The Defiant Lady Pencavel

by Diane Scott Lewis

  ****

  Griffin faced the disturbed face of his neighbor, Mr. Trefoile, in Merther Manor’s front hall. “I apologize for any misinterpretation. I repeat, there was no understanding between me and your daughter, sir.” He resisted saying “milksop of a daughter” as that would have been a tad insulting, and he’d risen above such things.

  “I beg to differ, sir. My girl is heartbroken that you called the banns this morning in church for a union with another.” Trefoile hooked his thumbs in the lapels of his claret-colored frock coat. His protruding belly resembled a giant tomato. “I nearly stood up to protest.”

  “Give her my deepest regrets.” Griffin recalled the sharp weeping coming from a few pews back. The poor, deluded girl. He hoped Miss Pencavel would arrive soon, and intimidate everyone into submission. “However, I was betrothed to Earl Pencavel’s daughter first.”

  He longed to be alone with her, kissing her vigorously, and more, soon, much more. He needed her, and her soft charms; her tart tongue was always a challenge—nevertheless, he was up to conquering her. His blood sizzled, but he shook off the sensual haze.

  Trefoile eyed him balefully. “Regrets won’t do, sir, no not at all. I’m extremely perturbed.”

  “Then how can I recompense you? A ewe or two?” Griffin was anxious to get rid of his unwanted visitor. Before leaving for Italy, he’d sold his stash of artifacts. But another ship was due this evening. The thrill of the illegal maneuver should have coursed through him by now. He pondered its absence, warm with relief that he’d decided to make this his last attempt.

  “Don’t suppose I’m not aware of your, shall I say, illicit doings here,” Trefoile said as if reading Griffin’s mind. His neighbor dragged his fingers through greasy, pomaded hair, which stunk of beef fat. “I’m not to be hoodwinked, as you did to my girl.”

  “I don’t know what you allude to, in either case. I’m very busy, so if you will please excuse me,” Griffin fought a cringe and opened his front door, “I bid you good day, sir. I’ll send over the sheep.” He’d been about to offer the man a Roman trinket, but now that was out of the question.

  “Sheep in exchange for my daughter’s downtrodden heart? I think you do know of what I allude to, Lambrick. Most of us in the area know, but never speak of, the unseemly monkey business down in your cove.” Trefoile wagged a plump finger. “That could change at any moment.”

  “I dearly hope you aren’t threatening me, Trefoile.” Griffin kept his voice smooth, even as his hackles rose. He hovered over the much shorter man. “I am Viscount of Merther, and the premier peer in the region. I would be Justice of the Peace, except for that derelict duke who resides on the other side of the vale.” Griffin had profited because the duke was so languid in his duties.

  “I just advise you, that’s all. You should never toy with a sensitive girl’s feelings. She so wanted to be a viscountess.” Trefoile slapped on his hat, waddled out the door and down the steps, to his waiting curricle.

  Griffin closed the door with a sigh. He must make tonight’s endeavor his last; he’d been assured it was a special and profitable shipment. He thought of the exquisite treasure still being guarded by his men in Pompeii. But he’d have to leave that trove for Miss Pencavel’s glorification. He smiled. She’d be quite grateful for that.

  “Is your visitor, the oh so proper Mr. Trefoile, not staying for tea? The poor, disappointed man, with such a dear, sweet daughter.” Mrs. Loveday drifted in, her eyes red as she sniffed into her handkerchief. “There are crumpets, too.”

  “Oh, please stop your blubbering. And bursting into tears in church along with Miss Trefoile was quite discomfiting.” Griffin pressed his housekeeper’s shoulder, the familiar steadiness in his life. “You should be happy that I’m settling down and we’ll soon hear the pitter patter of tiny feet about the place.”

  “But Miss Pencavel, of all women. I pray you don’t lament the day, sir.” She blew her nose loudly. “The girl may behave so distastefully, you’ll never beget an heir. If she’s like her mother, you won’t know whose child it is.”

  “I doubt that very much. We love each other, as befuddled as that sounds. Give her a chance, for my sake.” Griffin winked over any qualms. “Between you and I, we’ll train her to be the ideal Lady Lambrick.” He chuckled, aiming to placate, praying that was true. “I will rely on you, as always.”

  “She may be beyond even my prodigious talents.” Mrs. Loveday squeezed his elbow. “I fear for you, sir. But I will do my best.” She stuffed her handkerchief in her apron pocket then fingered the chatelaine always worn around her waist. This decorative clasp held a series of chains, each attached to a useful item: scissors, a thimble, and her precious keys. “I will be certain to keep the servants’ hall locked.”

  Mrs. Loveday squared her shoulders and left him.

  He rubbed the back of his neck; so many disturbances. Did he know Miss Pencavel well enough to trust her around his staff? He swiped that from his brain. She adored him, he saw it in her eyes during the entire voyage back to England, even as her maid barfed over the rail.

  Yet they were still like two lions circling one another.

  Griffin went to his library and pored over his accounts until the sun dipped low. The maids came through and lit candles, sending the sweet scent of beeswax into the air.

  “Sorry, I’m late, sir. Me old woman had the megrims an’ me supper were delayed. More truthfully, when I asked for supper, she bounced a pot off me head.” Jacca entered and removed his round hat. He rubbed a bump on his scalp. His glum face appeared hound dog weary in the flickering candlelight. “I trust the accounts are in order.”

  “I have much to look forward to in wedded bliss I see. I don’t know how you’ve put up with such violence all these years.” Griffin forced a laugh, tapping his quill on the books. Could he manage his own wildcat? “Everything looks in order.”

  “I’m too much the cully with the missus. Ess, good about the accounts. Ready to go to the cove, sir?” Jacca shoved a pistol in his waistband and replaced his hat.

  Griffin slipped on his frock coat and the two fetched lanterns, a few other men and walked stealthily down to the cove.

  The cool, early October air caressed his face. A cormorant called in the reeds. The sun’s last rays slipped over the horizon. Trefoile’s warning churned like a spiked wheel in Griffin’s thoughts.

  He breathed deeply. After this, he would embrace the life of a married man, and oh, what a vixen he’d have in his bed. Hopefully soon he’d be a doting father.

  The light receded, the twilight descending slowly, like a black veil dropped lightly over the landscape. The saline scent of the ocean filled his nostrils.

  They waited, the wind rustling the grass. Waves slurped the shingle below. Griffin shifted in his jackboots, anxious for the sight of a sail.

  Soon he was rewarded. A sail was spotted; the sea calm, the ship seemed to float toward them, not tossed or harried. His heartbeat increased, the hunt, the terrible risk.

  The ship signaled. Griffin raised his lantern and signaled in return.

  “What would you say if I told you that this will absolutely be my last incursion into smuggling?”

  “You’ve mentioned such. But I’d not believe ‘ee, pardon me sayin’, sir.” Jacca fumbled with this flint and steel, lighting his clay pipe. “Then what will I do to amuse meself?”

  “Find a mistress, and separate from your wife,” Griffin blurted. “But I’m set on it. I want to settle down and have a family. I will inform all my contacts to look elsewhere for a privateer.” He chuckled, then stiffened at the sound of footsteps on the slope above them. Pebbles skittered down like grapeshot. He glared up but saw nothing.

  “The jig may be up,” Jacca whispered.

  A nightjar trebled in the bushes, disturbed. A glowworm glimmered like an eerie green alarm. The hairs on the back of Griffin’s neck bristled.

  “Halt what you’re doing!” a voice shouted. “We’re the king’s men. Or rather, halt
in the name of the king!”

  “Blast and damn,” Griffin muttered, his muscles clenching.

  Two men scrambled down through the brush. One stood beside Griffin, musket raised.

  “Grif, I’m sorry to catch you here. I really am,” the sheriff said when he strode into their lantern light. “I’m also deeply disappointed in you.”

  “We’re partaking of the night air. Nothing wrong with that, Raw, my old friend,” Griffin replied through tight lips, his stomach sinking. How had he been so careless tonight? “This is my private property, and quite picturesque in the autumn season.”

  Jacca stared straight ahead, puffing on his pipe. Smoke snaked about them both.

  “I saw you signal that ship. This is not a designated port of call. I warned you, Grif.” Rawlyn sighed morosely, shaking his head. “I’m afraid there’s no help for it, I’ll have to arrest you.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  “You are insane, and infinitely imprudent, if I may be so frank.” Melwyn paced the chamber of the townhouse, which was situated God knew where. She suspected London, as she heard the clang and bell chimes of the city out the window. “You cannot hold me here indefinitely.”

  The stained wallpaper and sour smell disquieted her further.

  “I’ll hold you until you do my bidding.” Showreynolds sat in a Windsor chair, the pistol butt balanced on his knee. His sandy hair was mussed and his bland face in a grimace. The stink of sweat emanated from him.

  “And I’ve told you that is out of the question.” She used bravado to glaze over her uneasiness. She couldn’t allow this nothing of a young man to intimidate her, though she really disliked the gun aspect. Her body trembled a bit. “Please let me go and we can forget this ever happened.”

  “N-Not until I get what I want.” He waved the pistol, his hazel eyes wide.

  “I will not give you my virtue. I’m saving it for my future husband.” She swallowed slowly, thinking of Griffin’s dark eyes and deep voice, so different from this non-entity. Would she ever see her beloved again? She stifled a groan. “Now please respect my sensibilities.”

  “After the brazen way you behaved at Almack’s, I’m not certain you possess any such attributes.” He crossed and uncrossed his legs in their white stockings. His beige breeches hugged his stocky thighs tightly.

  “I can’t fault you there, Mr. Showreynolds. I behaved abominably, and I again apologize.” She dipped her head and walked toward the window, away from the narrow bed in the corner. “It’s stuffy in here, don’t you think? May I open this casement for fresh air?”

  “Of course, as you will.” He nodded, then sputtered and glared at her. “No, step away from the window. You can’t fool me; you want to call for help.”

  “You’re so very astute, sir.” She crossed her arms and paced back the way she’d come. She must find a way out of here.

  “And don’t you forget my cleverness. I even followed you in the British Museum where you pretended to study artifacts.”

  “I do study artifacts. So that was you cowering behind the statue of Zeus?” She regretted that statement the moment it left her lips.

  “I’m no coward!” He pointed the tiny pistol, his hand unsteady. “And I’m not the-the coxcomb you m-might think I am either.”

  “I never thought of you in any such fashion.” Mouth dry, she raised her chin, pretending the idea of a bullet piercing her flesh mattered little. “Does your father approve of your actions?”

  “He does not know. The Baron always supposes I’m a wimp of the first order.” His mouth gaped. “How dare you impinge on my father’s good character.”

  “When the ton finds out what you’ve done, won’t that put a teeny blot on his character?” She gripped her elbows. Her breath hitched as genuine fear pricked her. “Or do you plan to kill me and hide my body somewhere?”

  “Kill? No one said anything about m-murder.” He scratched his cheek with the pistol barrel. “I may not have planned this out to the best of my ability.”

  “Then let me assist you, if I may.” Hope rose up, relaxing her a fraction. “Nothing has happened yet—other than a kidnapping and you manhandling my servant—so let us return outside. You call me a hackney, and pay for it as you’ve inconvenienced me, and—”

  “Silence, you immodest slyboots!” Showreynolds stood, scraping back the chair. “Don’t think you can talk your way out of this situation. Or-or that your Lord Lambrick will come to your aid this time. And I found out he’s not a member of your family.”

  “Oh, that, only a harmless prevarication on my part.” She shrugged and tried a regretful smile. She did need to think about the feelings of others more thoroughly. “I am truly sorry I ruffled your feathers, sir. Can’t you forgive me my trespasses, as the Bible intones?”

  “Don’t pull religion on me, Miss Pencavel.” He stretched to his not-so-impressive middling height. “My family is a respected High Church family from the time of Elizabeth I. We held strong during the turbulence of Cromwell as well.”

  “My family is High Church, when we do go.” She narrowed her eyes at him. Her father had given up on religion when her debauched mother deserted him. “I had no idea that kidnapping innocent women was a High Church tenet.”

  “There is your ill-conceived tongue again.” He stalked toward her, pistol raised.

  “I agree, it has always gotten me into trouble.” She thrust out her hand to hold him back, her heart twitching. “I can arrange for monetary compensation for your unfortunate insult at my selfish actions. I’m sure my betrothed-again, Lord Lambrick, will pay handsomely for my release.”

  “You’re betrothed to that rapscallion?” Showreynold’s mouth nearly gaped to the floor. His voice rose to a high-pitch. “Will the affronts never end?”

  “I meant to keep that to myself, so forget I spoke.” Melwyn cursed inwardly. Perspiration gathered under her arms as she watched his crazed expression. “But if money is what you—”

  “Enough!” He poked the pistol into her chin. “I’m getting what I abducted you for, you heartless hussy—but p-please don’t be upset afterwards.”

  Melwyn squirmed. She grabbed for the barrel while ducking her head to avoid having it shot off. “Unhand me, you spineless sprig! I’m beyond furious now!”

  Showreynolds growled and pushed her down on the bed. His fingers groped at her neckline, and she screamed and kicked at him. The pistol clattered to the floor.

  ****

  Griffin stood in the anteroom of the Bodmin Jail, a place he had no intention of spending any more time than necessary in. He took a steadying breath to calm himself. “Raw, really, what did you actually see. Me blinking my lantern? What mischief is there in that? I was guiding the ship around our treacherous shoals, that’s all.”

  “I wish I could leave it at that, Grif.” Rawlyn leaned against his desk, his bony shoulders hunched. “But I had a complaint from a prosperous citizen. I can’t ignore such accusations.”

  “I know the citizen in question, and he has a bone to pick with me over his aspirations that I would wed his daughter.” Griffin’s jaw tightened as he thought of Trefoile. “The man has a vendetta against me.”

  “Why wouldn’t you wed his daughter? The entire region laments that it’s far beyond time you took a wife.” Rawlyn looked genuinely puzzled. “Miss Trefoile isn’t that off-putting to look at, and her dowry is generous.”

  “I’m in love with another, if you must pry.” Griffin strode across the room, lovely blue eyes softening his anger. “Which reminds me. I need to get word to my fiancée, who is probably traveling from London to Cornwall. I don’t want her to worry.”

  “Is it that fetching lady I met that day at Merther Manor? I’ll let you have paper and ink.” Rawlyn plucked up a quill from his desk. “But I’ll have to hold you over for the quarterly assizes, Grif. I have no choice.”

  “I refuse to spend another night in that pit in your cellar.” Griffin brushed down his sleeves for emphasis. He’d heard rats in the wa
lls all night long. He fought a grimace. “I am a man of refined tastes, after all.”

  “Our gaol is fairly new. The buildings were designed by Sir John Call, Bart. J.P., M.P. in 1778, and based on the plans and ideals of the prison reformer John Howard,” Rawlyn intoned, his brow creased in annoyance. “Bodmin Gaol is a milestone in prison design.”

  “Yes, yes, I’ve heard it all. It’s light and airy and therefore healthy, with different isolated areas for felons, misdemeanants and debtors.” Griffin strutted about the room, throwing a hand in the air. His father had contributed to its erection. Griffin thanked God his father couldn’t see his downfall. “There is hot water, a chapel, an infirmary for sick prisoners and individual sleeping cells. Very good, but I don’t wish to inhabit the place for long.”

  “Plus, don’t forget, your valet was in attendance, at my permission.” Rawyln smirked as he pulled paper from a desk drawer. “I understand you supped on roast mutton and good claret, hardly the feast of the subjugated.”

  “Kenver? He’s mooning over my betrothed’s abigail, so not quite so attentive a valet as I’d like. He brought me the second-best claret, and the mutton was slightly gristly.” Griffin sighed and shook his head at the vagaries of servants. “Kenver and the sham Mrs. Bucket seem to have formed an attachment.” And Griffin understood well how a man could be distracted by a woman.

  “I’ll put you in a better cell, closer to the necessary, if that will help.” Rawlyn held up a ring of jangling keys, his gaze almost sympathetic. “I did warn you to cease your nocturnal high jinks.”

  “You can’t be serious. I’m a peer, and should be above such things.” For the first time, the idea he could spend years in prison crept through Griffin, dampening his core. How would he enjoy intimate moments with Miss Pencavel, or sire children, if he was locked away? What would happen to Merther Manor without him there to guide her? He’d also miss his horse!

  “Sir! Sir!” A familiar voice called. Jacca appeared, red in the face, a constable gripping his arm and dragged along behind. “I have a confession to make.”