Beyond Seduction

Chapter 9

The following afternoon, Gervase paced the clifftop path where it joined the track down to the boathouse. His face was set; despite his triumph-his victory in seducing Madeline-nothing had gone as he’d planned.

Not the first time-nor the second.

With less heat had been his dictate. Instead, going slowly had only intensified the firestorm that had raged between them, fueled by passions far more primitive, more urgent and powerful than any he’d previously felt. Why that was so, where such passions came from, why she and no other evoked them in him he didn’t know, but again instead of him teaching her, it had been he who had had to grapple with stunning and startling revelations.

Not that she was teaching him; it was lying with her-joining with her-that opened a door to some novel and disconcerting landscape. She was as new to it as he, but that didn’t seem to bother her-not in the least. She’d embraced every aspect-the fast as well as the furious in their heated-beyond-imagining couplings-with a wholehearted eagerness, an open delight, that had only dragged him deeper.

Further under the thrall of…whatever it was.

Until yesterday he hadn’t known he-not even his beast-harbored such powerful and primal cravings.

He’d needed her, needed to be inside her, needed to see her, feel her writhing in abandon beneath him-and in that moment, he’d needed that more than he’d needed to breathe. Even to live.

In that ultimate moment of madness that she and only she could reduce him to, his entire existence seemed to hinge…on her. On having her, on proving incontrovertibly, in the most explicit way, that she was his.

Raking one hand through his hair, he paced, stalked, inwardly more uncertain than he could recall ever being in his adult life. He’d never been dependent on another person, not for anything; he’d been an excellent operative because he worked alone, entirely self-sufficiently.

Now…

He drew in a breath and looked out over the sea. He needed a wife desperately, but did he need Madeline?

Did he need her and what she did to him?

Hoofbeats reached him; he turned, looked. They hadn’t made any plans to meet again, yet some part of him wasn’t surprised to see her.

At least one part of him leapt at the sight of her.

He’d ridden down to the boathouse and left Crusader there, then walked up to pace the clifftop where the breeze was fresh. She halted beside him; he caught her chestnut’s bridle as she slid from the saddle.

“I was coming to find you. I wanted to speak with you.” She came around the chestnut’s head, tugging off her gloves.

Speak with him? Her features were tight, her expression serious. “About what?”

She glanced up at him, pure Valkyrie, shield up, fully armored. “About yesterday.” Looking down, she tugged her glove free.

“Yesterday.” A chill inched down his spine. “What about yesterday?”

“Well…” Lips tight, she brushed back a lock of hair the wind had blown across her face. “I came to acknowledge your victory, and to tell you that while I enjoyed the interlude, I believe it would be unwise-seriously unwise-for us to indulge again.”

He opened his mouth-

She silenced him with an upraised hand. “No-hear me out.” She paused as if recalling a rehearsed speech, then went on, “I realize that you…that your interest in seducing me stemmed from boredom, as we originally discussed. You clearly saw me as a challenge, in your words ‘a conquest.’ However, now you’ve succeeded, no matter how…exciting and instructive the result, given who we are, given we’re so prominent in the neighborhood, given my brothers and your sisters, let alone Sybil and Muriel, given all those things I believe we should call a halt.” Drawing in a deep breath, she met his gaze. “Neither you nor I should court the sort of scandal that would ensue should a liaison between us become common knowledge.”

Gervase stared at her, struck dumb, not by her words but by his reaction, by the storm of emotions her intention had unleashed; they clawed and raged, threatening to swamp his mind and spill from his throat.

When he said nothing, she frowned. “I take it you agree?”

No! He scowled. “We can’t talk here.” Catching her hand, he changed his hold on her horse’s bridle. “Come to the boathouse.”

She tried to hang back. “Why can’t we talk here? There’s no one about and we can see for miles.”

“And someone miles away can see us.” Thank Heaven. He tugged until she stepped forward, then towed her along.

With an irritated humph, Madeline acquiesced. Reluctantly. She’d imagined having this discussion in the castle library; after all that had transpired in the boathouse yesterday, it was the very last place she would have chosen in which to bring their liaison to an end. But…he’d thrown her off-balance. After yesterday, she’d thought he’d be crowing, at least obviously smug. Instead…he looked grim, unhappy, dissatisfied. Why?

This was not a good time for her curiosity to raise its head. It should have had enough to keep it occupied after the events-and the consequent revelations-of yesterday. But no. So she allowed him to lead her to the boathouse, tie Artur up next to his big gray, then usher her inside.

He shut the door. She turned and faced him. “Now-”

“Not here.” He gestured to the stairs. “Upstairs.”

But at that even her curiosity balked. She frowned. “There’s no reason we can’t talk here.”

“Don’t be daft. I can barely make out your face.”

She couldn’t see his clearly either, but…she lifted her chin. “This won’t take long.”

Through the dimness, he met her gaze. A moment ticked by during which he plainly weighed his response; unbidden, an image of him tossing her over his shoulder and carting her upstairs popped into her mind. She blinked, instinctively tensed.

He growled and swung away. “I won’t discuss anything while I can’t see your face.” He made for the stairs and went up them two at a time.

Slack-jawed, she stared after him. Then she set her lips. “Damn it!” Going to the stairs, she climbed them-gracefully. It would be childish to stamp.

But she was determined not to go beyond the post at the stairhead. Luckily he’d stopped just along from the newel post, leaning back against the railings above the stairs. His arms were crossed, as were his ankles; he regarded her through narrowed eyes as she halted beside him.

“Let me see if I have this right.” He pinned her with a cuttingly sharp gaze. “After yesterday, your first foray into lovemaking, you’ve decided you’ve had enough and don’t need to learn anything more-is that correct?”

She steeled herself to utter the necessary lie. “Precisely.”

His gaze grew even sharper. “Didn’t you like it? What we did on the daybed?”

Eyes narrowing, she studied him; his face gave little away, but his eyes seemed unusually stormy. She remembered he’d been strangely bothered by the, as he’d labeled it, “fast and furious” tenor of their joining. Surely he couldn’t be worried over his performance, couldn’t be feeling guilty? She might have snorted, but she knew boys-men-well. “If I said I hadn’t enjoyed it, I’d be lying-as you’re perfectly well aware. However”-looking down, she tucked her gloves into the waistband of her riding skirt-“whether I enjoyed the interlude or not has nothing to do with my decision.”

Not a complete lie; it wasn’t her enjoyment per se but what she’d finally realized that enjoyment and the quality of it meant. Falling in love with Gervase Tregarth when she knew perfectly well he wasn’t in love with her was the very definition of unwise.

“I wanted to tell you-and have you agree”-she glanced at him but he was looking down, gaze fixed on a point in front of his boots; his jaw was set; he looked decidedly mulish-“that yesterday would be a solitary incident, never to be repeated. We-I-cannot afford to undermine my position in the district, not while I remain Harry’s surrogate.”

“No.” He lowered his arms, lifted his head.

She stared into hard hazel eyes. “What do you mean, no?”

Gervase drew in a breath, and recklessly embarked on the biggest gamble of his life. “I mean: No-that’s not why you’re running away.”

Her lips set; her eyes narrowed to slits. “I am not running away.”

“Yes, you are. You found yesterday exciting, fascinating, enthralling-and you’re frightened.”

“Frightened?” Eyes widening, she spread her hands. “Of what?”

“Of yourself. Of your own passionate nature. Of your own desires.” He held her gaze relentlessly and spoke clearly, dispassionately-with just a lick of contempt. And watched her spine stiffen, watched her temper spark.

With total deliberation, he uncrossed his legs, straightened away from the railing to face her-and poured oil on her fire. “You’re afraid of what you might learn if you continue to meet with me. You’re afraid of the woman you become in my arms, a woman whole, complete-all she could be.”

Her face blanked; she seemed shocked by the words that spilled from his lips, essentially without thought. Naturally. Although he was attributing the panic and fear to her, it was his own fears he was describing.

“You’re afraid of learning more, of what you might feel once you learn it all-experience it all. All that might be between us.”

With one hand he brushed back the hair haloing her face. She tensed, but allowed him to move nearer. Surprise and incipient anger warred in her eyes; had he been in control, his usual persuasive self, he would have capitalized on her temper, prodding it until she did as he wished, but having given voice to what was swirling inside him, having drawn this close to her, the focus of his roused and abraded emotions, he was no longer thinking clearly. Could only respond to the wariness in her eyes. “Don’t be afraid.” He leaned closer, brushed his lips to her temple. “There are times in life when one has to take a chance-make a leap of faith. When we simply have to…”

When he eased back, searching, she offered, “Step off the edge of a cliff?”

His lips twisted. “Nothing quite so fatal. More like setting sail and letting the winds take us where they will.”

In convincing her, he was convincing himself.

Her eyes remained on his, searching them, searching his face. He’d drawn close enough to trap her if he wished, but with an effort he kept his arms relaxed; she had to come to him willingly for him to win her.

Again her eyes narrowed. “You’re very good with words.”

He let his lips curve. “I’m even better with actions.” He held her gaze from a distance of mere inches. “Trust me.”

Moving slowly, he fastened his hands about her waist, let his gaze lower to her lips. “Just try it and see. There’s so much more you’ve yet to learn, yet to experience-and why not with me?”

A heartbeat passed, then two. He held his breath, not daring to look into her eyes in case she saw how important her answer was to him. How much she already meant to him.

Unexpectedly she sighed, long and resigned, then moved into his arms. “All right.” She tilted her face, lifted her lips. “But this is very definitely not wise.”

He accepted her offering with alacrity, covered her lips with his; the wave of relief that flooded him nearly brought him to his knees.

She was right; this wasn’t wise. It wasn’t even merely dangerous. It was unmitigated madness, on his part certainly-possibly on hers, too; Heaven knew he would never be an easy husband, but he couldn’t draw back, couldn’t deny this madness its due.

No more than he could deny the heat that rose between them, that welled and grew and flared into flame once she was in his arms. Once she was pressed against him, her lips beneath his, her mouth surrendered, his to plunder at will, once her body, sleek and supple, was locked against his, all he could think of was appeasing that heat, feeding the madness.

Letting it take him, rule him, drive him, conquer him.

Their clothes fell like autumn leaves, a scattered trail in their wake as inch by inch they made their way to the daybed.

Then they were there, naked on the thick cushions, the summer air whispering over heated skin as they touched, caressed, sighed.

Caught their breaths. Gasped. The evocative sound of her strangled moan shook him to the core.

This time, thank Heaven, it was slower, even if the heat was not one whit decreased, the intensity of each long-drawn moment only brighter, sharper. Regardless, he felt, if not in control then at least more aware-of her, of how she responded to each touch, of himself, and how she made him feel.

Time stretched as his hands and fingers played over the smooth curves and hollows, then his lips followed the same path, delighting, setting small fires to burn in their wake.

Madeline embraced every last sensation.

Closing her eyes, she opened her senses, with reckless abandon gave herself up to the moment-to him. She couldn’t think, couldn’t hear, could barely see-her world had shrunk to him and her, and the pleasure he evoked, and lavished on her.

A generous lover. The phrase swam through her head, then out.

A devilish lover; his lips trailed a path over her stomach, over the curls below, then he spread her thighs and kissed her there and she screamed. Breathlessly, helplessly, clung.

As he pleasured her to oblivion and beyond.

The afternoon spun about them as she fought against the drugging tide, pressed him back on the cushions and explored. He’d been right; she had so much to learn, and these moments with him, limited as they were certain to be, might be her only chance to satisfy the cravings of the woman he called forth, the sensual being she became in his arms.

But he seemed to have his limits, too, his own defined needs. Bare moments after she closed her hand about his turgid length, he muttered something, caught her wrist and removed her hand, flipped her onto her back and followed, spreading her thighs wide, his hips between, then joining them in one smooth motion.

She could only gasp and cling, hold tight as he drove them into a wall of flames. Straight through and on, into a landscape of scalding heat and demanding desire, of passion so hot it seared.

He bent his head and their lips met; together they rode on. Up.

Straight off the edge of the world into that void where nothing existed beyond the timeless moment, beyond searing sensation. He groaned, battled to hold them there for one last instant, then the power fractured, fell away, and they plummeted into earthly bliss.

She woke to find herself sprawled on her back on the daybed, with him sprawled, boneless and heavy, apparently non compos mentis, over her. Her lips curved spontaneously; she suppressed a silly, pointless giggle, trying not to shake and wake him.

In truth, there was nothing humorous about the situation; she made a valiant effort to sober, and failed. She couldn’t understand why her heart insisted on singing…then she remembered, in the same instant scornfully told herself it simply couldn’t be. Not yet. Fate, having sent him to her expressly with seduction in mind, would surely give her a little time to enjoy him before tampering with her heart.

No. She wasn’t the sort to fall in love in a day, not even two. She wasn’t a soft-hearted person; she wasn’t all that trusting. She wasn’t especially gullible, either; as long as she kept it firmly in mind that this-their liaison-was an exercise embarked upon solely to educate her, to extend her horizons beyond the boundaries that would otherwise have been, as long as she viewed this engagement of theirs with the cool detachment of a business arrangement, her heart would remain safely hers.

Unbidden, her hand drifted to his hair, to play in the soft curls. She thought again of his argument-that she was afraid of what might come. He’d been right about the fear, but not about what she feared. If he knew that she feared falling in love with him, he might well, out of honor, step back. But while that remained her secret she had nothing to fear, from him or from prolonging their liaison, as long as she kept her heart locked away.

She hadn’t intended to court any risk at all-had seen no reason to, not last night-but now he’d demonstrated that there indeed was more to learn, then her reckless, curious Gascoigne self wouldn’t rest, not until she’d learned it all. At least glimpsed it all.

He stirred, sighed; with a muffled grunt he lifted from her and slumped on his side beside her. Curled his arm around her, held her to him and nuzzled her ear. “You don’t have to go anywhere, do you?”

Spreading her hand over his chest, she looked down the long muscled body displayed for her delectation. Hers to explore. “No. Not yet.”

Gervase remained slumped on the daybed after Madeline had risen, dressed and gone. She’d insisted they shouldn’t risk being seen leaving together; he’d acquiesced, not least because he needed time to digest all that had happened, and all that that meant.

At least he had the answer to the question he’d posed just before she’d ridden up. Yes, he needed her, Madeline Gascoigne. No one else would do; the instant she’d tried to cut and run, he’d known.

Incontrovertibly, beyond a shadow of doubt.

Worse, the primitive response that had gripped him had left no room for pretense. He wasn’t giving her up-not now, not ever. Not even though he was going to marry her.

That last was no contradiction, not to his mind. Being in thrall to his wife-a Valkyrie, what was more-was not the way he’d imagined things would be.

He grimaced, then shifted to reach for the decanter and pour a little amontillado into a glass. Fortification.

Sipping, he relaxed on the cushions and took stock. Not that he could set any name, let alone any meaningful measure to the maelstrom of emotions her attempt to escape him had unleashed. That was how he’d in that instant seen it-as her escaping him-and he’d reacted, at least inwardly, accordingly.

He’d scrambled to find some way to draw her back; he’d succeeded, but only by mining his own vulnerability, a desperate act. Just voicing his fears had shaken him, even if he’d disguised them as hers.

Before he’d let her up from the daybed he’d extracted an agreement that they would meet again, that she wouldn’t try to retreat from their now-established intimacy. Well and good; his immediate need was met. Yet now he’d got that much from her…where to from here?

Marry the damn woman as soon as humanly possible was the answer backed by every instinct he possessed.

He imagined proposing…

Eyes closing, he dropped his head back and groaned. “If I tell her I want to marry her now, she’ll think someone has seen us and I’m doing the honorable thing.” He thought, then added, “Or worse, that I’ve simply come to my senses, realized I’ve seduced a gently bred virgin, and feel compelled to offer for her hand.”

He grimaced horrendously. He didn’t need even a second to realize what sort of argument proposing would land him in-one he’d never win. Opening his eyes, he sipped, felt the crisp wine slide down his throat. “This can’t be happening.”

If he proposed now, he’d risk losing all he’d thus far gained. Worse, he’d put her on her guard against him.

Frowning, his wits now fully re-engaged, he reviewed his campaign-as if winning her were a war with her and her hand the prize. While seducing her had seemed an excellent idea at the time, having won that battle and taken that hill, he’d now discovered that the position made his push to take his primary target harder, not easier.

He had to take another approach. A flanking maneuver.

Replaying her reasons for believing he couldn’t possibly be interested in marrying her, while he’d undermined one-that he wasn’t honestly attracted to her-the other three still stood firm, at least in her mind. Her age, society’s expectations of the type of lady who would be his wife, and their compatibility in day-to-day dealings.

Given where they now were-given she’d already tried to step back-if he wanted to convince her he truly wanted to marry her, he would need to attack and weaken, preferably vanquish and quash, those other three reasons before he risked asking her to be his.

In light of the feats he’d routinely accomplished over his years as a spy, that shouldn’t be beyond him. He drained his glass, eyes narrowing as he planned. Persuasion was his strong suit, but sweet words didn’t work well with her-she was too wary, too cynical. Sweet actions, however…

By the time he sat up and set aside the empty glass, his new plan of campaign was clear in his mind.

“Sybil?” The following morning, summoned by Milsom to the drawing room, Madeline discovered that not only Sybil but Belinda, Annabel and Jane had come to call. Touching fingers with Sybil, acknowledging the girls’ curtseys with a smile, she waved them to chairs, then sat beside Sybil on the chaise. “Is anything wrong?”

“Not wrong.” Sybil fixed her with a sober gaze. “But I have to confess, Madeline dear, that this is a social call with a purpose.”

“Oh?” Glancing from Sybil’s unusually serious expression to those of her daughters, equally intent, for one dizzying moment Madeline wondered if someone had seen Gervase and her at the boathouse, on the path…but Sybil wouldn’t have brought the girls if that were the case.

Turning back to Sybil, she raised her brows. “What purpose?”

Sybil leaned nearer. “It’s the festival, you see. With the best will in the world…well, Gervase is a man, my dear, and desperately needs female assistance.”

Madeline studied Sybil’s blue eyes, then glanced at the girls. “I thought you…?”

“Oh, no, dear.” Sybil sat back with a light laugh. “Not that we wouldn’t be glad to help-and indeed we will as far as he’ll allow. But you see, he thinks of us as…well, dependents. As ladies to be cosseted, not taken notice of.”

“He’s been our guardian for years, of course,” Belinda put in, “so he views us as veritable babes-never to be taken seriously.”

“The notion that on some issues we might know more than he, especially as he’s been away for so long, never enters his head.” Annabel looked disgusted.

“Yes, well”-Sybil bent a reproving glance on Annabel-“it’s not that we don’t value his protection and his care of us. No.” She turned to Madeline and laid a hand on her sleeve. “Indeed, it’s because we understand why he’s unlikely to listen to advice from us that we’ve come to appeal to you.”

Madeline suddenly found herself the object of four pleading looks not even her brothers could have bettered.

Sybil patted her hand. “We know how busy you are, dear, but if you could find the time, just to hint him in the right direction. Oversee things, as it were. I know I can rely on you to know just how to word advice so he’ll follow it, and he’ll listen to you.” Sybil smiled. “The truth is, he’s such a strong character that it needs an equally strong character to make any impression on him, and sadly none of us is up to his weight.”

Madeline blinked, but as a good neighbor and friend she couldn’t fail to agree. “I’ll do what I can, of course. The festival is for the entire district, after all-only fair that a few of us share the organizational burden.”

“Exactly!” Sybil beamed. “I knew you would know just how to put it. Now, I hope you’re free to dine with us tonight? Just us”-with a wave she included the girls-“and Gervase. I thought perhaps you could bring your brothers, as well as Muriel, of course. It might be useful to learn if the boys have any suggestions for activities that might keep the younger males amused.”

Madeline found herself agreeing, then Sybil rose, collected her shawl and her daughters, and with her usual sweet smile, departed.

Standing on the front porch waving the carriage away, Madeline considered, then sighed. Turning inside, she headed back to the office and the work still remaining from the previous afternoon.

There was absolutely no point in cultivating moss. Gervase had lived by that maxim for most of his thirty-four years; he saw no reason to eschew it now. So while Sybil and his sisters drove to Treleaver Park to cultivate Madeline, he bobbed on the waves, and cultivated her brothers.

He’d set out to find them after an early breakfast; fate had smiled and he’d intercepted them riding across his lands. He suspected they’d been on their way to search the caves tucked in the various coves that scalloped the western shore of the peninsula, but they’d been readily distracted by his suggestion of taking out his favorite sailing boat and tacking around Black Head to beat up the coast toward the Helford estuary to a fishing spot they all knew.

They’d dropped anchor in the inlet near the village of St. Anthony; they’d each flipped a line into the sea, and now sat slumped against the sides, watching the breeze ruffle the furled sail.

Although his gaze was on the pennant rippling from the top of the mast, Gervase was aware of the glance the three boys exchanged.

“I suppose,” Harry said, “that when you were younger, you must have done runs with the smugglers.”

Gervase hid a grin. He nodded. “Quite a few.” Still lazily gazing up at the pennant, he went on, “In those days, there were runs every few weeks-at least one a month, often more. The wars, and the excise levied because of them, made smuggling a lucrative trade. Now, however…”

Appreciating how devoted Madeline was to his three eager listeners, and when he married her, then regardless of any legal obligation certain natural and moral responsibilities regarding them would fall to him, given all that he had no wish to inflame their already engaged enthusiasms regarding the smugglers, and joining their runs.

“Now the wars have ended, there’s a rather large question over what smugglers will run-what goods will make smuggling worthwhile, whether there’ll be reason enough to continue doing runs at all. At present, there’s not much that would be worth the risk”-he lowered his gaze to sweep the three attentive faces-“which is why the gangs have gone quiet.”

He let that fact, and the implied prediction, sink in, then smiled. “Have you heard how the smugglers helped His Majesty’s services during the wars?”

Edmond’s eyes went wide. “They helped our forces?”

“Often.” Gervase settled his shoulders against the boat’s side. “For instance, when I was in Brittany, at a little fishing port called Roscoff, near St. Pol-de-Léon, I had to get back to England, fast, and…”

For the rest of the hour that they bobbed in the inlet, he held them enthralled with stories of wartime adventures, some his, some of other operatives like Charles St. Austell and Jack Hendon, whose exploits had passed into legend.

Noticing the wind rising, he capped his last tale with, “So those are some of the adventures my generation had, but while your generation will doubtless have adventures, too, as the times have changed, those wanting adventures will need to look in other arenas. The exciting new challenges will assuredly come from some different, unexpected direction-that, my lads, is the nature of adventure.”

Edmond and Ben grinned, then scrambled to help as he moved to ready the sail. Although Harry also smiled, Gervase noted his more pensive expression, and was satisfied. He hadn’t had a chance to probe the cause of Harry’s underlying restlessness; he hoped Madeline had acted on his advice and taken steps to include Harry in the work of the estate.

With their anchor raised and sail unfurled, the canvas filled, billowed, then snapped taut. The hull lifted and sliced southward through the choppy waves. Once they were under way, Gervase located Ben crouching before the mast. “Ben-why don’t you come and take the tiller?”

Ben’s eyes lit. He glanced at his older brothers, but both only nodded him back toward Gervase and shifted forward to sit on either side of the prow, enjoying the bounce and spray as the boat beat swiftly down the coast.

Scrambling to join Gervase at the stern, Ben sat on the bench Gervase vacated and wrapped both hands around the wooden handle. “I haven’t done this much before.”

Gervase smiled at the breathless confession. Once Ben had a good grip, he switched to sit on the other side of the tiller, resting his hand along the upper edge-for Ben’s reassurance more than his. The seas weren’t high, and they weren’t so close to the shore or the outlying reefs that he wouldn’t have plenty of time to seize the tiller and get her back on course should they go astray.

“You’re doing well.” He relaxed against the stern. “Just keep her nose in line with the cliffs-the wind’s sitting just right for us to beat straight down to Black Head. I’ll tell you how to manage when we get there.”

Ben didn’t reply, just nodded.

Gervase glanced at his face, saw the light shining in his eyes. Smiling, he sat back, entirely content.

Knowing one sure way to Madeline’s heart, after lunch he set out on Crusader to visit his smuggling contacts. Not to ask about smuggling, but about whether there’d been anything to suggest that the wreckers had plied their trade during the squall that had struck during Lady Porthleven’s ball.

This morning he’d distracted the Gascoigne trio, but tomorrow would be another day, and from their direction when he’d come upon them, and the few references they’d let fall during the morning’s sailing, they were plainly still intent on searching for wreckers’ treasure, not a safe pastime if there had been recent wrecks.

He stopped in Coverack to speak with the innkeeper there, then rode north to Porthoustock, then on to Helford and Gweek, eventually reaching Helston itself, and Abel Griggs.

“Nah.” Abel hefted the foaming pint pot Gervase set before him and took a deep draft. Lowering the pot, he wiped foam from his upper lip, then settled to chat. “Ain’t been no action-not for us, nor for them. That squall was a bad one, right enough, but it didn’t sit right for them. Far as we’ve been able to make out from the whispers and the remains of false beacons on the cliffs, they’ve only been using the reefs to the west, mostly laying in for the coves from Kynance to Mullion.”

“Not to the east?”

Abel shook his head. “There’s just the Manacles that side, and while they might be right jagged teeth lying there ready to rip out a ship’s hull, they’re difficult for the wreckers, leastways with the currents ’round that way.” Abel studied his beer. “Besides, with the wind as it was in that squall, it’d only be a ship beating north for the Helford estuary that’d be at risk, and no captain on this coast would do that in a blow.”

Gervase nodded. “True enough.”

Reassured that there was-still-nothing for Madeline’s brothers to find in the caves that dotted the western coves, he chatted with Abel about this and that, after his reminiscences of the morning reliving and recounting certain shared adventures from decades before.

He left Abel in the tavern on the old docks that had always been his “office” and headed back to Coinagehall Street and the Scales & Anchor where he’d left Crusader. He turned in under the arch of the inn’s stableyard-to find Madeline striding toward him.

She checked at the sight of him, but then she smiled and came on, joining him where he’d halted under the arch. “I’m glad I found you.”

He smiled back. “Good afternoon to you, too.”

She pulled a face at him. “Indeed-good afternoon, and I hope it will be one. I’m on my way to the Stannary Court.”

He raised his brows. “Do tell.”

Her lips quirked, but she immediately sobered. “I had a visit this morning from one of our tenant farmers. He and his brother were approached with an offer to buy their tin mining leases by the same agent as before. Both Kendrick and his brother have heard rumors-fresh rumors-that the mines are in financial trouble, but Kendrick had the nous to come and see me before they accepted.”

Eyes narrowing, she shook her head. “This can’t go on. Some farmers will sell simply because they’ve been frightened into thinking they should.”

“But why hie to the Stannary Court?”

Madeline met his eyes. “Because it occurred to me that whoever’s behind this might have succeeded in buying a few leases-ones from holders we don’t know or who haven’t asked around. If that’s so, then the clerk of the court would know of it, for he would have had to register the transfer of ownership.”

Gervase stared at her for a long moment, then he took her arm. “Brilliant.” Turning, he started along the pavement toward the court building beyond the inn; she fell into step beside him. “You’re absolutely right-excellent deduction.”

They walked a little way, then he looked ahead to where stone steps led up to the double doors of the Stannary Court. “Of course, the clerk isn’t supposed to happily volunteer information regarding a new owner.”

“No, he isn’t.” Glancing at him, she met his amber eyes. “That’s why I was so glad I found you.”

His lips curved. “You think, between us, that we’ll be able to convince the clerk of where his true loyalties lie?”

Reaching the steps, she drew her arm free to raise her skirts. “I’d be very much surprised if, between us, we couldn’t.”

She climbed the steps and marched into the foyer, entirely confident with him at her back.

On the other side of the road, Malcolm Sinclair remained facing the bow window of the apothecary’s shop. Via the reflection in the glass, he followed the progress of the couple into the building opposite-the Stannary Court.

He was rarely shocked by anything, but seeing that particular gentleman there-that, very definitely, wasn’t something he’d expected. He didn’t appreciate the sudden clenching in his chest, but innate caution warned against not paying attention, not properly assessing this unlooked-for, and undesirable, development.

He didn’t know the lady, but she was unimportant. It was the man…the last time he’d seen him had been in London, and under circumstances that might well prove inimical to his current plans. But before he acted-reacted-he needed to know more.

Glancing sideways, he saw two old men, retired sailors by the look of them, sitting at one of the rough tables outside the tavern two doors along the street. Summoning his most amiable expression-he could charm birds from trees if he wished-he strolled along the pavement, pausing before the men’s table to tip his head, smile and exchange comments on the fine day. They were a gregarious pair, making it easy for him to ask, “That building over there.” He nodded across the street to the court. “What is it?”

They grinned and happily told him.

He raised his brows. “I see. I have to admit I know little about tin mining.”

“Well,” said one old tar, an evil grin creasing his face, “after smuggling, it’s the main source of employment around here.”

Malcolm looked suitably impressed. “I hadn’t realized.” He glanced at the court building. “Actually, there was a gentleman who just went in with a lady. I thought I recognized him, but I can’t recall his name. Do you know if he’s a local?”

The pair glanced at the steps. “His lordship, the earl, you mean?”

It required no effort to appear surprised. “Tall, well set up, well dressed. The lady was tall, too.”

The second sailor nodded. “Aye, that was Miss Gascoigne-her as holds the reins for her young brother, Harry, him being Viscount Gascoigne of Treleaver Park. That’s to the east on the peninsula.”

“And the earl?”

“Tregarth, Earl of Crowhurst. He was a major in the guards, they say.” The sailors exchanged a knowing glance. “Course, that’s not all he was, as those hereabouts have good cause to know. One of our own, and in the thick of things with old Boney, he was. But now he’s home, and with his uncle and cousin passed on, he’s lord of Crowhurst Castle-that’s down on the peninsula, too.”

Malcolm smiled and thanked them. “He wasn’t who I thought he was-just as well I asked.”

“Aye, well, you do hail from London, and no doubt there’s gentleman upon gentleman there-easy enough to get confused.”

With a nod and a smiling salute, Malcolm moved on.

Inwardly cursing. His eyes hadn’t lied; Tregarth was the gentleman Christian Allardyce, Marquess of Dearne, had joined after informing Malcolm of his guardian’s suicide. Malcolm had seen the pair speak; they were, had been, colleagues, of that there was no doubt whatever in his mind.

So Tregarth was now Crowhurst, a major landowner, consorting with another major landowner, or the equivalent in the tall Miss Gascoigne, both almost certainly controlling multiple mining leases as was the general case in the area, and they’d been going into the Stannary Court…possibly to make inquiries over who had recently acquired mining leases, poaching on their turf.

Malcolm didn’t like that notion, not at all, but most worrying was that Tregarth knew him as Malcolm Sinclair-while everyone else in the area, with the sole exception of Jennings, knew him as Thomas Glendower.

Dinner that evening at Crowhurst Castle was a relaxed and entertaining affair. Sybil, Muriel, Gervase and Madeline were outnumbered by the younger crew, who, after their initial wary reticence had been broken by Edmond asking Annabel how they’d managed to break the mill, proceeded to get along famously.

Regardless, Madeline was pleased to note that as the evening progressed her brothers remained on their best behavior, treating the three girls with a deference the girls seemed to take as their due. When the company rose from the dinner table, the boys leapt up, each drawing back one of the girls’ chairs, then attentively falling into step beside them as they followed Sybil and Muriel from the room.

The sight made her smile.

“I apologize in advance should my dear sisters lead your brothers astray.”

She turned as Gervase came up beside her. “What a strange thing to say.” She placed her hand on his proffered arm. “And here I was thinking what a civilizing influence they seem to be exerting over my barbarians.”

“Oh, they’re civil enough at the moment.” Together they ambled in their siblings’ wake. “But when they don’t get their way, they transform into hoydenish harridans.”

She laughed. “Hoydenish I might believe, given the recent incidents, but I sincerely doubt they have it in them to be harridans.”

“Trust me, they do.”

They’d reached the drawing room; entering, they discovered their juniors had decided on a game of loo. Belinda was directing Harry and Edmond in fetching and setting up the table, while Annabel, Ben and Jane were on their knees fishing in the sideboard for the cards and counters.

Sybil and Muriel were already ensconced on one chaise, heads together chatting. With Gervase, Madeline repaired to its mate, from where they could observe the card table and, if necessary, intervene in the activities around it, but could otherwise converse in reasonable privacy.

“I think we should pay a visit to Mr. Glendower tomorrow morning-before he has a chance to ride out.” She glanced at Gervase, brows rising.

He nodded. “It seems too coincidental that he recently bought the manor at Breage, with two mining leases, and then also bought two more.”

They’d discovered that a Mr. Thomas Glendower was the only person to recently purchase any mining leases in the area. Further investigation had yielded the information that he’d also bought the small manor near Breage, and was now living there. It had been late afternoon before they’d learned his direction; they’d decided not to try for an interview so late, but wait for tomorrow to approach him.

“He must be our man,” Madeline said, her tone determined. “The one behind the agent and the rumors.”

“You’ve found him?”

Madeline turned. Gervase looked up to find that Harry had slipped away from the action about the card table; he stood at the end of the chaise beside Madeline. With their attention on him, he colored faintly, but persisted, “The man behind all these rumors? If you’re going to see him, can I come?”

Gervase noted the clenching of Harry’s fists at his sides, and hoped Madeline understood.

She turned to him, brows arching.

He returned her look, not quite impassively.

Her eyes searched his, then she turned to Harry. “If you want to.”

Harry smiled; his hands unclenched. His eyes shone as he answered the question he’d correctly divined in Madeline’s tone. “If he’s the one creating all these problems in the district, well…”-he glanced at Gervase as if seeking the correct way to explain, then he looked again at Madeline-“it’s the sort of thing Viscount Gascoigne should help with, and I’m old enough to start learning the ropes.”

Madeline smiled, openly approving; reaching out, she grasped his hand and lightly squeezed. “Indeed. We’ll be only too happy to have you along.”

Gervase nodded his own, rather more masculine approval. “As your sister suggests, we should catch him before he has a chance to ride out for the day. If it is him, we don’t want him luring more unsuspecting leaseholders into his net, so we’ll need to make an early start.” He glanced at Madeline. “Best if I meet you two at the junction at Tregoose-let’s say at nine. We can ride on together from there.”

Madeline and Harry agreed. Then Harry was imperiously summoned to the card table. He quickly went to take his place.

Madeline turned to Gervase. She searched his eyes, then arched a brow. “Was that your doing, or truly his own initiative?”

“Mostly his own initiative-I just nudged him into acting on it.”

She tilted her head. “How?”

He smiled and sat back, his gaze going to the game; their conversation was drowned out by the already eager exclamations of their siblings. “By explaining how the smugglers’ days are, if not quite over, then numbered, and that for adventures they-their generation-will need to look elsewhere.”

Madeline studied him; his more relaxed demeanor in this company made him easier to read. Then she laid a hand on his sleeve, lightly gripped. “Thank you.” She, too, turned to watch the game. “They’ll accept that from you.”

He didn’t say anything for some minutes, then murmured, “I checked again to make sure the wreckers hadn’t taken advantage of that bad blow a week ago. Apparently the wind was in the wrong quarter, and so regardless of your brothers’ devotion to searching, they’re not going to find anything that will bring them into contact with the wreckers.”

“Thank you again.” She touched his hand lightly.

They both grew absorbed with the card game, although not for the same reasons that held their siblings engrossed. Again and again they shared a look, a private laugh at the interaction, the antics, and all they revealed. Belinda might be sixteen, and Harry fifteen, but under the influence of excitement both shed their superiority and became the children they’d only recently left behind, happily and noisily engaging with the others in what degenerated into an uproarious engagement.

Madeline watched, and appreciated the moment, appreciated that Gervase saw it, understood it, too. Earlier in the evening, she and Sybil had drawn him into a discussion of various aspects of the festival; she had to admit she could now see Sybil and his sisters’ point. He was so accustomed to command that he tended to ride over any but the most trenchant opposition-or, in her case, an opposing view put by someone of equally strong character unwilling to simply get out of his way.

She was also someone he had reason to wish to please, but, when she’d noted the way his sisters had been avidly watching them and had arched a brow at him, he’d reassured her with a murmur that neither the girls nor Sybil had any inkling whatever of their affair.

Which was a relief in one sense, yet it left open the question of why his sisters, and Sybil, too, were viewing her in quite such a way. Viewing her success in influencing him with something akin to smugness.

More, of approval.

She couldn’t put her finger on what it was she sensed from them. In the end, she inwardly shook her head and told herself they were simply the four people most likely to applaud any lady who could deal with Gervase.

Late that night, with the rising wind howling about the eaves of the manor, Malcolm Sinclair was quickly and efficiently packing the last of his belongings when a tap at the library French doors had him glancing sharply that way.

Recognizing the shadowy figure beyond the doors, he strode over and unlocked them, leaving Jennings to enter and follow him back to the desk.

The implication of the box into which Malcolm was loading papers was transparent.

“You’re leaving?” In the light of the lamp, Jennings’s eyes grew round.

“Yes. And so are you.” Grim-faced, Malcolm dropped in the last file, then reached for a piece of string. “Here-help me secure this.”

Jennings obediently held the box closed; while he wrapped the string around and tied it tight, Malcolm explained, briefly and succinctly, whom he had seen in Helston that afternoon, where they’d been going, and what that meant. “While everything we’ve been doing here is perfectly legal, I have absolutely no wish to meet Tregarth and be asked to explain.”

More specifically he didn’t want to explain why everyone locally knew him as Thomas Glendower, rather than Malcolm Sinclair. He definitely didn’t need Tregarth thinking back, and deciding to check for a connection between Thomas Glendower and Malcolm’s late guardian’s nefarious scheme. The connection couldn’t easily be proved, but to a man with the resources Malcolm feared Tregarth might possess, his secret might yield.

The authorities had been lenient over Malcolm’s role in his guardian’s illegal and immoral scheme, but if they knew of Thomas Glendower and his investment accounts, they might not be inclined to be quite so forgiving.

That was a chance Malcolm wasn’t prepared to take. Aside from all else, he’d come to enjoy being Thomas, being the owner of this place. He resented having to leave so abruptly, to decamp and flee, but he was barely twenty-one; there would be time, eventually, for him to return to Cornwall, the manor and Thomas Glendower.

But he shared none of that with Jennings, who had no idea his alter ego existed. He cared not a whit if Jennings thought he was running like a scared rabbit; ego, he’d learned, was a weakness, a failing.

“We’re going tonight.” He met Jennings’s gaze. “I’m leaving most of my things here. I’ll be packed, saddled and ready to ride in an hour. How long will it take you to get ready?”

Jennings was staying at a tiny cottage in the hamlet of Carleen, a mile or so north. He narrowed his eyes in thought. “Shouldn’t take more than an hour to get back to the cottage, pack and clear up, then get back here.”

Curtly, Malcolm nodded. “Good. I’ll meet you on the London road.”