wasn’t going to be allowed to—put him off for much longer. Witness this dinner he’d jockeyed her into.

When the maid, Dorrie, had returned to inquire which gown she wanted laid out, she’d replied she intended to have dinner in her chamber. Dorrie’s eyes had grown round. “Oh, no, miss! The master’s told Mrs. Slattery you’ll dine with him.”

An exchange of notes had followed, culminating in one from Charles informing her she would indeed be dining with him—where was up to her.

She’d opted for the safety of the dining parlor, the smaller salon the family used when not entertaining. He sat her at one end of the table, then walked to the carved chair at its head. The table was shorter than usual—every last leaf had been removed—yet there was still eight feet of gleaming mahogany separating them. Nothing to overly exercise her.

Reaching for the wineglass Filchett had just filled, she smiled her thanks as the butler stepped back, and reminded herself that dinner alone with Charles didn’t mean they’d actually be alone.

A gust of wind splattered rain across the window. It had been pouring for the last twenty minutes. At least Nicholas wouldn’t be scouting about tonight; she wasn’t missing anything.

As soon as the first course was served, Charles signaled Filchett, who, along with the footmen, withdrew.

Charles turned his gaze on her. “I checked in
Debrett’s
. Amberley, Nicholas’s father, was with the Foreign Office.”

She nodded and continued eating her soup. She waited as long as she dared before replying, “He retired years ago—’09, or thereabouts.”

What else had he pieced together? There was only one major fact she knew that he still didn’t. Would he guess…or might he connect Nicholas directly with the smugglers and not realize there was—had been—an intervening link?

Setting down her spoon, she reached for her napkin, glanced at him as she patted her lips. He was finishing his soup, his expression uninformative, but then he glanced down the table and caught her eye.

He’d seen the alternatives.

She looked away as Filchett and his minions returned.

Leaning back in his chair, Charles waited until the main course had been served and Filchett had once more retreated. “Did Nicholas visit Wallingham often over the years before Granville’s death?”

She kept her gaze on her plate. “He’s visited off and on since he was a child—Amberly and Papa were close friends.”

“Indeed?”

The word sounded mild; she wasn’t deceived.

“But Nicholas hasn’t been a regular visitor here over the last decade?”

She wished she could lie, but he’d check and find her out. “No.”

To her surprise, he left it at that and gave his attention to the roast lamb.

From beneath his lashes, Charles watched her, and let her nerves stretch. She was waiting, keyed up to meet his next tack, his next inquisitorial direction. In lieu of intimidating her in any other fashion, he’d opted for demonstrating that he wouldn’t retreat, but instead, question by question, would press harder until she capitulated and told him all she knew.

The time he was willing to give her to think had become severely limited the instant he’d realized Arbry was involved; it had shortened even further when he’d learned Amberly had been with the Foreign Office, the very office the putative traitor was supposed to have graced.

He held his peace until Mrs. Slattery’s lemon curd pudding was set before them and Filchett departed. Lemon curd pudding was his favorite; delicious, it was gone in too few bites. Lifting his wineglass, he sat back and sipped, and looked down the table at Penny.

“You’re protecting someone, but it isn’t Arbry.”

She looked up; he trapped her gaze.

“So who else? Your family is all female, as is mine these days. None of them are involved.”

She swallowed her last mouthful of pudding. “Of course not.”

“So who else could be involved in running secrets out of the Fowey estuary—who that you would feel compelled to protect?” That was what was fueling her refusal to tell him; that was the point he needed to attack.

When she set down her spoon and looked back at him, unmoved, he arched a brow. “The staff at Wallingham, perhaps?”

Her gaze turned contemptuous. “Don’t be silly.”

“Mother Gibbs herself?”

“No.”

“Her sons, then—are the Gibbses still running the Fowey Gallants?”

She frowned in mock confusion. “I’m not sure how to answer—yes, or no. But yes, they’re still in charge of the Gallants. I daresay they always will be—Gibbses have been Gallants for over four hundred years.”

“Do they still meet at the Cock and Bull?”

“Yes.”

So she’d been there—followed someone there—recently. “Do you have any idea if they’ve been involved in running secrets?”

“I don’t know.”

“So which other gangs are still operating?”

He took her on a seemingly peripatetic ramble around the district; often it wasn’t her answer that enlightened, but the fact she gave any answer at all that told him who she’d recently had contact with, or thought to ask about.

It was the speed at which his questions came that finally opened Penny’s eyes. They were immersed in a rapid-fire discussion of the Essington brothers, Millie’s and Julia’s husbands, when the scales fell. She stopped midsentence, stared at him for a moment, then shut her lips. Firmly.

He accorded her glare no more than an arched brow, a what-did-you-expect look.

Indeed. Tossing her napkin on the table, she rose. He, more languidly, rose, too.

“If you’ll excuse me, I believe I’ll retire for the night.”

She turned, but by then he’d reached her. He walked beside her to the door. Closing his hand about the knob, he paused and looked down at her. Waited…until she steeled herself, looked up, and met his eyes.

“No game, Penny. I need to know. Soon.”

They were no more than a foot apart; regardless of her senses’ giddy preoccupation, the look in his midnight eyes was unmistakable. He was deadly serious. But he was dealing with her straightly, no histrionics, no attempt to dazzle her, to pressure her as only he could.

He had to know he could; that moment in the orchard had demonstrated beyond question how much sensual power he still wielded over her.

If he wished to use it.

Tilting her head, she swiftly studied his eyes, realized, understood that he’d made a deliberate choice not to invoke their personal past, not to use the physical connection that still sparked between them against her, to overcome, overwhelm, and override her will.

He was dealing with her honestly. Just him and her as long ago they’d used to be.

Moved, feeling oddly torn—tempted to grasp the chance of dealing openly with him again—she raised a hand, briefly clasped his arm. “I will tell you. You know that.” She drew in a tight breath. “But not yet. I do need to think—just a bit more.”

He searched her eyes, her face, then inclined his head. “But only a little bit more.” He opened the door, followed her through. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

She nodded a good night, then climbed the stairs.

Charles watched her go, then headed for the library.

In one respect his prediction went awry; he saw her next very late that night.

After spending three hours leafing through
Burke’s Peerage
and
Debrett’s
, studying Amberly’s connections, then looking for locals with connections to the Foreign Office or other government offices, trying to identify who Penny might feel she should protect, all to no avail, he turned down the lamps and climbed the stairs as the clocks throughout the house struck half past eleven.

Halting on the landing, he looked up at the huge arched window, at the stained glass depicting the St. Austell family crest. Rain beat a staccato rhythm against the panes; the wind moaned softly. The elements called, tugged at that wilder, more innocent side of him the years had buried, teased, tempted…

Lips curving in cynical self-deprecation, he took the left branch of the stairs and climbed upward, heading not for his apartments as he’d originally intended but to the widow’s walk.

High on the Abbey’s south side immediately below the roof, the widow’s walk ran for thirty feet, a stone-faced, stone-paved gallery open on one side, the wide view of the Fowey estuary framed by ornate railings. Even in deepest night with the moon obscured by cloud and the outlook veiled by rain, the view would be magnificent, eerily compelling. A reminder of how insignificant in Nature’s scheme of things humans really were.

His feet knew the way. Courtesy of the years, he moved silently.

He halted just short of the open archway giving onto the walk; Penny was already there.

Seated on a stone bench along the far wall, one elbow on the railing, chin propped on that hand, she was staring out at the rain.

There was very little light. He could just make out the pale oval of her face, the faint gleam of her fair hair, the long elegant lines of her pale blue gown, the darker ripple of her shawl’s knotted fringe. The rain didn’t quite reach her.

She hadn’t heard him.

He hesitated, remembering other days and nights they’d been up here, not always but often alone, just the two of them drawn to the view. He remembered she’d asked for time alone to think.

She turned her head and looked straight at him.

He didn’t move, but Penny knew he was there. To her eyes he was no more than a denser shadow in the darkness; if he hadn’t been looking at her, she’d never have realized.

When he didn’t move, when she sensed his hesitation, she looked back at the wet night. “I haven’t yet made up my mind, so don’t ask.”

She sensed rather than heard his sigh.

“I didn’t realize you were here.”

He’d thought her in her chamber; he couldn’t have known otherwise. She returned no comment, unperturbed by his presence; he was too far away for her senses to be affected—she didn’t, otherwise, find him bothersome to be near. And she knew why he’d come there—for much the same reason she had.

But now he was present, and she was, to o…she tried to predict his next tack, but he surprised her.

“You weren’t
that
amazed to learn I’d been a spy. Why?”

She couldn’t help but smile. “I remember when you returned for your father’s funeral. Your mother was…not just happy to see you, but grateful. I suppose I started to wonder then. And she was forever slipping into French when she spoke to you, far more than she usually does, and you were so secretive about which regiment you were in, where you were quartered, which towns you’d been through, which battles…normally, you would have been full of tales. Instead, you avoided talking about yourself. Others put it down to grief.” She paused, then added, “I didn’t. If you’d wanted to hide grief, you would have talked and laughed all the harder.”

Silence stretched, then he prompted, “So on the basis of that one episode…”

She laughed. “No, but it did mean I had my eyes open the next time you appeared.”

“Frederick’s funeral.”

“Yes.” She let her memories of that time color her tone; Frederick’s death had been a shock to the entire county. “You were late—you arrived just as the vicar was about to start the service. The church door had been left open, there were so many people there, but the center aisle had been left clear so people could see down the nave.

“The first I or anyone knew of your presence was your shadow. The sun threw it all the way into the church, almost to the coffin. We all turned and there you were, outlined with the sun behind you, a tall, dramatic figure in a long, dark coat.”

He humphed. “Very romantic.”

“No, strangely enough you didn’t appear romantic at all.” She glanced at him. He was concealed within the shadows of the archway, leaning back against the arch’s side, looking out; she could discern his profile, but not his expression. She looked back at the rain-washed fields. “You were…intense. Almost frighteningly so. You had eyes for no one but your family. You walked to them, straight down the nave, your boots ringing on the stone.”

She paused, remembering. “It wasn’t you but them, their reactions that made me…almost certain of my suspicions. Your mother and James hadn’t expected to see you; they were so
grateful
you were there. They knew. Your sisters
had
been expecting you, and were simply reassured when you arrived. They didn’t know.

“Later, you explained you’d been held up, and that you had to rejoin your regiment immediately. You didn’t exactly say, but everyone assumed you meant in London or the southeast; you intended to leave that night. But it had rained on and off for days—it rained heavily that night. The roads were impassable, yet in the morning you were gone.”

She smiled faintly. “I don’t think many others, other than I presume the Fowey Gallants, realized your appearance and your leaving coincided with the tides.”