Violet

Chapter Twenty

“SHE DOESN'T SPEAK A WORD OF ENGLISH, GOVERNOR.”

“Who doesn't?” The viscount looked up irritably at this interruption. He glowered at David, who stood somewhat hesitantly in the doorway of the library, unwilling to come farther without an invitation.

“St. Simon's doxy, sir,” Charles put in from behind his brother. “We thought you'd like to know.”

Cedric carefully folded his newspaper and put it on the sofa beside him. “You thought what?” His black eyes had narrowed. “I trust you haven't been meddling in my affairs, sir.”

David shuffled his feet but responded with his habitual note of sulkiness. “You said the other evening at dinner that you'd like to know who she was. We thought you'd like us to find out for you.”

“And just what could have given you that idea, you bungling clod!” Cedric exploded with a soft ferocity that was all the more alarming for its quietness. The two young men took an involuntary step backward. “Since when have I ever asked you to involve yourself in my business? Just what have you been doing?”

“We asked the girl a few questions,” David said lamely. “But she doesn't speak English… rattled on in some foreign language.”

“Not Froggie, though,” his brother put in helpfully.

“We'd have known if it was that.”

Cedric stared at them in disbelief, wondering how it was that they could still surprise him with their idiocy. “She's Spanish,” he said deliberately. “As I've known for the last two days.”

“Oh.” Charles scratched his head. “Only trying to help, Governor.”

“Oh, spare me,” Cedric said in disgust. “Where was the girl when you had this illuminating discussion?” His eyes sharpened. “Not on St. Simon land?”

“Oh, no, sir,” they said hastily. “She was in Fowey, so we followed her and… and just asked her her name.”

Cedric leaned back against the sofa and regarded them steadily and with a powerful revulsion. “Did you hurt her?” he asked gently. “Did you hurt a woman under St. Simon's protection? A woman living as a guest in his house? Of course you didn't. Of course you wouldn't do anything so asinine… Would you?” he shouted suddenly.

“No, sir… no, of course we didn't,” they said almost in unison. “We just asked her a few questions.”

Cedric closed his eyes with a sigh of weary disgust.

He knew them too well to believe them. It seemed they could derive sexual pleasure only from causing a woman pain. Their father had had the same quirk, and his wife, a pathetic little mouse, had cowered and hidden her bruises until she'd died from a fall down the stairs when she was six months pregnant. No one who knew Thomas Penhallan had believed Mary had fallen down the stairs. But the twins had inherited his twisted appetites. At least in general they devoted their malign attentions to women of the streets and left their own class alone. It was to be hoped no woman was ever fool enough to marry one of them.

Presumably in this instance they'd concluded that the girl was St. Simon's whore and therefore fair game.

“Besides, she wouldn't know who we were,” Charles said on a note of pride. “We wore loo masks-”

“You wore what?”

“She won't be able to identify us… not like the other girl,” David explained. “Not that we did hurt her,” he added hurriedly. “It wasn't like that other time at all.” They looked at their uncle hopefully, still expecting some congratulation on their foresight, at least. There was clearly to be no gratitude for their impulse to assist him.

Congratulations were not forthcoming. “Get out off here!”

They fled, and Cedric stared into the empty fireplace, wondering how much damage they'd done. He'd set his own inquiries in motion and had discovered easily that the woman at Tregarthan was Spanish, that she'd come from Spain ostensibly under the protection of Colonel, Lord St. Simon at Wellington's behest. That was common knowledge in the neighbourhood now. Thanks to his nephews' spying, he knew rather more about the relationship than the neighbourhood did. He wasn't particularly interested in whether St. Simon was sleeping with the girl or not, but he was intrigued as to what had brought them together, and why in the world St. Simon would trouble to bring his mistress from Spain and house her at Tregarthan.

Who was she and why was she there?

Whichever way he looked at it, he couldn't ignore two facts: the girl bore an uncanny resemblance to Celia; and she was Spanish.

Pure coincidence? No, Cedric didn't believe in coincidence. He believed in planning and minds as devious as his own.

The abduction had gone according to plan, except for that fool Marianne, who had lived to tell the tale. However, he'd dealt with her easily enough-fear, a generous pension, and a secluded cottage in the Highlands had ensured her silence. She'd been dead these last ten years, carrying the secret to her grave. But had Celia escaped from her abductor? Escaped… married some Spaniard… fathered a child?

It didn't make sense. If she'd escaped, she would have come home. It wouldn't occur to her that her brother could have had anything to do with some robber on a mountain pass. And if the girl was legitimately Celia's daughter, why didn't she come out and say so?

If she did have anything to do with Celia, then he had to deal with her. A matter somewhat complicated by St. Simon's protection. And further complicated by the fact that she now knew that someone was unusually interested in her. It was, of course, possible that she wouldn't be able to identify her masked attackers. She was a stranger, she'd certainly never seen the twins before. There was no reason why she should connect them with himself… unless she told St. Simon of the attack. He would have little difficulty naming those louts. But there was no reason why he should link their behavior with Cedric. He would be most likely to assume that they were up to their old tricks again.

He got up and poured himself a cognac, rolling the amber liquid on his tongue, frowning. If the girl did have anything to do with Celia, what could she possibly want? She had to want something. Everyone wanted something. Was it money she was after?

Well, whatever it was, he would discover soon enough. Perhaps he could encourage her to reveal her hand.

“It wouldn't be a big party, Julian,” Lucy said, her china-blue eyes glowing with enthusiasm. Just ten couples or so, and the usual families. No formal dancing, although perhaps we could roll up the carpet after supper. Not an elaborate supper-”

“My dear Lucy,” Julian interrupted, raising a hand to halt the flow. “If you wish to give a small party, I have no objection. The only question is whether Tamsyn wishes to try her society wings so soon.”

“Oh, of course she does,” Lucy said warmly. “It won't be in the least alarming. Everyone is so kind and they're all so interested in her and want to get to know her. You do wish to, don't you, Tamsyn?”

Tamsyn, who'd been listening to Lucy's bubbling excitement with some amusement, said obligingly, “If you say so, Lucy.”

“But you know how you become quite overcome with shyness and forget all your English,” Julian pointed out casually, leaning back in his chair, regarding her from beneath drooping eyelids. “Do you think you're really ready to burst upon the social scene without becoming completely incomprehensible?”

“But Tamsyn speaks perfectly good English,” Gareth protested, frowning as he flicked with his handkerchief at a spot of dust on his glistening Hessians. “Native, I would have said.”

“Ah, that may seem to be the case,” Julian said gently. “But, unfortunately, under pressure she forgets all her English and lapses into streams of Spanish.”

“I believe I've conquered my shyness,” Tamsyn declared with dignity. “I believe I'll be able to conduct myself without disgracing you, milord colonel.”

“Do you, now?” He stroked his chin, still regarding her with lazy amusement.

Lucy glanced quickly between them. Most of the time Julian treated Tamsyn with a careful, almost distant, politeness, and it was very difficult to believe what she and Gareth had seen in the corridor. Sometimes, though, as now, there would be something about their conversation or the way they looked at each other that hinted at some shared secret.

“Tamsyn couldn't possibly disgrace you,” she said a little awkwardly. “And I will stay beside her the whole evening and show her how to go on if she has any difficulties.”

“Then it seems the matter is settled,” her brother said, his voice once more cool and matter-of-fact. “Just don't expect me to make any of the arrangements. You may tell Hibbert to provide the wine and champagne from the cellars.”

“We must have an iced punch,” Lucy declared, leaping to her feet. “It was all the rage in London last Season. Annabel Featherstone has a wonderful recipe I'm sure I wrote it in my pocketbook. I'm certain Mrs. Hibbert will be able to make it up.”

She headed for the door, her usual indolence vanished. “Tamsyn, come and help me decide on the supper menu. And you could help me with the invitations, if you don't mind. It's tedious work writing them all out, but if we can do them all this evening, then Judson shall deliver them in the morning.”

“When are we to have this party?” Tamsyn inquired, reluctantly abandoning her plan for an evening gallop on Cesar.

Lucy paused to consider. “Next Saturday. Would that be all right, Julian?”

“Oh, perfectly,” he said. “With any luck I should be able to wangle an invitation somewhere else.”

“Oh, no!” Lucy exclaimed, horrified. “We cannot have a party at Tregarthan if you're not here to host it.”

“I believe St. Simon was jesting, my dear,” Gareth said, standing to peer into the mirror to make a minor adjustment to his cravat.

Lucy looked a little bewildered. “Come, Lucy,” Tamsyn said, taking her arm firmly. “You can show me exactly how one organizes a Society party. The only parties I have ever attended have been-”

“You attended parties in that convent of yours?”

Julian interrupted in swift warning.

Tamsyn kicked herself. She'd been about to describe the glorious almost tribal affairs in the mountain villages, where they roasted whole sheep and goats and the festivities could continue for three days.

“No,” she said. “But before I went to the convent, before my mother died, I did once attend a birthday party.”

“Oh, you poor dear,” Lucy exclaimed, shocked to her core at such a pathetic memory. “And you haven't been to a party since?”

“No,” Tamsyn said soulfully, glancing at the colonel.

“Pobrecita, “ he murmured, eyelids drooping over the mocking glint in the bright-blue orbs.

“Will you wish to examine the guest list, Julian, when I've made it out?” Lucy asked, still intent on the matter in hand.

“No, I leave it entirely in your more than capable hands,” he responded, pointedly picking up the newspaper.

Lucy nodded complacently. “I have a talent for organizing social events. We gave a very grand reception last Season, do you remember, Gareth?”

“Oh, yes, my dear,” he agreed, remembering also that he'd pronounced it a great bore and had taken his leave at the earliest opportunity, fleeing to Marjorie's cozy little house. Lucy had wept bitterly for most of the next day, but not a word of reproach had passed her lips. Guilt, as a result, had made him storm out of the house, saying he couldn't be expected to spend time with a watering pot.

The recollections were uncomfortable, and he resumed his seat as Tamsyn and Lucy left the room. Restlessly, he picked up his wineglass. It was empty. He peered into it for a moment, trying to recover his usual composure. He'd make it up to the pretty little thing, he decided. She was such a sweet innocent, and he hadn't taken that into account when they'd married. Couldn't expect her to perform like Marjorie… stupid of him to have thought she could. In fact, now that he gave the matter some thought, he didn't want his wife behaving with Marjorie's knowing ways. Quite shocking, it would be.

“I doubt your glass will fill just by looking at it, Fortescue.”

His brother-in-law's cool tones broke into his mussing, and he looked up, startled. Julian stood over him with the decanter, one eyebrow raised. “Deep thoughts, Gareth?”

Gareth's countenance took on a ruddy hue. “Nice for Lucy to have something to plan,” he said. “Makes her happy when she's got something to do.”

Julian merely raised an eyebrow and returned to his newspaper. Presenting Tamsyn formally to local society under his sister's auspices would be more convenient and more conventional than doing it himself. Lucy knew all the intricacies of the local family networks, and he could trust her not to step on any toes with her invitations. She would ensure that the old tabbies like the Honorable Mrs. Anslow and Miss Gretchen Dolby would be included, as well as the younger set. And it was always possible that someone of that generation might remember a disappearance over twenty years ago.

Tamsyn was still an exotic flower in this country backwater, but if she didn't talk too much and kept herself in the background, she should be able to muddle through an evening with Lucy and himself to steer her.

It was interesting that she and Lucy had become such good friends, the constraint of that first evening vanished. Gareth still attempted some heavy-handed flirtation, but Tamsyn skilfully turned it aside and Lucy no longer seemed troubled by it. In fact, she seemed happier altogether. It was one less thing to worry about. But it wasn't enough to lift his depression.

He knew perfectly well that he was depressed because he was stuck here while his friends and his men were enduring the broiling heat of the summer campaign. Unless some miracle happened, he would stay stuck until October, when he would leave Tamsyn to whatever life she'd made for herself here and sail back to Lisbon, hopefully rejoining the army before they went into winter quarters.

But dwelling on that prospect didn't lift his spirits either, and he knew why. He was not looking forward to bringing his liaison with the brigand to a close. In the dark reaches of the night, when she slept beside him curled like an exhausted puppy against his chest, he had allowed himself to imagine going back to Spain with her. Setting her up as his established mistress. She would have no trouble following the drum; campaigning was in her blood. But he'd have to persuade her to give up this plan to find her mother's family, and what would he be offering in its place? A liaison for an indeterminate length of time, trailing after the army over a country ravaged by war. And when the war was over, he'd have to come back here, take himself a wife, and set about building a dynasty.

It wasn't fair to ask her, and Tamsyn showed no signs of suggesting such a thing herself

In a small parlor at the rear of the house, Lucy drew a sheet of paper toward her. “I'll make a list of all the people we should invite. I'll explain who they are to you as I do it, so you'll learn who are the really important families. “

Tamsyn sat down beside her. “How many are you going to invite?”

Lucy tapped her teeth with her quill. “We really have to invite everyone,” she said. “Unless it's to be a very small, intimate gathering.”

“Which it isn't going to be.”

“No,” Lucy said with a chuckle. “What's the point of going to all this trouble just for twenty people? Julian won't mind so long as we don't trouble him with any of the arrangements.” She began to scribble a list of names, rattling through a description and titbits of gossip attached to various people as she compiled the list.

“There, now.” She sat back, shaking her wrist at the end of fifteen minutes of busy scribbling. “I think that's everyone who is anyone, from as far away as Truro. A few of them won't come, of course, but they'd be bitterly offended if they didn't receive an invitation.”

Tamsyn scanned the list of over a hundred names.

She'd been waiting for Lucy to mention the Penhallans, but the name didn't appear anywhere.

“Gabriel mentioned a very prominent family called Penhallan,” she said with an air of mild curiosity. “He'd heard talk of them in the taverns in Fowey.”

“Viscount Penhallan,” Lucy said. “He's very important, but he doesn't go into local society. He's very powerful in the government, I think. I've only met him twice, in London.” She frowned down at the list, saying absently, “I didn't like him. He's very intimidating.”

“Does your brother know him?”

“Oh, yes, of course,” Lucy said, still distracted. “But there was some scandal about his nephews, and no one receives them anymore… I don't know what it was, and don't say anything to Julian, because he'll accuse me of gossiping and then he'll be very toplofty and uncomfortable. “

“Shouldn't you invite Viscount Penhallan if everyone else is invited?” Tamsyn asked carelessly, helping herself to an apple from the fruit bowl on the table and polishing it busily against her skirt.

“Oh, he won't care to come,” Lucy said confidently. “But you said other people wouldn't come, but they had to be invited nevertheless.”

“Oh, yes, but they're different. Lord Penhallan is a very important person, and he wouldn't expect to be invited to a little reception like this.”

“A hundred guests isn't that little.” She scrunched into her apple. “It seems like half the county to me. At least if you invite him, he can't possibly be offended. Better to be safe than sorry, I always say.”

Lucy contemplated the list with a frown. “I suppose it might be considered a slight to leave him out.”

“I will write the invitation,” Tamsyn said, drawing a sheet of paper toward her with a businesslike air. “Shall I do the second half of the list and you do the top?”

Would he come? If he was curious about her, then he would come. She was convinced he hadn't set the twins to attack her-it was too clumsy an act for someone as clever and devious as she knew her uncle to be. But neither had it been random. The twins had taken their uncle's business into their own vile, clumsy hands.

Cedric Penhallan was definitely curious about her, and he would come.

The invitation arrived with Cedric's breakfast the next morning. He read it twice, a slight smile curving the fleshy mouth. The handwriting bold, the strokes heavily inked-not an overtly feminine hand. Certainly not the hand of Lucy Fortescue. Somehow he knew it had been written by the girl he'd seen on the stairs, the girl with the violet eyes who rode that milk-white Arabian. He scrutinized the missive, looking for some link to Celia. There was nothing, and yet he could scent the challenge rising from the heavy vellum. The invitation was an opening move.

But where in the name of grace did Julian St. Simon fit into all this?