“I see no pipes, nor lips to play ‘em.” Clowenna rubbed her upper arms. “Don’t ‘ee quality hate superstition?”
“Alas, we do.” Melwyn’s shoulders sagged. “We’re supposed to lead by example. But I need moments of mirth. Lord Lambrick could be here any day to devour me.” She shivered, from that inevitability and the cold breeze. “Why are men allowed to remain unmarried, roam and cavort, but women are not?” She faced the weak sun. “I’m hoping to burn my face, acquire freckles, so the viscount will be repulsed by me.”
“Too early in the year for that, m’lady.” Clowenna wrapped her scarf close. “An’ blather on at the poor sod, that should do it.”
“You’re right, my shrew of an abigail, and I mean that in the kindest way.” Melwyn laughed, chasing her qualms like marbles about inside her. “After all, I can refuse him since the indenture was made while I was underage. I just hate to disappoint Papa yet again.” If only she had a wise mother to turn to for advice. However, her mother would have encouraged her to shag a servant.
That distant twinge of regret wriggled through her.
A footman dressed in the silver and blue embroidered coat and knee-breeches of the Pencavel livery ran over the heather in their direction. He doffed his bicorn hat. “Your father has had word. The viscount should be here by tomorrow, my lady.”
Melwyn swayed then hardened with affront. “I will face him without fear, and disappoint him from the moment we meet.”
“Oh, la. I have no doubt o’ that. I could use a cup o’ tea.” Clowenna groaned and turned toward home. “What if he be a nice gent, what then?”
Melwyn took a deep breath as she stepped along the rocky ground where the first sprigs of meadow sweet sprang up. “Then he will be deterred all the more faster.” She prayed he wouldn’t be too nice; even her relentless determination should have its limits.
****
Clowenna jerked the laces of Melwyn’s stays tighter. She exhaled in a whoosh as the whale bones dug into her flesh through her cotton chemise. “Ooof. I feel like a sausage. I’ve heard that in France they’ve stopped wearing corsets or any underwear.”
“And they’re also lopping heads from bodies, so we shouldn’t follow none o’ their choices.” Clowenna tied the laces. She helped Melwyn slip on her claret-colored gown with fringed stomacher. “This be a bold hue for a late afternoon, m’lady.”
“I wish to impress Lord Lambrick with my, let’s say, fiery persona.” Melwyn laughed, though inside she dreaded this meeting. Her stomach knotted. “He’s come here to peer at the horrid mistake he’s made, being the son of father’s close friend, and probably agreeing to this union three sheets to the wind after several glasses of port.”
“Try not to be too offensive. Show your father what fine breedin’ ‘ee has.” Her abigail pulled the hot curling iron from the flames in the fireplace and primped at her mistress’s chignon. “Or should o’ had.”
“An example of the usual schooling, embroidery, painting, pianoforte, and oh, the fact her mother is living in sin with a servant? That sort of breeding, do you mean?” Melwyn preened in the cheval mirror; she did cut a fine figure. Her bosom swelled from the bodice like two creamy orbs. “We women are taught to be useful but not too intelligent.”
“‘Tis true. But please gentle your words in his lordship’s company.” Clowenna wrapped a white silk handkerchief around Melwyn’s throat. “This will make ‘ee look a mite pure an’ hide your bubbies.”
“If I’m to impress him as a future wife, shouldn’t I show off my womanly charms?” Melwyn removed the silk and tossed it on her bed. “Or he’ll think I’m a wanton of the first order and scuttle away.”
“Don’t scandalize him with no talk o’ diggin’ for relics, m’lady.” Clowenna refolded the scarf, shaking her head in resignation.
“Why must women have to pretend to be simple-minded to please men? I’m proud of my expertise in the romance languages, which will help me on the continent.” It chafed her to be in “polite” society. Talks of fashion (well, she did enjoy fashion now and then), the Prince of Wales’ disastrous marriage to Caroline of Brunswick, or tittering over a man’s silly jokes, irked her. Anything with boundaries felt suffocating. Is that how her mother had felt?
Melwyn left her room and hesitated at the top of the staircase. She trembled in anticipation. Lord Lambrick had arrived last night, after she’d retired. Now she’d come face to face with this man who years earlier hadn’t seemed such a threat to her happiness.
Her father stood in the hall with a tall stranger. The gilt bronze chandelier above them flickered with many candles.
“And here is my lovely, so gently bred, daughter.” Her father turned, his gaze hopeful on that issue, along with the slim man beside him.
Gliding down the stairs, she took stock of their guest. He had dark brows and the striking eyes she’d remembered. His black hair was tied back in a queue, his face lean and handsome—though he reminded her of someone you wouldn’t care to meet alone on a remote path.
He made a slight, almost mocking, bow as he assessed her. His tailored buff frockcoat and breeches fit him like a glove. He showed well-built legs in white silk stockings, his buckled shoes polished.
“Lord Lambrick, may I present my daughter, Lady Melwyn Pencavel.”
Melwyn gave a shallow curtsy. He didn’t look impressed and that annoyed her, while also giving her hope he’d refute her. “I suppose I’m honored to meet you, sir.”
“As am I to see you again, my lady.” His deep voice sounded cold, which caught her off-balance. Still, this was what she’d prayed for. “Griffin Lambrick, at your service. It has been a long while since we’ve met.”
“An Incredibly long and unpredictable time, I’d imagine.” She gave him a fleeting smile. “Things change, people change, don’t you agree?”
“Good manners should never change. Shall we have refreshment in the parlor?” Father ushered them into that room with its ornate plaster ceiling, upholstered furniture and small walnut tables—a neglected place where ladies once sipped tea. He poured them glasses of sherry.
“How have you busied yourself all this time, my lord?” Melwyn sipped the sweet beverage. “During all these years you’ve never bothered to revisit here? Not that I minded in the least.” Yet she might have discouraged him that much sooner.
“A bold question, is it not?” He looked amused, for an instant. He had a few lines around his eyes and on his brow, his skin sun-burnished. No pasty-faced man of quality was he. “I have numerous interests, and estates to manage.”
“Do you not pay someone to manage them for you?” She gave him a wide-eyed look of innocence. However, his close contemplation unnerved her, and she disliked the feeling. “Certainly you’d never tax your own exertions.”
“Melwyn, my dear,” Father cautioned. “If you will please refrain from such–”
“Sorry, Papa, but talk of niceties tires me.” She wished she could dissemble, after seeing her parent’s sad expression. She fingered the intricate grooves in her crystal glass. “We might discuss Dr. Jenner’s recent discovery, the small pox vaccination.”
“Ah, a well-read girl, how refreshing.” Lambrick’s tone was satirical. “And what do you do, other than hone your rapier tongue, to busy yourself, my lady?”
She was relieved Lambrick didn’t fawn over her, or make false compliments. “I ride, read, travel when I can. Soon, I intend to visit the excavations in Pompeii, Italy.”
“That is out of the question, my dear,” her father groaned. “Ladies do not make such excursions, unless with family or a husband.”
“What do you know about excavations, Miss Pencavel?” Lambrick narrowed his eyes.
“I also follow the events across the channel. The bloody Terror, as it was called, two years past, in 1794.” She was taken aback by his sharp inquiry, and decided to change the subject.
Her father’s eyes widened farther in dismay. He pulled his Bilston enamel snuffbox from his waistcoat
pocket. “Uh hem, as you can see, Lord Lambrick, my daughter is familiar with the news and the latest classical fashion from France, although she seems to have dressed for the opera tonight. Let us hope that is all those frog-eaters import. They should never have murdered their king in the name of republicanism.”
“They murdered the king because he tried to escape, and incriminating letters to his wife’s Austrian relatives were found in his possession.” She paced toward the ornate, marble hearth, certain Lambrick would board the first coach out of the district now.
“You are well informed, my lady. Perhaps too much so.” Lambrick’s eyes twinkled. Had she made a mistake and impressed him?
“My beautiful daughter is really quite adept at...was it cooking, no, sewing, doubtful...?” Her father scratched his head in quandary.
“I’m capable at anything I wish, and far from being a silly schoolgirl.” She turned, fringe swinging, and stared at the faded rectangle on the wall where her mother’s portrait used to hang. Father had finally removed it last year. She blew out her breath “I can learn as well as any man.”
“I may have allowed her too much access to the lending library.” Papa fumbled with the snuffbox lid painted with a bucolic setting. “How are affairs at your estate here in Cornwall, your lordship?” He took a pinch of snuff. “Merther Manor, near Padstow? A grand place I once visited often, where any woman would be proud to preside over.”
“We’re busy with our sheep; wool is productive to clothe the soldiers fighting for His Majesty on the continent, against the rabble, ruthless French.” Lambrick appeared to wince when he said “French,” surprising her.
“And to bury our dead, since a previous king decreed it to promote our wool industry.” Melwyn set down her glass, her smile challenging. Then she had difficulty meeting the viscount’s dark gaze, and didn’t know why. “You must be extremely wealthy and able to pluck a bride from any of the major families you might choose.”
“Egad, I should have married the Widow Whale. She’d have been a calming influence,” Father muttered to himself. He dropped his snuffbox in his pocket. “Please try to remember your deportment, my dear. I...I will consult our housekeeper to see if dinner is ready.” He lumbered from the room like a beleaguered, beaten dog.
“Forgive me, Papa.” Her heart began to sink, but she must remain strong.
“I take it you have no interest in being mistress of Merther Manor?” Lambrick arched a sardonic eyebrow.
“I only wanted you to know what sort of bargain you’d struck, so there will be no misconceptions, if I agree to go through with this.” She walked toward him, trying not to notice his patrician profile. An aura exuded from him she couldn’t define, like the moment before a storm. “I’m not some timid female who will swoon over your every word.”
“Is it myself who offends you, my lady, or men in general?” He smiled slowly, which rendered him more handsome.
“Oh, men are fine when they’re not arrogant, and I know little about you. It’s husbands I don’t trust.” She forced herself to meet his gaze steadily. “Or the idea of a husband, you might say.”
His eyes traveled across her, and up her, halting at her low bodice with a cold calculating expression. “You have a strange manner of dress if you hope to discourage any man.”
“Well, stop eyeing me like a prize ewe. If you want a stupid, compliant wife, you need to look elsewhere.” She fought a prickle at his scrutiny.
“If you stop heaving your bosom at me, I might find it easier to look elsewhere.” He smirked and finished his drink.
Her cheeks heated; but what had she expected? She tugged up her neckline. The viscount’s boorish behavior made this so much easier. “Then I assume you will tell my father that we don’t suit at all?”
“Unfortunately, I’m beginning to think we might suit, as I detest simpering females.” He poured himself another sherry. “Indeed, the idea of you is a daunting prospect. And women do require a taut harness.”
She seethed inside. He continued to mock her. “I believe you are too old for me, sir, and will never keep up. Don’t suppose you will ever suppress me.”
“That remains to be seen, my dear. I am all of two and thirty, so still quite robust.” He raised his glass. “I came here with the intention of informing your father that I desire no flibbertigibbet slip of a girl, especially one whose mother cannot restrain herself from flipping up her skirts for a lackey.”
“How dare you.” Melwyn felt punched in the stomach, even as she admired his candor. She gripped her hand on the back of the triple-arched sofa upholstered in striped silk. “You are a jackanapes, sir. I will never marry you.”
“Truthfully, you will find few who will dare, my lovely earl’s daughter, after your peccadilloes about the region.” He chuckled, chucked her under the chin, turned and departed the chamber.
Melwyn rushed to the hearth and smacked her hand on the marble mantel. Her skin smarted, and the ormolu clock and two gold candlesticks jostled. She glared again at the faded rectangle on the wallpaper. “Double fie! What will I do now? I cannot allow him to best me, and I’ll never marry such a blackguard—or any man!”
Chapter Three
Griffin held tight to his horse’s reins. Why did he always taunt fate? He should have simply written to Earl Pencavel and asked to have the betrothal rescinded. Something integral in his nature drove him to act the devil-may-care. Perhaps he’d been hit too hard by a cricket bat at Harrow.
He twisted at the leather. Then when his brother Alan was commissioned into the army, and the devastating results, Griffin’s reckless attitude increased. Life could be over in such short order.
Now the arousing figure and derisive tone of Miss Pencavel disrupted his composure. He gritted his teeth. He’d left Langoron House as soon as he’d informed the earl he had to think the situation over.
Rain started to splatter on his face. The dots of moisture were cold comfort. He trotted his mount into the yard of Jamaica Inn and an ostler rushed out.
An isolated place high on the Bodmin Moor, the L-shaped, two-storied inn was a notorious hideout for smugglers to conceal their contraband on its way up country. Griffin was familiar with its operations. Tea, silks, tobacco and brandy had been smuggled through Cornwall since customs dues were first introduced in the thirteenth century.
The government kept enacting laws to stop it, but many the revenuer would accept the odd bribe. Griffin had the misfortune of attracting the few honest excise men left—but that only added to the intrigue.
Inside the expansive taproom with low, thick beams, he ordered a brandy and sat near the granite hearth. Smoke and the smell of alcohol drifted around him. He could break the betrothal, or allow Miss Pencavel to do so, if he revealed his bad character. She was not yet in her majority, so would be perfectly in her right to rebuff him. They’d spent no private time together, so he couldn’t be accused of impropriety with her, as tempting a piece as she was.
She didn’t seem concerned that her reputation might be tarnished by putting an end to the agreement. In fact, she acted too anxious to dissolve their arrangement.
He fought a smile as he’d always savored a challenge.
Griffin took a long drink from his glass, the smooth taste warming him. Miss Pencavel was beautiful, and captivating, if you enjoyed being berated. But he had no need for such a creature. He was reluctant to take on a wife at all. Then why prolong this farce?
He only worried that the earl might threaten a breach-of-promise suit at a final refusal, though the man appeared to be of mild character. His father had often said his friend Pencavel should have more back-bone, especially when it came to his feckless wife. Hopefully—for her sake of course—the daughter didn’t harbor the same base inclinations.
A grizzled man approached. He wore worn linen breaches, along with the leather gaiters sported by the working class. “Lord Lambrick, is it?”
Griffin glanced up into the stranger’s dirty face. He’d made arrangements to
meet someone here, but had to be careful. “I could be. Who wants to know?”
“Name’s Clem, sir. Might I sit?” The man sat before being invited. He leaned a grubby sleeve over the table. “I been told ‘ee be the man to speak to, by a mutual friend.”
“I have few friends. And you are too brash, and unwashed, for your own good.” Griffin sipped more of his brandy to hide his suspicion. The embers in the blackened hearth sizzled and snapped. “You wish to speak to me about what, specifically?”
“I might have somethin’ downstairs ‘ee should be interested in.” Clem’s foul breath blew across the table.
Laughter from a group of miners in soiled drill coats soared from another table. A buxom girl sashayed by with pewter tankards of ale. Her ample cleavage almost made up for her pock-marked face.
“Are you here to trap me into something nefarious, my uncouth fellow?” Griffin asked in mock severity even as his curiosity rose. “My revenge would be painful.”
“Don’t worry none, sir. I’m as honest as a man can be, an’ still be a criminal.” Clem chuckled coolly. “I heard you be wooin’ the earl’s pretty daughter. A ripe handful she be, ess?”
“That is none of your business. I’d watch my tongue if I were you.” Griffin’s defense of Lady Pencavel was stronger than he intended. He gripped his brandy glass, already anxious to be done with this fetid fellow.
“No disrespect, beg pardon.” The man tugged on his forelock, yet his gaze remained sly. “Come wi’ me, sir, an’ I’ll show ‘ee what I have. That’s what you’re here for, true?”
“You’re assuming much...and yes. But what you have may hold no interest for me at all as I am a cultured and discerning man.” Griffin didn’t trust this scavenger, but he’d dealt with many the low character before. He’d have to give their “mutual friend” a good dressing down if this was a mistake. “I insist you provide me with more details.”
The Defiant Lady Pencavel Page 2