The Many Sins of Cris De Feaux (Lords of Disgrace)

by Louise Allen

  ‘My… Oh, yes. Amazingly the exercise has already straightened the knots out of it. You have never been to London, then?’

  ‘No, never.’

  And I’ll wager you have never had bronchitis in your life and your back hurts you no more than the rest of you does. So what is this nonsense about being unable to endure a coach ride over rough roads?

  The track turned as they came out from the trees on to the pastureland. ‘There’s a fallen tree.’ Cris stopped, made a show of flexing his shoulders. ‘Shall we sit a while? The view looks good from here.’

  And you need a rest? He was a good actor, she would give him that. But she suspected that this man would no more willingly admit weakness than he would ride a donkey, so he must have a good reason other than exhaustion or sore muscles for wanting to stop. ‘Certainly,’ she agreed, and tossed Foxy’s reins over a handy branch. ‘Don’t mind me, you sit down,’ she added over her shoulder. As she turned back to the tree trunk she was treated to a fine display of bravely controlled wincing and the sight of Cris’s long legs being folded painfully down to the low seat.

  She could go along with it and let him fish for whatever it was he wanted, or she could stop this nonsense now. Jory had been a man who was constitutionally incapable of giving a straight answer, a husband who could keep virtually his entire life, and certainly his thoughts, secret from his wife, and she was weary of mysteries.

  ‘Mr Defoe.’ His head came up at her tone and his eyes narrowed for an instant before he was all amiable attention. No, he was doing a good job of it, but she was not at all convinced by this harmless exterior.

  ‘Why so formal all of a sudden, Tamsyn?’

  Now he was trying to unsettle her because he knew she was not entirely comfortable with first names. Tamsyn sat down. ‘Because I have a bone to pick with you, sir. You are no more in need of a rest than I am. I can believe that you are sore and your muscles are giving you hell, but if you are so sickly that you are about to succumb to a chest infection and you are incapable of riding in a coach over rough ground, then I am the Queen of the May.’

  ‘You are flattening to a man’s self-esteem, Mrs Perowne.’

  ‘Why flattening? I imagine you hate being thought less than invincible. Most men do.’

  ‘Ouch. Now that hurts. I mean that I dislike being so transparent.’

  ‘You are not. But I saw you stripped to the core yesterday—and I do not mean stripped of clothes,’ she added as that infuriating eyebrow rose. She did so wish she could do that… ‘You would have kept on going until you dropped dead rather than lie there passively on the beach and be fetched. You hated being weak and in need of help. If your man with your coach had been anywhere in the neighbourhood, you would have crawled a mile to him on your hands and knees rather than admit to needing three women to help you. So why so unwilling to travel now and leave here?’

  Cris leaned back against a sapling, folded his hands over the head of his cane and looked at her. It was a long, considering stare with no humour and no flirtation in it. If she was a parlour maid being interviewed, she suspected she would not get the position. If she was a horse for sale, he was obviously doubtful about her bloodlines. When he spoke she almost jumped.

  ‘You may well have saved my life. I am in your debt. There is something very wrong here and if it is in my power, I will remedy it.’ From another man there would have been a note of boasting, of masculine superiority over the poor, helpless females. But this sounded like a simple declaration of fact. Something was wrong. Crispin Defoe would fix it.

  It had been so long since there had been anyone from outside the household to confide in, or to lean on, just a little. Even Jory could be relied on only to do what suited his interests. They had been fortunate that he had adored Aunt Izzy and had been fond of Tamsyn. But this man would be leaving, very soon. He did not belong here, he had drifted to Barbary Combe House, borne on the current of a whim that had brought him across England. Soon he would return and to rely on him for anything—other than to disturb her dreams—was dangerous.

  ‘Nonsense. You do not owe us anything, we would have done the same for anyone who needed help. And there is absolutely nothing wrong except for a rogue dog and some valuable sheep lost.’

  ‘You see?’ The austere face was disapproving. ‘That is precisely why I felt it necessary to have an excuse for lingering here. You are going to be stubborn.’

  ‘I am not stubborn—if anyone is, it is you. You find three women living alone and assume they are incapable of dealing with life and its problems.’ She walked away across the grass, spun round and marched back, temper fraying over her moment of weakness. ‘We are managing very well by ourselves, Mr Defoe, and I am rather tired of gentlemen telling me that we are not.’

  ‘Who else has the nerve to do that?’

  ‘It takes no particular nerve, merely impertinence.’ She took Foxy’s reins, led him to the far end of the tree trunk and used it as a mounting block. ‘I am sure you can manage the path back.’ Cris stood up and took the reins just above the bit. ‘Let go at once!’

  ‘Tamsyn, I am not an idiot and neither are you. Something is wrong, your aunts are distressed and who is the other interfering gentleman?’

  ‘Aunt Izzy’s nephew considers we would do better living in a house on his estate. He seems over-protective all of a sudden.’

  ‘Lord Chelford.’

  ‘You have been eavesdropping.’ Foxy’s ears twitched back as her voice rose. ‘Hardly the action of a gentleman.’

  ‘Neither is ignoring ladies in distress.’ He stood there looking up at her, his hand firm on Foxy’s bridle. ‘I wish you would get down off your high horse, Tamsyn. Literally. You are giving me a crick in my neck. I happened to overhear something completely accidentally. Collins heard more because he likes to gossip. Now, of course, you may simply be a trio of hysterical females, leaping to conclusions and making a crisis out of a series of accidents—’

  ‘How dare you?’ Tamsyn twisted in the saddle to face him, lost her balance and grabbed for the reins. Cris reached up, took her by the waist and lifted her, sliding and protesting, down to the ground. Trapped between Foxy’s bulk and Cris’s body, she clenched her fist and thumped him square in the centre of the chest. ‘You are no gentleman!’

  ‘Yes, I am. The problem is that you do not appear to have any others in your life with whom to compare me. Now, stop jumping up and down on my toes, which is doing nothing for the state of my boots, and come and sit on the tree trunk and tell me all about it.’ She opened her mouth to speak. ‘And I am the soul of discretion, you need have no fear this will go any further.’

  ‘If you would allow me to get a word in edgeways, Mr Defoe, I would point out to you that I am unable to get off your toes, or move in any direction, because you still have your hands on my person.’ In fact they seemed to be encircling her waist, which was impossible, she was not that slim.

  ‘I have?’ He did not move, although she could have sworn that the pressure on her waist increased. ‘It must be a reflex. I was anxious that you were going to fall off.’ He still managed to maintain that austere, almost haughty, expression, except for a wicked glint in those blue eyes that should have looked innocent and instead held a wealth of knowledge and deep wells of experience. Thank goodness. He is going to kiss me.

  And then he…didn’t. Cris stepped back, released her and gestured to the tree trunk. ‘Shall we sit down and try this again? I will tie up your horse again, he is becoming confused.’

  ‘He is not the only one,’ Tamsyn muttered. Of course he was not going to kiss her. Whoever got kissed wearing a dreadful old hat like hers? Certainly no one being held by an elegant gentleman whose boots would probably have cost more than her entire wardrobe for the past five years.

  Cris came back to the tree and she noticed his cane was lying forgotten on the grass. ‘What else has happened besides the accident to the sheep yesterday?’ he asked as he sat beside her.

  ‘You will
doubtless say we are simply imagining things.’

  ‘Try me. I can be remarkably imaginative myself when I want to be.’

  ‘A hayrick caught fire two weeks ago. Our little dairy herd got through a fence last week and strayed all over the parish before we caught them. All our lobster pots keep coming up empty. And now the sheep.’

  ‘All this in the span of two weeks?’ When she nodded he scrubbed his hand across his chin and frowned at the now-scuffed toes of his boots. ‘Even my imagination is baulking at that as a series of coincidences.’ His frown deepened and Tamsyn fought the urge to apologise for the state of his boots. ‘May I ask how your aunts are supported financially?’

  She saw no harm in telling him, none of it was a secret, after all. ‘Aunt Izzy has the use of Barbary Combe House and its estate for her lifetime, along with all the income to spend as she wishes. She also has the use of everything in the house for her lifetime. Anything she buys with the income is hers to dispose of as she wishes, as are the stock and movable assets of the estate. Aunt Rosie has a very respectable competence inherited from her father and other relatives. She has high expenses, of course, because of her health—she paid for the bathing room, which uses a lot of fuel, and she also consults a number of medical men. Both of them live well within their incomes.’

  ‘And you?’ Cris said it quite without inflection, as though he were her banker or her lawyer gathering the facts before advising on an investment. And there was no reason why she should not tell him. After all, establishing her non-existent pride was simply another fact for his calculations.

  ‘I have a small inheritance from my parents. Aunt Izzy makes me an allowance and in return I act as her land steward.’

  ‘And your husband?’

  The cool, impersonal voice left her no room for manoeuvre. Tamsyn shrugged. ‘Jory left me nothing. Or, rather, he had a fishing smack, a small house, nets, gear, firearms… All used in the commission of criminal offences, all seized by the Excise after his death. To have laid claim to anything would have been to admit I was a partner in his activities.’

  ‘And were you?’

  ‘I knew what he was doing, of course I did, even though he kept all the actual details secret. Everyone on this coast knew and I was married to the man, after all. He led a gang of smugglers.’

  If she had thought for a moment that she would fob off Cris Defoe with that as an explanation, then she was mistaken, it seemed. ‘Smuggling covers everything from bringing in the odd cask of brandy under a load of herring, to a cover for spying, by way of full-scale organised crime accompanied by murder, extortion and blackmail. Where on that spectrum was Jory Perowne?’

  ‘You know a lot about it. Perhaps you are a magistrate yourself and I would be well advised not to compound my indiscretion.’ She smiled, lowered her lashes, wondered if she could remember how to flirt. If I ever knew.

  ‘No, I am not a magistrate.’ That was a surprise. He had said he was a landowner and most landowners of any standing were justices. ‘I have been crossing the Channel, back and forth, for ten years and one cannot do that without hearing about smugglers.’

  There was a little nugget of information to tuck away and muse upon in that comment. Mr Defoe had been crossing the Channel at a time when England was at war with France, even if it was now five years since Waterloo had brought peace again. Had he been in the army? But the way that he spoke made it sound as though he was still crossing over to the Continent on a regular basis. He could hardly be a merchant, not with his clothes and the indefinable air of tonnishness that even a country mouse like her could recognise. And tonnish gentlemen did not engage in trade.

  Perhaps he is a spy himself and he ended up in the sea after being thrown overboard by an arch enemy in a life-and-death struggle—

  ‘Mrs Perowne? Am I boring you?’

  ‘Not at all, Mr Defoe. I was merely contemplating the perils of the sea for a moment.’

  And wondering why your voice sends little shivers up and down my back when you drawl like that when really I ought to give you a sharp set-down for sarcasm.

  Just to prove she had been paying attention she added coolly, ‘Jory was in about the middle of your spectrum. He ran a highly organised smuggling ring with high-value goods and he was not averse to violence when his business was threatened by rivals or the Excise. But he protected the aunts fiercely, the people hereabouts worshipped him and he looked after them. You probably think me shocking for not condemning him, but he was loyal and courageous and looked after his men, and smuggling is a way of life around these coasts.’

  ‘The Excise must have given you a very difficult time after his death when they were looking for the profits of his activities.’

  ‘They could not have been looking as hard as I was.’ The villagers had needed the money when their main local industry collapsed overnight with Jory’s death. ‘They bullied me and threatened me and finally allowed that I was just a poor feeble woman led astray by a wicked rogue.’

  ‘Could Chelford be searching for hidden treasure on the assumption that Jory Perowne hid his ill-gotten gains somewhere on the estate?’ She must have been staring at him with her mouth agape because he enquired, dry as a bone, ‘Is that such a ridiculous idea?’

  Chapter Six

  Despite herself, Tamsyn laughed. ‘Ridiculous? No. It is brilliant and I am just amazed that I am such a ninnyhammer that I did not think of it for myself. It is precisely the kind of thing that Franklin would think of—that there must be treasure and therefore a chance to grab it for himself.’

  ‘Then I suggest we search, locate the hoard and thwart Chelford.’ The thought of hunting for buried treasure seemed to appeal to Cris.

  All men are such boys, even the most impressive specimens. ‘Unfortunately, whatever fantasies Franklin might have, I do not believe there is any treasure to be found. The idea that he would think it exists is a good one, but I suspect Jory would have done something truly infuriating with his profits, like putting it in a bank in Exeter under a false name and then forgetting to tell me.’

  ‘Are you certain there is not?’ Cris’s question had a hopeful note to it.

  Yes, he is definitely disappointed. ‘There are no secret caves or tunnels. Or, rather, none that I or the villagers don’t know about. And Jory had more sense than to bury money in the churchyard in a nice fresh grave or any of the other tricks. He would want it earning interest and to be safe, not where someone might stumble across it.’

  ‘A nice fresh grave?’ Cris sounded incredulous. ‘You shock me.’

  ‘It is the best way to hide newly turned earth, of course. You wait for someone in the village to be buried, come along that night and do the reverse of grave robbing.’ The question was in his eyes and she thought of teasing him some more, but relented. ‘And, no, I have never taken part in such a thing. I have more respect for my fellow parishioners, although I suspect none of them would be very surprised or distressed if it happened.’ He still looked unconvinced. ‘It is difficult for city dwellers to shake off their preconceptions about us rustics who live on the very edge of the country. We are not neatly divided into dyed-in-the-wool rogues and happy pastoral innocents.’

  ‘No, I suspect you are all rather more complex than that.’ He watched her from beneath lowered lids, an unsettling appraisal that made her feel anything but complicated.

  ‘I must go.’ It was far too comfortable sitting here in the sunshine exchanging ideas, teasing and being teased. Tamsyn stood up and Cris followed her. ‘I must see Willie Tremayne and make certain the remainder of the flock are safe.’

  ‘Of course.’ He made no move to detain her. But why should he? That moment when he had held her so close as she slid from the saddle and she had thought he was about to kiss her had been nothing more than her imagination. Just because he had kissed her once was no reason to suppose he had any desire to do it again.

  ‘Let me give you a leg up.’

  ‘No need.’ She was on the log, and from
there to the saddle, as she spoke, chiding herself as she did it.

  You have no idea how to flirt, do you? You should have let him help you mount, let his hands linger on your foot or perhaps your ankle. You should have thanked him prettily, as a lady should, not gone scrambling on to Foxy like a tomboy.

  ‘I will see you at luncheon, perhaps.’ She waved her free hand as she urged the horse into a canter along the path that led to the clifftop pastures and did not look back.

  When she knew she was out of sight she slowed, reined Foxy back to a walk, which was quite fast enough on the rabbit-burrowed turf, and turned her face into the breeze to cool the colour that she guessed was staining her cheeks. Cris Defoe had done nothing at all, other than look at her with warmth in his eyes and hold her a little too close when she dismounted, and yet she was all aflutter and expecting more. A great deal more.

  She had no excuse, she told herself as she reached the stone and turf bank and turned along it towards the gate. Nor was there any reason not to be honest with herself. For the first time since Jory had died she had been jolted out of her hard-working, pleasant routine by a man. A handsome—oh, very well, beautiful—man. A man of sophistication and education. Someone who could discuss more than the price of herring and the demand for beef cattle in Barnstaple.

  He had kissed her in the sea and now she had woken up from her trance, a rather soggy Sleeping Beauty. Not much of a beauty… But I want him. To be exact, and to look the thing squarely in the face, she wanted to go to bed with him, get her hands on that lean body, make love with him. She should be shocked with herself, she supposed. But weren’t widows allowed more freedom? Couldn’t she be a little daring, a trifle dashing? ‘I’m my own mistress,’ she informed Foxy, who politely swivelled an ear back to listen. ‘And I would rather like to be Cris Defoe’s mistress, just for a while.’