He’d contributed little to the dinner table conversation; the few exchanges had been of a general nature, of local affairs and local people. No one, however, had mentioned Madeline Gascoigne.
When, with Sybil, his sisters had risen and retreated to the drawing room, he’d watched them go, and then come here. Lifting his glass, he carried it to a well-padded armchair, sank down into the cushioning leather, and sighed.
He sipped, then put his head back and closed his eyes.
Despite their careful silence, his sisters were watching him like hawks. Demanding creatures. He’d made a promise, and they expected him to keep it.
And, of course, he would.
Opening his eyes, he raised his glass again, and refocused on the issue never far from his mind, his principal and continuing problem—his lack of a wife.
When he’d resigned his commission late last year, he’d had a vague notion that now peace was established and he was free to become the Earl of Crowhurst in more than name, then getting himself a wife ought to be his next step.
When a group of close comrades—six others who like him had spent the last ten and more years working behind enemy lines under the orders of the secretive individual they knew only as Dalziel—had proposed banding together and creating a private club to guard against the marauding mamas of the ton, he’d thought it an excellent idea. The Bastion Club had indeed proved useful in facilitating the search for suitable wives—for most of the others.
So much so that as of a day ago, there were only two of the original seven club members still unwed. Christian Allardyce, Marquess of Dearne, and Gervase himself.
Christian, he’d realized, had some secret that was holding him back. Some reason why, despite, of them all, having spent the most time in the ballrooms and being the most comfortable in that milieu, he seemed unable to summon any interest in any lady, not even in passing.
There was some story there, some excuse for Christian remaining detached and consequently unwed.
He, however, had no excuse. He wanted to wed, to find the right lady and establish her as his countess. As his sisters had so bluntly enumerated, there were multiple reasons he should, not least among those being them and their futures. He’d set out to find his bride in February. Nearly six months had passed and he’d achieved precisely nothing.
The failure nagged. His was a nature that thrived on achievement. He was constitutionally incapable of accepting failure.
News of the trouble with the mill had reached him just after he’d arrived at Paignton Hall in Devon to witness the nuptials of one of their small band, Deverell, and his Phoebe. So afterward, rather than returning to spend a last week or so in London in the hope that among the few tonnish families lingering in the capital he might discover his future wife, he’d had to hie back home instead. The continuing frustration, even if it had been entirely outside his control, had only exacerbated his already abraded patience—and an irrational sense of time running out and him still not having found his bride.
Courtesy of what he’d now discovered to be his sisters’ machinations, he’d spent no more than a few consecutive days in London, not since the Season had commenced, but rather than making his failure to find a wife easier to accept, the knowledge that he’d had no real time to look had only given his restless dissatisfaction a keener edge.
Six months, and he’d got nowhere. He hadn’t even managed to develop any, as Annabel had termed them, relevant skills.
And he wouldn’t get anywhere in the next three months, either.
Draining his glass, he forced himself to face that fact. To accept it, set it aside, and turn to the matter at hand, the one he could actually do something about.
The Honorable Miss Madeline Gascoigne.
He’d made his bargain with his sisters but, of course, he’d left himself an escape route. He’d slipped the loophole in between “temperament” and “beauty.” The other criteria he’d listed were ones others—his dear sisters, for example—could judge for themselves, but “compatibility” was entirely his to define.
Just as well he’d been so farsighted; Madeline qualified on all other counts.
She was, he’d calculated, twenty-nine or close to it; her father had died eight years ago and she’d been twenty-one at the time, that much he knew. A trifle long in the tooth perhaps, and she doubtless considered herself well and truly on the shelf, but as he was thirty-four, her advanced years weren’t something anyone would hold against her.
Indeed, he’d prefer a wife with more rather than fewer years in her dish, one who had weathered a little of life. God knew, he had. A young young lady would be extremely unlikely to fix, let alone hold, his interest.
And as the daughter of the late Viscount Gascoigne, Madeline unquestionably possessed birth and station appropriate to the position of his countess; there was no fault to be found there.
Although he hadn’t stipulated fortune, she was possessed of that as well, having inherited a sizable sum from maternal relatives, and the Gascoignes were wealthy, so she’d doubtless be well dowered, too.
As for temperament, he couldn’t imagine any lady more competent, more calm and capable, one less likely to enact him any tragedies or fall into hysterics. Indeed, he couldn’t imagine any occurrence that might throw Madeline into hysterics, not after some of the exploits she’d dealt with in bringing up her brothers.
His last stipulation had been “beauty.” Considering that point, he frowned. Although he had an excellent visual memory, especially for people, when it came to Madeline…he knew she was handsome and striking rather than pretty, but beyond that it was hard to decide how he rated her appearance. How he reacted to her as a woman—because he didn’t, because he didn’t think of her in that way. The years of dealing with her as a surrogate male, as the de facto Gascoigne, had dulled his senses with respect to her, yet he suspected she’d pass any “beauty” test.
Which left “compatibility” as the one criterion on which he could rule her “not suitable.”
He’d promised on his honor to actively pursue any suitable lady, and the girls would expect to see him doing just that. So he would; he’d spend a little time with Madeline, enough to establish just why he and she weren’t compatible, enough to make his declaration of incompatibility credible.
Time together shouldn’t be difficult to arrange. Now he was fixed for the summer at the castle, there were any number of issues on which his and Madeline’s paths would cross—or could be made to cross.
He felt the brandy working its way through his system, relaxing, warming, easing as it went.
His next steps didn’t seem too onerous. Not even vaguely problematic. He’d just spend some time with Madeline, and all would be well.
Or as well as things could be, until he could return to London and find himself a wife.
Chapter 2
Madeline was cantering westward along the bridle path that followed the clifftops around the bay when she saw Gervase Tregarth riding toward her. Drawing her mind from her mental list of all she hoped to accomplish that day, she smiled and thanked fate; she really didn’t have the time to spare had she been forced to search for him.
He was still some distance away, but the vivid green cliffs were devoid of trees or other cover. The instant he’d come into sight she’d recognized him; there were few other males in the area with quite his build, the broad shoulders and long rangy frame that seemed so at home in a saddle, especially with the sky wide above and the sea crashing on the shore below. His hair, a dark mousy brown, was, as always, uncovered, his fashionably cropped curls rippling in the breeze.
As he neared, she pondered the oddity of hair that appeared so soft yet did nothing to gentle the austere, aristocratic planes of his face. Well-set eyes beneath a wide brow, a strongly patrician nose and squared chin all contributed to the aura of strength, solidity and power that habitually clung to him.
They met midway between the Park and the castle. Slowing, they drew rein; their horses
pranced, danced. Subduing her big chestnut, Artur, Madeline nodded a smiling greeting. “Gervase—the very man I was seeking.”
His brows rose; his sharp hazel eyes—a pale hazel more amber than green—passed over her face. For an instant she sensed he was studying her, but then he asked, “Is there some problem?”
She laughed. “Not of my brothers’ doing, thank Heaven, but I received a note from Squire Ridley asking me to call. He wants to pick my brains on the subject of the local mines, but I confess I’m not aware of any recent developments. I thought perhaps you might have heard something to account for his query.”
Gervase’s face was always difficult to read; expressions rarely rippled his surface, leaving one to guess at his thoughts. Yet in this instance, his blankness suggested he knew no more than she.
He confirmed that. “I’ve heard nothing recently—indeed, for some time. All goes well as far as I know.”
She nodded. “That’s my understanding, too.” She picked up her reins. “Nevertheless, I’ll ride to the manor and see what’s troubling Gerald.”
“I’ll come with you.”
As Gervase circled her, turning his huge gray, she glanced at him. “By all means—but weren’t you on your way somewhere?”
His head came up and he met her eyes—and again she sensed that he was looking at her more intently than usual. “I was just riding—no specific destination in mind.”
“In that case…” With a grin, she tapped her heels to Artur’s sides and the big gelding surged.
Within ten strides, the gray drew alongside. She flicked Gervase a laughing glance; he smiled back, then gave his attention, as did she, to the clifftop path.
She didn’t often get the chance to ride freely in company; when she rode with her brothers or their aged steward, one part of her mind was always on guard to identify any potentially lethal rabbit hole or hidden ditch. It was an unexpected pleasure to ride before the wind—or into it, as was the situation that day—without any such care clouding the simple pleasure of the fresh air on her face, the regular tattoo of Artur’s hooves, the exhilaration of their speed, and the strangely shared moment.
A sidelong glance at Gervase confirmed that he was enjoying the ride as much as she. Neither of them held back, but let their hacks—both seventeen hands plus, powerful and strong—run freely, using the reins only to guide them when they angled off the clifftop path and struck inland, over the windswept downs, going north of Kuggar Village with the hamlet of Gwendreath to their right, then over a section of the Goonhilly Downs to the village of Cury.
As they rode under the cloudless summer sky, with larks dipping and swooping high overhead, the only occurrence to ruffle her serenity was the occasional piercing, penetrating glance Gervase directed her way. Not that she saw them; whenever she glanced at him he was looking ahead, transparently at ease, no sign in his inscrutable face that he’d been looking at her.
But she felt those glances, lancing sharp and…examining. She’d been right; he was looking more closely at her, studying her.
She couldn’t for the life of her imagine why. She’d glanced into the hall mirror on her way out; there was nothing odd about her appearance. Her hair, of course, would be doing its best to escape its confinement, but that was nothing new.
Ridley Manor lay just beyond Cury; they slowed and clattered into the cobbled yard before the old stone house. Hearing the racket, Gerald, Squire Ridley, came out to greet them, leaning heavily on his cane. He was over sixty, with a thick shock of white hair; he’d started to develop a stoop, but his blue eyes were still shrewd and there was nothing whatever amiss with his mind.
A smile wreathing his lined face, he stumped forward as they dismounted. “Madeline, my dear—I knew I could count on you.” He shook her hand, then turned to Gervase. “And I see you’ve brought the prodigal with you.”
Gervase grinned; handing his reins to the groom who’d come running, he clasped Gerald’s proffered hand. “Madeline mentioned your query—I was curious, as is she, to learn what occasioned it.”
“Aye, well.” Gerald beckoned them to follow him inside. He led the way into his front parlor. Waving them to armchairs, he sank into his own, angled beside the hearth. “I would have sent to you as well, but I thought you were off to London again.”
Gervase’s smile was perfunctory. “I was, but this latest business with the mill brought me back. I expect to remain here over the summer.”
Madeline saw that it was on the tip of Gerald’s tongue to ask about the mill and Gervase’s sisters’ antics, but then the older man thought better of it and turned to the business that had brought them there.
“Well, as to why I asked whether you’ve had any recent news about the mining, there’s a London gentleman making offers for mining leases hereabouts.”
Gervase frowned. “A London gentleman?” Puzzling if true; the tin mining leases in the area were, by and large, held by locals. Estates such as Crowhurst and Treleaver Park, as well as local landowners like Squire Ridley, had made it a tradition to absorb any leases that might be offered for sale. They were a small community and had seen the wisdom of keeping control of the extensive tin mining in the locality in local hands. In addition, the royalties from the mining provided a welcome cushion against the vissicitudes of fortune to which farming enterprises were so vulnerable.
Gerald nodded. “Supposedly, but it’s his agent doing the rounds. Polite young man, not quality but neat, knows his place. He called here day before yesterday. I’m not sure where he—the agent—is staying, and he didn’t give me his master’s name. Just asked very nicely whether I was interested in parting with any of the leases I hold. I told him no, but then I got to thinking.” Gerald fixed his faded eyes on Gervase’s face. “Perhaps this London gentleman knows more than I do, and thinks there’s some reason why I might want to sell?” Gerald glanced at Madeline. “That’s why I sent to ask whether you’d heard any whisper—of a downturn, or a glut, or…?”
Madeline shook her head. She looked at Gervase; in her eyes, he saw the same puzzlement he felt. “I’ve heard nothing at all—indeed, what little I have heard recently is entirely in the vein of all going on as before, with, if anything, the outlook being brighter.”
Gervase nodded. “That’s my understanding, too—and I’ve spoken in the last month with my London agents and they said nothing about any change in the wind.”
Gerald frowned. “Wonder what’s behind this, then? Not often that we have interest from outside the area.”
“No, indeed.” Gervase caught Madeline’s eye. “But now you’ve alerted us, we can keep our ears to the ground and pass on anything we learn.”
Madeline nodded and rose. “Indeed.” Gervase and Gerald rose, too. Pulling on her gloves, she headed for the door. “I have to get on, Gerald, but rest assured I’ll let you know if I hear anything at all relevant.”
At the front door, Gervase and Gerald shook hands. Already outside, Madeline waved. Gerald raised his hand in salute, waiting by the door as his groom ran to fetch their horses.
Gervase strolled to where Madeline was waiting. One glance confirmed there was a frown in her eyes.
Without looking at him, she said, “I think I’ll send to Crupper in London and ask what he knows, and there are a few others locally who might have news.”
The groom approached leading their horses. Gervase caught her chestnut’s bridle. “I’ll send a query to my London agent, and I have a few friends in other tin mining areas who hold leases. It’s possible they might have heard something we haven’t.”
Mounting, Madeline picked up her reins; he swung up to Crusader’s back while she rearranged her skirts. Then she looked at him. “I’ll let you know if I hear anything to the point.”
He met her gaze. “I’ll do the same.”
She smiled then, a gesture that lit up her face, transforming it from serenely madonna like to glorious. She didn’t see him blink as she wheeled her horse. “I’ll race you back to the cliffs.?
??
An hour later, Gervase returned home—sometime over the past three years Crowhurst Castle had become “home”—and sought refuge in his library-cum-study.
Sinking into his favorite armchair, he let his gaze travel the room. It was a comforting masculine precinct devoid of flowery touches, all solid, highly polished dark woods, leather in deep browns and greens, dark patterned rugs and mahogany paneling that seemed to enfold any occupant in welcoming shadows. It was a soothing place in which to ruminate on his progress—or, in this instance, the lack of same.
He’d thought getting to know Madeline would be a simple matter of spending a little time in her company. Unfortunately, the three hours he’d spent with her riding the downs had demonstrated that the reason he and all the other men in the locality, like Gerald Ridley, didn’t see her as a female was because she constantly kept a mask—no, more a shield—deployed between her and them. Although he’d looked, and damn carefully, he hadn’t been able to discern the female behind the shield at all.
All he’d seen was a lady focused on business—on her brothers’ business, to be precise.
Admittedly, the speed at which they’d ridden had rendered conversation impossible, yet he was accustomed to being able to read people more or less at will. Even those who employed social masks and veils; he could usually see past them, through them. But not with Madeline; it seemed a cynical twist of fate that the one female he actually wanted to get to know was the one not even he could readily read.
Naturally, he viewed that as a challenge; he knew himself well enough to understand his response. Yet as he did need to get to know her, his instinctive reaction happened to coincide with his rational plan—so he would, definitely, press harder, and find some way past her shield.
He’d also been somewhat disconcerted to discover that her appearance, which he’d categorized as handsome and striking, was—now he’d actually looked—more along the lines of alluring. Although it was difficult to judge a woman’s figure when it was disguised in a loose, mannishly cut riding dress, especially with trousers adding padding to her hips, he’d seen enough to have developed a definite curiosity; he was looking forward to examining Madeline’s attributes more closely when he caught her in more conventional attire.