Beyond Seduction

Chapter 5

The manor house outside Breage was located two miles west of Helston and the Lizard Peninsula, and a mile north of the harbor at Porthleven-not too close yet not too far from the valuable lands between Godolphin Cross and Redruth beneath which ran the rich veins of ore heavily laced with tin from which much of the district’s wealth derived.

The afternoon sun struck through the leaded panes of the small parlor as the door opened and the gentleman who had recently acquired the small property walked in, followed by his agent.

Malcolm Sinclair waved Jennings to one of the pair of armchairs angled before the empty hearth, then elegantly subsided into its mate.

Jennings, his fresh round face drawn in a frown, perched rather nervously on the edge of the seat. “None of the rest want to sell.” He grimaced. “Those first two must have been just luck. Every other place I’ve asked, the gents just smile and say no. I don’t know what to say to persuade them.” He glanced at Malcolm. “Not that I tried-you said just to ask and see.”

Malcolm nodded. “Yes-I wanted to get the lie of the land, as it were. Now we know…” He fell silent. After a moment, he steepled his fingers; he continued to stare unfocused across the room.

Jennings waited with not a hint of impatience. Sinclair was a master who suited him-cool to the point of cold, unemotional yet decisive-and their past association had led him to believe any future in Sinclair’s service would reward him well.

Eventually Malcolm stirred. “I think we should concentrate on the smaller leaseholders-the farmers, the villagers-rather than the gentry. And as for persuasion, direct arguments won’t work. Hard to convince someone it’s time to sell an asset when you’re there, hot to buy.”

“Exactly.” Jennings nodded. “Even farmers and villagers have sense enough to be suspicious of that.”

“Indeed. Which is why I think it might serve us better to consider what news might convince such people, relatively ignorant and uninformed, that selling their leases to anyone silly enough to offer-not knowing said news-would be the act of a prudent man.”

Jennings’s frown returned, this time more pensive.

Malcolm eyed it, and waited, watching as Jennings worked through the possibilities himself.

“Rumors,” Jennings murmured. “But we can’t spread them-not ourselves.”

“No, for who would believe that those bearing the very tidings suggesting their leases will soon be worthless would then want to buy those same leases?”

“Aye.” Jennings glanced at Malcolm. “But it’s rumors we want, isn’t it?”

Malcolm nodded. “Rumors-for instance that the local ores are declining in grade, or that the market for tin itself is declining, or better yet, news of a massive oversupply from another region driving down the price for the foreseeable future. Any rumor that suggests that poorer returns are in the wind will do the trick-and ‘persuade’ those small leaseholders that selling to ignorant and ill-informed Londoners is the clever thing to do.”

Jennings nodded. “But it can’t be us spreading the rumors.”

“No-it’ll be necessary for you to find some ears whose owners don’t know you, and are unlikely later to see and recognize you. I’ve heard there’s a festival in the offing-itinerant peddlers, troupers and the like gathering for that should be perfect for our purpose. Wait here.”

Rising, Malcolm went out into the hall. In its center, he paused, head cocked, listening, but no sound reached his ears. Reassured, he continued to the library at the front of the house.

He’d sent the Gattings, the couple he’d hired to look after him and the house, to spend the day at the markets in Porthleven, a necessary precaution given the Gattings knew him as Thomas Glendower, rather than Malcolm Sinclair. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d decided to buy the manor as Glendower, but as the money for the purchase had come from Thomas Glendower’s accounts it had seemed simpler at the time. He’d kept his alter ego separate, free of any taint from Malcolm Sinclair’s unfortunate past with his late guardian. That scheme had ended badly; he’d always known it would.

Keeping Thomas Glendower and his steadily accumulating investment accounts unconnected with Malcolm Sinclair simply seemed wise.

Entering the library, Malcolm crossed to the desk set before the windows. Finding the right key on his chain, he unlocked and opened the central drawer, and lifted out a heavy pouch. He’d already counted the coins. Hefting the pouch, he relocked the drawer.

Tucking his chain back into his waistcoat pocket, he paused, his gaze drawn to the view beyond the windows. A pleasant prospect of gently rolling lawn undulated southward, then dropped away; beyond, in the distance, he could see the sea.

To either side, the lawn was bordered by well-established trees; the manor stood on ten lightly wooded acres, with stables at the back. There were no formal gardens, but until now a Londoner, Malcolm felt no lack.

He glanced around the room, comfortable yet gracious with its oak half-paneling, then, lips quirking, headed for the door.

He hadn’t come to Cornwall expecting to buy a house but the manor had been there-just the right size, in just the right place, not far from a village and close enough to the sea, with a view from all the front rooms, including his bedroom on the first floor, that allowed him to appreciate the storms and drama of the weather that swirled past this stretch of coast.

Entirely unexpectedly he’d fallen in love with the place. He hadn’t had a real home, not since he’d been orphaned at age six. Until he’d seen the manor, he hadn’t known he wanted one, but the simple house with its quiet grace had reached out and snared him.

As yet he hadn’t changed anything; the furniture was an eclectic mix of styles that somehow suited both the rooms and him. He’d wait for a few months and see if anything grated.

The pouch in his hand, he headed back to the parlor and Jennings. The man had worked for him in London until, a month or so ago, Malcolm had suggested a sojourn in the country might be wise. Jennings had taken the hint and gone to visit his aunt in Exeter. On leaving London, Malcolm had decided to investigate Cornwall, not least because of the mines; he’d found Jennings in Exeter and had beckoned, and his erstwhile henchman had followed.

He’d left London not just to escape the heat but to leave behind the cloying stench of his guardian’s suicide and the slavery scheme Lowther, a law lord, had run. Malcolm, through Jennings, had been instrumental in arranging the details, but he hadn’t been sorry to see the scheme undone. He’d never understood the rationale of acting illegally in order to amass wealth, not when there were so many ways to accumulate funds while remaining entirely on the right side of the law.

Tin mining being one.

Opening the parlor door, he crossed to Jennings and dropped the pouch into his hand. “Try the alehouses and taverns in Falmouth. Any itinerant heading for the Lizard Peninsula is most likely to come through there.”

She was never going to try reasoning with Gervase Tregarth again.

The day after she’d been goaded into allowing him to try to seduce her, Madeline climbed the castle steps, sternly quelling an unsettling notion that she was walking into a tiger’s hunting ground.

The front doors stood wide; she continued into the hall beyond. Gervase was standing by the central table speaking with Mrs. Entwhistle; lit by slanting rays from the afternoon sun, he turned his head and watched as she approached.

She refused to look away, refused to allow any of her very real consciousness to show.

“Claudia.” Halting beside Gervase, Madeline nodded to Mrs. Entwhistle, then gave him her hand. “My lord.”

His fingers closed about hers; his eyes touched hers, then his lips curved. “Madeline. You’re in good time.”

He looked past her to where other members of the festival committee were entering.

“I believe that’s all of us,” Mrs. Entwhistle said, peering myopically toward the door.

Neither she nor the latest arrivals saw Gervase’s fingers slide over Madeline’s before he released them. Ignoring him and her cartwheeling senses, she turned to accompany Mrs. Juliard into the drawing room where Sybil and Lady Porthleven were waiting.

She’d had every intention of sitting between two other ladies; instead, somehow-and that she didn’t know quite how did not auger well-she found herself sitting beside Gervase on one of the small sofas set to form a semicircle before the hearth.

“Now, after the festival is formally opened-Reverend Maple and Lord Crowhurst will do the honors from the front porch-the first display to be judged will be the knitted works. Mrs. Juliard will be in charge there. We’ll leave twenty minutes for that, then…”

Madeline struggled to keep her attention on Mrs. Entwhistle’s tortuously detailed schedule of events, hideously aware of the large male body filling the sofa beside her.

She could feel the heat emanating from him, could sense the hardness of his long limbs, another subtle temptation…her mind slid back to those moments on Lady Porthleven’s terrace…

That kiss had been…something quite out of the ordinary, at least in her limited experience. Perhaps that was the reason her resistance to the notion of allowing him to try to seduce her wasn’t as strong as she felt it should be. Trying meant more kisses, but surely there couldn’t be any great harm in indulging her curiosity that far, if nothing else in the interests of her education and ultimate self-preservation; assessing just what, in him, she faced, what temptation he might bring to bear…

“Madeline?”

She blinked. Everyone was looking at her.

“Sorry.” She shook her head. “Woolgathering. What did you say?”

Mrs. Entwhistle blinked; several other pairs of eyes widened. Madeline inwardly cursed. Since when did she drift off in meetings? She was usually the one keeping everyone else focused and up to the mark, ensuring all went smoothly and swiftly so she could get on with whatever was next on her schedule.

“The carthorse contest,” Mrs. Entwhistle said. “How may entrants do we usually have?”

She dredged the answer from her brain. “Eight, sometimes as many as ten. But over the last four years, there’ve been at least eight.”

“I’ll get Robinson to lend a hand with the judging,” Squire Ridley put in. “Truth be told, he’d be insulted if he weren’t asked.”

Robinson was the farrier for the district. Madeline nodded, then looked attentively at Mrs. Entwhistle-and willed her senses away from the distraction beside her.

That took significant effort, but she prevailed well enough that she wasn’t caught out again. She avoided meeting Gervase’s eye; whether he’d guessed the source of her abstraction was a point she didn’t need to know.

Finally all the arrangements had been approved, the schedule decided. Everyone rose and filed out into the hall, chatting and swapping the latest local news. Her mind elsewhere, she hung back, politely letting her elders go before her-only to recall, too late, that that would leave her with Gervase at the rear.

He touched her arm before she could sweep ahead. “I went fishing with your brothers this morning.”

She glanced up to see him considering those before them.

Then he looked at her. “Stay a moment-I’ll fill you in on what I learned.”

She could detect not the faintest hint of predatory intent in his tiger eyes. “All right.” She walked into the hall by his side, and hung back by the central table while he farewelled the others. Sybil went out onto the front porch to wave; Gervase turned to her.

By then she’d had time to think. She gestured to the courtyard, to where the ramparts rose. “It’s such a lovely day, why don’t we stroll outside?”

He glanced back through the doors. “The wind’s coming up on that side. The east battlements will be more sheltered.” He gestured to a door down the hall.

Inclining her head-ramparts or battlements, both were outside, and thus during the day subject to public gaze-she acquiesced and strolled beside him. Opening the door, he waved her up a narrow spiral stair. Lifting her skirts, she started up; he followed, closing the door behind him.

“Did the boys tell you what they’re searching for?”

With difficulty Gervase drew his gaze from her hips, swaying provocatively before him, and forced himself to look at her heels. “In a manner of speaking. They assured me they haven’t had any dealings this summer with the smugglers-a fact verified by the smugglers themselves-and then grilled me on all the wrecks I knew of, specifically where debris got washed ashore.”

“I trust you led them astray?”

He grinned. “That wasn’t necessary. From their questions, they’re concentrating on the reefs to the west, off Mullion and Gunwalloe. According to Abel Griggs-he’s the leader of the Helston gang-there hasn’t been a wreck there since last October, and if anyone would know, Abel would.”

She climbed for a minute before saying, “So there’s nothing for them to find, but they’ll hunt through the coves and caves anyway.”

They’d reached the landing before the door to the battlements. He came up beside her; studiously ignoring the perfume that rose from her skin and hair-and its effect as it wreathed through his senses-he reached past her, turned the knob, and pushed the door wide.

She went through, immediately lifting her hands to hold back whipping tendrils of her hair. Below and before them, stretching all the way to Black Head on the other side of the bay, the sea was pale, corrugated and frothed by the strafing wind. Although much less strong than on the exposed ramparts to the west, the capricious gusts that snaked their way around to the battlements were still strong enough to plaster her light gown to her body, to her legs.

Gervase considered them, then remembered what he’d intended to say just as she swung to face him.

“I suppose searching for treasure, even if they find nothing, will still keep them happy as grigs.”

“Actually, I’m not sure about that-at least not in Harry’s case.” Shutting the door, he leaned back against it.

Still holding her hair, she came closer, the better to hear him. Frowning. “What do you mean?”

“I got the distinct impression that the search is mostly Ben’s idea. Edmond’s caught up in it, too, but Ben is the primary enthusiast. Harry, unless I’m much mistaken, is going along because of the others, not because he has any real interest in the endeavor.”

Her frown remained. “He’s usually the instigator-he used to be forever on about joining the smugglers and doing runs.”

“Undoubtedly. But that was before.” Gervase paused, then asked, “He’s fifteen, correct?” She nodded. He grimaced wryly. “I remember being fifteen. I remember Christopher being fifteen.” He hesitated, then said, “A word of advice, if you’ll take it. The very last thing you want is for a fifteen-year-old youth to grow bored. And unless I read matters entirely wrongly, underneath it all, Harry is bored. There’s no challenge in his life.”

Her lips tightened; her gaze grew unfocused. For a moment she was completely still, then she blinked and looked at him. Studied his eyes for an instant, then raised her brows. “You have a suggestion.”

Statement, no question. “A suggestion, nothing more. He’s Viscount Gascoigne, and fifteen is old enough to start learning the ropes.”

Her frown remained etched in her eyes. “He never asks about the estate, things like that. I usually have to push to make him play the viscount, even socially.”

He couldn’t help a snort. “Madeline, the social aspects are the ones he’ll like least. Try him with some of the real work. Take him with you when you ride out, when you visit the farms. Start asking for his opinion-that’ll give him an opening to ask you to explain things.”

Again he hesitated, searching her eyes, pale, green, today remarkably clear. “Don’t wait for him to ask, because he won’t-he’ll see that as encroaching on your territory. If you’re ever going to hand the estate on to him-and yes, I know that’s your intention-you’ll have to make the first overtures. Always, with each aspect, he’ll wait for you to suggest he gets involved. Out of loyalty to you, he won’t push for involvement himself.”

Her frown had evaporated, initially superseded by puzzlement that now dissolved into revelation. “Oh, I see.” After a moment, she added, “Yes, of course.” She refocused on him. And smiled-a glorious smile full of happiness and content.

The impact was considerably greater than if she’d boxed his ears.

“Thank you. I hadn’t thought of it like that.” The power behind her smile faded as fondness crept in. “He’s been so intent on rushing off, keeping himself busy out of the house, that I’ve hesitated to…well, rein him in and test him in harness, so to speak. But if in reality he’s chafing at the bit, then I will. Thank you for the hint.”

“My pleasure.” It was easy to smile back.

When he remained against the door, watching her, his smile still softening the hard planes of his face, Madeline felt her instincts twitch. She raised her brows. “Was there something else?”

“No.” His smile widened in a way she recognized well enough to distrust. “I’m just waiting for you to thank me.”

“I just did.”

“Appropriately.”

Her lips parted to repeat the word; abruptly, she shut them. She narrowed her eyes. “I am not kissing you again.”

His untrustworthy smile deepened. “How do you plan to leave here?”

Belatedly, she glanced around.

“The stair beyond this door is the only way down.”

She swung away and marched down the battlements; she didn’t need to go far to see that there was, indeed, no other exit-no door, not even a dormer window.

Stalking back to where he patiently waited, shoulders against the door, she halted a pace away. Holding back her hair as the breeze swooped past, she glared at him. “You are so…” Momentarily lost for words, she gestured wildly with one hand.

“Good at this?”

She uttered a frustrated hiss. “Irritating!” She felt like stamping her foot. “For heaven’s sake-”

Gervase leaned forward, grasped her waist, lifted her to him, then let her fall against him.

With a smothered squeak she did, her long limbs flush against his, her breasts to his chest, her hips to his upper thighs.

Every nerve, every muscle in his body snapped to attention. Including…

Something she, plastered against him, couldn’t possibly mistake. He saw her eyes widen. He smiled-intently. “Just so.”

He bent his head and kissed her.

Her lips had parted in shock; he took immediate advantage and claimed her mouth. Claimed, tasted, plundered just a little before settling to entice.

She didn’t physically struggle-her body remained passive in his arms, instinctively accepting his embrace-but she battled nonetheless, fighting doggedly and valiantly to hold aloof.

His lips on hers, his tongue stroking hers, his instincts pressed him to wage war against her-against her will, weakening it so her desire could triumph, and she would surrender and be willingly his. Yet as he angled his head over hers and engaged with her more definitely, he was strangely aware of a dichotomy within, of his warrior’s instinct-a primal conviction that he had every right to claim the woman in his arms-clashing with an equally insistent sense that with her he needed to be giving. To persuade and negotiate, not force and insist.

He didn’t want to rule her; he wanted her by his side, a willing partner, a helpmate-his wife.

The thought slid through his mind, gentled his approach-and all but instantly delivered a reward. Her resistance wavered; immediately he set himself to tempt her more, to beckoningly tease, to seduce in earnest.

Her lips softened, then returned the pressure of his-more impulse than considered action-but then she realized, froze for a heartbeat-then gave up. Gave in. Stopped fighting and joined him.

Her sudden change of tack-not capitulation so much as embracing the inevitable-left him momentarily adrift, mentally scrambling to adjust his strategy, then her hands, until then pressed against his upper chest, slid up to his shoulders, gripped, then one eased and slid to his nape, then further into his hair, fingers twisting, lightly gripping…an evocative urging his instincts needed no help to translate.

He responded, more driven than deliberate, yielding to her demand and letting their mouths meld, their tongues tangle in a more flagrant, more explicit engagement than any he’d planned.

She met him, was with him, through the greedy, heated caress. Urged him on with a small gasp when he broke the kiss, sliding his lips to the hollow beneath her ear while his chest swelled and he dragged in a breath.

But then he returned to her mouth, too hungry, not yet appeased-any more than she was.

Her lips were lush, hot, demanding, the slick cavern of her mouth a sensual haven as she welcomed him back. He sank deep, and she pressed against him, into him.

He no longer needed to hold her to him; releasing his until-then-immovable grip on her waist, he spread his hands and pressed his palms to her back, without conscious thought satisfying his need to learn-of every curve, every long plane, each supple muscle, each delectable swell of female flesh.

Raising his hands to the backs of her shoulders, he cupped them in his palms, then slowly ran his hands down, tracing the long planes of her back, the indentation of her waist, the flare of her hips, the ripe swell of her derriere, sliding down and around to cup one firm globe in each hand.

She shuddered; he felt it, felt the primal thrill of it in his bones, through the kiss sensed her response, her uninhibited, unscreened wanting.

Sensed her desire rise to meet his.

Rise to swirl with, to complement, to mesh with his.

To set fire to passion and ignite sensual need.

Madeline gasped through the kiss. Never before had she felt like this-as if there were some thing, some being within her, within her skin, expanding, taking over, driving her to grasp, to seize, to embrace every second of sensation, of experience.

Of all she’d thought she’d never know.

She felt heated, nerves alive, her breath no longer hers but his-her body wrapped, trapped in his arms and glad, so glad, to be there.

Her rational mind couldn’t take it in, but her senses reveled and gorged. And some side of her she didn’t know frankly rejoiced in the escalating heat, in the compulsive, burgeoning swell of what even she, innocent and inexperienced, recognized as passion.

Hot, urgent, increasingly explicit.

Their kiss had grown wildly so, infecting his touch.

Infecting him.

And her.

So that she made not the smallest demur when one hard hand swept up her side to palm her breast. To caress, to cup, then to lightly knead.

Sensation, new and novel, flared, grew, spread molten delight just beneath her skin.

And he knew. His hand closed, more possessive; beneath the straining bodice of her walking dress, his fingers found the furled bud of her nipple and tweaked, rolled-and pleasure, sharp and sweet, sliced through her.

Breathing was beyond her. Raising both hands to grasp his head, she gripped, felt the slide of his curls, so much softer even than they looked, over her fingers as she held him and kissed him-hard-then in desperation pulled back.

“Oh, God-Gervase!” Eyes closed, she struggled to breathe. “Someone might see.”

“They can’t.” His voice was deep, gravelly by her ear as his hands, both now ministering to her breasts, continued to play. “No one can see up here, even with a spyglass.”

The fact he’d thought even of a spyglass reassured her completely.

Dragging in one last breath, she reached for his face, framed the long planes between her palms and brought his lips back to hers.

She was still hungry, still greedy for his kiss, his lips, and the sensations they wrought. For the reaction they evoked in her, the heretofore unknown side of her that came alive in his arms.

Gervase inwardly groaned, and complied, unable not to, incapable of denying her-yet he hadn’t imagined, hadn’t dreamed she would be so demanding. So wanting.

So starved.

If he’d known, he would have chosen some other site for this encounter. His apartments, for instance, with the bed he intended her to grace close at hand.

Instead…they were on the battlements.

The increasingly wind-strafed battlements.

It took more than effort, more than steely will-it took desperation to drag his hands from her breasts, to grip her waist and shift, turn, so her back was to the door and he was before her.

Even then she merely kissed him again, her mouth a gift he couldn’t refuse. It took several minutes of heated engagement before he recalled-again-why he, they, had to stop. Halt. Now. Before…

Before matters got entirely out of hand and stopping became impossible.

When he finally lifted his head, Madeline discovered hers reeling. Her lips throbbed, swollen and slick-and still eager.

So damningly willing.

Hauling in a breath, irritated to feel a sense of loss that his hands were no longer on her breasts, she opened her eyes and forced herself to meet his.

They’d never looked more tigerish, their expression more intent.

“Have you changed your mind yet?”

The words, gravelly and low, laden with male desire, nearly made her shiver. Distracted with suppressing the wanton reaction, when she stared at him uncomprehendingly, he clarified, “About warming my bed.”

Her mind refocused in a rush. She blinked up at him. “No.” Her hands had fallen to rest against his shoulders. She pushed. Hard.

And he budged not one inch.

A very odd sensation skittered down her spine, novel and distinctly startling.

She was helpless, trapped between the door and him, between ungiving wood and the hard muscle and bone of his unyielding body. Never before had any man made her feel captured.

To win free she would need to cede…something.

She blinked, inwardly snapped free of that ridiculous supposition. “Let me go.”

She endeavored to infuse every ounce of her will into the words; she lifted her chin to give them emphasis.

His expression hardened. But he eased his grip on her waist. “For now.”

The warning in the words was every bit as explicit as the kiss had been.

She glared, but it was a weak effort. With one hand, she groped behind her, found and grasped the latch. Stepping to the side, her eyes on his, she opened the door.

He stepped back and let her swing it wide.

Breathing a little more easily, head high, she flashed one last defiant glance at him, then turned and went through. Stepping onto the stairs, one hand on the stone wall, she started down.

It had been just a kiss, a part of his silly game. No matter what he’d said, he wasn’t-couldn’t be-seriously intent on seducing her.

If she repeated that statement often enough, she might again believe it.

“Fancy forming your own private gentlemen’s club in London, just so you have somewhere where society can’t bother you.” Edmond glanced up the breakfast table at Madeline. “Neat, don’t you think?”

“Better’n neat,” Ben opined around a mouthful of sausage, relieving her of the need to reply.

Just as well; in her present mood, any response she made regarding Gervase Tregarth and his doings was bound to be laced with frustrated ire.

She sipped her tea, and tried to shift her mind from that irritating gentleman, and his effect on her; unfortunately, in the present company that appeared a lost cause.

Bad enough that the interlude Gervase had engineered on the castle battlements, and all that had transpired there, had laid siege to her mind throughout the previous evening and disturbed her night, but his outing with her brothers and the exploits with which he’d regaled them had been the principal subjects of their conversation ever since.

Normally she could rely on her harebrained trio to distract her from any inner brooding. Instead, their speculation and comments about Gervase only reinforced his presence. Reinforced the reality that he was there, and she was going to have to deal with him.

“Do you really think what Joe and Sam said is right?” Ben turned to Harry, seated at the head of the table. “That there’ll soon be lots of men with no work and things will be bad around here?”

Madeline blinked to attention; she looked at Ben, then up the table at Harry.

Who was frowning. “I don’t know. It seems strange that if there’s such trouble brewing, so few people have heard of it.” Harry looked at Madeline. “Have you heard anything? Are the mines at Carn Brea really closing?”

What? was her instinctive reaction; she swallowed it, and frowned. “I haven’t heard any whisper of such a thing. Where did you hear that?”

“In Helford,” Edmond said. “We went there after we got back from fishing.”

“We went down to the docks to watch the boats come in,” Harry said. “Sam and Joe were there. Sam’s father keeps the tavern in Helford and Joe’s dad is the blacksmith. Both Sam and Joe said their fathers were worried about what would happen in the district when the money from the mines dries up.”

“Both Sam’s and Joe’s older brothers work at Carn Brea,” Edmond added.

When she stared, gaze distant, down the table, Harry shifted. “Could the mines be closing? It’ll be bad for the district if they are, won’t it?”

She mentally shook herself. “Yes to the latter question, but I know of no information that suggests the mines are even in difficulties, much less that they’re on the brink of closing.”

She’d done as she’d told Squire Ridley she would, and had written to her London contacts; she’d heard back only yesterday that all was as she’d thought. She looked at Harry. “I heard from London yesterday that the tin mines, including those locally, are doing very well-in fact, exceeding expectations-and the outlook is rosy.”

“Perhaps I could tell Sam and Joe that, so they can tell their fathers. It seemed they were truly worried.”

She nodded. “Do. In fact, unless you have something pressing to attend to, I think you should go back to Helford today.” She paused, then added, “You”-she tipped her head at Harry-“could drop by and speak with Sam’s and Joe’s fathers directly. That would be the neighborly thing to do. You may tell them I’ve checked very recently and everything’s as it should be. We don’t need rumors of that sort spreading and frightening people.”

Harry, his expression unusually serious-much more adult, she saw with a pang-nodded. “I’ll ride that way this morning.”

“We’ll come,” Edmond said.

Ben, still eating, merely nodded.

Madeline watched while Harry drained the cup of coffee he’d recently graduated to, Gervase’s words about including him more in estate business whispering in her head.

“One thing,” she said. Harry looked inquiringly at her as he set down his cup; Edmond and Ben did, too. “Keep your ears open on the subject of the mines. There might be someone deliberately spreading rumors. We know there’s some London gentleman interested in buying up mining leases, and it’s possible the rumors are in some way linked.”

It took Harry but a moment to see the connection; Edmond was only a heartbeat behind. Ben remained fully absorbed with his last slice of ham.

Harry and Edmond exchanged glances, their features assuming the same expression, one she’d never before seen on their faces.

“We’ll listen.” Harry nodded, quietly grim. “We’ll tell you anything we hear.”

Gervase had been right; they were growing up. Despite the pang she felt near her heart, she couldn’t help feeling satisfied that both boys-youths, young men in the making-clearly possessed real interest in the district, in the industry and people that were part of their patrimony.

Regardless of Harry’s evolving maturity, Madeline did not press him to attend Lady Moreston’s ball that evening.

Her ladyship’s event was one of the many held over summer through which the local gentry and aristocracy entertained themselves through the long, mild evenings. Gowned in mulberry satin, feeling suitably armored as the Honorable Miss Madeline Gascoigne, she greeted Lady Moreston with her customary assurance and followed Muriel into the ballroom.

The long room was bedecked with summer greenery, rather more to Madeline’s taste than ribbons, silks or gilded decorations. Halting at the top of the ballroom steps, she surveyed the room-searching for one curly dark head.

But Gervase wasn’t there, at least not yet.

Descending the steps in Muriel’s wake, Madeline inwardly frowned-then realized and banished the underlying emotion, whatever it was. She couldn’t possibly be disappointed; it was simply irritation at having to remain tense, on guard, until he appeared. Once he was there she would know what he was up to, and she wouldn’t feel so off-balance, trying to imagine what he might do.

Might take it into his devilish mind to do.

The man was plainly dangerous, but she wasn’t some silly witless girl to allow herself to grow too curious for her own good. She was her own person, in charge of her own life. What decisions she made would be her own.

With that determination ringing in her mind, she set herself to make use of the evening in her customary manner. She circulated through the guests, chatting with the gentlemen, listening for any confirmation of the rumors her brothers had heard; she hadn’t yet decided how to proceed on that front.

“I met Penterwell today,” Gerald Ridley told her. “He’d been approached by that agent, too. Not that he has any intention of selling, but like me, he’s wondering what’s behind this.”

“I’ve checked again since we spoke, and everything I hear suggests that all is going well and expected to improve even further. Perhaps this London gentleman simply thinks we’re naïve?”

Gerald snorted. “Well, it seems he’s had no takers, so he must by now realize he’ll need to think again.”

Madeline smiled and inclined her head in parting, but the squire’s words lingered. The gentry weren’t the only ones who held mining leases. She was idly circling the dance floor, pondering that, when Gervase suddenly appeared before her and trapped her hand in his.

He smiled, openly wolfishly-tigerishly-at her, then raised her fingers and kissed them. She tried to frown, difficult when her eyes had widened.

Shifting to stand beside her, he tucked her hand in his arm. “Sybil cried off and left me to make my own way.” He glanced around. “I forgot the country operates on earlier hours.”

His gaze returned to her face. “But now I’m here, we can dance.”

The musicians had just started up; Gervase drew her toward the floor. Madeline jerked back to reality. And pulled back. “No. I mean, I don’t dance.”

He raised his brows, but didn’t stop leading her forward. “Why not? You can’t expect me to believe you never learned.”

“Of course I learned. It’s just…” She blinked as he neatly twirled her, then smoothly drew her into his arms.

And she realized she had to look up a good few inches to meet his eyes. Realized that the hand at her waist and the arm behind it possessed uncommon strength, remembered how easily he’d lifted her off her feet the day before.

She didn’t dance-even though she was drawn to the exercise-because most men were shorter than she. Or at least not tall enough, or strong enough, to accomplish what was needed.

Two revolutions in Gervase’s arms and…when he raised his brows at her, she shook her head. “Never mind.”

He smiled, then looked forward, and whirled her through the turn. Literally whirled her; she’d never danced-been able to dance-with such unrestrained ease. Never had she been able to pace her partner as she could him-without having to shorten her stride, limit her movement, rein in her natural flair.

As they circled the room, effortlessly outpacing the other couples yet moving so smoothly there was no sense of speed, only a refreshing freedom, her heart lightened, took flight.

He looked into her eyes, and smiled. “There-you see. You enjoy it.”

She closed her lips on the too-revealing answer that had leapt to her tongue. Only with you was hardly a wise thing to say, not to him.

He needed no encouragement. Not to whirl her off her mental feet, something he proceeded to do with ludicrous ease. Being so confidently steered around the room was frankly exhilarating. He held her close-enough for her to feel truly secure at the pace they moved-closer than he perhaps should, yet it wasn’t so blatant an attack on her senses that she felt compelled to balk.

All she felt compelled to do was follow, to relax and let him lead as he would; her inner self sighed, and embraced the golden moments of unexpected pleasure.

His eyes were on her face, searching. Deeming it wise to distract him, she said, “You must have been waltzing quite a bit this year, what with all the balls in London.”

He raised his brows, his expression-mild resignation-for once clear. “Thanks to my sisters’ antics, I spent very little time at any balls. I’d reach town only to be called back within a few days.”

“So they were behind all those strange happenings?”

The line of his lips turned grim. “Indeed.” He met her eyes, hesitated.

She waited, eager to hear more but knowing better than to press him.

His lips quirked. “At least, having dealt with your brothers, you’ll understand. Those strange incidents, all of which were expressly designed to bring me hot-foot home, were my dear sisters’ reaction to the advent of the new Lady Hardesty.”

She blinked, tried to imagine, and couldn’t. “I don’t see the connection.”

“Thank you. I didn’t either. They, however, had convinced themselves that like poor Robert, I, too, might succumb to the lures of some femme fatale who would banish them to live with Great-Aunt Agatha in Yorkshire.”

She stared at him, confirmed that he was speaking the plain truth. She tried to keep her lips straight, failed entirely and laughed. “Oh, dear.”

He merely gave her a resigned look; his lips not curved but relaxed, he continued to whirl her as she struggled to master her mirth.

“I…” She paused to draw in a huge breath. “I truly can’t imagine you falling victim to any female.”

Gervase looked into her face, into her eyes, a shimmery peridot green in the chandeliers’ light. He’d thought the same, but was no longer so sure.

The music ended; he swung her to a flourishing halt-which, he noted, she enjoyed. Her unalloyed delight in the dance, something she’d permitted him to see, had to him been a subtle pleasure.

It was also a significant advance from where he had been when he’d first fixed his eye on her; then he hadn’t been able to see past her shield. Now…in moments like this, he glimpsed the woman behind it clearly.

With every fresh insight she grew more intriguing.

After one swift glance over the heads, he took her arm. “I believe it’s time for supper. Shall we?”

Her brows rose a little at his clear expectation of her agreement, but then she inclined her head. Her next words told him why. “The boys told me you’d formed some new gentlemen’s club in London. If they had it right, one with a rather unusual purpose.”

He smiled. And set about distracting her.

In that he was surprisingly successful; between her questions and his answers, ranging over the Bastion Club and its members, the true nature of his past service to the crown, Dalziel and his office, they progressed through supper in earnest conversation, sufficiently engrossed to discourage others from joining them. As they strolled back into the corridor leading to the ballroom, Gervase couldn’t recall a supper he’d enjoyed more.

Why he found her, of all females, so easy to talk to he didn’t know, yet her quick wits and the breadth of her understanding had allowed him to speak freely of topics he normally eschewed.

That had been another subtle pleasure, just being able to relax and speak without thought. Without censoring his words.

Perhaps it was dealing with her brothers that had left her so patently unshockable. So calm, so grounded.

Around her he felt anchored in a way he never had, not with any other, not at any time.

“This Dalziel,” she said. “You’re quite sure he’s right, and there is one last traitor somewhere in the government?”

Taking her arm, he turned her away from the ballroom. “Yes. If you met Dalziel you’d understand, but quite aside from the fact he’s the last person to invent things, we-the rest of us-have seen evidence that this last traitor exists. Jack Warnefleet got closest-he nearly caught the man’s henchman-but the traitor killed his man rather than allow him to fall into our, and Dalziel’s, hands.”

She walked beside him, looking ahead, puzzling over Dalziel’s nemesis and not really seeing. He knew that last was true; she made no demur when they reached a garden room and he opened the French doors giving on to it. Without comment, a faint frown on her face, she walked through.

“This traitor-what is known of him?”

“Another traitor suggested he had some connection with the War Office. Beyond that, the only physical description is of a tall, well-set-up, dark-haired gentleman of the ton.”

“Of the ton?” She whirled to face him as, having closed the door, he joined her.

He nodded. “He killed his henchman at a royal gala at Vauxhall. The only people who could obtain tickets were members of the ton, and the young lady who saw him was quite certain of his station.” He paused, looking into her eyes. “As Dalziel puts it, the last traitor is one of us.”

She looked stern-a severely disapproving Valkyrie. “No wonder he-Dalziel-is so determined to expose him.”

“Indeed. But enough of Dalziel.” His ex-commander had served his purpose. They stood alone in the garden room, well away from the ballroom. He reached for her.

Madeline blinked and glanced around; before she could do anything beyond register that they had somehow wandered down to Lady Moreston’s garden porch-a square room between two others, wall-less on one side and so open to the garden with a pair of slim ivory columns framing the view-she was in Gervase’s arms.

Recalling his fell purpose-and her opposition-she braced her hands on his chest and pushed back to glare at him. “You distracted me.”

The accusation made him smile. “I did. I admit it.” Holding her fast within one arm, he raised his hand, and brushed the pad of his thumb across her lower lip. Leaving it throbbing. Then his eyes, dark in the weak light, lifted to hers. “And now I propose”-his hand shifted; his long fingers framed her jaw and tipped it up as his lips lowered to hers-“to distract you even more.”