Between the Devil and Ian Eversea: Pennyroyal Green Series

by Long, Julie Anne

  She silently read the names on the stones as she strolled through.

  “Quite a few Redmonds,” she said. “And Everseas. Is Mr. Miles Redmond a part of the Redmonds of Pennyroyal Green?”

  “He is, indeed,” Genevieve said politely.

  Interestingly, she didn’t expound.

  Tansy didn’t press for more information. The Everseas were not as subtle as they thought they were. She would get to the bottom of that particular mystery in time, she knew.

  And then she stopped and knelt near a particular stone. A certain Lady Elizabeth Stanton had passed a good thirty years ago at the age of twenty-one. Did Lady Elizabeth marry her title, or was she born with it? Why did she die so young? Was it childbirth or a fever or a fall from a horse or . . . ? Had she ever lost her powers of speech when a boorish man stared down at her as if he could read every thought in her head and found them criminally mundane?

  She didn’t have any flowers on her grave, but she was flanked by graves that were freshly adorned, and this struck Tansy as wholly unfair.

  “There aren’t any flowers on this one.”

  Genevieve sympathetically studied Lady Elizabeth Stanton’s stone. “I suppose over the years families move away, or the last of them expires, and sometimes stones are forgotten.”

  “Well, they ought to have flowers, don’t you think?” She felt urgent about this suddenly, as if she were the naked one, not the grave. “Someone ought to remember. We can’t have flowers on some and not all.”

  It didn’t sound remotely rational even to her, but Genevieve didn’t appear to have an argument for this.

  Tansy scanned the churchyard, and Eureka! She found one little blue wildflower, poking through a fence.

  “Sorry!” she whispered to it. “And thank you,” and she gave a little yank.

  She transported it to the grave and lay it gently down.

  That was better.

  “Blue is your color,” she whispered to the late Lady Elizabeth, just to amuse herself.

  Tansy turned to see if Genevieve was watching, but she was looking upward and waving at something.

  There, at the very top of the vicarage, was Ian Eversea, hands on his hips, watching the two of them.

  He was significantly smaller at that distance, but she still knew. Her body seemed able to sense him. She fancied she could feel his blue eyes from where she stood, like the beams of two little judgmental, cynical, gorgeous suns.

  She could practically feel all of her native charm and polish evaporate the way sun evaporated rain. What was it about the man that made her feel so very gauche?

  He lifted a hand—there appeared to be a hammer in it—in a sort of salute.

  “He always was an excellent climber, my brother.”

  Genevieve sounded a bit ironic.

  But Tansy barely registered this. Suddenly he was all she could see, delineated against a blue sky. And her heart had struck up a sharp beating, like a hammer against a dulcimer.

  She stood abruptly, brushed her hands down her skirts and mutely followed Genevieve around the corner.

  Only to abruptly encounter a cluster of men deep in conversation, gesticulating in that universal language men shared when something needed to be built or repaired. Each of them seemed to be clutching a tool of some sort—a spade or hammer or saw. How men loved tools, she thought.

  Then turned abruptly when the ladies rounded the corner.

  They stopped talking and gesticulating.

  Their eyes rapidly tracked from Genevieve to Tansy and back again.

  And they stalled on Tansy, as motionless as pointing hunting dogs.

  She gave them a demure smile. And fluttered her lashes.

  And then they all bowed, and when upright again, commenced variously gaping, toeing the ground, or fidgeting with their hair.

  Which was just as well, because she couldn’t speak, either. Because she’d watched Ian Eversea clamber down from the roof and now he was striding ever closer. For a moment he seemed to use the air she needed to breathe. Her lungs had stopped moving.

  She tipped her head a little back, as if the air were clearer there, and took a long breath.

  Genevieve made the introductions as Ian drew ever closer.

  “Gentlemen, this is our guest, Miss Titania Danforth. Miss Danforth, this is my cousin Reverend Adam Sylvaine. You met Simon last night at the ball, Miss Danforth, and Lord Henry Thorpe has returned from abroad and is kindly helping with repairs to the vicarage.”

  Lord Henry was young enough to still have a few pink spots sprinkled on his cheeks. His hair was closely cropped.

  The man leaning on his shovel found his voice first, and didn’t wait for the niceties of introductions.

  “Mr. Seamus Duggan at your service, Miss Danforth.” He had curly black hair and green eyes and his Irish accent was a beautiful thing. It leaped and lilted like a jig. He bowed low, keeping one arm suavely slung around the shovel as if it were a spare lover. “I do mean that. If ever you need anything, and I do mean any—”

  “We try to keep Seamus too busy to get into too much trouble,” the vicar interjected pleasantly.

  “Ha ha,” Seamus laughed, in a hail-fellow-well-met way, but he shot a faintly aggrieved look in the direction of the very tall vicar.

  The vicar was clearly from the Eversea mold of stunning men. He exuded an air of lovely calm and strength, and Tansy suspected it was the sort he’d earned the hard way. Because she knew a bit about learning things the hard way.

  But she wasn’t interested in “calm.” She was interested in that spiky, breathless, ground-is-shifting-beneath-her-feet feeling she’d only felt for the man who was . . . now right upon them.

  IAN HAD AN unerring instinct for excellent examples of the female form; like a weathervane, he invariably spun toward it. He’d been pounding a nail into the roof when something made him pause, and slowly rise to his feet, and . . . watch. His breath suspended. Something purely carnal touched its fingertips to the back of his neck and communicated with his nether region. All of his senses had marshalled to witness whoever she was.

  Two women had entered the churchyard, and the way she moved—it was intangible, really, something about the line of her spine, the subtle sway of her hips—issued a call, and his body responded. His heart picked up a beat or two in anticipation of discovering her identity.

  He shaded his eyes.

  One of them was Genevieve—he recognized the color of the ribbon she’d used to trim her favorite bonnet.

  The other one then must be . . .

  . . . could it be Miss Danforth?

  Alas, he feared it was. Titsy Danforth.

  He gave a short humorless laugh at his own expense.

  Still, he shaded his eyes and watched. He did like the way she moved. He frowned faintly as she plucked a flower from between the fence posts and knelt and laid it on a grave. Genevieve looked up at him and gave a surreptitious shrug.

  And then she waved her arm in a great arc of greeting.

  His manners drove him down off the roof.

  Unsurprisingly, he could hear Miss Danforth well before he was upon the group of men.

  “I’ll definitely keep you in mind, Mr. Duggan,” Tansy was saying as he approached. A bit like an actress trying to reach the back of the house. Perhaps she was a bit hard of hearing? She had laughed rather more heartily than a lady ought to the other night when they’d danced. “Thank you so much for your kind offer.”

  What offer had Duggan made?

  “Oh, please do keep me in mind, Miss Danforth,” Seamus said gravely.

  And she smiled at that, slowly, and with great satisfaction.

  And despite himself, her smile had an interesting effect on Ian, too. He was tempted to look away, and yet it was as though she’d flung a handful of fairy dust at them. He’d seen similarl
y dumbstruck, biddable expressions on a man subjected to a mesmerist’s pendulum.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” he interrupted politely. “I assume all introductions have been made?”

  “They’ve been made,” Seamus affirmed fervently, “and I shall never forget this day for as long as I draw breath.”

  Miss Danforth rewarded this stream of blarney with another dazzling smile. Not the least nonplussed.

  She hadn’t yet looked Ian in the eye.

  He frowned again, then caught himself just in time and arranged his face in more neutral planes.

  “Will you be attending the Sussex marksmanship competition, Miss Danforth?” Simon wanted to know. “And my lady,” he hastily appended, including Genevieve as an afterthought. He’d known Genevieve his entire life. Calling her “my lady” had been a bit of an adjustment for everyone.

  Genevieve shot Ian a wry glance.

  “A marksmanship contest! How exciting! May we attend?” Miss Danforth clasped her hands beseechingly and turned to Genevieve. And then she swiveled back to the men. “Will all of you be shooting in it? You all look like marksmen. I’m absolutely certain each of you wield your tools with skill and precision.”

  Ian’s eyes widened again and he intercepted a darted glance from Seamus Duggan, who was a dyed-in-the-wool rogue and a bit of a ruffian, and who could be counted on to hear that sentence precisely the same way he had.

  “Of course. I think Ian is one of the judges this year,” Genevieve said. “Aren’t you, Ian?“

  He gave a little grunt of confirmation and swiped a hand across his brow where perspiration had glued his hair to his forehead.

  “It’s archery and shooting,” Genevieve volunteered. “And Adam took home the shooting trophy during the last competition.”

  Adam, the vicar, shrugged modestly.

  “Good heavens! A shooting vicar!” Miss Danforth seemed awestruck. “How very impressive. Remarkable skill and control are required to properly aim a musket, isn’t that so?” Her dark lashes flickered up and her blue eyes peered up at Adam through them.

  “I suppose there is,” Ian heard his usually brutally pragmatic, utterly unpretentious cousin say, after what could only be interpreted as a moment of dumbstruck admiration.

  Ian shot him a look, and Adam gave his head a rough little shake and turned. “If you’ll all excuse me, I need to finish writing a sermon. A pleasure to meet you, Miss Danforth. Good day, Genevieve.”

  Everyone else seemed to ignore the departure of the vicar.

  “But I came in fourth in archery,” Lord Henry hastened to brag. “And this year, I vow, I’ll take home the prize.”

  She swiveled toward Lord Henry. “Oh, if there’s something I admire more than a man who is confident about repairing things with his hands, it’s a man who’s competent with a bow and arrows. So elegant! So primal! It calls to mind Greek gods and that sort of thing, don’t you think, Genevieve?”

  Genevieve was startled to be called upon. She’d seemed bemused by the entire exchange.

  “It wasn’t the first thing that came to mind,” she said, quite diplomatically. “But I suppose one might view it that way.”

  “There’s nothing more impressive than men up on the vicarage roof for repairs,” Ian tried. Just to amuse himself.

  No one heard him.

  They were all muttering “mmm-hmmm” and nodding vigorous agreement with Miss Danforth, though in all likelihood none of them would have been caught dead calling themselves Greek gods in any other circumstance.

  “I love to shoot,” Simon claimed wildly. “Guns, arrows, everything I can!”

  Miss Danforth aimed the rays of her attention at him. “Oh, I often feel that nothing is more masculine than excellent aim. Such a useful skill.” She gave a delighted little shiver. “I suspect you’re very good at it.”

  If a man could be said to preen, Simon—quiet, levelheaded Simon—preened.

  And the expression on the others immediately darkened, and shifted.

  Suddenly they began speaking over one another all at once, describing their prowess with weaponry. And her head turned to and fro between them, shedding upon each of them in turn the radiant beam of her attention.

  If he didn’t know any better, Ian would have thought Miss Titania Danforth had played all of them as skillfully as an orchestra conductor.

  And at last her eyes met his, and hers were as clear and innocent as ever.

  Unless . . . well, surely that glint in them was just the sunlight.

  “And how is your aim, Mr. Eversea?” she asked. Seemingly emboldened.

  He met her gaze evenly.

  And said nothing.

  In seconds color crept slowly back into her tawny cheeks.

  She cast her fluffy lashes down. And looked away from him.

  He sighed.

  “All right, back to work, gentlemen,” he ordered in a brook-no-argument voice. “The roof and fence won’t repair themselves, and I know some of you are going to need a few more points in your favor in order to get into Heaven . . . Seamus. Good day, ladies, and we’ll see you at home this evening.”

  TANSY DID WHAT amounted to brooding on the way home. Genevieve attempted conversation once or twice and then fell politely silent, too.

  At home they took two steps into the foyer and stopped short.

  “Please tell me no one died!” Genevieve blurted at the footmen.

  There were flowers everywhere. Or it appeared that way. Vases stuffed full of them were scattered about the foyer.

  “I am pleased to tell you that everyone lives, Your Grace, to my knowledge. Two of these arrangements are for Miss Olivia, and the other . . . three,” and the footman smiled fondly, “are for Miss Danforth. The mantels of the house can scarcely accommodate two such popular young ladies. How you do brighten up the house. We haven’t yet found places for all of them, and I thought Miss Danforth would like to see hers and decide where they should be placed.”

  Tansy circled them with awe.

  Three different admirers! After only just one ball! Her heart began to take up a steady beating. Dare she hope that one of them was from . . . ?

  But it was a foolish hope.

  She perused the cards. From two young lords and another young man she could scarcely recall, to her slight embarrassment. Boys. They were all boys.

  The copy of Richard III seemed to glow like a little coal in her hand.

  “And the table is set for luncheon if you ladies would care to go through,” the footman told them.

  And when they did go through, Tansy found a small paper-wrapped, string-bound package next to her plate. She picked it up with delight and hefted it. “What could it be?”

  She unwrapped it gleefully while everyone watched.

  She laughed merrily and held her gift up to the assembled.

  The Dancing Master, by John Playford.

  She read aloud from the sheet of foolscap enclosed.

  “ ‘Please don’t construe this as a criticism of your dancing, but I’ve an extensive library, and I could spare this one.’

  “It’s from Landsdowne. How very thoughtful of him! He did so graciously tolerate my clumsiness the other night.”

  “Yes,” Olivia said politely and very carefully. “He is generally very thoughtful.”

  Her grip, Genevieve noted, was a bit white on her fork.

  Chapter 9

  SINCE HE WAS ALREADY dirty from working on the vicarage roof and was too late to join everyone for a meal, Ian visited Mrs. deWitt in the kitchen for a chunk of bread and cheese, and decided to clean his old musket, the very first one he’d ever owned, an activity he found meditative. He thought about what manner of weapons he ought to bring with him on his journey, and the kinds of women he might encounter, and the opportunities to make money and friends, and he had the thing taken
apart and was busy with oil and rags when Genevieve wandered in.

  “Good afternoon, sister of mine. What do you want?”

  “How did you know I . . . Never mind. Ian . . . what do you think of Miss Danforth?”

  He paused mid-wipe. “Are you asking because of that interesting conversation outside the vicarage? Or because you’re gauging whether I’m merely biding my time until I ravish her?”

  “Conversation? The word ‘conversation’ implies I was included. And if you wanted to ravish her, you’d have to plow through a thicket of other men.”

  Ian laughed. “Ahhhh, Genevieve. Are we jealous?”

  “Hush. Of course not. It’s just . . . does she seem to you . . . well, a trifle too . . . effusive?” She’d chosen the word delicately, Ian could tell, which amused him.

  “Are you worried because not one of those men gave you a second glance, Genevieve, when usually they go misty-eyed at the mere sight of you? You’ve already landed your duke.”

  She gave him a playful push.

  “I think she’s a bit awkward, Genevieve. And young. And American. They seem a bit louder and brasher, Americans. But yes, pretty. She’s just accustomed to attention, no doubt. And knows how to get it.” He shrugged with one shoulder. “We’re on the whole, simple creatures, men are, and some women discover this sooner rather than later.”

  Genevieve gaped at him. “Awkward? Are you mad? Are we discussing the same girl? She charmed Tingle at the bookshop—and you know what a skinflint he can be—into giving her two books for the price of one. I would wager poems celebrating her delicate grace and big eyes and the like will start arriving any day. She’s a bit . . . I do wonder if . . . well, she talked to a flower today when she was pulling it. She apologized to it, and then thanked it.”

  “She apologized to the flower?”

  “And then thanked it.”

  “Sounds downright pagan. Perhaps she is a witch, and she’s casting a spell on all those men.” He waggled all ten fingers in Genevieve’s face like a conjurer. “One never knows what Americans get up to. Perhaps she wanted to visit the graveyard for a bit of graveyard dust, which I hear is useful in spells.”