Stephanie Laurens - B 6 Beyond Seduction

by Stephanie Laurens

  Coldly, he ran his gaze around the circle of speculative expressions. “I want that cargo, and I don’t care what you do as long as you locate it.” He smiled in chilly promise. “Once you have, we’ll decide how to seize it.”

  All eight men grinned, avarice gleaming in their eyes.

  Satisfied, with a curt nod he turned to the door. “I suggest you get to it.”

  The eight waited until the door closed behind him, then waited some more, until they heard the retreating clop of horse’s hooves. Then and only then did they relax.

  Gibbons hefted the pouch, weighing it. “I’ll say this much for him, he doesn’t stint.” He glanced around at his companions, then grinned. “Well, lads, no time like the present. We’d better do as he said and get drinking.”

  With laughs and cackles, all eight headed for the door.

  Three hours later, Madeline sat in the drawing room at Crowhurst Castle inwardly smiling in pleased approval as Gervase presided over the final meeting of the festival committee. With only two days to go, all the myriad details were coming together nicely, but her satisfaction was occasioned more by Gervase’s ready acceptance of his rightful role.

  She was really very pleased she’d suggested that the festival return to the castle.

  Mrs. Entwhistle, beside her on the chaise, consulted her copious lists. “And the barrels for the apple-bobbing will be brought in by Jones, the innkeeper from Coverack, so that’s one thing your people won’t need to deal with, my lord.”

  “Excellent.” Sitting negligently at ease in an armchair, Gervase crossed that item off his own list, the one Mrs. Entwhistle had handed him when she’d arrived. “And the horseshoes?” He looked at Gerald Ridley.

  “Oh, indeed! We—my stablelads and I—will take care of that. The area by the stable arch, you said?” Brows knit, Gerald scribbled on his own list.

  “That’s right.” Gervase amended that item, then scanned the page. “Have we covered everything?”

  “It seems so,” Mrs. Juliard said, consulting her copy.

  Everyone looked up—at Madeline.

  She smiled. She didn’t need to consult her copy. “I can’t think of anything we’ve missed, or any arrangements we’ve failed to discuss. Indeed, we’ve added a good few amusements which should help in keeping the whole running smoothly.”

  Glancing around the faces, she ended smiling at Mrs. Entwhistle. “I think we’re all to be congratulated. We’ve done an excellent job of planning—now it’s time for the execution, which is in many more hands than just our own.”

  “Indeed.” On Mrs. Entwhistle’s other side, Sybil beamed at the company. “And on that note, I suggest we ring for tea. Would you mind, Madeline dear?”

  Madeline rose and tugged the bellpull. When Sitwell appeared, Sybil ordered tea while the rest of them settled to chat.

  In due course, the trolley arrived, and tea and cakes were dispensed. Madeline assisted Sybil, then turned to tell Squire Ridley about Mr. Thomas Glendower.

  “Well, well.” Gerald beetled his thick brows. “Time will no doubt tell. I’ll keep my ears open and let you and”—he nodded to Gervase as he joined them—“his lordship here know if I hear anything more about mining leases.”

  “Indeed, please do.” Gervase exchanged a glance with Madeline. “If fresh rumors circulate, or more offers eventuate, then Glendower isn’t our man. It would be useful to know one way or the other.”

  “Absolutely.” Gerald nodded. “I’ll pass the word.”

  Gervase touched Madeline’s arm. “Mrs. Juliard has a question about the trestles we’ll be using for the embroidery displays. Could you…?”

  She smiled. “Yes, of course.”

  Together they crossed to Mrs. Juliard; the question about the trestles was easily resolved. Gervase stayed by Madeline’s side—or rather kept her by his—deferring to or drawing on her experience as various committee members verified minor details and asked last-minute questions.

  It wasn’t until, all such questions answered and with all theoretically ready for the morrow when the physical arrangements would be set in place, the company drifted into the front hall, making ready to depart, and the vicar turned to them, Gervase with Madeline beside him, and took his leave of them with a jovial, “I have to say that this year seems specially blessed and the festival looks set to exceed all our previous efforts,” all the while smiling at her and shaking her hand before, with smile undimmed, shaking Gervase’s, that Madeline realized just how far into the background Sybil had faded.

  Looking around, she located Sybil by the drawing room door with Mrs. Caterham.

  “Good-bye, Madeline dear.”

  Recalled to her place—by Gervase’s side—by Mrs. Entwhistle, Madeline squeezed her fingers lightly. “Until tomorrow, Claudia. And don’t fret. All will go swimmingly.”

  “Oh, I’m sure it will.” With a twinkle in her eye, Mrs. Entwhistle turned to shake Gervase’s hand. “Now we have you and his lordship both overseeing the whole, I’m sure nothing will dare go wrong.”

  Madeline’s smile felt a trifle distracted. She glanced again at Sybil, but she seemed to feel no burning need to take her rightful place beside Gervase. More, like the vicar, all the others seemed to take it for granted that Madeline should be the one standing beside him.

  She felt a little odd—an unwitting usurper—but as Sybil merely smiled sweetly, uncomprehendingly, when she succeeded in catching her eye, and did nothing about coming to replace her, she inwardly shrugged. It was doubtless just habit formed over the previous years when the festival had been held at the Park and she had, in fact, been the hostess. Everyone was used to her in that role, including Sybil, and with Sybil hanging back, without any real thought everyone recast her in the position. Perfectly understandable.

  There was no reason whatever to make anything more of it, to read anything more into it.

  She hoped they understood that.

  His hand at her elbow, Gervase steered her onto the porch at the top of the front steps; she’d earlier agreed to stay behind and go over the castle forecourt and ramparts with him, with chalk marking out the booths and various spaces for tents and other activities.

  So she stood beside him before the castle front doors and waved while the others rode or drove away—and tried not to think of what image they were projecting, and what incorrect ideas might consequently stir.

  Chapter 11

  “Ah—good morning, Jones.” Madeline smiled at the innkeeper from Coverack as he stood beside his cart, eyes wide and startled as he scanned the frenetic activity already overflowing the castle forecourt. She pointed. “If you’ll take those barrels over there, to that spot beyond the steps, and then speak with Sitwell—he’s at the top of the steps—about filling them.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Jones tipped his cap. “Right circus, this is.”

  Madeline only smiled in reply, then moved smartly to dodge a donkey hauling in a cart. “Hello, Masters.” She nodded to the old wandering merchant; he’d been a goldsmith in his prime, and now traveled the country visiting festivals and fairs. “Back with us this year?”

  “Always, Miss Gascoigne.” Masters bowed and doffed his hat. “One of my favorites, the Peninsula Summer Festival.”

  “Well, we’re always glad to have you. We’ve kept one of the prime spots for your booth.” She pointed out Gervase, a tall figure standing by the edge of the lawn directing the peddlers and merchants to their allotted places, and dealing with the inevitable grumbling. “Just speak with his lordship, Lord Crowhurst, and he’ll show you where to set up.”

  “Thank you kindly, miss.” Masters led his donkey on.

  Madeline glanced around; with every minute that passed—with every additional person who came in through the gates to deliver this or that, or to lend a hand with assembling the various stalls, booths, tents and trestles—the bustle in the forecourt increasingly resembled a swelling melee.

  She’d lived through the event many times, but the area th
ey’d used at the Park had been more open. Although under the open sky, the forecourt was bounded by the castle’s tall inner bailey walls on the east, north and northwest, the castle itself on the south, and beyond the lawns, the ramparts to the southwest, overlooking the sea. The area was more protected from the wind and the weather, all to the good. However, the prevalence of stone walls hemming most of it in meant the noise level was significantly greater. She could barely hear herself think.

  “Tomorrow will be better,” she assured Mrs. Entwhistle when she came upon that harassed lady in the shifting throng and she commented on the cacophony. “Today everyone is shouting instructions, not talking.”

  “Indeed!” Mrs. Entwhistle shouted back. “One has to positively scream to be heard.”

  They parted. Madeline moved through the crowd, keeping her eyes peeled for potential problems; she’d always had this role, even before the festival had moved to the Park. She knew the locals better than anyone else, and they listened to her, even the men. And it was mostly the men and youths who were there that day, the sound of hammers and saws and oaths filling the air as they labored, all good-naturedly giving their time so their families could enjoy the festival tomorrow.

  A few women had come bearing cloths and bunting to decorate some of the stalls; reaching the ramparts, Madeline looked out over the sea, then up and around at the sky, and decided the women’s efforts would be safe enough. The weather looked set to remain fine.

  Turning, she surveyed the seething mass of people, each and every one absorbed and intent on some task, and inwardly smiled. She was about to plunge into the crowd again when she glimpsed Harry, then located Edmond and the shorter Ben in the same knot of youths all helping with one stall.

  The boys had ridden over with her that morning; there was no way they’d miss the day. Curious as to who they’d elected to spend it with, she circled closer.

  Her half brothers were helping erect one of the larger tents used by the tavern owners from Helston to sell their ale. Lips thinning, Madeline saw which tavern it was, and immediately understood the attraction for her brothers. “Noah Griggs.” She inwardly sighed, remembering Gervase saying that the man’s older brother, Abel, was the leader of the Helston smuggling gang. “I suppose I might have known.”

  She’d spoken under her breath, so was surprised to hear, “Indeed you might,” whispered in her ear.

  She managed not to jump; it was harder not to shiver. Turning her head, she met Gervase’s eyes. “I suppose it was naïve of me to think they might have forgotten their interest in the smugglers.”

  “In such a situation?” He met her eyes and smiled. “Undoubtedly naïve.”

  Drawing her arm though his, he stood close, his large frame protecting her from the buffeting of the crowd. “Just think—today they can with impunity, indeed, in complete, albeit feigned, innocence, spend time under Abel’s eye, listening to the stories he’s no doubt entertaining the lads with, and perhaps do enough to have Abel and his brother—he’s the tavern owner, did I mention?—look upon them kindly.”

  She humphed. “Abel might look upon them kindly, but I won’t.”

  “Ah, but you can’t really say anything, can you?”

  She sighed. “I suppose not.” Turning, drawing her arm from his, she looked around.

  “I’m on my way to check the booths along the east wall.” He caught her eye. “Why don’t you come with me?”

  She was tempted, but…remembering yesterday and the circumstances that had placed them in misleading propinquity, she shook her head. “I should check on the spinners and weavers, and see if the cloth merchants have arrived. They’re over by the northwest gate.”

  He looked into her eyes, then smiled, lifted her hand to his lips and lightly kissed. “Join me when you break for lunch. By then I’ll need my sanity restored.”

  She laughed, nodded and they parted.

  Tacking through the crowd, she found the spinners and weavers setting up their wheels and looms, and facing them, cloth merchants, milliners and haberdashers from Helston and even as far as Falmouth. A lacemaker from Truro had made the trip; she found her being helped to set up her traveling booth by Gervase’s sisters.

  Smiling, she stopped by the trio and welcomed the lacemaker. She’d bought lace from the woman before and knew she produced excellent work. “I’ll be sure to drop by tomorrow to see what you have.”

  The lacemaker blushed and bobbed a curtsy. “Of course, Miss Gascoigne, but”—she glanced at the three girls—“I’m thinking you might need to be early.”

  “Ah!” Laughing, Madeline met Belinda’s eyes. “Buying trim for your come-out gowns?”

  “Well,” Belinda said, “she gave us a glimpse and it seemed very fine.”

  “Oh, it is.” With a smiling nod to the lacemaker, Madeline turned to move on.

  With quick nods to the woman, the three girls went with her.

  “Is it nearly lunchtime?” Jane stretched up on her toes, bobbing to look past the milling heads to the clock set in the wall above the stable arch.

  Madeline checked. “No, not just yet, but if we head that way, by the time we reach the steps it should be time to go in.”

  The girls happily ranged around her, Belinda on one side, Jane on the other, with Annabel beyond.

  Belinda drew breath, rather portentously. As Madeline glanced her way, she said, “About our come-outs…”

  When she went no further, Madeline prompted, “What about them?”

  “Well, you see”—Belinda frowned, twisting her fingers—“given what happened to Melissa and Katherine, we wondered…well”—she glanced at Madeline—“is it usual for a just-married lady to send her husband’s sisters off that way? Just not want to have them around?” Belinda’s hazel eyes searched Madeline’s face. “We thought you might know.”

  Madeline studied those hazel eyes, very like Gervase’s, then glanced at Annabel, met her blue eyes, then dropped her gaze to Jane’s eyes, recalling what Gervase had earlier told her. In that instant, she more fully appreciated what had been behind the girls’ disruptive actions.

  Looking up, she drew in a slow breath, then glanced at Belinda. “I honestly don’t think you have anything to worry about. Your brother would never send you away—and if you imagine any lady he married might see you as rivals for his affection…quite aside from that being unlikely in any lady he would choose to wed, any lady who attempted to get between him and you three would quickly find she’d misjudged.”

  They continued to tack slowly through the crowd. When Belinda frowned, clearly unconvinced, Madeline smiled wryly and added, “Your brother is a very strong man, not just in a physical sense but in all ways. No lady I’ve ever met would be strong enough to bend him to her purpose if that purpose was one he was set against.”

  “No lady?” Jane queried. When Madeline looked down at her, she opened her eyes wide. “Not even you?”

  Madeline laughed and laid a hand on Jane’s shoulder. “Not even me.” Looking across the heads to the steps, she added absentmindedly, “Not that I’d wish to do anything so silly as send you three away.”

  Glancing back at Belinda, she saw a small swift smile cross her face.

  “No.” Belinda looked down as they neared the steps. “But that’s you—we were worried about someone else. You know us, so you’re different. Other ladies might not react to us in the same way.”

  Smiling fondly, Madeline lifted her other hand to Belinda’s shoulder and squeezed lightly, reassuringly. “Any lady your brother chooses will think the same. Now hush, for there he is.”

  Gervase was standing at the top of the steps. He’d seen them approaching. He scanned his sisters’ features, then his eyes narrowed and fixed on Belinda’s face.

  He looked rather grim as they reached him, but to Madeline’s surprise all three girls beamed delightedly at him as they went past, lured by the promise of sandwiches.

  Narrow-eyed, he turned to watch them go; slipping her arm through his, she urged
him in their wake. “The spinners and weavers look to have settled without drama, thank Heaven.” As they passed into the cool of the hall, she glanced back at the mass outside. “Have my brothers come in, do you know?”

  “They’re already inside.”

  Castle staff balancing platters of sandwiches passed them, ferrying the fare to the trestles set up to one side of the steps, sustenance for all those who had come to help and set up for tomorrow’s big day.

  Turning back, Madeline found Gervase’s grim expression had eased. He laid his hand over hers on his sleeve. “Come—the committee are lunching in the dining room.”

  She let him lead her in and seat her beside him. A cold collation was laid out on the sideboard; she consented to allow him to fill her plate while she listened to the latest words from each of the committee, and added her own observations.

  Despite various hiccups, everything was going well. Everything looked set for a wonderful festival.

  While they ate swiftly, knowing they had to return to the chaos outside soon, she thought of his sisters and their underlying fear. She was usually so consumed keeping abreast of her brothers’ lives, she rarely had emotional attention to spare for others in the district, even Gervase’s family, her closest neighbors and nearest in station.

  The three girls were seated at the end of the table in earnest conversation with her brothers. Surreptitiously she glanced at Gervase. He was helping her with her brothers; he’d certainly made her more aware of Harry’s impending maturity. Perhaps, in this, given their new closeness—their liaison—she might return the favor and make sure he properly understood the basis for his sisters’ fears.

  Yet once they returned to the forecourt they were surrounded by the crowd, then separated by the demands of various helpers for direction or clarification. More peddlers and merchants were arriving with their booths and tents; the afternoon winged by in organized and happily good-natured chaos.