Temptation and Surrender (8 page)

W
ell.” Em stood looking up at the front façade of Ballyclose Manor. “This could be it—our ‘house of the highest.’”

The manor was a relatively nondescript structure of indeterminate age, yet its air of well-kept prominence, as well as the stream of women and the occasional man, all in their Sunday best even though it was Wednesday afternoon, arriving on foot and in gigs, suggested Ballyclose had a recognized claim to be the premier house of the area.

Beside her, similarly engaged in a survey of the house, Issy nodded. “We’ll need to search their cellars.”

“First we need to confirm that they actually have cellars, then we need to learn where they are.” Determination infusing her, Em started for the front door, gravel crunching beneath her shoes. “If we can achieve that much today, I’ll be satisfied.” She glanced at Issy as they went up the steps. “While I’m as eager as the twins to find the treasure, now we’ve landed so comfortably at the inn, we don’t need to rush or take unnecessary risks.”

Issy nodded in agreement.

Gaining the portico, they decorously joined the line of people entering the house. Em had donned an apple green gown with a single flounce at the neckline and hem. A forest green spencer with satin ribbons defeated the October chill. In contrast, Issy was a vision in blue, her simple gown the perfect showcase for her willowy figure. With her blond curls, blue eyes, and more gentle nature, Issy was usually the sister most noticed, something Em counted on to give her greater freedom.

An imposing, rather supercilious butler was waiting just inside the open front doors, directing guests to the drawing room that ran down one side of the house.

With Issy at her elbow, Em entered the room in old Miss Hellebore’s wake. The old lady was unable to move far or fast, yet remained mentally spry with sharp eyes and ears. Em seized the moment while Miss Hellebore exchanged greetings with Mr. Filing and was welcomed by Lady Fortemain to examine the old lady’s companions.

Miss Sweet, a gentle, fluttery soul with features and smile to match her name, stood alongside Miss Hellebore, supporting the older woman. They were escorted by a lady with dark brown hair, a confident, direct manner—and very familiar features. Em wasn’t surprised to hear Lady Fortemain greet the lady as “dear Phyllida.”

Jonas Tallent’s twin sister touched fingers with Lady Fortemain, then gathered Miss Sweet and Miss Hellebore and firmly steered them to a chaise in the center of the long room. Farmers’ wives and various gentry were gathered in knots dotted about the room, chatting as they sipped from fine china cups distributed by a small army of footmen.

Summoning a smile, Em stepped forward and extended her hand. “Mr. Filing.”

His practiced smile softening with approval, Filing shook her hand. “Miss Beauregard, I’m delighted to see you here. I must compliment you on your brother’s diligence. He’s a remarkably keen scholar—it will be a pleasure to guide his studies.”

“Thank you, sir. For my part I’m very glad Henry’s found such a knowledgeable teacher with whom he’s so at ease.” With a gracious nod, Em turned to Lady Fortemain and curtsied. “Ma’am. Thank you for inviting us.” Smoothly turning to Issy, she continued, “Allow me to present my sister, Isobel.”

Issy, who’d introduced herself to Filing and given him her hand, blushed faintly as she retrieved it. Turning to their hostess, she smiled and curtsied. “Lady Fortemain. It’s a pleasure to be here.”

Lady Fortemain’s eyes widened fractionally as they traveled from Filing’s face to Issy’s. Then her ladyship beamed. “My dear, we’re quite
delighted
to welcome you both to the village.” She waved them on. “Please do go in. I—or Mr. Filing—will be along shortly to introduce you to the others, although I daresay most already know who you are. We don’t stand on ceremony at these gatherings, you’ll find.”

Thus adjured, with easy smiles Em and Issy ventured deeper into the room. Issy didn’t glance back, but Em did—in time to see Lady Fortemain recall Filing, staring after Issy, to his duty in welcoming the next parishioner.

Facing forward, Em glanced at her sister’s profile, noted the slight blush still fading. And wondered. Filing was in his thirties—too old for calf love, something Issy occasionally inspired. But Em knew well enough to make no comment to her sister; Issy had transparently noticed Filing’s interest and would make up her own mind how to react. Despite her gentle looks she was all Colyton beneath, and therefore capable of being as stubborn—no, stubborner—than any mule.

Nevertheless, Em couldn’t recall any other gentleman who had made her sister blush—not like that.

They’d met a number of the other guests at the inn the previous evening; it was easy to move through the room, chatting and being introduced to yet others, learning people’s names and placing them within the community.

The gathering encompassed a spectrum of social classes from the lady of the manor to farmers’ wives, making the inclusion of the innkeeper and her sister rather less of an oddity. While in her role as innkeeper Em hadn’t expected to attend such events, her hesitation in accepting hadn’t been due to any anxiety that she and Issy would feel out of their depth, but rather that in such a milieu their true colors would inevitably shine through. They were both confident and at ease in moving through the drawing room, accepting and sipping tea and making small talk; the facility ran in their blood, and neither of them was particularly good at acting.

Em had accepted that there was nothing she could do other than be herself. She hoped the more observant—among whom she was perfectly sure she could class Phyllida Cynster—would conclude that she and Issy hailed from a gentry family down on their luck.

Which was more or less the truth, at least for the moment.

She and Issy had decided that projecting such a background was the best tack they could take. Most people were too polite to ask further questions.

In such a small community, however, gently bred was gently bred, no matter how straitened their circumstances.

That, certainly, seemed to be Pommeroy Fortemain’s attitude when he appeared at Em’s elbow. “My dear Miss Beauregard, allow me to introduce myself. Pommeroy Fortemain, at your service.” He capped his speech with a flourishing bow.

Although not all that old—perhaps Tallent’s age—Pommeroy Fortemain was well on the way to being portly. His liking for nattily striped waistcoats with flashy buttons did nothing to conceal his impending corpulence. Beyond such sartorial gaudiness, however, his appearance was undistinguished; he shared little of the solid gravitas that characterized his older brother, Cedric. Em waited until Pommeroy straightened, then inclined her head and gave him her hand. “Sir.”

She’d separated from Issy, and having just parted from a group of farmers’ wives she was momentarily on her own. Wondering what she might learn from her hostess’s son, she retrieved her hand from his overly enthusiastic clasp. “Tell me, sir, am I right in thinking it’s your brother who owns the manor?”

“Yes—that’s right. Cedric.”

She’d briefly met Cedric at the inn the previous night.

“Rather older than I am,” Pommeroy rattled on. “He’s not in attendance this afternoon—holed up in his study, no doubt, busy with estate affairs.” Pommeroy’s tone suggested he was only too happy to leave all the work to his brother. “I always help Mama entertain the locals.” He glanced around. “Truth to tell, there’s not much else to do around here.”

Em didn’t know whether to laugh or look affronted. In the end she did neither; it was clear he’d intended no insult. “Did you grow up here—in the district?”

“Yes—this has always been home. Fortemains have been at Ballyclose since…” He thought, then looked faintly surprised. “I don’t know when.”

“Indeed?” She didn’t have to fabricate her interest. More and more it appeared that Ballyclose Manor was the house they were seeking. She made a show of looking around, taking in the long room. “Is the house very large?”

Pommeroy shrugged. “So-so. Not as large as some.”

“But in the immediate area?”

He pulled a considering face, then nodded. “It’s probably the largest.” His gaze fixed on her face. “But, I say, enough about this old pile. What brought you and your family to Colyton?”

She smiled, a touch tightly. “We came to manage the inn—I saw a notice in Axminster.”

“So you hail from there?”

“Only in recent times.” She didn’t want to say anything further, didn’t see any reason to feed the avid curiosity in Pommeroy’s eyes. She strongly suspected that he was one of those men who loved to gossip. His mother certainly did, and he seemed very much his mother’s son.

To her surprise, he leaned closer, his gaze fixing intently on her eyes. “Perhaps I could take you for a drive around the area? Take in the local sights, that sort of thing.”

She attempted to look regretful. “I’m sorry, but I’m the innkeeper—I have to run the inn.” She eased back, preparing to move on.

“But you’re an innkeeper-
manager
, really. You don’t do the work—you tell other people what to do and
they
do it.”

He was more right than wrong, but she wasn’t about to engage in a discussion of her duties, not with him. She was hunting for the right words to discourage his notion that she had time to waste with him when she sensed someone approach.

Not just someone. Her employer.

A telltale tingle ran down her spine.

Lungs tightening, she swung to face him.

“Miss Beauregard.” Jonas smiled into widening hazel eyes, then half-bowed. His innkeeper was looking particularly fetching—not at all like an innkeeper. “Allow me to present my sister, Phyllida Cynster.”

Releasing his arm, Phyllida stepped forward, drawing Emily’s bright gaze. Phyllida offered her hand; tentatively Emily clasped fingers. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Beauregard. I must tell you we have great hopes that under your guidance the inn will once again be a place the whole village can and will visit.”

His innkeeper rose to the occasion, inclining her head gracefully. “Thank you, Mrs. Cynster. That’s certainly my ambition. I’m hoping the local ladies will help me define what works, and what misses the mark.”

Phyllida grinned. “From all I’ve heard, your notion of scones was an inspired beginning.”

Emily smiled. “The right food, the right ambience…”

“Indeed.” Phyllida nodded briskly. “Build it and they will come. I’m sorry I missed you yesterday afternoon. I called at the inn, but I understand”—her gaze slid Jonas’s way—“that my brother was introducing you to Finch in Seaton.”

Jonas shrugged. “It seemed the least I could do, given Miss Beauregard needs to order from Finch.”

Sensing some level of unvoiced censure—over what she couldn’t imagine—Em hurried to say, “I was most grateful Mr. Tallent could spare the time to take me to Seaton—meeting a merchant face-to-face often avoids a great deal of unnecessary difficulty.”

Phyllida studied her through dark brown eyes every bit as unfathomable as her twin’s, then conceded, “With Finch that’s probably true. He’s easy enough when he knows you, but can be distinctly taciturn when he does not.” She glanced again at her brother. “I’m glad to see you taking your responsibilities so seriously, brother mine.”

Jonas pulled a face at her, but before he could respond further they were joined by another couple.

Em smiled through yet another introduction, forcing her mind to function, her senses to focus and not get distracted by the gentleman by her side. On her other side, Pommeroy Fortemain was entirely forgettable, but to her witless senses Jonas Tallent was utterly riveting.

It was irritating, and a touch unnerving. Her continuing—if she were truthful, escalating—obsession with Jonas Tallent was starting to make her uneasy.

Of herself, not of him.

Which for her was an entirely novel situation.

After that almost-kiss, the kiss that hadn’t happened last night in the shadowed hallway at the inn, she wasn’t at all sure of what might happen next. Of what she might do if he provoked her senses again.

When another trio joined their circle, distracting everyone, she grasped the moment to murmur her excuses and step back from the group. No one heard her, none of the others noticed, but as she turned away Jonas’s head came around. He seemed about to follow, but his sister chose that instant to ask him a question, and he had to turn back to her.

Em slipped away, tacking between groups until she’d put most of the long room between herself and her employer.

There’d been something—some flash of intent—in that last swift glance that had made her want to run. She recalled that Lady Fortemain hadn’t expected Jonas to attend, so why had he? Simply to pursue her?

“Nonsense,” she muttered. Stepping to the side of the room, with an Herculean effort she shoved Jonas Tallent out of her mind, and turned it instead to her purpose in being there—unearthing her family’s long-buried treasure.

Her next step was learning if Ballyclose Manor possessed the requisite cellar.

She looked around. The crowd wasn’t that dense; locating Issy wasn’t difficult. What was difficult was that Mr. Filing was with her.

More, as Em watched, she realized her sister, blushes and all, was “with” Mr. Filing. She was talking
to
him, with him, not merely conversing politely. They were standing together in the middle of the floor and apparently had eyes only for each other.

Even as Em watched, a local matron detached herself from a nearby group, glanced around, saw Filing and Issy, and headed their way, clearly intending to join them.

But then the lady slowed, halted, observed rather shrewdly, then, with a faint quirk of her brows, a subtle lift to her lips, changed course to join another group.

Leaving Issy and Filing talking earnestly.

Interesting. Even heartening. But…

Em glanced around. Her plan had been that she and Issy would search for the cellar together, Issy keeping a weather eye out for interruptions. But with Filing so focused on Issy, Em didn’t think fetching her sister and together slipping away to explore the house would be at all wise. Filing, she suspected, would continue to watch Issy even if he were talking with someone else.