So it proved. They mounted and rode across country until they met the road from St. Blazey and followed it into Lostwithiel. While Fowey with its port and quays bustled with fishing and shipping, Lostwithiel was the district’s commercial hub and had been for centuries. The Guildhall looked the part, the market square before it filled with a bustling, good-natured throng, the gentry rubbing shoulders with farmers and their wives, laborers and field workers, all eyeing the wide variety of wares displayed on the stalls and trestles.
Leaving their mounts at the King’s Arms at one corner of the square, they ventured forth, mingling with the crowd, eyes peeled for their five suspects or any of said suspects’ local hosts.
The first they encountered was Mr. Albert Carmichael, squiring Imogen Cranfield through the crowd. Mrs. Cranfield followed a few paces behind, smiling indulgently, fond hope wreathing her round face. Beside her strolled her elder daughter, Mrs. Harriet Netherby.
They stopped and exchanged greetings. Harriet was a contemporary of Penny’s; although their acquaintance stretched back over decades, they’d never been friends. Charles engaged Imogen, Albert, and Mrs. Cranfield; after according him a distant nod—she had never approved of Charles and his wild ways—Harriet moved to Penny’s side.
“Such a loss to the county.” Harriet sighed. “First Frederick, then James. And now we have Charles stepping into the earl’s shoes.”
Penny arched a brow. “Don’t you think he’ll cope?”
Harriet cast the subject of their discussion a narrow-eyed glance. “Oh, I daresay he’ll manage well enough, but no doubt in his own fashion.”
Finding nothing in that with which to disagree, Penny nodded and tried to listen to the conversation Charles was managing.
“Actually, I’m surprised you haven’t grasped the opportunity to go up to London—Mama mentioned Elaine and her girls are there.”
Barely listening, Penny lightly shrugged. “I was never particularly fond of the giddy whirl.” Charles and Albert were discussing the local crops.
“Oh, you shouldn’t feel discouraged, my dear.” Harriet briefly touched her arm. “You may be getting on in years, but so many ladies die in childbed—there are always widowers looking about for a second wife.”
Penny turned her head, met Harriet’s pale gaze, and let the calculated spite slide past her. “Indeed. How’s Netherby?”
Of average height, with no more than passable looks and frizzy, mouse brown hair, Harriet had always resented her higher birth, her commensurately higher status, and, even more definitely, her more refined features and sleek blond hair. Harriet had snapped up a wealthy landowner from the northern shires in her first Season; that she had succeeded where to her mind Penny had failed had given her reason to gloat ever since.
But Harriet wasn’t interested in discussing Netherby; she turned Penny’s query aside with a dismissive, “Well enough.”
They both gave their attention to the wider conversation, just as it broke up.
Exchanging nods, smiles, and wishes to meet again soon, they parted. As Charles steered her into the crowd, Penny sank her fingertips into his arm. “What did you learn?”
“If Carmichael isn’t seriously considering offering for Imogen’s hand, then he’s the best actor I’ve ever come across. Incidentally, although she didn’t say so, Mrs. Cranfield was grateful to you for distracting Harriet. I gathered Harriet isn’t pleased that Imogen has found such a suitable parti.”
“That’s Harriet. It’s not as if Netherby’s anything to sneeze at, not for the Cranfields.”
“Indeed. However, I think we can drop Carmichael to the bottom of our list of likely murderers. While it’s possible he’s using his pursuit of Imogen as a cover for more nefarious activities, Mrs. Cranfield implied he’d been dangling for nearly a year, albeit at a distance.”
“Ah…that would explain Imogen’s distraction. She’s been dithering on the edge of happiness for months, certainly since late last year.”
Charles nodded and guided her on. A moment later, he said, “There’s Swaley, coming out of the Guildhall.”
From within the milling crowd they watched as the neat, severely garbed Swaley paused on the steps. His gaze was on the crowd, but he didn’t appear to see them. Then, as if making some decision, he went smartly down the rest of the steps and briskly headed down one side of the square.
“I wonder where he’s off to?”
A rhetorical question; they followed him at a decent distance. Both tall, they had little difficulty seeing over heads as without haste they weaved their way to the crowd’s edge.
Swaley continued down the street toward the river.
Charles lifted Penny’s hand and wound her arm more definitely with his. If Swaley glanced back, he would see the pair of them ambling like lovers stealing away to stroll beside the river.
Swaley never looked back. He marched down to Quay Street and turned along it. They reached the corner just in time to see him pause and look up at another imposing building, then enter it.
They halted. “Well, well,” Charles murmured. “That explains Swaley, and also his reluctance to discuss his business in our fair neighborhood.”
The building Swaley had entered had originally housed the old Stannary courts from where the laws governing tin-mining in the surrounding districts had been administered for centuries.
“All the records are still there, aren’t they?” Penny asked.
“Indeed. I heard that some older mines to the west thought worked out have been reopened using new techniques. Swaley’s presumably interested in scouting out the nearer claims.”
They turned and started back to the market square.
“I wonder if Lord Trescowthick knows of Swaley’s interest?”
Charles shrugged. “Swaley went to the Guildhall first, rather than direct to the old courts, which suggests he hasn’t inquired of his host.”
Regaining the square, they paused to take stock, scanning the heads.
“If Swaley’s interest is in reopening tin mines, he seems an unlikely candidate for murdering Gimby.”
“True.” Charles resettled her hand on his sleeve. “I can see the Essingtons—not her ladyship, thank heaven—and Yarrow is with them.”
He steered Penny toward the group clustered before a stall selling embroidered linens.
“Mr. Yarrow’s convalesence seems to be progressing well,” Penny murmured. “I wonder if he rode over?”
She asked him. Once they’d met and exchanged greetings, she mentioned that she and Charles had ridden over from Wallingham, commented on the lovely ride, and used the moment to inquire if Mr. Yarrow, too, had enjoyed the journey that day.
His hard hazel eyes held hers. “Sadly, no. I fear I’m still less than at full strength. But perhaps, later in my stay, you might consent to show me the beauty spots of the area? I understand you remain here throughout the year?”
Too late, the quality of Yarrow’s intent gaze registered; Penny inwardly cursed, but had to answer, “Yes, of course. There are many wonderful places…I recall Lady Essington mentioned your home was in Derbyshire. Will Mrs. Yarrow be joining you?”
Yarrow glanced down. “I regret my wife passed on some years ago. I have a young son.” He looked up, surveying their surroundings. “After this last bout of ill health, I’m considering relocating to this district. I hear the grammar school is well regarded?”
Penny kept her light smile in place. “So I believe.”
Heaven help her! Harriet had spoken of widowers, and here was Yarrow, eyeing her far too measuringly for her liking.
To her relief, Millie turned to her, linking arms. “You’re just the person I most hoped we’d meet.”
Millie waited, beaming, until Charles, who’d turned to address Yarrow, had him engaged, before tugging Penny more her way and lowering her voice. “I’m expecting again—isn’t that wonderful?”
Penny looked into Millie’s bright brown eyes, aglow with wonder and delight; she smiled wa
rmly in return. “How lovely. David must be thrilled.” She glanced at Millie’s husband, whose proud presence at her side was now explained; he was chatting to Julia. “Do pass on my best wishes to him, too.”
“Oh, I will! I’m so happy…”
Fondly, Penny listened as Millie burbled on. This would be her third confinement; her first child had been stillborn, but the second, a sturdy two-year-old girl, was thriving. Although untouched by any maternal streak, Penny was truly pleased for Millie and found no difficulty in sharing her joy.
Eventually, she and Charles parted from the group, she promising to call at Essington Manor in the near future. The words were dying on her lips as her gaze reached Mr. Yarrow. His eyes met hers and he nodded, very correctly, in farewell. Somewhat less enthused, she nodded politely back.
“The others aren’t here.” Charles steered her toward the King’s Arms.
“Well, I don’t think Yarrow’s our murderer, either.”
“Just because he was making cod’s eyes at you doesn’t mean he doesn’t dabble in murder on the side.”
“He was not making cod’s eyes at me—and anyway, I thought it was sheep’s eyes.”
“Cod’s—fishy.”
She humphed. “There wasn’t anything fishy about him.”
“Nothing fishy about inviting you to show him the local sights, then asking your opinion on sending his son to the grammar school?” He snorted back. “Spare me.”
That last didn’t sound like the Charles she knew at all. She turned to stare at him, but he wasn’t looking at her. Lips set, he gripped her elbow and escorted her into the inn’s stable yard.
Their mounts were fetched; he lifted her to her saddle, then swung up to his and led the way out. Once they’d cleared the narrow, cobbled streets, he slowed until she came up beside him, then let his big gray stretch his legs; side by side, they cantered up the road to the Abbey.
At that pace, it wasn’t easy to converse; she didn’t try, but let her mind range over the afternoon, over all she’d heard, seen, learned.
They reached the Abbey; the grooms came running as they clattered into the stable yard, to take their horses and impart the news that a courier had arrived from London at midday.
“Good.” Charles closed his hand about hers and set off for the house. He didn’t exactly tow her behind him, but she had to lengthen her stride to keep up. She looked at his hand, wrapped about hers, felt the strength in his grip. She was not so much amused as intrigued.
Filchett met them in the front hall, confirming the courier’s arrival. “I placed the packet on your desk, my lord.”
“Thank you.” Charles turned for his study, her hand still in his.
Limpidly innocent, Filchett’s eyes met hers as he cleared his throat. “Shall I bring tea, my lord?”
Charles halted, glanced at her.
She met his gaze, then nodded to Filchett. “Please. In the study.”
Filchett bowed. “Indeed, my lady.”
Charles looked like he was suppressing another snort; turning, he continued to the study.
He released her hand only as they reached his desk.
Subsiding into the chair before it, she watched as he picked up the sealed packet, glanced at the direction, then, dropping into the deep chair behind the desk, reached for the letter knife.
Breaking the seal, he smoothed the three sheets, then started reading.
“Is it from your ex-commander?”
“Yes, Dalziel. This is in answer to the first queries I sent him.”
She thought back. “About Nicholas?”
“And Amberly.” Charles sat back, scanning the sheets. “Amberly was very high at the F.O., a full secretary responsible for European affairs. He retired late in ’08.” He set aside the first sheet.
“Nicholas joined the F.O. at the beginning of ’06, and rose rapidly through the ranks, courtesy, it seems, of not just his father’s name but also his own talents.” Charles’s brows rose. “It seems those Dalziel consulted consider Nicholas one of their most promising men. He’s presently an undersecretary reporting to the principal secretary. Interestingly, he’s always worked in European affairs—perhaps not surprising given his father’s background.” He glanced back at the first sheet. “Amberly’s record is impressive—there would have been much to gain by building on that.”
“Contacts, friendships, that sort of thing?”
Charles nodded. He’d moved on to the third sheet. Although he hadn’t asked for it and time had been limited, Dalziel had investigated Nicholas personally and turned up nothing of note. He’d also added a postscript.
“What?” Penny asked.
He glanced at her, reminded himself that Amberly and Nicholas were her connections. “Dalziel is going to, very quietly, investigate Amberly. Both Nicholas and Amberly are and were respectively in positions to learn secrets that would have interested the French, but while Nicholas might have continued the trade, it wasn’t his creation.”
Refolding the sheets, he tapped them on the desk, wondering just how deep Dalziel’s desire to bring justice to all spies who had trafficked in secrets to the detriment of English soliders ran. He’d heard whispers, faint but nonetheless there, that gentlemen Dalziel had proved guilty of treason had a habit of dying. Usually by their own hand, admittedly, but dying just the same.
It was a point to ponder, but not aloud.
He stirred, laid aside the packet, and pulled out a fresh sheet of paper. “I’m going to report what we learned today.” Including that he didn’t think Nicholas was guilty of Gimby’s murder, but that he certainly knew the details of whatever scheme had been afoot. “Aside from anything else, the information will give Dalziel some idea which questions will most quickly reveal what those five strangers are doing down here.”
Penny nodded and sat back. Filchett came in with the tea tray. She thanked him, and he left; she poured for Charles and herself, then sat sipping, watching while he wrote.
Eventually setting aside the empty cups, she rose and walked to the windows behind the desk, and stood looking out. The view was to the northwest; in the distance, she could see the ruins of Restormel Castle from which the Abbey took its name, and could just make out the silver ribbon of the Fowey sliding past between its lush banks.
It was complicated dealing with Charles and a murderer simultaneously, but she’d always been one to reach for what she wanted, to grasp opportunities as they occurred, to bend situations to her cause. As she had long ago, but long ago was in the past, and the here and now beckoned; she’d always taken advantage of what fate deigned to offer.
For some mystical reason, fate was offering him. Again.
She had to make up her mind what to do, make sure she wasn’t making a huge mistake—again. And it would be wise to do her thinking now, safe and sane, out of his arms, rather than pretend the inevitable wouldn’t happen and instead find herself struggling to think when he’d already whipped her wits away.
He was offering physical passion the like of which her stubborn will, her unwavering allegiance to her dreams, had condemned her to live without. When he’d first appeared, she’d been convinced the course of wisdom was to avoid any degree of indulgence with him. To guard her heart at all costs. He, after all, posed the greatest danger to it, and always had.
Now…in five days, he’d changed her mind, undermined her resistance. Made her think again. Yet it wasn’t just him and his persuasions influencing her. She’d told him the truth—it was her decisions that ruled her life, no one else’s. Independence was something fate had granted her from an early age; she’d guarded it zealously and still did.
No one was in any position to dictate to her. That made it much easier to reassess and, when the circumstances warranted, change her mind.
The present circumstances, she firmly believed, suggested a change of direction.
Harriet’s gibe over her being suitable marriage fodder for some widower—and Yarrow’s clear concurrence—had not so much str
uck a nerve as reminded her of where she stood, of how others saw her. She was far beyond marriageable age, an acknowledged ape-leader, a confirmed-beyond-doubt spinster; as such, she was no longer subject to the same restrictions that applied to younger ladies. If she wished to take a lover, she could; there might be whispers, but as she wasn’t planning on marrying anyone, where was the scandal? She had no desire to return to London, and county folk were prosaic about such matters; where no damage was done, who had the right to cry foul?
Unlike Harriet, she did not feel—never had felt—desperate to marry at any cost. Her identity, her status, had been hers from birth; she didn’t need to marry to create it or shore it up. She’d never believed marriage of itself—the ceremony, the institution—had any intrinsic value; its value derived from what it represented—mutual respect and sincere affection at the very least, preferably the far more powerful emotion the poets called love.
A Lady of His Own Page 24