A Lady's Honor

by Laurie Alice Eakes

  He did not so much as glance at Romsford.

  “I requested a word with Miss Trelawny.” The marquess enunciated as though he believed Grandpapa was deaf.

  “Do you wish to speak with him?” Grandpapa asked Elizabeth.

  She shook her head. “I’ve told him all I wish to.” She started to turn away with Grandpapa, who was already signaling two footmen from Bastion Point to collect the baggage.

  Romsford grasped her arm. “I, my dear, am not the untrustworthy one.” His voice was a murmur, his person close enough for her to catch his odor of linens not changed often enough. “Or do you think my being on the quayside here with Sir Petrok is mere coincidence?”

  Her lips parted on a gasp. She tried to gather her spinning thoughts enough to ask a coherent question about Curnow and the messages he said he’d sent north, but Romsford was already striding away. A glance back at the boat told her Curnow was nowhere in sight, or she would have flung accusations at him regardless of the consequences to her reputation.

  A reputation Romsford could destroy if he chose to disgrace the bride he wanted with such desperation—desperation beyond reason. And unreasonable people took drastic measures.

  “Do not look so frightened, child.” Miss Pross tucked her hand into the crook of Elizabeth’s elbow. “He cannot harm you now that Sir Petrok is with us.”

  She shook her head and allowed her companion to nudge her toward Grandpapa and the Bastion Point traveling coach, though how her legs worked when they had turned to the consistency of spun sugar she didn’t know. Her brain, unfortunately, was not a weak froth. It brought her ideas all too clearly.

  Mere coincidence. Mere coincidence. Mere coincidence. Romsford’s words began as a murmur and ended in a shout ringing in her ears as though the marquess followed her with his repetitive Greek chorus.

  Rowan had sent out two messengers, he said, in the event Romsford intercepted one. But perhaps he meant he had also sent a messenger to Romsford as to where to find her. Perhaps Curnow had come along so readily to ensure Romsford caught her and her pretend rescuer got paid well for—what?

  No. He could have simply turned her over to the marquess the night before last and saved much trouble. She would not allow a seed of doubt against Mr. Curnow to creep into her head. Drake had sent him. Conan knew him. Romsford had merely followed Grandpapa or intercepted one of the messages.

  Unless they wanted her alone with Rowan to ruin her if—when—the truth emerged. Emerged due to Conan’s death.

  She clamped down her whirling thoughts and clambered into the carriage. Because Miss Pross tended toward travel sickness if she took the rear-facing seat, Elizabeth settled onto that one before her companion could object. Miss Pross, however, tried to sit beside her charge.

  Grandpapa held out a staying hand. “I wish to sit beside my granddaughter. You won’t mind us talking, will you, Miss Pross?”

  “No, sir.” Miss Pross opened her reticule. “I’ll simply read my New Testament. I need some spiritual refreshment after that boat journey.”

  “Ah, yes, refreshment.” Grandpapa plied his walking stick to the roof of the coach. “The hamper, John.”

  A moment later, a footman handed in a basket. It held nothing fancy—a bottle of lemonade, bread and butter, slices of ham.

  “I thought you ladies would be hungry after your unconventional means of transport home.” Grandpapa gave Elizabeth a twinkling glance. “You do know how to make a grand entrance, do you not?”

  “I had no intention of doing so.” Elizabeth took the food he gave her, but wished to eat none of it. “I simply had to get to Bastion Point, to you and Grandmama.”

  “And you do not wish to be a marchioness.” Grandpapa leaned back against the squabs as though he settled in his favorite chair before the library fire.

  Elizabeth removed the basket from his lap, returned her viands, and slid the hamper onto the seat beside Miss Pross before she faced the grandfather. “I do not wish to be the Marchioness of Romsford.”

  “Ah, so you do not object to marriage?”

  “Of course not. It is simply that . . .”

  Images of a hundred balls, dinner parties, soirees, and other entertainments swirled through her head, partners foisted upon her. No, more like she was foisted upon her escorts. Those partners slipping away even before doing so could be considered polite, even her dowry not enough to counteract her height and her desire for intelligent conversation. Other couples slipped off for walks along the private paths at Vauxhall Gardens, at country house parties, at picnics. She never had been invited by anyone she’d dare spend a few moments alone with, until she took matters into her own hands.

  No one she should have been alone with.

  She stared out the carriage window to a countryside alternating between newly tilled fields and the detritus of the copper and tin mines. She couldn’t see the sea, but she could smell it above smoke from the steam engines pumping water from the mines, crisp and clean, a balm to her aching soul.

  “No one ever asked me to marry him who wasn’t either a fortune hunter or a knock-in-the-cradle,” she said, making the admission without a flicker of emotion.

  “Except for Romsford.” Grandpapa covered her hand with his.

  She nodded, still not looking at him. “He is precisely the same height as I, so does not appear to care that I am so tall and taken with talking about, um, philosophy.”

  Rowan Curnow was half a head taller. She’d had to rise up just a little to touch her lips to his.

  “If you wanted to wed him,” Grandpapa began, “I’d have looked into these rumors of his other wives dying so rapidly after producing only two girls; however, I’d not have encouraged the match in any way. Even if he were innocent of their deaths, he’s not the right man for you, and I do not understand why your parents cannot see that.”

  “They only see a daughter who is becoming an embarrassment. Mother is still so beautiful, and Father—well, he looks like an older version of Drake.”

  “Do not,” Grandpapa bit out, “mention your brother’s name to me at the moment.”

  Elizabeth flinched, started to ask a question, then chose silence instead.

  “You’re beautiful, Elizabeth.” Grandpapa nodded to Miss Pross. “Do you not agree?”

  The companion glanced up from her New Testament. “Indeed. I know many a young lady who would give dearly for those cheekbones.”

  Those cheekbones grew overly warm, and Elizabeth squirmed on her seat. “Even if I agreed with you two old flatterers, it does not diminish the fact that I did not take in three seasons, and was not likely to take this season. The older I get, the less desirable I am.”

  “So you decided to kiss a stranger.” Grandpapa’s tone was stern, but the corner of his mouth twitched suspiciously.

  Elizabeth ducked her head. “Mama wrote you that too?”

  “She did. Is it true?”

  “It’s true. I kissed a stranger. He was taller than I am.”

  “Scarcely a reason for such behavior, child.” Grandpapa flicked a finger against her chin. “But you’re a Trelawny, and we are known for stepping over the bounds of proper behavior from time to time. If that is the worst you have done, there is nothing to concern us, unlike your brother and cousin.”

  “Drake and Morwenna?” Elizabeth straightened and turned to face Grandpapa. “What has Morwenna done now?”

  “She’s, ehem, gotten herself into trouble and refuses to say who the father is.”

  Elizabeth gasped. Morwenna, four months younger than she, had been the rebellious daughter of a rebellious son, scaring off governesses, getting herself expelled from schools for sneaking out after curfew, choosing friendships amongst the daughters and sons of the miners rather than the gentry. But, as much as the dark-eyed beauty flirted, she’d never so much as hinted at being the sort to overstep the boundaries of propriety that far.

  “Is he—” Elizabeth swallowed. “Is it likely the son of some miner? Sam Carn, perhaps? They
were always . . . close.”

  Grandpapa sighed. “Sam Carn is the constable this year and courting Alis Bell, so I doubt as much. I expect the father is wholly unsuitable, and she fears I’ll have him dismissed from whatever is his position if she says.”

  “You would not, though.”

  “No, I’d not. Nor would I allow them to marry.”

  “Is she still living at Bastion Point, or have her parents returned from Brazil?”

  Elizabeth’s uncle, her father’s younger brother, had become an explorer and married a woman just as interested in traveling the globe as was he. But they had left their daughter behind.

  Grandpapa’s face hardened. “I could not have her living at Bastion Point. It wouldn’t be seemly. She’s living with a hired companion in a cottage I’ve rented from the Penvenans, and is banished from Bastion Point until she’s willing to be honest with us.” Steel edged his tone. “Besides, now she couldn’t live at Bastion Point with you there. It would sully your reputation.”

  Elizabeth shivered. Although she’d kept herself pure, Grandpapa might exile her too, if he learned how she could be ruined by gossip about her being alone with a stranger in the night.

  Miss Pross caught her eye across the carriage and gave her a half smile and a nod before returning to her Bible. The reassurance that her secret was safe with her companion didn’t warm Elizabeth much, not with Romsford knowing. Not with Rowan himself knowing. And Drake and Conan—

  Oh, she was a self-centered beast.

  “What about Drake? Is he—did you—”

  “Exile him too?” Grandpapa’s hands curled into fists on his knees. “Your brother was warned if he went out with the smugglers once more I’d not help him escape any consequences. I do not care if a bit of lawlessness seems to be a family inheritance; I intend for it to stop with my grandchildren, and he, above any of the three of you, has known it for some time now. And with Conan’s murder—” His voice suddenly sounded old and quavery. “I do not know what has happened to my beloved Cornwall when someone dares murder a peer.”

  “But it was not Drake. You know he would never do such a thing.”

  “Of course he would not. That is the only reason I’ve not turned him over to the riding officers myself—I do not want him accused of murder and the real culprit allowed to get away because they think they have their man.”

  A man the officers had wanted to catch and make an example of for years—the grandson of the richest man and one of the most powerful men in the county.

  “And I do not need him leading you into temptation either.” Grandpapa gave Elizabeth a stern look.

  “He already did, encouraging me to run away from Romsford.”

  “Perhaps that is one good thing he has done of late.” Grandpapa leaned back and closed his eyes for a moment. Lines of fatigue etched his face and shadowed his dark eyes. All of a sudden he looked old and tired and sad.

  Elizabeth’s throat closed. “Grandpapa? Is something more wrong?”

  Do not let me be the next of your grandchildren you condemn. I need your approval and love. You and Grandmama are the only ones who have ever given it to me.

  He took her hand in his, squeezed hard for a moment, then sighed and opened his eyes. “I was not a good father to my sons. I let them have too much money and gave them too little discipline. Nor did I bring them up in the ways of the Lord. I did not know him myself then, and now I’ve lost your father to political and social ambitions and your uncle to explorations that will likely kill him before I go to my reward.”

  “Grandpapa—”

  “Do not interrupt. I need to say this.” He rubbed at a crease between his eyes. “I want things to be different for my grandchildren, but am afraid I’ve let it go too late there as well. At least with Drake and Morwenna. But you, child, you’re the only one who has done nothing that can be construed as ruinous behavior.”

  “I kissed a stranger at a ball.”

  Grandpapa smiled and waved his hand like erasing a slate. “Youthful high spirits at a masquerade, nothing more. And I’ve been tempted to give you Bastion Point outright—”

  “What?” Elizabeth jumped. “You cannot. You would not. That’s Drake’s inheritance as the only grandson. I have my dowry and—”

  “Hush, child. I haven’t done it for the very good reason that you should have to do what young people of our class never have to do and yet should have to do—earn something, be worthy of the wealth and privilege you enjoy.”

  “I—well, I . . . I can never earn even half of Bastion Point’s worth.”

  “You can. And so can your brother and cousin if they repent of their behavior.”

  “H-how?” Elizabeth hugged her arms across her roiling middle.

  “This family’s wealth was built on other people’s treasure. I want it to be maintained by treasure of your own. In this world, I’ve found treasures that money and wit and strength cannot buy. They have brought your grandmother and me great joy despite our mistakes and sorrow over having made those mistakes.”

  Grandpapa smiled at her. “Whichever grandchild finds that treasure first shall inherit Bastion Point and the bulk of its wealth.”

  CHAPTER 6

  ELIZABETH STARED AT GRANDPAPA IN THE GROWING gloom of twilight. “You’re saying I’ve a chance to inherit Bastion Point?”

  “I am.”

  “But . . . but . . .” Words eluded her. Her head spun. Her heart leaped.

  Owning Bastion Point lay within her grasp—if only she worked out what Grandpapa meant by the sort of treasure he wanted her to find. If only he didn’t learn that she’d essentially ruined her reputation in her determination to elude Romsford.

  With Bastion Point in her possession, she need not marry. She would have wealth and prestige all on her own. She wouldn’t be allowed to sit as the local justice of the peace like Grandpapa, but she could give house parties and invite enlightened ladies and gentlemen, men and women of science and letters, and they would come. She could create space for them to work and study. And if this war with France ever ended, she could travel to Paris and Vienna and Italy, Greece and Russia, and India, perhaps even America, or Brazil like her aunt and uncle.

  “I . . . I do not know what to say,” she murmured.

  “You need not say anything, child. It is what you must do.”

  “But how?”

  “Your grandmother and I’ll do our best to help. Perhaps we will not fail with you as we did with the others. And speaking of the others . . .” He glanced at Miss Pross.

  “I hear nothing, Sir Petrok,” Miss Pross said without looking up. “I say even less.”

  “She’s completely trustworthy, Grandpapa. It’s why I keep her in my employ instead of a customary lady’s maid.”

  “I wish to keep my post. I do not indulge in servants’ gossip.” Miss Pross turned another page of her Testament.

  Grandpapa nodded, apparently deciding she and Elizabeth spoke the truth, and looked at Elizabeth. “You may wish to say good-bye to Drake. He sails on the next ebb tide.”

  “You will allow that?”

  “If you tell him what I just told you.” Grandpapa patted her hand, then released it. “I’ve already told Morwenna in the hope it will persuade her to speak of her baby’s father.”

  The carriage slowed and turned between two serpentine stone pillars topped with carved granite tigers, crouched as though ready to spring down upon hapless visitors. To Elizabeth they spelled welcome, safety, their mouths grinning, not growling. Were she a child, she would have sprung from the carriage and raced through the parkland of ancient, gnarled trees beyond them until she reached the front steps.

  But she remained where she was, hands clasped in her lap, gaze fixed on the passing scenery of budding tree limbs lifting high against the gray-blue sky of dusk, thoughts racing ahead to where she’d find her brother.

  The carriage swept around a curve, with a fountain in the shape of a leaping dolphin burbling in its center. Before the granite
front steps of the magnificent stone edifice beyond it, the coach halted. Toe tapping, Elizabeth waited for Grandpapa and then Miss Pross to alight. Once her feet touched the ground, she scarcely managed a polite greeting to the ancient family butler and two footmen who emerged to carry luggage before she slipped inside the entryway and into Grandpapa’s study.

  The door closed and locked behind her. She crossed the room to a single column of books, removed the fifth book from the left on the third shelf—a translation of Don Quixote this year—and pressed on the paneling behind. The bookcase swung toward her. She leaped back, then rounded the shelves to step into a room barely tall enough for her to stand upright in and neither wide nor long enough to lie down, should the need arise. Another press of her fingers on the back wall of this room set the bookshelves swinging into place with a click that indicated a well-oiled mechanism. By feel from long practice since the day Drake showed her the secret room, she found the shelf with its candles and tinderbox. Once a flame glowed from a taper, she made a third press on the side wall. It opened the rear wall of the room to reveal a flight of steps descending into blackness, smelling of the sea.

  They smelled of the sea because those steps led directly to a cave accessible only by boat at high tide, a hiding place and a bolt hole created by a family that had more often than not operated outside the laws of the realm until Grandpapa saw the error of his ways and the benefits of serving his king.

  A trait he had failed to pass along to his grandson.

  In a deeper subterranean chamber and behind another panel with a hidden opening, the glow of light led her to her brother. A brazier lent warmth to the chamber, a lantern gave him light, a blanketed cot some comfort. The scent of tea and a savory stew suggested Grandpapa wasn’t allowing Drake to starve while he awaited exile.

  He didn’t look comforted. Elizabeth stood in the opening for several moments, watching him slumped forward, his elbows on his knees, his hands buried in his thick, mahogany hair.

  “Praying or meditating on your misdeeds,” she spoke at last.