Temptation and Surrender (11 page)

T
he following evening, Em supervised the serving of the first dinner menu offered by the inn for nearly ten years.

Hilda and Issy had worked on the recipes for more than a week. Em had approved the selection of dishes on Thursday, and Hilda and her girls had set to with a will. Word had duly spread. The gratifying number of patrons who had chosen to grace the Red Bells that Saturday evening and sample the first night’s dishes was a testament to their renewed confidence in the inn’s level of service.

The dinner, indeed the whole evening, was on track to be an unqualified success. Em should have been savoring the triumph, but while she smiled and chatted, received compliments and took a degree of pleasure in conveying them to Hilda and Issy, when she drew back into the shadows, disaffection crept in and her smile faded.

She was not in a good mood; she was feeling uncharacteristically defeated—something alien to her Colyton nature.

She’d spent most of the past night, and every minute she could snatch through her busy day, leafing through the books she’d borrowed from the manor. As Lucifer had promised, all four books contained sections specifically devoted to Colyton village, its houses and their architectural features. Unfortunately, not one contained specific dates, not even anecdotes or accounts of long-ago occurrences from which she might deduce the true age of Ballyclose Manor.

Sir Cedric Fortemain and his wife, Jocasta, along with Lady Fortemain, were among the diners sampling the inn’s cuisine. They’d been gracious and complimentary when they’d arrived. Hugging the shadows at the foot of the inn stairs, Em wondered if she could simply go up to Sir Cedric and inquire as to the age of his property.

She suspected she’d get the correct answer—the problem was, that answer would immediately be followed by other questions, ones she wouldn’t want to answer, and would have difficulty avoiding. The Fortemains were widely considered social leaders in the area, the sort of people her innkeeper side needed to keep well disposed toward her and her family; the last thing she wanted was to make them view her askance.

So she couldn’t ask directly, and bludgeon her brains though she had, she’d yet to divine any indirect way to elicit the information.

The leaden weight of defeat increased and dragged her spirits yet lower.

Folding her arms, she glanced moodily across the room—directly into the dark eyes of Jonas Tallent. He was sitting in the far corner of the tap; he’d arrived a little while ago, having presumably dined at home.

Since the interlude in the spirits cellar yesterday, they hadn’t met, at least not to exchange words, but she didn’t imagine he’d given up his obsession. Not only was he still watching over her—something most others, she’d discovered, assumed was due to his custodianship of the inn—but she sensed, since yesterday’s interlude, that he was…making plans. He watched her, studied her, in a slightly different way, as if assessing her and her potential reactions.

Oddly, the sight of him still steadily watching sent a spurt of renewed zeal through her, strengthening her flagging, temporarily defeated determination, revitalizing her customary optimism.

There had to be a way to learn the age of Ballyclose Manor without revealing her reasons for wishing to know; she simply hadn’t discovered it yet.

And discovery was one of those things at which Colytons excelled.

Reinvigorated, she once again surveyed the guests, paying particular attention to those dining. Finding all was well, she turned and pushed through the door into the kitchen.

Hilda was serving the last of the roast beef. She looked up, and grinned. “All gone. And the pot of pumpkin soup was wrung dry.”

Em paused beside her. “The lamb’s gone, too, I see.” She patted the older woman’s arm encouragingly. “Everyone loves your cooking.” She hesitated, then said, “We must sit down on Monday and talk about your wages.”

They’d agreed on the same rates that had applied early in Juggs’s tenure, before he’d offended Hilda by demanding she cook with unfresh ingredients. “The inn’s doing so much better now,” Em went on, “and that’s largely due to you and your helpers. It’s only fair your wages rise accordingly.”

Hilda eyed her shrewdly. “You’ll need to speak with Mr. Tallent—more wages for us will come out of his pocket as well as yours.”

Em nodded. “I will indeed speak with him, but I’m sure he’ll agree.”

She was, which was another point in Jonas Tallent’s favor—not that she wished to remind herself of his virtues. It would be much easier to ignore him if he had fewer good qualities, and more bad ones.

To date the only bad quality she’d detected was his pigheadedness in pursuing her in the teeth of her protestations of disinterest. Admittedly said protestations were false, no matter how much she’d prefer them to be true, but the least he could do was believe her lies.

Heaven knew, she was having a hard enough time uttering them.

Hilda’s niece appeared and whisked out the last order. Hilda started to clear her bench.

Em left her to it and circled through the large kitchen. She glanced into the scullery and smiled to see the three younger serving girls busy cleaning the first round of plates. They were chattering nineteen to the dozen while their hands washed, dried, and stacked; Em didn’t speak—she saw no need to douse their lively talk.

She’d taken one step toward her office when, on a gust of giggles and laughter, one of the girls said, “Claims to be the village historian, he does. Hard to believe, the way he dresses.”

Em paused, then took a step back. The girls didn’t notice; they chatted on.

“He has got all those books, though.” Hetta rubbed a plate with a towel. “Maura, my cousin, knows Mrs. Keighley who does for him, and she says he has heaps and heaps of books about everything, and they collect more dust than she can keep up with.”

“Maybe,” Lily, the first speaker, her hands in the scullery trough, allowed. “But just having the books doesn’t make him the village historian. I heard tell that was rightly old Mr. Welham, him as lived at the manor before he was killed and Mr. Cynster came.”

“Well, I heard the same,” Mary, who hadn’t previously spoken, weighed in. “But I also remember hearing that Mr. Coombe was sort of in competition for the position with Mr. Welham. I overheard someone telling Mr. Filing that after church one day, so it’s probably right.”

Lily humphed. Suds splashed. She stopped to wipe some from the end of her nose.

Em nonchalantly walked in. “Hello, girls. I’m curious to learn more about the village, and I just heard you mention a Mr. Coombe who might know something about the village’s history.”

All three girls colored, but when Em merely looked curious rather than censorious, Mary nodded. “Mr. Silas Coombe, he is, miss. He lives in the cottage opposite the lych-gate, just up the lane toward the forge.”

Em smiled. “Thank you. I must speak with him.” She turned, then remembered and looked back. “How does he dress?”

The three girls looked at one another, clearly searching for words. Mary said, “It’s hard to describe, miss.”

“Bright,” Hetta volunteered.

“I think,” Lily said, frowning, “that the proper word is ‘gaudy.’” She looked at the others. They nodded.

“I see.” Em smiled. “It won’t be hard to spot him, then.”

“Oh, no, miss!” all three girls chorused.

“You won’t have any trouble at all,” Lily assured her.

With a grateful nod Em left them; for the first time that day she had a spring in her step. She vaguely recalled seeing a gaudily—not to say garishly—dressed man in church the previous week. And tomorrow was Sunday.

T
he following morning, Em dutifully accompanied her family to church. They sat in the same pew they’d occupied the week before; the other members of the congregation had left it free. After just two weeks it felt as if they’d already found a place within village society.

Throughout the service she suppressed her impatience and concealed her interest in Mr. Silas Coombe, seated two rows ahead of them. Doubtless the sermon was Mr. Filing’s usual concise effort, yet to her, each minute dragged.

At last the benediction was said, and she and her family joined the exodus from the church. As usual, people milled about in the clear space before the graves, exchanging news and opinions with their neighbors and catching up with what was going on in the district. The twins and Henry didn’t need any encouragement not to linger; they were happy to set off for the inn by themselves, and from her position on the ridge Em could watch them all the way to the inn’s door.

She and Issy circulated, chatting to their patrons, Issy waiting for Mr. Filing to be free, while Em kept her eye on Silas Coombe, biding her time, waiting for the right moment to approach him.

Jonas Tallent was in the crowd; although she didn’t look for him, she could feel his gaze, knew he was watching her. When she spoke to Coombe, she had to make the encounter look casual, just a normal furthering of acquaintance.

As the three girls had predicted, Coombe wasn’t hard to spot. Attired in a vivid green coat complete with swallowtails, a daffodil yellow waistcoat with large silver buttons, and with his cravat—admittedly the standard ivory white—tied in a soft, floppy bow, he stood out, a peacock among pigeons. As his stature was short, his form mildly rotund, the figure he cut was decidedly outlandish.

At least there was no mistaking him.

Finally free, Filing gravitated to Issy’s side; Em turned to speak with Mrs. Weatherspoon, giving the pair a modicum of privacy. On leaving that redoubtable lady, she glanced at Coombe, saw him bow to Lady Fortemain, then part from her ladyship.

It was easy to make her path and his cross, apparently without intention.

“Mr. Coombe.” She inclined her head, paused, and smiled encouragingly when Coombe’s eyes lit.

He swept off his hat and made her an elegant bow. “Miss Beauregard! A pleasure, my dear. I must compliment you on the many excellent improvements you’ve made at the inn. It’s positively restored—indeed, far better than it was.”

“Thank you, Mr. Coombe. I’ve heard that you would know, being the village historian.”

“Yes, indeed.” Coombe gripped his lapels and puffed out his chest. “The inn has been the center of village life for centuries, you know. Why, I could tell you—”

“Oh, would you?” Em put a hand on his arm, stemming the tide; this was proving even easier than she’d hoped. “I would dearly love to hear all you can tell me, sir—but I’ve just noticed the time, and fear I must hie back to the inn to oversee the serving of luncheon.” She looked a little hesitant—as indeed she was. “I hardly like to ask, but perhaps it would be possible for me to call on you—for instance this afternoon—to hear more? It really would be helpful to know what has gone before.”

Coombe’s smile turned to an outright beam. “Nothing would please me more, Miss Beauregard.” He looked a trifle coy. “I did hear a whisper that you were interested in the history of the village in a wider sense.”

Someone from the manor must have talked, but it made no difference. “Indeed, sir. I believe you have many books dealing with the village’s past.” Hand still on his arm, she leaned a trifle nearer and lowered her voice, the better to ensure the couple behind her wouldn’t hear. “Quite aside from any knowledge of the inn, I would dearly love to view your collection.”

Coombe’s smile couldn’t get any brighter. “
Delighted,
my dear—say no more. I’ll look for you this afternoon—only too happy to place myself entirely at your service.”

“Until then.” Letting her hand fall, she stepped back. With a graceful nod and a secretive smile, she parted from Coombe. He seemed inclined to view their meeting in a conspiratorial light, but knowing Jonas was watching, as she wended her way back to Issy’s side she counted that a blessing; Coombe was unlikely to rattle on about their appointment even if asked.

Their exchange had been brief; she’d spent no longer talking to Coombe than she had to others. Confident she’d succeeded in disguising her planned meeting from her employer’s ever-watchful eyes, she collected Issy and headed back to the inn.

A
t just before three o’clock, garbed in a dark red walking dress she rarely wore, Em walked quickly up the lane opposite the Red Bells. Her nemesis was currently ensconced in the tap, a pint of ale in his hand; she’d slipped out of the inn’s back door, then circled around to escape his watchful eye.

His watchful glower. For some reason, his usual bland expression had changed. While he watched her just as unrelentingly, he was definitely not best pleased.

Perhaps he was starting to believe her disavowal of interest in him.

Strangely the thought didn’t buoy her, which in turn made her frown. But before she could delve deeper into her recalcitrant emotions, the gate of the last cottage in the row lining the lane, the one facing the church’s lych-gate, appeared beside her.

Halting at the gate, she looked swiftly around; seeing no one, she drew in a determined breath, then opened the gate and walked quickly up the path to the front door.

Coombe answered her knock himself, with an alacrity that suggested he’d been waiting on her arrival, very possibly hovering in the hall. A faint frisson of unease tickled her spine as, smile in place, she responded to his welcoming bow and stepped over his threshold.

Coombe shut the door, and with a grand gesture ushered her into a small parlor. “Please make yourself comfortable, Miss Beauregard.”

Easier said than done; only now did she recollect the inadvisability of a lone lady calling at a bachelor’s establishment. In truth, she hadn’t seen Coombe as a bachelor, not even as a man, but as a route to information, yet her instincts were now warning her to be on guard.

With a choice between an overstuffed armchair half-buried beneath cushions and a small sofa, she chose the sofa—then wished she hadn’t when Coombe joined her on it. She kept to her corner, and prayed he’d keep to his. The instant he’d settled his coattails, she asked, “Do you have any books dealing with the inn and its history, sir?”

“Indeed, Miss Beauregard.” Coombe’s expression turned superior. “But I fancy I can save you considerable time—I’ve made something of a study of the subject.”

“How fascinating.” She resigned herself to listening to all he knew about the inn. “Pray enlighten me, sir.”

Coombe complied; she endeavored to look suitably interested and make appropriate noises whenever they seemed called for. In fact, Coombe imparted little she didn’t already know, or hadn’t already surmised.

One point puzzled her. “Has the inn always been owned by the Tallents?”

“Yes, indeed—it was their idea from the start. A watering hole for their estate workers—the village was, of course, much smaller then.”

She frowned. “So the Tallents have been part of the village for…well, as long as anyone knows?”

Coombe nodded. “From the Conquest, most likely.”

“So at one time the Tallents might well have been the leaders of village society?”

Coombe’s brows rose. “I daresay, although I believe the Fortemains have been in the area for a similar time, and there’s the Smollets, too, although I would have to say their antecedents aren’t quite of the same caliber.”

Em filed the information away for later examination. “What about the houses—the large ones like Ballyclose Manor and the Grange? I’m quite interested in the architecture of bygone days—the types of houses and rooms and amenities people had.” She fixed her gaze on Coombe’s face. “I was wondering in particular about Ballyclose Manor—do you have any books describing its history?”

Coombe wanted to say yes, wanted to impress her with his knowledge; she could read his expression with ease. But then he deflated. “Sadly, no. Horatio Welham, the gentleman who used to own the manor, a great collector, had the pick of the Ballyclose library years ago, and on his death, Cedric Fortemain bought back all the books on the manor. He also persuaded me to part with those few I had, so all the books on Ballyclose are now in the library there.”

“I see.”

Her disappointment must have shown. Coombe leaned nearer and laid a hand on her arm. “But never mind about Ballyclose, my dear Miss Beauregard. We have all the rest of my
collection
to consider.” Eyes locked on her face, he seemed to be trying to draw her in…

“Ah…perhaps.” Easing her arm from beneath his hand, she shifted toward the sofa’s end. “But I tend to study aspects one by one, and at present I’m studying Ballyclose Manor.”

Coombe’s lips curved in a suggestive leer as he leaned nearer still. “Come, my dear—no need to be coy. We both know you’re really here to study something quite different. You perceive me only too happy to tutor you in the art of dalliance, something that can only be fully explored with a gentleman of my experience and artistic temperament.”

Stunned, Em stared, then she gripped her reticule and sprang to her feet. “
Mr. Coombe!
I’m not here to study anything of the sort. If you believe that you’re not just mistaken, but willfully obtuse. As you have no further information to share with me, I am leaving—
now
!”

“Oh, I s-say…” Coombe’s expression crumpled. He scrambled to his feet. “Miss Beauregard—I, that is, dear lady—believe me, just a misunderstanding—”

Em ignored his disjointed bleating. She marched out of the parlor to the front door and hauled it wide. On the front step, she recalled that there might be others passing in the lane, others who might see; dragging in a huge breath, she swung to face Coombe. He was standing inside the door wringing his hands, a comical look of dismay plastered across his face. Lips tight, she sent him a glare scorching enough to shrivel, then nodded tersely. “Good day, Mr. Coombe.”

Swinging on her heel, she stalked to his front gate, opened it, and went through. With dreadful calm, she relatched it, then, without glancing back, headed off down the lane at a brisk pace. Her mind ranged over the encounter; she felt her cheeks burn. How Coombe could have imagined…then again, she was a lady-innkeeper—he must have assumed she was…desperate.

Emotions bubbled inside her—agitation, appalled conjecture, anger, and annoyed irritation that she’d misread him. As for him misreading her—good God! Incensed didn’t begin to describe how she felt. As if she would—

“Did you find what you’re after?”

The words made her falter in her headlong march, but then she drew breath, lifted her head, and forged on. “No.” She heard a rustle of leaves as he left the shade of a nearby bush, then the soft thud of his boots as with a few long strides he caught up to her.

He strolled beside her. “If you tell me what you’re searching for, I might be able to help.”

She hadn’t got any further in over a week. Issy was distracted; she was searching on her own. She could do with help, especially intelligent, local help, but…she shook her head impatiently. “I’m not searching for anything—I simply want to know.”

“Well, tell me what you want to know—I might know the answer, or at least how to get it.”

He sounded so reasonable…she halted and swung to face him.

Jonas halted, too, and looked down at her, watched while she searched his face, let her search his eyes. For the first time, she truly considered trusting him, letting him close, accepting his help—accepting him; he could see the debate raging in her eyes. And suspected it was that very last point that had her lips firming, had her, albeit reluctantly, shaking her head.

Facing forward, she walked on.

Disappointed, but not all that surprised, he ranged beside her again. Eyeing her profile, he wondered what it would take to overcome that last hurdle, make her willing to accept him and acknowledge his right to help her in whatever plan she was pursuing…only then noticed the color in her cheeks.

He felt himself literally grow cold, not from loss of heat, but from a sudden infusion of incipient icy rage. He drew in a breath, kept his voice steady. Chose his words carefully. “Emily—Coombe has been known to…misinterpret ladies’ comments, reading into a lady’s words what he wants to hear. I know he’s done that in the past with Phyllida.” Keeping pace alongside her, he ducked his head to look at her face. “He didn’t misinterpret your interest, did he?”

Her returning blush was all the answer he needed.

He halted abruptly. “What did he do?” Reaching out, he caught her arm and drew her to face him.

Em blinked, stunned anew—nay, shocked—by his tone. Something far more primitive than mere gentlemanly protectiveness lay beneath his growl and smoldered in his eyes. Then his features hardened. Swallowing her surprise, she shook her head. “Nothing!”

He didn’t noticeably relax; if anything his features grew grimmer. She reiterated, her voice strengthening, “He did nothing.”

He couldn’t tear Coombe limb from limb if he was following her in the opposite direction; she spun about and started marching again. After a fractional hesitation, he followed. She tipped her head his way. “Yes, he mistinterpreted, but if you imagine I’m incapable of putting a gentleman in his place, you’re sadly—”

“Correct?”

His growl hadn’t improved. She felt heat return to her cheeks as she recalled she’d yet to succeed in putting
him
in his place. Goaded, she retorted, “You’re just boneheaded. Most men take my meaning—and correctly gauge my resolution—quite quickly.”

He snorted, but his long strides lengthened as he settled to pace beside her again. She was about to congratulate herself on having won that battle, when he stated, flatly, “I’ll still pay Coombe a visit.”

Her temper frazzled. Frustration escaping in a sibilant hiss, she rounded on him. “No, you won’t!” Fists clenched, she glared into his eyes. “I’m not your ward. I’m not
yours
in any way. What happened between Coombe and me is no business whatever of yours. Just because you kissed me—and I permitted it—and was misguided enough to kiss you back, none of that means
anything
, as you very well know!”

His expression had gone strangely blank. He looked down at her for a moment, then said, “It doesn’t mean anything?”

Exasperated, she flung her hands wide. “What do you
want
it to mean? Something?”

Looking into her brilliantly bright eyes, Jonas discovered he didn’t know the answer to her question. He hadn’t thought of it, hadn’t asked it of himself.

She searched his eyes, seemed to sense his blankness. She humphed. “Precisely.” She turned away and started walking again. She spoke without looking back. “I’ve told you before, Jonas Tallent—
numerous times
—that I’m no concern of yours.”

And he’d told her she was wrong.

Hands rising to his hips, he stood and watched her walk down the lane, let her words of denial, of rejection, once again slide through him—and on.

They didn’t stick, didn’t fit—because they were wrong.

They didn’t match what he felt—or what she truly felt, either.

She’d asked a question, and neither of them actually had the answer. So what did he really want? What did all this mean?

Lowering his arms, he followed her down the lane.