Temptation and Surrender (5 page)

I
t was well after midnight by the time Em climbed the stairs and turned into her rooms. In the kitchen she’d found a fresh candle—a long one to see her through the night. She wasn’t precisely
afraid
of the dark, but if she had a choice, she kept it at bay.

Darkness reminded her of the night her mother died. Why, exactly, she didn’t know, but if she stayed in the dark for any length of time, it felt like a weight, an increasing weight, was pressing down on her chest, making it harder and harder to breathe—until she panicked and got back into the light.

Entering her parlor, she saw bright moonlight streaming across the carpet. She’d left the curtains open; she almost didn’t need an extra light. Leaving the candle on the dresser, she went to the window. She stood before it, letting her eyes adjust to the darkness outside.

Silvery light spilled over the landscape, gilding trees and bushes, washing over the common; in contrast the still surface of the duck pond looked like a piece of polished obsidian, black and reflective. Shadows shifted in the faint breeze, ruffling the moonlight. Atop the ridge the church stood in solid majesty, a watchful sentinel, pale gray against the black velvet sky.

She drew in a deep breath. Remained silent and still before the window, letting the unaccustomed peace slide over and through her.

She refused to think about Jonas Tallent, or the challenge she’d taken on with the inn. Refused to dwell even on her hunt for her family’s treasure.

Through the dark of the night, calmness, serenity, and something deeper—something stronger, more enduring—reached her.

Soothed her.

When eventually she turned, picked up her candle, and headed for her new bed, she felt—unexpectedly—as if she’d finally come home.

T
he next morning at ten o’clock, Em stepped out of the front door of the Red Bells. With Henry beside her and the common to their left, she walked briskly up the road along the row of cottages.

She’d donned her Sunday bonnet, appropriate as they were off to visit the rectory. When applied to that morning, Edgar had suggested that she speak with the curate, a Mr. Filing, about tutoring Henry.

The inn’s kitchen had been surprisingly comfortable when they’d gathered there for breakfast. Issy had happily supplied pancakes, and the tea discovered in one of the pantries had proved perfectly palatable.

Edgar had arrived at eight o’clock to open the front doors and sweep out the taproom. When, rather disappointed, Em had commented on the lack of morning customers, he’d broken the news that he rarely saw anyone before noon.

That
would change.

By nine, Em had spoken with and rehired Hilda, the local woman who had previously served as cook—that she’d immediately started exchanging recipes with Issy had been an excellent sign—and also two girls, Hilda’s nieces, to work alongside her. She’d also hired Hilda’s cousin’s strapping daughters, Bertha and May, to start on the dusting and cleaning.

As she’d informed Jonas Tallent, culinary improvements were at the top of her many lists. Once she had Henry settled, she would turn her mind to the very real imperative of replenishing the inn’s supplies.

The day was fine, a light breeze whipping the ends of her bonnet’s ribbons and flirting with the ties of the spring green spencer she wore over her pale green walking gown.

They’d just passed the duck pond when she heard a heavy footstep behind her.

“Good morning, Miss Beauregard.”

She halted, drew a quick breath to steel her senses—and turned. “Good morning, Mr. Tallent.”

His eyes locked with hers. The breath didn’t help; her senses still leapt, her lungs still seized. He was wearing a light hacking jacket over buckskin breeches that molded to his thighs before disappearing into well-polished riding boots.

After an instant’s pause, his gaze switched to Henry.

Who was studying him, one step away from bristling in her defense.

“Allow me to introduce my brother, Henry.” To Henry she said, “This is Mr. Tallent, owner of the inn.”

She hoped the label would remind her brother of the necessity of being civil to her employer.

Jonas found himself looking at a young but distinctly male version of his innkeeper; there was the same brightness in the youth’s eyes, although they weren’t of quite the same color. The lad was tall, almost a head taller than his diminutive sister, and lanky at present, although doubtless that would change. Regardless, no one seeing the pair would miss the connection, which explained, at least to Jonas who had a sister of his own, the incipient glower in Henry Beauregard’s eyes.

Jonas held out his hand, nodded politely. “Henry.”

The boy blinked, but grasped his hand and shook it, nodding in reply. “Mr. Tallent.”

Releasing him, Jonas glanced at his sister. “Taking the air—or do you have a destination in mind?”

The latter was obviously the case; she’d been striding along at a determined clip. She hesitated for a second, then said, “We’re on our way to the rectory.”

Turning, she resumed her march. He fell in beside her, ambling, easily keeping pace while Henry ranged on her other side.

“If you’re on your way to see Filing, then keeping to the road is the long way around.” He indicated a worn path leading up across the common to a gate in the rectory fence. “That way’s faster.”

She inclined her head by way of thanks and diverted toward the path. As she stepped onto it, he put out a hand to steady her, lightly gripping her elbow.

He felt the subtle jolt that went through her; his fingertips felt hot. Once she was steady, reminding himself of his resolution not to intentionally rattle her—at least not yet—he reluctantly released her.

Halting, she faced him, the rising path making their gazes more level. Lips tight, she nodded. “Thank you. We can find our way from here—we won’t need to trouble you further.”

He smiled, all teeth. “No trouble at all—I’m going to see Filing myself.”

“You are?” Suspicion was writ large in her bright eyes.

Lips twitching, he informed her, “We have business together.” He waved her on.

Frowning, she turned and resumed the upward climb.

He followed, aware that Henry was watching him, glancing frequently his way, prepared to be aggressively protective, but not yet convinced that was warranted; there was as much curiosity as suspicion in the lad’s gaze.

Em was also conscious of Henry’s evaluation of Jonas Tallent, and on that score found herself unexpectedly of two minds. While she had no intention of encouraging Tallent to concern himself with her or her family, she was achingly aware that for the last eight years, Henry had lacked any male mentor. Their uncle certainly hadn’t stepped into their father’s shoes in that regard. Henry needed male guidance—more, a male he could look up to—and while Filing might do for Henry’s lessons, she doubted a curate-tutor could fill that other, less tangible, but no less important, role.

But Jonas Tallent could.

Aside from the unnerving effect he had on her and her witless senses, she’d yet to see anything in him to which she’d take exception. Indeed, his standing, social and financial, was in large measure the equivalent of her brother’s, or rather what her brother’s eventually would be.

As a role model for Henry, Tallent would do.

Assuming she discovered no black marks to hold against him.

The path up the common was steep, with steps cut into the side and braced with rock in places. The going was slow, and she had no reason to hurry. “Is it customary,” she eventually asked, “for curates to be involved in business?”

There was amusement in Tallent’s tone when he replied, “Not customary, but in Colyton it’s become an accepted part of village life.”

The comment made no sense, at least not to her. Frowning, she glanced back at him. “How so?”

“Filing keeps the accounts for the Colyton Import Company.” Jonas decided she didn’t need to know that the origins of the company lay in the smuggling trade. “It was created by my twin, Phyllida, some years ago. After she married, I took on the role of overseer, but Filing has always helped by keeping the records of the company’s importations, and its dealings with the revenue office in Exmouth.”

“What goods does the company import?”

“These days it’s mostly French brandy and wines.” Just as it had been in years past. “The brandy and wines the inn serves are supplied by the company.”

She walked on for a minute, then said, “It seems a strange business for such a small village.”

In his twin’s defense, Jonas felt forced to explain, “It was Phyllida’s solution to the end of the wars, which simultaneously brought an end to the smuggling trade, at least hereabouts. Rather than have those families losing the income they’d derived from the illicit trade, Phyllida turned largely the same enterprise into a legitimate venture. Gradually, over the years, it’s become more conventional—the men now use a wharf and warehouse the company built at Axmouth to receive and store the goods, and from there distribute the tuns and kegs to the taverns and inns round about.”

Brows rising, she looked ahead; he wasn’t surprised when she grasped the central point. “So creating the company was a stabilizing influence, but it’s subsequently grown beyond that.”

More statement than question; she seemed to be turning the concept over in her mind—and approving.

Well and good. The garden gate of the rectory appeared before them. Jonas opened it and stood back, waving Henry through in Emily’s wake before stepping through himself and relatching it.

Em looked up at the rectory, still a little way above them. “What’s Filing like? How old is he?”

“He’s in his early thirties—a sound man with an excellent education. We think ourselves lucky to have him. He more or less inherited the living, and found he liked the village and so he’s stayed.” Tallent directed his answer more to Henry than her; Henry nodded, grateful for the information. Tallent eyed her brother curiously, no doubt speculating on what business she with Henry in tow might have with the curate, but he said nothing more—asked no leading questions.

Of course, as he was following them up the steps to the rectory porch, he was going to get answers soon enough.

At her nod, Henry tugged the bellpull.

The door opened with an alacrity that suggested the man holding it had seen them climbing to his porch.

Em found herself looking into kindly blue eyes set in a pleasant, pale, aesthetic face. Filing—she assumed it was he—stood a little over average height, not as tall as Tallent at her back, and was somewhat slighter. His hair was a very light brown; both hair and attire—a gray coat and plain waistcoat over tan breeches—appeared fastidiously neat, their style conservative as befitted a man of the cloth.

“A sound man,” Tallent had said; Em could see no reason to question that assessment.

She nodded politely. “Good morning. Mr. Filing, I presume?”

When he inclined his head in a half bow, regarding them all with an expectant air, she continued, “I am Miss Beauregard.” With one hand, she waved vaguely over her shoulder—encompassing both Tallent and the inn below. “I’ve taken the position of innkeeper at the Red Bells, and wondered if I might talk to you about tutoring for my brother, Henry.” Another wave indicated Henry beside her.

Filing smiled. “Miss Beauregard.” He looked at Henry and offered his hand. “Henry.”

After shaking hands, Filing returned his gaze to her. “It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Beauregard. Please come in, and we can discuss your brother’s requirements.”

He stood back to let her and Henry enter; as she moved forward into what appeared to be the rectory’s sitting room, Filing looked at the gentleman behind her. “Jonas. Thank you for coming.”

“Joshua.” Clasping Filing’s hand, Tallent stepped over the threshold.

When Em turned around, he was looking at her.

He smiled at her, but spoke to Filing. “I’m in no hurry, so by all means deal with Miss Beauregard first. I know she has a lot on her plate.”

Something she could hardly deny, especially not to him. Em felt her eyes narrow fractionally as they rested on Tallent’s too-handsome face, but arranging tutoring for Henry was hardly a highly confidential matter, and Tallent already knew why they were there.

Rather frostily, she inclined her head. “Thank you, Mr. Tallent.” Giving her attention to Filing, fixing it there, she launched into a description of Henry’s studies to date and what they hoped to achieve over the next several years.

Her opinion of Filing escalated significantly when, after taking in all she said, he turned to Henry and questioned him directly about his likes, dislikes, and aspirations.

Initially reserved, Henry quickly lost his diffidence; silently observing, listening to Filing solicit Henry’s opinions on various subjects and trade his own opinions and experiences in return, Em inwardly nodded in approval. Filing would do.

He and Henry agreed that Henry would return that afternoon at two o’clock with his books, and he and Filing would work out a plan of campaign, the ultimate aim, as she reiterated, being to gain entry to Pembroke, their father’s old college at Oxford.

“We have contacts there, of course,” she said as she turned toward the door. “As long as Henry can attain the required grades, there’s a place for him there.”

“Excellent.” Filing went with her; Henry nodded a farewell to Tallent, then followed behind.

Halting before the door, Em faced Filing. “We should discuss your fee.”

Filing looked down at her, his expression a medley of pleased eagerness and kindliness. “If I might, I suggest we leave that discussion for later, once Henry and I have more definitely decided on the level of tutoring he needs.” Filing glanced at her brother. “Henry’s quite advanced—it may be that all he needs is guidance, rather than active teaching, and that, to me, is almost a pleasure.”

Em nodded. “Very well—we’ll work out an arrangement later.”

Still very aware—her nerves seemed unable
not
to be aware—of Tallent standing by the window, she turned and bestowed a haughty nod. “Good day, Mr. Tallent.”

His lips curved as he very correctly bowed. “Miss Beauregard.”

Head rising, she swept out of the rectory door.

Filing followed, farewelling her and Henry on the porch.

Returning inside, Filing shut the door, then joined Jonas before the window. In companionable silence, they watched Emily Beauregard and her brother descend the common.

When they reached the road, Filing murmured, “How very curious.”

Jonas snorted. “An innkeeper whose father went to Pembroke, who’s set on ensuring her brother does the same. Definitely not your average innkeeper.”

“The family’s gentry at least, don’t you think?”

He nodded. “At least. And before you ask, I have no idea what they’re doing here, but Miss Emily Beauregard is indeed the new innkeeper of the Red Bells.”

“She can only be an improvement on Juggs.”

“Precisely my thought.”

Shaking his head, Filing turned from the window. “An intriguing family—the boy is quite acute.”

“As is his sister.”

“Are there just the two of them?” Filing headed into the dining alcove where a cabinet contained the recent records of the Colyton Import Company.

“No—there’s more. There’s a sister who’s”—Jonas dredged his memory—“twenty-three, as well as a set of twin girls, who might be twelve but I think are younger.”

When Filing raised his brows in question, Jonas shook his head. “A long and inconsequential story.” He nodded to the papers Filing was hauling forth. “Are those the licenses?”

“Yes. There are three.”

They sat at the table and worked their way through the latest formalities required to keep the company in legal order.

When they’d finished, Filing stacked the papers and set them aside. “The next ship should put in at Axmouth next week.”