Kathryn Caskie (2 page)

“I vow it,” he huffed with frustration. “Now, please, let go!”

With one more cautious look at him, the girl released her hold on the wall. For a moment, she dangled from his arm like a limp rag doll, her momentum sending her swinging back and forth in a pendulum’s motion.

All the blood in his body seemed to surge into Griffin’s head, and he struggled to raise her to the cliff’s lip. Finally, after two perilous minutes, her head appeared level with the ledge.

“We’re almost there, miss. Just a moment more and I’ll have you by my side.”

“Indeed.”

Then, with a level of agility Griffin could never have imagined, the woman slapped her free arm over the lip, kicked her right foot up, and swung her body onto the ground beside him.

“Damn me!” While Griffin might have expected such an athletic feat from a performer at a fair, never in all his life would he have guessed it from a young lady such as the one who now gathered her breath beside him.

Griffin leaned back on his heels and stared with amazement at the fearless woman. Her hair was as dark as a starless night, and her skin was pale, save the pink flush that had risen into her cheeks. But it was her eyes that intrigued him most. Inside a ring of vibrant indigo was a burst of a pale silvery blue that made her eyes glimmer like a pair of stars.

“My bonnet, sir.” Her voice was still thin and breathy from the exertion. “You promised.”

“That I did.” Griffin couldn’t help but grin at her stubbornness regarding a ridiculous hat. “I just need something to hook it.” He glanced around for a stick.

The woman looked around as well, until her gaze fixed firmly on his telescope. A surge of worry shot through Griffin as she rose and started for his most prized possession in all the world.

“Perhaps we can lower part of this contraption over the edge and catch the brim of my hat.” She reached out her hand for the brass instrument.

“No!” Griffin grabbed her wrist, perhaps a bit too roughly, for she whirled around, eyes widened with surprise.

“Not my telescope,” he added, softening his voice. “’Tis very expensive, and I do not exaggerate when I tell you there is no other like it.”

The woman lifted her chin and twisted her wrist from his grip. “I might claim the same about my hat, sir. Did you see the peacock feather on the band?” She nodded knowingly, as if this comment should make the great value of her hat plain to him.

Griffin knew what a ludicrous notion that was. There was no comparison. His reduced-sized Shuckburgh telescope had been custom-made to his exact specifications by a protégé of Jesse Ramsden, London’s premier instrument maker. He doubted there was as fine an astronomical instrument in all of England.

The woman folded her arms across her sprigged gown. “I do not see anything else that might serve as a tool . . . so well as your telescope.”

“I-I have a sheep hook at my cottage.” Griffin smiled at the lovely woman, deciding that he’d like to know her a bit better. Still, finessing a woman had never come as easily to Griffin as it did his brother, and he knew he’d likely bungle it. But he would try. “Uh . . . if you like, you and your lady friends may take your ease in my home while I return for your bonnet. ’Tis just down the trail to the east. Not far, I assure you.”

The young woman suspiciously raked him up and down with her gaze. “I thank you, but no. My bonnet might be caught by a gust of wind and whisked into the sea. I daren’t leave it. Besides, I do not even know your name.”

“St. Albans . . . Mr. St. Albans.” He tipped his head to her. “And you are . . . ?”

Her pink lips formed a smirk. “Not so addled as to follow a man I do not know to his lair.”

“
Lair?
My dear lady, I believe you misunderstand my intentions—” Griffin began.

“Oh, sir, please do forgive her. She meant nothing by it,” said the heavier of the two old women, who now stood nearby huffing and puffing from the exertion of climbing the steep cliffside path.

“She is Miss Hannah Chillton, our charge.” The thinner old woman pinched the girl’s arm, eliciting a clumsy curtsy from her.

Just then, the falcon that had struck him earlier spiraled low over the four of them. Griffin watched, with great astonishment, as Miss Chillton withdrew a leather glove from her sash, slipped it onto her hand, and allowed the bird of prey to land on her forearm.

The thinner elderly lady laughed at Griffin’s surprise. “And that would be Cupid . . . Hannah’s kestrel.”

“He is
your
bird?” Griffin stared at the young woman incredulously.

“Yes. Why is that so difficult to believe?” Miss Chillton said rather smugly.

Why, indeed?
Griffin thought about it for several moments. Why should he be surprised that a woman he discovered fearlessly climbing a cliff wall, a woman with the strength to propel herself over the rock ledge, might have a hunting falcon as a pet?

“Miss Chillton, in the short time we’ve been acquainted, I have come to the conclusion that nothing about you should come as a surprise. For, indeed, you are the very definition of the word.”

Miss Chillton looked uneasily toward the two old women, as if she had not the faintest notion how to respond to his assertion. Then, she turned her delicately featured face back to him and gestured to her guardians. “Mr. St. Albans, these are my duennas, the Ladies Letitia and Viola Featherton, of London.”

“And Bath, of late,” the woman she’d referred to as Lady Letitia added. “We reside in the spa city for a few short months each year.”

“In fact, our visit to The Lizard was to be the culmination of our grand Cornish excursion.” The thinner woman, Lady Viola, smiled brightly up at him. “We are headed back to Bath this very eve.”

“Not until we have my hat.” Miss Chillton turned toward the sea, took a couple of steps, and peered over the edge of the cliff. She gasped. “Oh,
no.
It’s gone!”

Lady Letitia joined her at the cliff’s edge and wrapped her arm around the dark-haired beauty. “The wind must have taken it after all, child.”

Miss Chillton turned her head around and glared at Griffin. “You, sir, owe me a hat.”

“
I?
” Griffin sputtered.

“Yes, for I would have managed to retrieve my bonnet
eventually
had you not interfered.” She said something in a low tone to Lady Letitia, who upon hearing the words, reached into her miser bag and retrieved a card. Miss Chillton took it from her and shoved it at Griffin.

“The Oatland Village Hat is available from Mrs. Bell, Twenty-two Upper King Street in London. Ask her to add a peacock feather, please. Can you remember that? Good. When you have acquired it, you may deliver it to Number One Royal Crescent, Bath. The direction is listed on this card.”

Her business with him concluded, Miss Chillton took each of the Featherton ladies by an arm and led them up the path to where, Griffin surmised, their carriage must await.

“Good day, Mr. St. Albans,” she called back to him, a sentiment echoed by the two elderly women. “I do hope we shall see you soon—for the hat
was
my favorite.”

She flashed him an amused smile and, if he was not mistaken, threw him a teasing wink as well.

When the three women disappeared over the rise, Griffin St. Albans absently strolled to the cliff’s edge and peered down its steep wall for the missing bonnet.
Gone.

He patted his head tentatively, wondering if perhaps he’d hit it when the falcon clipped him and he’d fallen—for surely he’d been dreaming.

That was the only possible explanation he could muster, for nothing so outlandish as what had occurred during the past quarter of an hour could have happened to
him.

Life in lower Cornwall just didn’t work that way.

Three days later

Lord Devonsfield and his man of affairs did not knock or even call out their arrival at the home of the St. Albans brothers. There wasn’t time enough for that. The earl’s hold on this earth was short, and trifling with manners was merely a waste of what few moments he had left.

Smoke trailed up into the cloudless azure sky through the tiny cottage’s stone chimney. His heir was at home, or at least someone was, so the earl opened the flimsy plank door, and he and his man stepped inside—to face the barrel end of a hunting rifle.

The earl stared at the two young men before him, who, at first glance, appeared identical in every way . . . save their mode of dress perhaps. They both stood well over six feet and, unlike the earl, their heads were topped with an abundance of slightly curly sable hair.

He supposed their eyes could be called hazel, but in truth they were mostly green, with a flickering of dark amber encircling the pupil. Their shoulders were broad and they had good, strong, square jaws, with a divot in the chin, the sort the ladies so seemed to fancy. Damned if they weren’t a pair of the handsomest men he’d ever seen. This pleased the earl on more than one level.

He eyed the one who pressed the rifle, painfully he might add, to his forehead. Now
that
twin had courage, gumption. And, now that the earl had a moment to reflect (for there was no way he was going to make a move with a rifle to his head—he’d leave that to Pinkerton), this twin had a sportsman’s build. He was quite strong, his arms well muscled, as though he spent a goodly amount of time studying pugilism, as the earl’s own eldest son, God rest his soul, had.

The earl smiled broadly. Yes, his initial impression told him that this twin would make a brilliant heir.

“Sir, I would not be so quick with a grin when my brother has a rifle trained upon your head,” said the strikingly handsome but less-muscular twin. “He can take down a bird in flight without effort, so I daresay, he would have no difficulty bagging an intruder at such close range.”

The earl lifted an eyebrow. Such a sassy mouth this twin had. Denoted a clever mind. Unlike the other, this man’s hands were smooth and his fingernails clean. His clothing was perfectly pressed, and damned if there wasn’t something the least bit aristocratic about his stance.
Hmm. Not a bad option either.

Pinkerton, the bloody coward—for his hands shot into the air the minute he saw the rifle—finally spoke up. “My dear sirs, this gentleman means you no harm . . . nor do I.”

Neither twin said a word, didn’t move a muscle.

“Er . . . may I . . . lower my hands, young man?” he continued.

The twin with the rifle nodded slowly.

“And . . . uh . . . might you also deign to lower the weapon? We are unarmed, and as you can see, we are hardly in the first bloom of our youth . . . as the both of you are. Even if we wished to challenge you, you could easily subdue us in mere seconds.”

The twin paused a moment, then lifted the barrel of the rifle from the earl’s forehead. Lord Devonsfield clapped his hand to his brow and felt the ringed indention left behind.

“Fine way to treat your father’s cousin,” he snapped.

“You are our father’s cousin?”

The earl turned to see the more refined of the bookend pair of men studying his clothing.

“I am.” The earl straightened his spine.

Pinkerton cleared his throat. “May I present the Earl of Devonsfield.”

The twins exchanged confused glances before returning their attention to the earl. Then, as if on cue, they honored him with a set of gracious bows.

“Of course we have heard of you, my lord,” offered the twin with the soft-looking hands.

“Indeed,” said the other. “We just never expected to make your acquaintance. Our lives are so far removed. We work in iron, while your lordship—”

Pinkerton broke in. “His lordship does not labor at all.”

The muscular twin raised an eyebrow.
“Exactly.”

The earl pivoted on the heel of his gleaming boot, strode across the small room, and took his ease on a worn chair near the coal fire. “Well, my boys, your days toiling about the iron mines are at an end as of this very day. Come, come. Be seated and let us talk.”

“I beg your pardon, my lord, we have so few guests I fear our manners have become somewhat rusty.” The aristocratic one snapped his feet together and gave the earl a nod. “I am Garnet St. Albans.”

The earl nodded in greeting. “
Garnet
. Refined and polished like the gem itself. How very appropriate.” The earl chuckled. He turned his head to the twin with the rifle. “So you must be
Griffin
. Part eagle, part lion.” The earl smiled at him. “Yes, indeed you are. How splendid are your names. Perfectly splendid. I shall have no difficulty in discerning between you ever again.”

An elderly woman entered through the front door just then, and was so startled to see visitors that she dropped her market basket on the floor, sending two green apples rolling across the stone pavers. “Oh, I beg your pardon. I had no notion you had guests.”

Griffin crossed the room in two long strides and helped the woman gather her things. “You need not fret, Mrs. Hopshire. Lord Devonsfield is family. Though perhaps some tea might be in order.”

The earl raised his hand. “Pinkerton, trot out to the carriage, will you, and fetch us some brandy, for we must celebrate.”

Garnet St. Albans caught Pinkerton’s arm as he started for the door. “No need, sir. Mrs. Hopshire, some glasses, please.” Near the hearth was a box, a cellarette of sorts, from which Garnet withdrew a bottle of fine brandy. “We are deep in the country, but not without a few luxuries.”

Mrs. Hopshire brought a tray laden with several thick, clanking glasses into which Garnet poured the amber liquid. He handed the first glass to Lord Devonsfield.

“Uh . . . you were saying, my lord, something about our days of toil being at an end?”

“Indeed I did.” The earl drained his glass and immediately passed it to Garnet to be refilled. “For one of you is to be my heir.”

“Your . . .
heir
?” Griffin bent down and added a few more pieces of coal to the smoldering fire. He turned his head up to the earl. “Which of us?”

“My lord, what my brother means is that the law of primogeniture cannot be applied in our situation for we do not know which of us is firstborn. Never had any reason for it to matter . . . at least until now, it seems.”