With a nod, he turned and walked out of the front door, entirely content.
Entirely aware that she stood rooted in the hall and stared after him until he disappeared from her sight.
Late that night, Madeline sat before her dressing table brushing out her long hair. The tresses gleamed copper and red in the candlelight, but with her gaze unfocused she didn’t see; as she usually did at this point in her night, she was mentally reviewing the events of her day.
Behind her, her maid Ada shook out her day dress, then headed for the armoire to hang it.
Madeline focused on the maid in the mirror as she returned. “Ada, please mention to the rest of the staff that should they hear anything about the boys associating with any of the smuggling gangs, they should pass the information to me—either through you or Milsom.”
A local, Ada had been with Madeline since before the boys were born. “Aye, well, they’re of that age, true enough. Master Harry and Master Edmond, at least, and no doubt but that Master Ben will inveigle those two into taking him with them.”
Madeline grimaced. “That’s one activity in which I wish Harry and Edmond weren’t quite so good over including Ben.”
“Ah, well, you can’t have everything.” On that stoic note, Ada swept up Madeline’s linen, along with her boots. “I’ll take these downstairs. Will you be wanting anything else tonight?”
“No, thank you. Good night.”
Ada murmured her customary “Sleep well,” and left.
Madeline remained seated before the mirror, drawing the brush slowly through her thick hair. Reliving the rest of her day.
Until she’d turned to farewell him in the front hall, she’d thought she’d managed Gervase and his visit rather well. True, there’d been that moment on the cliffs, but she didn’t think he’d planned that any more than she had. It had simply been , because they were who they were.
Nothing that special or surprising, really. The shared sense of connection had been predictable, had she considered it.
But then he’d understood about her brothers and had offered to help. In the right way—a way she could accept. He hadn’t lectured, nor made pompous suggestions of how to deal with them.
She’d known that in accepting his offer of information she’d be giving him another reason to call and see her privately, yet more disturbing than that, her brothers and their lives were not a matter with which she’d previously allowed others to become involved, but she’d bent if not broken that rule for Gervase.
Because he’d offered something she’d needed. And when it came to her brothers, there was little she wouldn’t do to keep them safe. Or at least safer.
And…
She refocused on her reflection—and pulled a face. Honesty forced her to admit—reluctantly—that, most peculiarly for her, she trusted Gervase, at least on the subject of the boys.
Frowning, she brushed harder, then laid down the brush, gathered her hair and twisted it into a loose knot.
That moment on the cliff—had it swayed her? More likely it had been her noticing how her brothers, usually quite stand-offish when it came to gentlemen, had reacted to Gervase. They’d been curious, intrigued…rather like their sister.
Perhaps it was her recent realization that Harry needed, and Edmond would soon need, some older male to be, if not an acknowledged mentor, then at least a pattern-card. And in that, they could do a lot worse than Gervase Tregarth.
So she’d accepted his help—and then he’d smiled and raised her hand and kissed the backs of her fingers.
She’d felt that light caress to the depths of her being.
Other gentlemen had kissed her hand and she’d felt absolutely nothing. It was a courtesy, one which perhaps they intended to convey more, but never before had the gesture affected her.
When Gervase’s lips had touched her skin…
She stared into the mirror, the moment, the sensations, alive in her mind…until the guttering candle recalled her. Snuffing it, she rose, and went to her bed—telling herself she’d do much better to ban Gervase Tregarth and all his doings from her head.
Two days later, she attended the monthly afternoon tea at the vicarage. Situated just along the lane from the church at Ruan Minor, the rambling house was set in ample grounds; in summer, afternoon tea was served on the back lawn. Muriel had declared she was too tired to attend; the truth was her aunt had little interest in the wider social round.
Passing among the other guests—all the usual local faces—Madeline kept her eyes peeled, but then realized Gervase wasn’t there.
She told herself she was relieved, and embarked upon her customary round of chatting with the other landowners and ladies of the district. The day was warm; she sipped and talked, and forced herself to concentrate on Lady Porthleven’s latest tale of her daughter’s offspring.
“Albert is a veritable jewel,” her ladyship enthused. “Quite the most gifted child!”
Madeline found her mind wandering, yet again. She tried to make herself pay attention, inwardly acknowledging that this—the normal extent of her social life—was, indeed, rather dull.
Excusing herself with a murmured word and a smile, she slipped from Lady Porthleven’s circle. She surveyed the crowd, decided to join Squire Ridley, took one step in his direction—and felt her nerves leap.
She glanced to her side and discovered Gervase exactly where she’d thought he was. Beside her, right by her shoulder.
Her gaze had landed on his lips; she saw them curve, felt his gaze on her face.
Rendered breathless again, she determinedly breathed in and lifted her eyes to his. “Good afternoon, my lord. I wasn’t sure we’d see you here.”
Gervase held her gaze for an instant, then, as she had, looked around. “Not, perhaps, my customary milieu, but as I have, indeed, taken up residence, I thought this might prove a useful venue in which to improve my local knowledge.”
He glanced at her. “In return for my scouting on your behalf about your brothers, I hoped you might assist me in this arena.” With his head, he indicated a couple chatting with Mr. Caterham. “For instance, who are they?”
“The Jeffreys,” Madeline supplied. “They’re relative newcomers. They’ve taken on the old Swanston farm at Trenance.”
“Ah.” He closed his fingers about her elbow and drew her into an ambling walk. She glanced at him sharply, but consented to move. He smiled. “If we remain stationary, Mrs. Henderson is going to come bustling up and trap me.”
She hid a swift grin behind her teacup. “You clearly remember her.”
“No greater gossipmonger was ever birthed.” Gervase considered, then amended, “At least not this side of Basingstoke.”
She shot him an amused glance. “Are there worse in London, then?”
“Oh, yes. Those in London aspire to the epitome of the form.”
“If you remember Mrs. Henderson, then there are few others here you won’t know.”
“Ah, but are they as I remember them? For instance”—continuing to stroll, he directed her attention to a large gentleman of middle years hovering over an older, sharp-featured lady seated on a chair with a cane planted before her—“is George as much under the cat’s paw as he used to be?”
“His mother’s hold on him only increases with the years—and the maladies she likes to consider herself a victim of.”
“She seems in rather robust health.”
“Indeed. The general opinion is that she’ll probably bury George.” Madeline paused, then added, “Of course, she would almost certainly soon join him, for without him she’d have no one to harangue, harry and hound, and that appears to be the sole purpose of her life.”
“I would say ‘poor George,’ but if memory serves he always was one to simply give way.”
She nodded. “No spine. And, of course, she’s never let him marry.”
“So what of local scandals? The Caterhams are still together, I see.”
“Yes, that blew over—as it was always
likely to. They seem settled these days.” Madeline looked further afield. “The Juliards are as devoted as ever, and all others go on much as before—oh, except for the sensation of Robert Hardesty’s marriage.”
“I heard about that.” In response to the steel that had crept into his tone, Madeline glanced sharply at him. He kept his expression scrupulously noncommittal. “What’s the new Lady Hardesty like?”
“I really can’t say—few of us have met her. The reports from those who have aren’t all that complimentary, but as the comments run along the lines of ‘London flirt,’ I’d prefer to meet the lady before judging her. We don’t see many of the London set, for want of a better designation, so her behavior might be no more than what passes for normal in the capital.”
Inwardly acknowledging the wisdom of her stance, he glanced around. “Enough of our neighbors. Tell me about local matters in general. I know about the mining—what about the fishing? How have the last few seasons gone?”
As he steered her down the long sloping lawn, he questioned, she answered, and he listened. He’d gleaned bits and pieces from others—his agents, his steward, his grooms—but her account was more comprehensive, more balanced. More what he needed. Her point of view and his were largely the same; she was the de facto Gascoigne, and he was Crowhurst, and that similarity that had shone on the clifftops also impinged, as did her straightforward, no-nonsense way of dealing with the world.
Levelheaded, rational, competent and observant; in those traits she was much like him. More than anyone else he trusted her view of matters enough to act on her intelligence; the truth was she was infinitely better connected with this world he’d returned to than he. It wasn’t just his years away that separated him from the locals, but also his quieter, more reserved nature.
While they strolled, others came up and exchanged ready greetings and snippets of information, those last directed to Madeline. She was a person everyone around about knew, and not just trusted but felt comfortable with. His years as an operative had taught him to value that gift of putting others at ease. It wasn’t one he himself could employ; he simply wasn’t the sort of man others readily confided in.
He recognized her worth in that, perhaps more clearly than she did.
Eventually they reached the low stone wall at the bottom of the vicarage lawn. Pausing, they looked eastward over the cliffs to the sky and the sea. After a moment, she said, her voice low, “My brothers.” She glanced at him. “Have you learned anything?”
He felt her gaze, but didn’t meet it. He’d spent the last day and a half letting the local smugglers know he was back at the castle, and encouraging them to fill him in on recent developments. “The boys are known to the smugglers—all three gangs. And all know them for who they are. As you’re aware, running with smugglers is virtually a rite of passage in this area. The boys will be safe—or at least as safe as they might be.”
Glancing at her, he saw she was frowning.
A minute ticked past, then she met his eyes. “If the boys already know the local smuggling gangs, what are they searching for in the caves?”
His lips tightened. He hesitated, then said, “I think they’re searching for evidence of wreckers.”
Her eyes widened. He went on, “I asked, and the word is that there’s been no activity of that kind for months. There won’t be anything for the boys to find—no cache, and very likely nothing else.”
The smugglers broke the excise laws, but most locals happily turned a blind eye to that. Wreckers, on the other hand, were cold-blooded killers. Along with the wider community, the smugglers regarded wreckers as an unmitigated evil.
“No one knows who the wreckers are. Secrecy is their watchword—you know that. It’s unlikely the boys have had any contact with them, equally unlikely that they ever will. They might find a boat hidden in caves close by the Lizard, or up near Manacle Point, but other than that…”
She searched his eyes; today, hers were pale green, the color of the sea, serious and unshielded. Then she drew breath, and asked, “Do you believe they’re in—or courting—any danger?”
He felt the weight of the question, the importance of it to her. He took a moment to consult his own inner gauge of pending trouble; it had never been wrong—that was why he still lived. “I don’t believe they are.”
She studied his eyes, then exhaled. Looking again at the view, she grimaced. “Would that I could forbid them to search, to go down to the caves, but that would simply be wasted breath.”
He didn’t bother nodding, but was conscious of an impulse to try to, if not lift, then at least ease the burden of her brothers from her shoulders. He glanced at the distant sea. “I was wondering if I might interest them in going sailing or fishing.” He met her eyes. “If they wish to, would you approve?”
She blinked; eyes wide, she studied his expression, then frowned. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
“My background.” He paused, then clarified, “My years as a spy. The boys will be interested—they’ll quiz me.”
He didn’t say more; he felt perfectly certain, acute as she was, she’d understand his point. Not everyone considered the life of a spy a suitable subject for polite conversation. He’d broached the subject deliberately, not knowing how she felt. As she stared at him, still frowning, he wondered with an odd sinking feeling whether he’d discovered the incompatibility he’d been searching for.
If she thought his past was less than honorable, she’d be unlikely to entertain any offer from him—and he was even less likely to make one.
Madeline continued to frown; she couldn’t believe he’d think she would object to his past, find his service to his country—the manner of it—less than laudable. That she was the sort of silly female who might. She let irritated exasperation seep into her expression—and her tone. “I’d be relieved to know the boys were out with you—and of course they’ll question you, and you may, with my blessing and even my encouragement, tell them as much as you deem fit—whatever you’re comfortable telling them. I warn you they’ll ask about anything and everything once they get started.”
The words brought home the fact that she trusted him not just over but with her brothers. There wasn’t a single other gentleman she trusted in that way. The realization was a little shocking, and annoying, too; it would have to be him, of all men, and just now, when he’d decided for some incomprehensible reason to be a thorn in her side.
Not that he’d been all that difficult that day.
He nodded. “I’ll ask them, then.” He glanced back up the lawn, then offered his arm. “Come, let’s stroll back.”
To the rest of the guests. Acquiescing, she took his arm.
While he guided her up the gentle slope, she thought of that moment by the stone wall, when he’d waited to see how she would react. In that instant she’d sensed a vulnerability in him, a man she’d imagined hadn’t a weak spot anywhere. Yet how she’d reacted had mattered to him.
The truth was she admired him, both as a man and for what he’d done with his life. As far as she was concerned, he could distract her brothers with tales of his past, and her only response would be gratitude.
They rejoined the guests; some had departed, but others had arrived. Gervase remained by her side; reluctantly, grudgingly, she had to admit she was comfortable with him being there. Their occasional private comments, colored by their similar views of their neighbors, enlivened the moments; the predictable conversations no longer seemed quite so dull.
“Miss Gascoigne, I believe?”
She turned to find a gentleman beside her, one she’d never set eyes on before. He was dressed well—too well to be a local—in a blue coat of Bath superfine and a nattily striped waistcoat; she thought it the ensignia of the Four-in-Hand Club. With his air of urbane polish, he almost certainly hailed from town. Still, if he was at the vicarage afternoon tea…She raised her brows, inviting him to continue.
He smiled. “Mr. Courtland, Miss Gascoigne.” He bowed. “We haven’t
been introduced, but in this setting I hope you’ll forgive my impertinence in approaching you.”
He was a personable man; she smiled in reply, still unsure why he was there.
“I came with Lady Hardesty’s party.” With a nod, he directed her gaze to a group of similarly garbed gentlemen and dashingly gowned ladies across the lawn. “We were starved of entertainment, so thought to come here, to see who else lived in the locality.”
There was an underlying tenor to the comment Madeline didn’t entirely like—as if having identified her as being a local, he was imagining she might entertain him.
Still smiling, she offered her hand. “I am Miss Gascoigne.” She omitted the customary “of Treleaver Park.” “And this”—shifting to the side, with her other hand she indicated the looming presence beside her; she’d been aware of Gervase’s sharpened attention from the moment Courtland had spoken—“is Lord Crowhurst, of Crowhurst Castle.”
Still smiling amiably but with an assessing, even challenging glint in his eye, Courtland offered his hand. “My lord.”
Grasping it, Gervase nodded. “Courtland.”
Madeline glanced swiftly at him; his lips were relaxed, his expression unthreatening, but the look in his amber eyes was not encouraging.
She looked at Courtland; his expression suggested he was developing reservations about the wisdom of approaching her. As he retrieved his hand, he glanced again at her—with Gervase by her side, yet she no longer had her hand on his arm—then he looked at Gervase and raised his brows. “Do you spend much time in Cornwall, my lord?”
Gervase’s reply was cool. “I haven’t in recent years, but that looks set to change.”
“Indeed?” Courtland glanced around. “I wouldn’t have thought there’d be much to hold one’s interest hereabouts.”
“You’d be surprised.” Gervase glanced at Madeline. “Those of us who’ve grown up in the area naturally have a deeper appreciation of its features.”
Madeline caught his gaze. Was he implying she was a local feature, moreover one of sufficient attraction to induce him to remain in Cornwall? Her eyes started to narrow.