Secrets of Midnight

by Miriam Minger

  She didn’t get to say more as Donovan’s lips covered hers so suddenly that she gasped aloud, but the warm pressure of his mouth stifled that sound too. It couldn’t stifle the astonishment rippling through the crowd, however. Corisande’s ears burned as she heard embarrassed coughs and children giggling.

  Yet still Donovan kissed her, his mouth moving over hers as with a strange hunger until she felt light-headed, her face on fire, her body going almost limp against him. Only then did he raise his head, Corisande fluttering open her eyes to find that lazy, charming smile upon his lips and wry amusement—amusement!—in his devil’s eyes.

  “I’ll miss you too.”

  He released her before she could respond and mounted Samson while Marguerite came rushing over to her side, her sister fairly breathless.

  “Oh, Corie, you’re so lucky! He’s so dashing, so handsome …”

  And so mistaken if he thought she was some naive country miss he could toy with, Corisande fumed as Donovan rode away, Marguerite half swooning beside her.

  Oh, yes, bloody mistaken, and she couldn’t wait to set him straight. In fact, she was counting the hours.

  Chapter 8

  It was late by the time Donovan arrived home, so late that when he let himself in the massive oaken front doors, neither of the two housemaids were there to receive him.

  He wasn’t surprised. Imagining the shiftless pair had long since retired to their rooms in the attic, he was grateful at least that they had left a lamp burning in the immense entry hall, the dim, flickering light shrouding in shadow a dilapidated interior that must have at one time been quite grand.

  Henry Gilbert had told him that the estate had changed hands many times in the past century before being bought by Donovan’s father, the last owner an elderly viscountess who had wanted a more modest country house closer to London. She’d cared little about the ancient abandoned mine at the northeast corner of her property, not seeing its potential as had the Duke of Arundale. After he ordered the sinking of deeper and deeper shafts, a rich lode of tin ore was struck, making Arundale’s Kitchen one of the most profitable in west Cornwall.

  Not that his father had spared many shillings on the upkeep of the house and grounds, Donovan thought disgustedly to himself. Nor to pay a fair wage to the miners—no, tinners, as Corisande had so graciously corrected him. As graciously as a spitting cat. But at least he had found the perfect way to silence her in a pinch, his bride-to-be quite kissable for a shrew.

  Quite bloody kissable.

  Frowning, Donovan shook off the memory of Corisande’s soft parted lips and moved to the sweeping staircase. But he switched his course at the last moment and headed for the library instead, wondering if Gilbert had purchased the few items he had requested that morning on the way to the mine. Soap, shaving paste, and a razor to start. The house was bare of such simple necessities, and he hadn’t enjoyed a good shave since his short overnight stay at Arundale Hall.

  He had asked for paper as well, pens, ink, and more candles and lamps to light the place, especially the library. And good brandy, of course, if Gilbert could find it. Obviously not too difficult a task, considering the superb quality of the spirits Donovan had tasted at the parsonage.

  He was no fool. Smuggling had to be rampant along this godforsaken coast, given the high taxes levied upon so many goods to help pay for the war. A sizable portion of the Reverend Easton’s parishioners were no doubt chin-deep in the running of contraband from France to Cornwall. How else could such fine brandy have found its way to a vicar’s cupboard?

  Donovan wished he had a strong dose of that brandy now as he opened the door to the library, anything to help him stomach writing a letter to Nigel about his impending marriage. He might have found a way out of his miserable predicament, but what he had to do to gain his inheritance still chafed like hell. No, he wouldn’t allow himself to sleep until that letter was done. He’d be damned if he would allow a new day to start on such a galling note—

  “What the devil?” Donovan came to a halt at the sight of Henry Gilbert fast asleep in a tattered wing chair drawn close to the fireplace. A fireplace that, amazingly enough, wasn’t cold, black, and empty but filled with fat logs that burned brightly, the lively hiss and crackle of the flames a welcoming sound in this drafty place. Gilbert’s discordant snoring, however, was anything but pleasant, the agent’s mouth hanging open and his bony elbows dangling over the arms of the chair.

  “Nothing like an honest day’s work to tire a man,” Donovan muttered dryly, wondering how a fellow so slight could make such a racket. He moved to wake him, but a full decanter of brandy flanked by a pair of cut-crystal glasses set to one side of the marble mantelpiece caught his attention. Reminded with a grim jolt of the letter he must write, he decided rousing Gilbert could wait. A moment later, the brandy was poured and snaking a warm path down his throat, a vintage almost as fine as the Reverend Easton’s.

  “Good man, Gilbert. Good man.”

  Donovan’s loud-spoken compliment had the desired effect, Henry’s snores coming to an abrupt halt as he blinked open his eyes. Upon seeing Donovan, the agent lurched at once to his feet, nearly upsetting the chair.

  “Oh—oh, my lord! I had no idea—”

  “Sit down, Gilbert, and get your bearings. I don’t want you tumbling into the fire.” As Henry obliged him, plopping bleary-eyed and silent into his chair, Donovan sat himself on the edge of the worn desk and took another deep drink. “I take it you were waiting for me to return?”

  “Why, yes, my lord. I thought you might like to know that all was done to your satisfaction. I hired a new man to captain the mine, Jonathan Knill’s the name—”

  “The tinners will work for him?”

  “Gladly, my lord. Knill’s well liked, his family long known in the parish.”

  “Excellent. And the tinners’ pay?”

  “Doubled it just as you asked, which drew quite a cheer from the men. And when they heard a share of wheat would be doled out to each family on Monday morning, enough good couldn’t be said—”

  “About Miss Easton, I hope,” Donovan cut in as he rose to refill his glass. He poured a brandy for Gilbert, too, the agent accepting it with a look of some surprise. Donovan doubted that his father had ever shared a drink with the man, or any employee for that matter. “She made quite an impression on me this morning, enough for me to ask her to be my wife. But I suppose you’ve already heard that we’re to be married.”

  Before he answered, Henry took a good swallow of brandy, his hand slightly shaking as he lowered the glass. “Yes, my lord, the talk in Porthleven was of little else but you and Corisande Easton. But of course, I knew from His Grace’s letter that you might be seeking a bride—”

  “My brother wrote you a bloody letter?” Donovan knew he had roared like a tyrant, but he couldn’t contain himself at this news. “About my personal affairs? By God, when?”

  “I … I just received it a week past, no more.” Henry Gilbert’s prominent Adam’s apple bobbed nervously, but he managed to rush on. “His Grace asked that I assist you in any way I could—in making introductions to some of the local gentry, of course, if needed. The letter stated that the Arundale family is in desperate need of an heir, thus your haste today in choosing a bride is quite understandable.”

  “Quite,” Donovan echoed tightly, reining his anger as best he could. It was damned difficult—how thoroughly Nigel had seen to every detail, and before Donovan had even agreed to come to Cornwall!—but he now had the perfect explanation for his odd behavior in the stable that morning. “So it must be equally understandable to you, then, why I want Miss Easton to reap full credit for my decisions made earlier in the day. It made her happy, you see, to think that it was her own doing, and thus endeared her all the more to my proposal of marriage. She doesn’t know, of course, that an Arundale heir is of the utmost importance—as you say, a matter of haste. Any young woman would find the matter most indelicate, perhaps even unpleasant—”

&
nbsp; “Of course, of course, my lord, have no fear that I’ll not honor your confidence. It is the very least that I can do.”

  Donovan had to summon all his will not to scowl as Gilbert gave him a conspiratorial wink. Instead he raised his glass, and the agent quickly followed suit.

  “A toast, then, to my coming marriage.”

  They drank, downing the brandy in one swallow—well, Donovan did. Henry Gilbert began to cough and wheeze, his thin shoulders hunched and his eyes watering as Donovan pounded him several times on the back.

  “Are you all right, man?”

  “Yes, my lord, thank … thank you. I was fine until I thought of how close I came to being skewered this morning. Forgive me for saying so, Lord Donovan, but I don’t envy your choice of a bride. Perhaps you should reconsider. Take a few more days. There must be other young ladies who would gladly—”

  “No, Gilbert, my proposal’s been accepted. It would be dishonorable not to proceed.”

  “But her temper, my lord—”

  “A passionate spirit, nothing more. Stands up for what she believes in, an admirable trait, really. Very impressive.”

  “But she wanted to kill me! She would have, too, if you hadn’t been there. You saved my life!”

  Donovan sighed, growing weary of defending a young woman whom he imagined wouldn’t think twice about taking a pitchfork to him either. “Enough, Gilbert. I’m sure now that Miss Easton’s cause has been championed, she’ll be as docile as a spring lamb. In fact, I guarantee it. She would tell you herself that she couldn’t be more pleased about our marriage. You’ve nothing to fear from my bride. Nothing at all.”

  Donovan hoped he didn’t sound as doubtful as Henry Gilbert looked at that moment. Corisande, as docile as a lamb? That thought was so preposterous that he considered another glass of brandy, but he’d had plenty enough already to see him through the vexing task that lay ahead. Without saying more, he sat down at the desk and drew pen and paper toward him while Gilbert, recognizing Donovan’s cue that he wanted to be left alone, headed for the door.

  “Oh, yes, my lord, I’ve placed the other things you wanted in the master suite. If there’s nothing else—”

  “Jack Pascoe.” Donovan looked up, his expression grim as he met Gilbert’s eyes. “Was he gone from the mine as I’d ordered?”

  Henry Gilbert nodded, swallowing hard.

  “No trouble?”

  “None, my lord. I imagine he’s already left to find work in another parish. He’s no family here.”

  “Good. Take yourself home, then. I’m meeting Miss Easton tomorrow morning at church, so you’ll have to post this letter for me. You’ve done well today, Gilbert. See that it continues.”

  Another mute swallow and the man was gone, leaving Donovan to stare at the blank page before him. Resentment, ah, it was thick and deep enough to choke him, but he had only to think of Paloma—was she safe? Was she well? God help him, it had been months since he’d seen her. Would she even remember him?—and he began to write, furiously.

  To find his little daughter he would write a hundred such letters. A thousand! Anything!

  Soon, if the fates were willing, soon he’d have his money and be heading back to Lisbon, his father, Nigel, and their bloody plans for him be damned.

  Chapter 9

  “Maybe he’s not coming, Corie. Maybe Lord Donovan’s changed his mind—”

  “Shh, Marguerite, for the last time. I’m sure he’ll be here any moment. Now please keep your voice down! The service is about to start. And tell Linette and Estelle to stop squirming!”

  Corisande frowned down the mahogany pew at her two youngest sisters, both girls twisting in their seats to peer behind them—at least until Marguerite hissed for them to face front and sit still. They obeyed but only for an instant, first Linette and then Estelle glancing over their shoulders as if they couldn’t help themselves. When Marguerite joined them, Corisande sighed with exasperation and gave up, keeping her eyes trained forward even if they could not.

  She’d be damned if she was going to watch for Lord Donovan Trent to make his grand entrance into the church like the conquering hero. In fact, she hoped he wouldn’t come at all. Already she felt as if every eye in the packed sanctuary was trained upon her, a low flurried buzz of conversation and speculation taking place behind white-gloved hands and fluttering fans.

  She’d never seen the church so crowded, no, not even on Easter Sunday. There had been no need to erect the cardboard figures her father insisted upon using to fill the normally empty back pews, a curious practice begun not long after her mother had died and her father’s unsettling eccentricities had frightened away—at least temporarily—many of his flock. It seemed every parishioner from Porthleven to Arundale’s Kitchen, including much of the local gentry, had made the trek to service—no doubt having heard the big news and come to gape at her and marvel at her astounding good fortune.

  Oh, she’d overheard some choice comments already, begun the moment Donovan had ridden away yesterday afternoon.

  “A duke’s son, truly? And Corie Easton? Don’t mistake me, she’s a good, hardworking girl, we all know it to be true. Helped us all, she has, time and again. But that temper! Lord help him, the poor man will need the patience of ten saints!”

  “Such a handsome young gentleman too. Not that Corie isn’t pretty in her own right. But, oh, my dear, that scar on her face. What a pity. Doesn’t seem to bother the man, though.”

  That thoughtless remark had sent Corisande hurrying into the parsonage with her three sisters and Frances in tow, all of them peppering her with questions that required ridiculous answers in keeping with a young woman who’d just been swept off her feet by most likely one of the most eligible gentlemen in Britain.

  “Aren’t you excited, Corie? It’s so romantic!”

  That from Marguerite, of course, who seemed satisfied when Corisande gave as giddy a smile as she could muster.

  “Where will you live, Corie?”

  At Lord Donovan’s house—the crumbling eyesore, she’d added mutinously to herself. Linette’s second question quickly followed: “Can we come and live there too?”

  “Of course not, ‘ee silly girl,” Frances had said with a fond laugh. ” ‘Ee have a good home here with your papa. An’ I’ll be stayen to watch over ‘ee, so never you fear.”

  And lastly, just before Corisande managed to escape upstairs to her room, came another breathless query from Marguerite that Corisande had hoped to avoid.

  “Oh, Corie, it must feel so wonderful to be in love. Really, truly in love. Tell me what it’s like, will you?”

  “It—it’s all so new,” she’d fumbled, hating the deception, hating to lie to her family. A haven’t even had a moment to think, Marguerite. We’ll talk later, I promise.”

  She had fled then, sinking against her door with enormous relief. But indignation had gripped her, too, and she had gone straight to her small writing desk set before the lace-curtained window and penned Lindsay a long letter telling her everything.

  Someone had to know the bloody truth! Corisande wouldn’t be able to bear it otherwise. And she could trust Lindsay to hold her tongue. She could trust her dearest friend with her life.

  And she most certainly didn’t want Lindsay to hear from someone else that she was getting married—and for her to think that Corisande had found the man of her dreams virtually overnight—oh, no! She had made it quite clear in the letter that Donovan was self-centered to his core and cared about nothing but himself, hardly the upstanding, principled man she envisioned marrying one day. She’d mentioned, too, what Donovan had said about her reputation, his words still smarting like a slap

  “Oh, Corie, he’s here! He’s here!”

  Corisande stiffened at Marguerite’s announcement, allowing herself only the merest glance over her shoulder as her three sisters wriggled excitedly like fresh-caught pilchards beside her. What she saw made her breath stop, and no doubt every other woman’s in the congregation, as the
most handsome man she’d ever seen strode down the center aisle toward them.

  If Donovan had been dressed casually yesterday, this morning he looked every inch the gentleman, from his clean-shaven face and startlingly white cravat to the tailored lines of his dark blue coat, fawn-colored breeches, and black riding boots polished to a bright sheen. Suddenly she felt quite shabby in comparison, her dove-gray cloth dress a poor cousin to the colorful concoctions Rose Polkinghorne was making for her. But none had been ready, and so she had worn her very best, which obviously wasn’t good enough —oh, for heaven’s sake, what did she care anyway? That cad! That bounder! It wasn’t as if she gave a halfpenny for what Lord Donovan Trent thought of her!

  Her face burning, Corisande slid over reluctantly just as Donovan reached the pew, her sisters bumping into each other as they slid down too. In the next instant, Donovan was seated beside her, his hard thigh pressing against her leg, which made her cheeks feel hotter still.

  “Forgive my tardiness, my love,” came his low aside as the congregation erupted into a full-throated hymn. “The servants my brother hired for me arrived early this morning. The whole place was in an uproar.”

  “You mean your brother’s ‘eyes and ears’?” Corisande whispered back, certain that her sarcasm would be masked by the resounding singing. “How bloody lovely.”

  “My thought exactly.” Indeed, waking up to a houseful of Nigel’s spies hadn’t been Donovan’s idea of a rousing good morning. He had not only found Ogden moving silent as a ghost about his bedchamber, the somber middle-aged butler laying out finely tailored clothes that Nigel had ordered made for him—another detail seen to weeks before Donovan had returned to England!—but in virtually every other room was a servant either dusting, scrubbing floors, or cleaning windows. Even the two sullen housemaids had been enlisted, the pair working harder than Donovan had thought possible.