Counting on a Countess

by Eva Leigh

  There was no running now. No hiding. She had to face her uncle’s threat—but Kit would be beside her. It was and wasn’t a comfort. There was no denying that she had brought him into this disaster, and if there was punishment to be meted out, he’d get a substantial share of it.

  She, Kit, and Edwards moved through the house. The sun shone too brightly in her eyes when she emerged outside, and she squinted to make out the forms of Jory, Gwen, and Wright waiting in the drive. Her aunt’s expectant smile kindled more fury within Tamsyn.

  Like hell will I let her see me squirm.

  But what was Jory’s evidence? If she knew, maybe she could come up with a reasonable excuse.

  He hadn’t led them to the basement. He’d said nothing about the locked door, either, or the secret corridors beneath the house.

  She seized hold of this hope. Perhaps he didn’t know about any of it. If he’d been aware of them, he would have said something—wouldn’t he?

  Don’t look at Kit. Not with all these eyes on us.

  “All here?” Jory asked, looking around.

  “Every one of us, my dearest,” Gwen answered.

  Jory clapped his hands together. “Right, then. Hope you don’t mind a little walk, gentlemen,” he said to the officers.

  “Just get on with it, my lord,” Edwards answered brusquely.

  Her uncle deflated a little, robbed of milking the moment. Scowling, he strode in the direction of the village.

  Feeling like a condemned prisoner, she walked after Jory while her mind whirled. Last night, she and the villagers had been careful as always to conceal signs of their movements, smoothing over their footprints in the sand and returning the pier to its place of concealment.

  Had they forgotten something? Or had Jory found a villager willing to confess to the crime in exchange for compensation or leniency?

  The procession of Jory, Gwen, the customs officers, Kit, and Tamsyn moved down the hill, taking the road directly into Newcombe’s high street. As they entered the village, she fought the urge to twist her hands together anxiously.

  Kit walked with the upright bearing and steely expression of a soldier heading into battle. Gone was the insouciant charm, the insolent winks. Regret stabbed her—he’d wanted to leave the world of soldiering behind, and she’d brought him right back into it.

  People in the street stopped and stared at the sight of Tamsyn with customs officers. Children clung to their mothers’ skirts, and men gathered at the door to the Tipsy Flea. Nessa came out of her house, with her family trailing behind. Their eyes gleamed with alarm and their postures were wary.

  Tamsyn discreetly gestured for calm, struggling to allay so many fears. When Denny Oates reached for a thick board, clearly intending to use it as a cudgel, she gave a minute shake of her head. She wouldn’t condone violence against the riding officers—and it wouldn’t solve the problem.

  Jory led them quickly through the village, then down to the boardwalk, and the beach beyond it.

  God help us, we’re going to our cove.

  Walking on sand was never easy, but each step made her breath come in ragged gasps. From one inlet to another, they continued relentlessly on. Her mouth went dry when they finally arrived at the cove.

  There had to be something she could do. Some way to stop this from happening. But it unfolded relentlessly.

  Fear threatened to strangle her as Jory marched up the sand. He neared the opening in the cliff through which the smuggled goods were brought into the caverns. The opening was disguised with large rocks, but perhaps Jory knew what they concealed. As they got closer to the secret entrance, she managed to stop herself from looking at Kit with alarm.

  Her uncle kept walking. His continuing steps kicked sand on the rocks blocking the opening but he didn’t spare it a single glance as he trudged onward.

  She nearly sank to the sand in relief. Surely, he would have pointed out the opening to the customs men if he knew about it.

  Her relief perished quickly as Jory made straight for the rocky outcropping at the farthest end of the beach. He stopped beside it and pointed.

  “There,” he said exultantly. “All the proof you need.”

  Kit went to Tamsyn, taking her hand and giving it a squeeze. Perhaps it was an attempt to reassure her, or maybe it served as a signal to get ready to fight, then flee.

  She prepared for both eventualities, making herself light on her feet and recalling Kit’s instructions on how to punch someone.

  “Forgive me, my lord,” Edwards ventured. “I see only a collection of rocks.”

  “It’s what’s on the other side of them,” Jory shot back. Moving with the stiffness of middle age, he scrambled over the rocks. When he reached the top, he called back, “Up here.”

  Tamsyn’s breath sawed through her as she watched both riding officers scale the rocks. Hands on their hips, they stared down at the other side. Wright removed a pad of paper from his pack and sketched what he saw.

  “You see?” Jory crowed. “It’s a pier. I found it yesterday after I heard her in the garden talking of her crime. They use it for their smuggling. Haul it out into the water, and then the boats can land and unload their damned cargo.” He sneered at Tamsyn. “Drag them away. There’s the evidence.”

  Edwards climbed down from the rocks and walked purposefully toward her and Kit. “Can you explain this?”

  “What’s to explain?” Jory cried, awkwardly lowering himself from the rocks. “I’ve already told you—”

  “I’d like to hear from Lord and Lady Blakemere,” the senior officer said, his voice measured.

  “It’s . . .” Tamsyn’s ability to dissemble deserted her. “The purpose of that pier is . . .”

  “It’s the private dock, naturally,” Kit said in a matter-of-fact tone. “For the rowboats bringing the sea bathers from town.”

  Tamsyn suppressed her urge to look at Kit with the bewilderment she felt.

  “My lord?” The senior officer frowned in confusion.

  Kit gestured as he spoke animatedly. “For visitors who want to bathe in the sea but want a sheltered place to do it, we will ferry them from the pier in the village to this spot. It will spare guests of more delicate constitution from struggling to walk over sand. Everyone will wear bathing costumes, of course,” he added with a nod, “since women and men will have access to the water. We’ll have bathing machines and people to act as dippers.”

  “What the bloody hell are you talking about?” Jory snapped, stalking toward them.

  “A dipper is someone who holds a person in their arms and dips them into the water,” Kit explained. He turned to the customs officers. “They’re at all the best seaside resorts. Excellent especially for ladies who might not have the ability to swim.”

  “Not that,” Jory said tartly. “The whole sodding bit about bathing machines and dippers—you’re babbling nonsense.”

  “Nonsense?” Kit raised a brow. “Shall I tell them, Lady Blakemere?” he asked, glancing at her with a fond smile.

  “By all means,” she answered, utterly mystified.

  Kit wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her closer. He beamed at the customs men. “My wife and I have decided to turn Newcombe into England’s most sought-after seaside holiday destination.”

  As the riding officers murmured their interest, Tamsyn pasted a smile on her face—even though her insides were a riot of shock, amusement, and disbelief. Newcombe—the next Brighton?

  “There’s no such scheme,” Jory spat.

  Kit glanced at him coldly. “Lord Shawe, your opinion on the matter is not being solicited.”

  “But—” Jory protested.

  “A seaside resort,” Edwards said skeptically.

  Without pause, Kit began speaking with excitement. “We built the pier first to test if it was possible to ferry people from town to the cove, and it was a rousing success. But the introduction of the ferries is just one of the many features and improvements we will be undertaking.” After gently
releasing his hold on Tamsyn, he strode back toward the village. “Please, sirs, follow me.”

  In contrast from their grim plod before, their procession now worked in reverse as Tamsyn and the others hurried after Kit, who walked with wide, eager strides. “We’ll have tents and chairs to hire,” he called over his shoulder, waving toward the beach. “And refreshment kiosks selling lemonade and ices.”

  They reached the boardwalk, where dozens of villagers who had been standing and watching now scattered in different directions and busied themselves with menial tasks. Even Nessa pretended to vigorously sweep her front steps.

  “For those who want an oceangoing adventure,” Kit went on, pointing to several moored vessels, “they’ll hire a boat to take them out on the water. Luncheons will be provided, of course.”

  “Of course,” the junior officer seconded.

  “Quickly, please,” Kit directed, moving from the pier to the high street. Here again, more villagers gathered in curious groups, then hastened in various directions, like fish startled by the approach of a shark.

  “We’ll have a tea parlor,” Kit continued as he walked, gesturing toward the shops that fronted the high street. “There will also be a shop selling toys, one offering local handicrafts for sale. The women make excellent baskets and corn dollies that anyone with taste will demand for their home. You see the public house,” he went on, pointing toward the Tipsy Flea, “but there will also be a dining room that will be open to both sexes. Traditional fare such as stargazy pie and pasties will be served, as well as Continental dishes for our more sophisticated visitors.”

  Kit stopped their procession in front of the all things shop, and he beamed at the customs officers.

  Tamsyn held her breath. Would they believe him?

  Slowly, the men nodded.

  Tamsyn risked a look at Gwen and Jory, who gaped at Kit. Suddenly, they turned their furious attention to her.

  Her back stiff and her mouth tight, Gwen stalked to Tamsyn. Red spots of anger stained her cheeks.

  “Nonsense, all of it!” she snarled. “There’s no scheme. This is nothing but glib obfuscation.”

  Tamsyn drew herself up. “I assure you, aunt, this plan is real. We haven’t even gotten to the part about the musical pavilion.”

  Gwen sputtered. “Musical . . . ?”

  “Indeed,” Kit added smoothly. “Plans are already being drawn up in London by one of England’s top architects. The pavilion will go there.” He pointed to a rise at the end of the high street, now home to a chicken coop and a pair of goats. “The animals will be relocated, naturally.”

  “It will house a stage with an orchestra pit,” Tamsyn went on, shaping the imaginary space with her hands. “There will be music of all varieties performed, and during the peak season, theatrical works will be staged. Classics and modern pieces, including premieres of the Viscountess Marwood’s work. She and her husband are close friends,” Tamsyn added, hoping the viscountess would forgive her for shamelessly name-dropping.

  “Where will all the visitors sleep?” the senior officer wondered.

  “Two hotels in the French style are currently being designed,” Kit answered. “One on the high street, there.” He indicated a series of sheds housing boats that needed repair. “The other will be a short walk from the center of the village, for visitors who want a bit more seclusion. Should demand outpace supply, we’ll build more.”

  His face purple, Jory barreled toward the customs men. “They’re making this up! There are no plans to turn this waterlogged blight into a seaside resort. It’s all twaddle to hide their real purpose.” He glowered at Tamsyn. “Smuggling.”

  She met her uncle’s anger with her own, squaring her jaw in defiance.

  “Wrong, Shawe,” Kit replied frostily.

  Edwards looked pensively around at the high street. Villagers crept out in groups of two and three, anxiously watching the riding officers.

  “You,” the chief inspector said, pointing toward Sam Franks, who stood on the step of his shop. “Come here.”

  Slowly, cautiously, Sam approached, casting worried looks over his shoulder at the other villagers watching the unfolding events.

  “Sir?” Sam asked warily.

  “Tell me about the scheme to transform this place into a holiday destination,” the officer commanded.

  “Mr. Franks isn’t part of the planning committee,” Tamsyn said quickly.

  Edwards lifted a brow. “Surely he knows something about it.”

  Wide-eyed, Sam looked at Tamsyn. She gave one tiny nod, praying her gesture wouldn’t be seen by the customs men.

  “It’s, uh, a substantial alteration,” Sam improvised. “Many changes. There’s talk of . . . a . . . music festival during June and July. Yes,” he said, warming to his subject, “and a singing competition.”

  “The winner gets ten pounds,” Kit threw in, “and a silver cup with their name engraved on it.”

  Though it wasn’t possible to read Edwards’s expression, he said to Sam, “You can return to your place of business.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sam bowed. “Thank you, sir.” He hurried inside, but stood right in the window and stared at the assembly on the street.

  “Lord Shawe,” the chief inspector said, turning to Jory. “Have you any additional evidence against Lord and Lady Blakemere?”

  “I . . .” Jory’s mouth opened and closed. He looked frantically at Gwen, who could only offer a helpless shrug.

  “I think that means ‘no,’ sir,” the junior officer said.

  Edwards put his hands on his hips, a movement which was echoed by Wright. The silence that followed was the longest of Tamsyn’s life.

  Finally, Edwards spoke. “Without any further proof of your allegations, and in light of Lord and Lady Blakemere’s thorough explanation, I see no reason why this inquiry should proceed any further. We have found no evidence of smuggling here.”

  Tamsyn pressed her lips together tightly to hold in her cry of triumph.

  His eyes shining with exhilaration, Kit sent her the briefest of smiles before smoothing out his expression.

  “Lord Shawe,” Edwards said sternly, “in the future, you would be advised to have actual proof of a crime before making such a serious accusation against a titled gentleman, particularly one as distinguished as Lord Blakemere.”

  As Jory stammered, the chief inspector turned to Kit and Tamsyn. “The plans for this village sound delightful. Please do let me know when construction is complete. I think my missus would enjoy it very much.”

  “We’ll be sure to reserve a room with an ocean view.” Kit stuck out his hand, and the officer shook it.

  Both officers bowed at Tamsyn, then walked back in the direction of Chei Owr. As they ambled up the road, more and more villagers came out of their hiding places to talk animatedly amongst themselves.

  Gwen lurched toward the step of Sam’s shop and sat down heavily, her gaze vacant. Like a flag in high winds, Jory shook with apoplectic rage. His chest puffing out and his arms stiff at his sides, Jory stormed up to Kit. Her uncle started to speak, but Kit cut him off.

  “Now I’ll tell you how it’s going to work,” Kit said, his voice low but firm. “You are going to sell me the house for the sum of one pound, and then I’m giving the house to my wife so it will belong to her even in the event of my death.”

  Tamsyn stared at him, victory ricocheting through her body like a bullet.

  Gwen roused enough to yelp, “One pound!”

  “Then,” Kit continued as if Gwen hadn’t spoken, “you and Lady Shawe are going to clear out of Cornwall and never return. London will be off-limits to you. Find some other corner of the world that can tolerate your stench.”

  “Here, now!” Jory exclaimed. “I ain’t going to do any of that. And you can’t make me.”

  Kit’s smile was vicious. “The Crown has made me an earl. I have the ear of very powerful men—including the Duke of Greyland. I see by the chalkiness of your face that you’ve heard of Hi
s Grace. All I have to do is whisper one word to him, one word, and you and your lady wife won’t be welcome anywhere. Not in England. Not in Scotland or Ireland. And certainly nowhere on the Continent. A well-connected man, is the duke.”

  Feeling herself blaze with justice, Tamsyn crossed her arms over her chest. “From the day you arrived to bury my parents and take possession of Chei Owr, you overlooked me. All you cared about was your own gratification. Ponder that in your ostracism,” she said, her voice charged with feeling. “The girl who only wanted your love is sending you into exile.”

  Her uncle had the waxy appearance of a cadaver. “H-how are we supposed to live?” he stammered.

  “No one’s taking away the income from the barony,” she said icily. “That’s still yours. Chei Owr, however, will belong to me.”

  “But . . . but . . .” Jory stuttered.

  “Ingrate,” Gwen spat, struggling to rise. “After all we did—”

  “You did nothing.” She took Kit’s hand and held it tightly. He looked down at her with a warm, encouraging expression, and her heart felt full. She pointed up the hill, toward Chei Owr. “Go and pack,” she commanded. “Take only what you came with ten years ago. The rest is mine.”

  For several moments, neither her aunt nor her uncle moved as they sputtered like fish.

  “March!” Kit ordered, sounding every inch the commanding officer.

  Jory hurried off with a speed that belied his years. Gwen followed, casting baleful looks over her shoulder. Finally, they crested the hill and disappeared.

  A hot wash of relief poured through Tamsyn, nearly blinding her.

  Gone. They were gone. And Chei Owr was hers.

  Kit raised her hand to his mouth and kissed it. “Love,” he said, beaming, “you were magnificent.”

  For many moments, she couldn’t speak, too overwhelmed by emotion. “The credit goes to you,” she said at last. “Making up that tale about turning Newcombe into a seaside resort.” She shook her head in awe. “No one could tell it was a fabrication.”

  His gaze fixed to hers. “It doesn’t have to be a fabrication.”

  She raised her eyebrows. “Actually have the bathing machines and the tearoom and build the musical pavilion?”