“We didn’t tell him to keep secrets from his family. We said only to be discreet in whom he confided. We were discreet in choosing Chastain’s, and then further as we traveled down to Plymouth.” Tasik reached for a pasty and bit into the flaky crust. “That’s where the trouble started.” He spoke with his mouth full.
Grandmother shuddered. “Branek, you have forgotten your manners.”
“I have forgotten good English fare.” He took another healthy bite.
“From my perspective,” David said in his gentle Somerset accent, “the trouble started in Bristol.”
“Yes, well . . .” Tasik inhaled another bite of pasty, then chewed with agonizing slowness.
“You came to Chastain’s in Bristol straightaway, came to ruin us with your dealings, whatever they are.” If ever David’s eyes resembled the color of a stormy sea, it was then, complete with the flash of lightning.
Morwenna looked away from him, jolted as though lightning had struck her. He had so many reasons to detest her family. He would not continue to love her. Somehow, her parents had been the cause of his father’s death, and now the death of his love for her—surely.
I should have known better than to care too much. She closed her eyes until tears ceased burning the backs of her lids.
“We needed a vessel built as quickly as possible, by autumn so we can sail south after hurricane season,” Mammik said. “But we wanted a lesser known boatyard. We asked around and learned that Chastain’s has a reputation for good design and construction and honest dealings.”
“A pity,” Mrs. Chastain said in her clear, crisp voice, “that your dealings were not so honest.”
“Not dishonest at all. We were going to bring the money as soon as we had it. And we did have it to pay him back as soon as we met up with him in Falmouth. We went to Plymouth to sell something where all the naval men coming and going with their prizes from foreign lands and ship captures make things like this less conspicuous.” Tasik reached inside his coat, drew something from an inner pocket, and tossed it onto the table amid the refreshments.
Green fire blazed from a stone the size of a man’s thumb, the brilliance seeming to dull flames on the hearth, the myriad candles, the reflecting glow of silver dishes. Outside, lightning flashed, and around the room, a collective gasp rose from the assembly.
“An emerald?” Morwenna’s knees weakened.
“A Columbian emerald.” Mammik drew a necklace from inside her gown. Smaller chunks of uncut but still bright stones dangled from her fingers. “We found a lost Spanish mine in the jungle.”
“And have been running for fear of thieves stealing them and taking our lives ever since.” Tasik picked up another pasty and grinned. “Not that that will stop us from going back.”
David strode forward and picked up the gemstone. “You may be running for your life, but my father died for this.”
“He did.” Mammik and Tasik bowed their heads, and the pasty crumbled in Tasik’s hand. “We thought—” He cleared his throat.
“Mr. Chastain was to go to Falmouth and hire workers,” Mammik said. “We gave him the Trelawny medallion so Cornishmen would trust him that his word was good in the event that we were delayed in meeting him with the money.”
“And we were delayed. Selling the emerald even in Plymouth was more difficult than we thought it would be. Most jewelers do not have that kind of money . . .” Tasik’s voice trailed off and he looked to Grandfather. “I know. We should have come here, but we wanted to arrive home in triumph.”
Across the room, Morwenna met David’s eyes, and her heart twisted. Her parents’ determination to succeed on their own had caused the death of David’s father. She felt guilty by way of being their daughter—and more. No wonder he had said nothing to her.
She knew doing so was wrong, but in that moment, she wished her parents had remained lost to her. They had caused nothing but grief since they landed on England’s shores.
David returned the emerald to the table and paced to the window, where he stared into the night.
Tasik cleared his throat in the ensuing silence. “All we have been able to work out is that someone got suspicious when they saw the Trelawny crest on that medallion with Mr. Chastain. Or perhaps someone saw us trying to sell the emerald in Plymouth and followed us. We knew nothing of Mr. Chastain’s death until a few weeks ago because we were set upon outside Falmouth and knocked over our heads.”
No one asked if they were all right. They both looked well and strong and alive.
“They stole the money we were bringing to Mr. Chastain, as well as two emeralds that were in my reticule,” Mammik said. “The only reason they didn’t get the rest is because I had them sewn into my stays as though they are the boning.”
Grandmother looked pained at the mention of a lady’s undergarments in mixed company.
“My husband,” Mrs. Chastain said, “was poisoned.”
“To make him talk?” Tasik suggested.
“To keep him from talking.” David spoke without turning around. “Just as I was, even if I knew nothing.”
“Your father knew nothing either,” Tasik told David. “We only said we needed a vessel.”
“And then went off to Plymouth to sell an emerald. And my father took most of the money we had and left for Falmouth to hire builders.” David swung to face the room. “A clever man could work out that the Trelawnys might need a vessel by autumn because they were going to the southern hemisphere for something worth the expense. So all they had to do was wait for you on the road. Once they found the emeralds, it was all over.”
“Who in Cornwall would do such a thing?” Grandmother asked.
Morwenna gave her an exasperated and sadly affectionate glance. “Who in Cornwall would murder a peer of the realm? Someone greedy.”
“The medallion was a mistake.” With a sigh, Mammik rose, retrieved the emerald from the table and the rope of them from around her neck. She crossed the room and pressed the gems into Mrs. Chastain’s hand. “This is far from enough to pay for a life, but perhaps it will help restore the money your family has lost.”
Morwenna held her breath, half expecting Mrs. Chastain to throw the beads into Mammik’s face. But she was too much a lady to do more than incline her head, murmur something like “Thank you,” and tuck the stones into her bodice. “I will take these because my family needs the money.”
“We would still like you to build us that brig,” Tasik said.
David shook his head. “Not until this monster is caught. I’m thinking not ever. My father lost his life. You two could have lost yours, and I have come too close to losing mine over these jewels.”
“I think,” Grandfather said, “that profound wealth, as much good as it can do, isn’t worth risking more lives to obtain.”
“But once we find who is behind these misdeeds,” Tasik protested, “I see no reason—”
“How is this tied to the wrecking?” Morwenna spoke over her father. “Or does no one else think D—Mr. David Chastain landing on my beach is too much of a coincidence?”
“My thought precisely.” David glanced around the room. “I suppose whoever killed my father followed me back to Bristol. Or perhaps he tracked me down in Bristol in the event I knew something he didn’t want me to.”
“You had that letter your father wrote before he died.” Morwenna gazed at David, trying to get him to look her way.
He looked past her. “The letter was little more than the ramblings of a dying man.”
“But his killer wouldn’t know that,” Morwenna persisted.
“No, he would not.” David glanced at his mother, taut and quiet alone on her settee. “I expect this person was on the brig I was on. I was never supposed to get back to Falmouth, and easier to do me in at sea than in either Bristol or Falmouth. If there hadn’t been a storm for the wreckers, then I would have ended some other way.”
“But David,” Mrs. Chastain spoke up, “how could this person survive the wreck and you be
attacked?”
Grandfather stiffened his already straight spine and suddenly looked old and tired. “Then this must be someone local, someone who could blend in with the wreckers, if that’s the way this happened.”
“Someone who wasn’t surprised by the wreck and got to safety himself.” A lump of ice in Morwenna’s middle began to spread frost throughout her veins. She gripped the back of her father’s chair so hard her nails cut into the brocade. “Someone clever enough to connect emeralds with shipbuilding and the Trelawnys. Someone who knew of their quest for the mines.”
Everyone stared at her as though she spoke a foreign language. But of course, they weren’t on that ride to the Penmara mines when Caroline Adair mentioned the emerald mine quest. But the others knew. Jago, Caswyn, Tristan . . . Caroline was not in England until recently. Caswyn was simply not bright enough. Jago or Tristan?
“I know—” Morwenna began, but at that moment, a scream ripped through the house and Mihal began to cry far too close at hand for him to still be in his bed in the nursery.
CHAPTER 21
“MORWENNA, DON’T—” DAVID SHOUTED THE WARNING knowing Morwenna wouldn’t listen to him, not with her son crying somewhere close at hand. “Wait.” He charged for the door, skirting tables and chairs and pushing Branek Trelawny out of his way. “It’s a lure.”
Vaguely, he understood the shouts and protests behind him, though perhaps others followed. He focused on the patter of Morwenna’s boot heels on the floor, the direction from which the baby’s wails emanated.
Not far. The entry hall. More shadow than light with only a handful of candles burning, the cloaked figure holding Mihal looked like an actor’s depiction of death—all darkness and hollow eyes. And Morwenna sped toward him, her feet skimming the risers.
“Let him go. Let him go, Tristan.”
David gripped the banister, reeling as though the name she called were a blow to his chest. Flirtatious, sometimes sulky, sometimes charming Tristan Pascoe?
David started down the steps, slowly. Too slowly. Too painfully.
“Halt, Chastain.” Pascoe held up one hand from which the blade of a knife flashed. “Morwenna, will you exchange yourself for your baby?”
“You know I will.” Breathless, she reached for Mihal.
The word don’t burned on David’s tongue, but he saved his breath. No mother would save herself over her child, especially not Morwenna. From the stillness of the others behind him, David understood they had reached the same conclusion.
“Come here then.” Pascoe wrapped the arm with the knife-holding hand around her neck, the tip of the blade at the side of her throat. “If any of you follow, they die.” With that pronouncement, he thrust Mihal into Morwenna’s arms. “Walk.”
They vanished into one of the parlors that led into the garden and thus onto the cliff.
“He’s going to kill them anyway.” Miss Pross crouched on the upper staircase, a hand fisted against her lips and tears streaking her face.
“I’ll gather the servants and send for the riding officers.” Sir Petrok glanced around. “Where are the footmen?”
David began his painstaking way down the steps.
“David, you’re not fit enough to go after heroics,” Mama called after him.
“He’s going to kill them,” Miss Pross wailed.
“Where. Are. The servants?” Sir Petrok bellowed.
“I’ll go.” Branek Trelawny started to bolt past David.
He held out an arm and stopped him. “If we send out a brigade, I don’t give any hope for their chances of survival.”
“He might let them go once he’s ready to escape.” David began to descend again. “Besides that, how many of the servants are truly trustworthy? If Pascoe is running the wreckers, the servants might be involved and more inclined to listen to him.”
“They wouldn’t dare.” Sir Petrok’s tone lacked the conviction of his words.
“We don’t know where he’s taken them.” Trelawny pounded his fist on the balustrade. “Oh, why did we go about this all wrong?”
“I’m thinking pride and stubbornness run in your family, sir.” David reached the bottom of the steps.
“Where are you going, Mr. Chastain?” Sir Petrok called down to him.
“Penmara. I’ll be starting at Penmara where he’s been causing havoc for my lady.”
“Then take a pistol.” Sir Petrok charged down the steps at a speed belying his age and entered his study.
David followed to stop the older man. “I don’t know how to use a pistol.”
“Take one anyway.” Sir Petrok removed a gun from a case and tossed it to David.
“Like a club.” Trelawny sped into the room. “Where else should we look?”
David hesitated, thinking. “Any direction that will get him out of Cornwall.”
The Trelawnys exchanged looks from landing to entryway.
Branek groaned. “Cornwall has miles of coastline and it’s dark.”
“Then we cannot delay.” David headed across the parlor, where the door to the terrace stood open, swinging in gusts of rain-soaked wind. David hesitated on the threshold. Pascoe could have them in the garden waiting to see if anyone followed. He could have his compatriots with the wreckers waiting for him. Knocked down or even dead, he would be of no use to Morwenna and Mihal. Standing still he was of no use to them.
He headed across the terrace, down the steps, and along the path to the cliff top entrance. The door stood open, the source of the gusting wind. Below, the white caps of the waves glistened against the blackness of the incoming tide. Incoming tide meant a blocked beach access to Penmara. Going around was inconceivable. Either they were there or they were not. The sooner he discovered which, the sooner he would be able to seek in another direction.
Mouth set against the lingering weakness of illness trembling through his limbs, David commenced the treacherous descent down the cliff path. Too slowly, he reached the water. The cold shot through him, numbing his feet in an instant. Waves buffeted his legs, pushing him against the cliff, threatening to drag him out to sea as they retreated. He resisted the urge to hasten so he didn’t slip. Hand on the cliff face, he plodded on, digging in his heels, pressing against the rock for balance. Ten yards felt like a hundred. Water splashed him as high as his waist. As high as the pistol.
It would now be truly useless except as a club, presuming he could get that close. Presuming he headed in the right direction to reach Morwenna.
At last, soaked and shivering, he reached the Penmara beach. He found it empty of people. But above him on the top of the cliff, a light flashed off the silvery shafts of rain.
That could be wreckers happy to simply throw David off the cliff. Pascoe might have taken Morwenna in a wholly other direction. Nonetheless, David scrambled up the path to the top. This one was wider, not as steep.
He should have gone faster. His body, so abused over the past month, refused to let him. Lead had replaced his feet. The light was moving away. He would never catch up.
Then the light returned his way, a bright, swinging lantern in the blackness. And in one flash from the lantern, hooded beneath a glass bell to protect the light from the wet, he caught a glimpse of Morwenna’s face and heard the faint wail of a child.
He saw her face in the light because she held the lantern—not her son.
The light swung away from her before he could detect whether or not she was alone. Of course she wasn’t. David simply didn’t know where Pascoe might be.
Knowing he could be assaulted and stabbed, or even shot from any number of directions should Pascoe have accomplices or a gun himself, David shouted her name. “Morwenna, I’m here.”
She halted. The lantern stilled. “David, be careful.” She accompanied the warning with a thrust of her arm that sent the lantern sailing out over the cliff to crash and die somewhere below.
A shot rang out. Morwenna screamed.
And David’s insides turned to water. “Morwenna, my lady?
”
“Here.” Her voice was strangled, gasping.
A surge of energy roared through David, urging him to leap for Morwenna, find her wound, save her—if it wasn’t too late.
“If you killed her,” he called to the other man, “you had better disappear like smoke.” With each word, he took a step toward where Morwenna had been, from where the shot rang out. “You won’t live long enough to get off Penmara land, let alone Cornwall.” He had caught a glimpse of a patch of brush, rhododendron struggling for survival on the cliff top. Eyes narrowed against the rain, he peered through the near total darkness for the shrubs, for a man . . .
For a baby . . . for a woman’s body on the ground.
He saw two figures standing. Poised on the edge of the cliff, the phosphorescent crests of the waves below silhouetted their stance on the brink.
No child. No Mihal on the edge. Yet his wails rang over the roar of surf and rain.
“She’s still breathing,” Pascoe shouted above the roar of the surf. “But if you don’t leave, I will throw her off the cliff.”
Perhaps the cold had deadened all feeling inside David. He certainly experienced no fear or regret or even anger. As though striding up to a sunny garden, he paced toward Pascoe and Morwenna, stopped just beyond arm’s length. “It’s over, man. Let her go.” His voice was as calm and cold as his numb insides.
“I still have my life,” Pascoe said. “I can flee the country.”
“Do you think the Trelawnys won’t hunt you down if you kill one of their own?” David risked a fraction of a step closer.
Pascoe laughed. “They could never find me.”
“He has nothing to lose now.” Morwenna’s words were weak, but she was still alive, conscious.
“Don’t come closer.” Pascoe’s tone, for the first time, held a note of panic. “I have nothing to lose now, but you do. If you go back to Bastion Point, I’ll let her go.”
“Where’s the baby?” David tried to remain calm, as though he carried on a normal conversation.
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