Between the Devil and Ian Eversea: Pennyroyal Green Series

by Long, Julie Anne

  Holy Mother of—

  Ian gave a start when someone knocked on his chamber door. He swore under his breath and ducked back from the curtain.

  Yanking the door open, he found a footman there, holding a tray bearing the brandy he’d rung earlier for, as well as a sheet of folded foolscap on a tray. “A message for you, Mr. Eversea.”

  He flipped it open so quickly he nearly sliced his fingers.

  “ ‘I will in all likelihood take rooms at the Pig & Thistle whilst I’m in Sussex,’ ” he read aloud.

  It was signed LC.

  Who the devil was . . .

  Lady Carstairs.

  He’d nearly forgotten about Lady Carstairs.

  Beautiful. Brunette. Unusual tastes.

  “Yesthankyouverymuchgood-bye.”

  He shut the door in the startled footman’s face and, message in his hand, bolted to the window and peered out.

  Surely he’d dreamed that. But she was gone, and the wind was sweeping away a few stray flakes of tobacco.

  IT WAS NO use. Just past midnight Tansy threw off her blankets with a long sigh, rolled from her bed and shoved her feet into her slippers. Then she knelt to fish about in one of her trunks and came up with a pair of painted tin soldiers that had once belonged to her brother. She held them gently, and smiled faintly. As much as she cherished the memory of playing soldiers with her brother, she was certain he would rather they saw active duty, so to speak, rather than languish an eternity as mementos. He would have teased her for her sentimentality, anyway.

  Soldiers in hand, she seized a candle and progressed down the shadowy hallways to the kitchen.

  It was time, if at all possible, to obtain a few answers, or she would likely never sleep a night through again.

  Mrs. deWitt was sitting at the table, spectacles perched on her nose, poring over a book of what appeared to be accounts, muttering to herself. “. . . beef for Thursday . . .”

  She looked up and shoved over a plate of scones, as if she’d been anticipating Tansy’s arrival, and stood to put the kettle on.

  Tansy settled in. “Are you going over the accounts?”

  “Aye. ’Tis a fine bit of balancing, doin’ the budget, though it’s generous enough. What’s that ye’ve got in yer ’and, there, Miss Danforth?”

  “I thought Jordy might like to have these. They were my brother’s.”

  She pushed the soldiers over to her.

  Miss deWitt’s eyes went wide with surprise and then she beamed meltingly. “Ah, the boy ought to ’ave some toys. Ye’ve the heart of an angel, Miss Danforth, to think of a wee servant boy.”

  Tansy regally waved away the compliment, but she blushed with pleasure. “I did the accounts after my parents passed away.”

  “Did ye now?” Mrs. deWitt looked up, sympathy written all over her face.

  “I liked it, I discovered.”

  “ ’Tis a bit like a puzzle, isn’t it? Deciding what you ought to buy and how much you’ll need and so forth?”

  “Oh, it is.” She’d needed to pension off some of the servants and decide who would remain as a small crew to keep the house open. She’d held difficult conversation after difficult conversation. She’d expected to be overwhelmed, it had instead been a respite. The quiet moments in the kitchen, discussing the day-to-day running of the house with the small staff, was nearly meditative, and she’d found comfort in their voices and company.

  “How are you getting on, Miss Danforth?”

  “Everyone is quite wonderful.” She said this with the same ceremony as she would have said “Amen.” It was precisely what she ought to say, she knew.

  This made Mrs. deWitt beam.

  She bit into the scone. “Heaven on a plate, Mrs. deWitt! I could eat these every day of my life.”

  “Thank you, my dear. You know how to warm an old soul’s heart. Now, are you enjoying your time with the family?”

  “Oh yes! They’re all very charming. And there are so many of them and I’m still trying to remember everyone’s names. Let me see. Now . . . Colin is married to Madeleine, yes? The lovely dark-haired woman?”

  “He is indeed, and a dear girl she is, so clever and kind and quiet.”

  “And Marcus is married to Louisa? She’s so pretty, isn’t she?”

  “Oh, my, yes, indeed! And two people more perfect for each other cannot be found anywhere on the face of this earth!”

  “And there’s Genevieve married to the duke . . .”

  Mrs. deWitt sighed happily. “Such a love story, that one, and what a grand man.”

  “And then there’s Ian and . . .”

  Mrs. deWitt’s gaze drifted. “Well, would you look at that time? We ought to be in bed, the two of us.”

  She stood up and began bustling about, pushing utensils and crockery around the kitchen rather aimlessly.

  “And then there’s Ian and . . .” Tansy repeated stubbornly.

  Mrs. deWitt went still in the midst of shuffling.

  And then at last she sighed heartily and turned, slowly, in resignation.

  “Now, child, I can tell you this: ye dinna want your head turned by that one.”

  “Ha!” Tansy laughed unconvincingly. “Ha ha! My head turned! I ask you! My head is on straight, thank you very much. I was simply curious.”

  There was a long hesitation during which the cook regarded her shrewdly and Tansy reflected back nothing but bland innocence. She’d perfected the look when she was a little girl.

  “God love ’im,” the cook sighed at last. “The boy is trouble.”

  Tansy’s heart stood still. This was going to be good.

  Or awful.

  “He’s not a boy,” she said thoughtfully, before she could think better of it.

  Mrs. deWitt looked at her sharply.

  “Aye, that he ain’t. ’E’s a man, and he’s been to war and back, and to London and back, and men are shaped by the things they find in both places, aye? For good or for ill. I’ve seen it time and again. Ye’ve only to look at the lad, and . . . well, my own old heart turns over when he smiles, and that’s the truth. He gets what he wants just that way. ’E’s good at heart but ’e’s a restless one, and any woman who pins her hopes to him is asking for heartbreak, or my name isn’t Margaret deWitt.”

  Tansy suspected the cook’s name really was Margaret deWitt.

  She remembered again the look Ian had exchanged with the lovely dark-haired woman at the ball. All silent, understood innuendo, swift and expert and sophisticated, as if Tansy wasn’t even there and didn’t matter. And a hot little rock of some nameless but deeply unpleasant emotion took up residence in her stomach. Jealousy. Or shame. Definitely from the same family tree as those two emotions.

  She didn’t like to think of herself as one of legion.

  She didn’t like to think of Ian Eversea bedding and breaking the hearts of a legion.

  Or of anyone, for that matter.

  She didn’t want to think of herself foolish enough, ordinary enough, to fall just like any other woman.

  Nor had she ever in her life thought of herself as a fool.

  She risked the question anyway, even though she didn’t really want to hear the answer.

  “Has any woman pinned her hopes . . . ?”

  “Oh, a host of them, I daresay. Beginning with poor Theodosia Brackman back when the boy was just fifteen. Then there was—”

  “A list won’t be necessary,” Tansy said hurriedly. Her imagination filled it in, anyway. She expected the list of names all began with poor. “Poor Theodosia Brackman, poor Jenny Smith, poor Tansy Danforth . . .”

  She’d never been anyone’s poor anything.

  “. . . and one hears things about—” Mrs. deWitt lowered her voice to a whisper. “—certain kinds of women in London.”

  She wasn’t that shelt
ered. She was certain she knew what “certain kinds of women” meant.

  Worse and worse.

  Mrs. deWitt probably ought not say such things to her, but probably thought she needed a powerful warning.

  It was unpleasant to hear, yet she indeed needed to hear it, the way she needed cod liver oil on occasion. It would do her good. Perhaps it would cure her of what was in all likelihood a passing condition, which, given that it made her charmless, stuttery, and given to blushes, had nothing at all to recommend it. And given that he was indifferent to her charms, was really rather a waste of time. And her talents.

  Besides, she was destined for a duke, wasn’t she?

  She wanted a husband, a family and a home, and it was time to cease wasting her time on thoughts of Ian Eversea.

  She returned to her bedchamber filled with scone and resolve, yet her legs and heart felt heavier, somehow, as if she were returning to walking on the ground after a little sojourn in the clouds.

  SHE OPENED HER eyes just before dawn again, wondering, before memory set in, why she felt low-spirited.

  Then she recalled her figurative dose of cod liver oil from the night before.

  And sighed.

  The little rosy strip of light lay where it usually did, beckoning her to walk it.

  She debated breaking herself of the habit. It would be the mature and sane thing to do. But the gentle little sunbeam road lay there on the carpet, and she found herself sliding from the bed to follow it, the way an animal has no choice but to follow an intriguing scent. She gently parted the curtains.

  He was already standing on the balcony. A moment later it occurred to her he was standing unusually still. Staring out over the strata of Sussex colors as she had, only he’d likely seen them countless times before. When he turned to look out over the morning, she thought she saw, but couldn’t be sure, darker hollows beneath his eyes. Probably from staying up all night counting the women he’d seduced, the way other people counted sheep. He turned his head, and it seemed to her he was a trifle tense and white about the mouth. Perhaps he’d been at the Pig & Thistle until very late, or romping with a widow, and now his head was pounding.

  And at last he stretched as he always did, bending backward, thrusting his arms into the air, and the beautiful line of him arching pulled something taut in her, too, like a bowstring drawn back. She could feel that pulling, tightening sensation inside her.

  He began to roar, as she’d heard him do before in the morning, but stopped abruptly and winced. Then he rested his hands on the edge of the balcony and breathed, his big shoulders moving slowly, deeply. As if something hurt and he was breathing through it.

  She could vouch for how hangovers hurt. She wasn’t utterly devoid of sophistication.

  Perhaps all that heartbreaking he went about doing had worn the poor soul out.

  Cod liver oil, she reminded herself. And gave a haughty sniff.

  She backed away from the curtain.

  Chapter 11

  “ARE YOU SURE YOU wouldn’t like to come along?” Genevieve hovered in the doorway, pulling on her gloves. “You could accompany Olivia to the meeting of the Society to Protect the Sussex Poor. They would love to have you, I’m certain.”

  Tansy very much doubted Olivia would love to have her. And besides, she had other plans, and they didn’t include spending the day with the frighteningly beautiful Olivia Eversea, whom she had begun to think of as her competition, or, more specifically, the bar above which she planned to rise in Sussex. Because every woman needed a goal. Four bouquets and counting, she thought. And a book.

  As if summoned by her thoughts, a footman appeared in the doorway, bearing a great vase full of pink and white flowers. “For you, Miss Danforth. Where would you like me to put them?”

  More flowers! She clapped her hands together.

  “Thank you so very much! How delightful!”

  She peered at the note attached and read it aloud. “ ‘Because their brightness and purity reminded me of you.’ Henry Thorpe, Lord Lester.”

  Purity, was it, Lord Lester? What on earth had given him that impression? Still, it was meant to be a compliment and so she was pleased.

  “That’s five bouquets for you this morning, and four for Olivia,” Genevieve said, somewhat wickedly. “Good heavens, I never did think anyone would give Olivia any bouquet competition.”

  “Oh, I would never dream of counting!” Tansy said, staring down at her note. “What a generous lot the young men of Sussex are.”

  “I suppose they are.”

  She turned to the footman. “Perhaps we can distribute the flowers a little more widely? If you would take a bouquet to Mrs. deWitt, and then perhaps send one down to the vicarage for anybody buried in the churchyard who might need a flower or two?”

  The footman was clearly enchanted, too. He beamed at her. “Anything you like, Miss Danforth.”

  Genevieve watched the footman depart, the corner of her mouth quirked wryly. “Will you be all right on your own today, Tansy? We’ll in all likelihood be gone until this evening, at least. With luck we’ll be home before dinnertime.”

  Genevieve sounded genuinely worried. Tansy reached impulsively for her hands.

  “Oh, you’re so very kind to invite me along with the two of you, but I’ve so much correspondence from home to attend to—a few matters of business, you know—and it would be a wonderful opportunity to see to it. And tomorrow, with the marksmanship contest, will be so very social and lively. But perhaps I can persuade a groom to accompany me on a short ride? I do so love to ride!”

  “What a wonderful idea! Of course! I’ll have them saddle my mare for you! She’s lovely. And the groom will be happy to accompany you.”

  Tansy also had no intention of taking a groom, and had every confidence she could concoct a story to convince the groom to stay put and not make a fuss. Why should she take someone? She rode like she was born to the saddle, which she nearly had been, and she was accustomed to riding alone over her property at home, or with her papa at her side. She wasn’t going far. She could, in fact, see her destination, if she peered hard enough through her bedroom window. It wasn’t as though she would be set upon by brigands. There was no place for them to hide in this mild little landscape, unless perhaps they dressed all in green and leaped out from the shrubberies. A brigand would get bored indeed waiting for someone to trundle by, and would likely fall asleep before someone did.

  And she just didn’t want anyone to witness what she wanted to do today. Not even a groom, who likely wouldn’t say a word, given that servants were paid for their discretion.

  She told the groom she was off to meet a friend at the end of the drive and kicked the little mare into a trot before he could say anything.

  She had her eye on the fluffy knot of woods beyond the stream and not far off the road she’d walked with Genevieve into town.

  The air was delicious; both she and the mare gulped great winey draughts of it, and tossed their heads. She would love to have undone her bonnet and let her hair fly free.

  She drew the mare to a halt.

  A girl was sitting next to the stream, arms wrapped around her knees. A long apron covered a brown walking dress decorated only with a narrow band of lace at the sleeves.

  “Oh. Good morning,” Tansy said cautiously.

  “Good morning,” said the girl, just as cautiously. Very politely.

  It seemed that no other conversation would be forthcoming. They continued to study each other.

  Until the girl asked, “Are you Miss Danforth?”

  “Why, yes, I am.” In a small town, doubtless nothing remained a secret for long, and this girl probably knew everyone there was to know.

  “How do you do, Miss Danforth. I’m Polly Hawthorne. My father owns the Pig & Thistle. The pub.”

  “Oh, of course! I’ve seen it. Seems a lovely place. I
hope to visit while I’m in Sussex.”

  It was the right thing to say. Polly smiled. She was a pretty thing, almost elfin, small and slight with big dark eyes, a pointed chin, and black hair wound up in a braid.

  The two wordlessly eyed each other a bit longer. Tansy sensed no one knew Polly was here, either. While at the same time, the girl doubtless knew that well-bred young ladies didn’t ride alone, unless they were up to something.

  “I just like to have a bit of a think here, when I get a moment away from the pub,” Polly said by way of explanation. “About life, and the pub, and the Everseas, and the like.”

  Tansy shrugged, as if this went without saying. “It’s hard not to think about the Everseas, I daresay. There are so many of them and they’re everywhere you look. And admittedly they are easy on the eyes.”

  Polly grinned at that. “They do brighten up the Pig & Thistle. And to think so many of them almost died.”

  This was startling. “You don’t say?”

  “Well, I was just thinking about it this morning, you know, because I hear Captain Ian Eversea will be traveling again, and on a dangerous trip, for all of that. Master Colin, he nearly lost his life at the gallows, until there was an explosion and he disappeared. And Master Chase—the other Captain Eversea—his leg was injured. And Master Ian nearly lost his life in the war, I’m told. It’s livelier at the pub when they’re all home, and they do leave generous tips. And they’re so kind. Sometimes I think Master Ian is kindest of all.”

  It was quite a fascinating litany. Colin had gone to the gallows? Had Ian nearly lost his life? Tansy’s heart clutched at the thought. To think she might have never seen him from across a crowded ballroom and lost so many things: her ability to think, to speak, to charm.

  And he was leaving?

  When would that be?

  Her gut felt hollow at the thought.

  She tossed her head. It mattered not at all to her.

  Well, so be it. She’d sworn off him, anyway, and it was so much more pleasant to be celebrated rather than ignored.

  “It’s a pleasant spot for a bit of a think. I was looking for one of my own,” she said to Polly, tentatively.