The Many Sins of Cris De Feaux (Lords of Disgrace) Read online

  ‘Yes, here it is. He says that the dealer has put the pictures into his own strong room until we decide what to do about them. I really think it would be best to go and talk to this Mr Masterson and get all the details, don’t you? He may have advice about looking after them.’

  But… No, she couldn’t just sit there mouthing the same word over and over. Tamsyn made herself look at the issue objectively. The aunts had their large and capable bodyguards and she was certain that if she asked him, Dr Tregarth would call in daily. She had strengthened the security on the farm and the livestock. It would be sensible to talk to the dealer about the paintings now that they knew what a responsibility they were. She might even find out more about Franklin and whatever mess he had got himself into. Which left the real reason she did not want to go to London—Cris was there.

  Coward. ‘Yes, I will go,’ she found herself saying before she could think about it any more. ‘I will go to London.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘Excellent,’ Aunt Rosie said. ‘You deserve a holiday, my dear, and you will enjoy London.’

  Will I? Tamsyn had her doubts, starting with the risk of encountering Cris, through qualms about her lack of familiarity with society beyond the local gentry and assemblies at the nearby towns, to the prospect of making the longest journey she had ever attempted.

  She mentally stiffened her spine and told herself not to be feeble. She could do this. ‘Will you write at once, Aunt Izzy, and say I would be delighted to come for a week? And I will send a note to the Golden Lion in Barnstaple and book a seat on the stage for the day after tomorrow.’

  ‘I will say a month,’ Aunt Izzy said from her seat at the writing desk. ‘It is too far to make a week’s stay worthwhile. The roads are better than the last time I went to London, but they are still poor as far as Tiverton, so you will be a good two days on the road, besides having to set out from here the day before to stay at the Golden Lion. You had best take Harris with you, you can’t go staying at inns by yourself and we can manage with Molly. I can always get in more help from the village if necessary.’ Purposeful now the decision had been made, she was writing rapidly as she talked.

  Tamsyn went to her own desk and wrote a note for the doctor, then another to the inn to reserve a room and two inside seats on the stage, and finally a list of things to do that took up three sheets of notepaper. It was not until she fell into bed that night with a grateful sigh that she realised that she had not thought about Crispin de Feaux for at least eight hours. That seemed like a small, but significant, victory.

  *

  Tamsyn swam up through clouds of sleep into a pale blue light and, for a moment, had no idea where she was. She fought her way upright against a heap of pillows, looked around and remembered. She was in London. Had arrived yesterday afternoon and had been swept into the warmth of Lady Pirton’s welcome.

  ‘My dear Tamsyn! May I call you Tamsyn? Such a pretty name. Welcome to London!’

  Her hostess, in a flurry of silken skirts, had come across the drawing room, hands outstretched as Tamsyn collected her scattered and travel-tossed wits and executed a respectable curtsy, trying not to stare like a yokel at the elegance of Lady Pirton and her drawing room. ‘Lady Pirton, thank you for your invitation.’

  ‘Harriet, dear. Why, we are almost cousins, are we not? Now then, are you exhausted? What would you like best? A nice bath and your bed? A little something to eat? A walk in the fresh air? You must tell me just what would suit you.’

  ‘A bath, something to eat and my bed, Cousin Harriet,’ Tamsyn had admitted honestly. ‘I do apologise, but I have to confess that the room is jolting up and down and I forget when I last had more than a few hours’ sleep together.’ And when she had closed her eyes it had been to fall into a restless doze, full of anxious dreams about the aunts and disturbingly erotic fantasies of Cris.

  As she had travelled, grown more weary of the jolting, crowded coach, the hectic, grubby inns, the constant need to look out for their possessions and to find their way in unfamiliar places, she had felt both her uncertainty about what to do deepening but her determination to do something about Franklin strengthening.

  ‘You are a heroine for even attempting a stagecoach journey of that length,’ Cousin Harriet said with a shudder. ‘Now, up to your suite and I will send my woman to look after you. I have no doubt yours is in as much need of a rest as you are.’

  And now it was full morning, judging by the light. A bell pull hung by the bed and she tugged it, wary of just who might appear and hoping it would not be Cousin Harriet’s very superior lady’s maid, Fielding, who had helped her into her bath, unpacked her battered valises and had refrained with crashing tact from showing any reaction to her workaday, unfashionable wardrobe.

  But, thank goodness, it was Harris who came in, neat as a pin as usual and looking as rested as Tamsyn felt. ‘How are you feeling, Harris?’

  ‘Much better, Mizz Tamsyn. Sorry—madam, I should say.’ Harris wrinkled her nose. ‘Lord, but they’re a starched-up lot below stairs, for all they’ve made me very comfortable. All precedence and Miss Fielding this and Miss Harris that. And a butler called Pearson with a poker up his—yes, well, you know what I mean.’

  Tamsyn snorted with laughter and felt better. ‘It is all very grand, is it not? What is the time?’

  ‘Eight o’clock, madam. Her ladyship says, would you care for breakfast in your chamber or will you join her in the breakfast parlour in half an hour?’

  ‘I’ll go down, I can’t lie about in my room any longer.’ Tamsyn slid out of bed. ‘It will have to be the green morning dress, I think, Harris. It is the better of the two.’

  *

  Cousin Harriet was just entering the breakfast parlour as Pearson, the stately butler, showed Tamsyn to the door. She managed to say, ‘Thank you, Pearson’, without giggling over Harris’s pungent description of him and took her seat.

  ‘Now then, what would you like to do, my dear? I have all kinds of suggestions, but this is your visit.’ Lady Pirton heaped her plate from the buffet with an enthusiasm that belied her slender figure and gestured to Tamsyn to help herself.

  ‘I have a few errands, and some shopping for myself and my aunts, but you must tell me how I might be of use to you, Cousin Harriet.’

  ‘By keeping me company and letting me come shopping with you. I miss my darling Julia and you must stop me moping and keep me young. Now, what are your errands?’

  ‘There is a picture dealer I must visit on behalf of Aunt Isobel and a shopping list of alarming proportions for both her and Aunt Rosie—I suspect I will be visiting every bookshop in London.’

  ‘And dress shops for yourself?’ Lady Pirton buttered another slice of toast and reached for the strawberry conserve.

  ‘Yes, I fear my wardrobe is hopelessly out of date and provincial,’ Tamsyn confessed. ‘Not that we have an extravagant social life in Devon, but I would like something pretty for the occasional assembly and certainly for local dinner parties. And perhaps a new riding habit and a walking dress or two.’ She looked down at her sprigged green skirts. ‘And a morning dress.’

  ‘And shoes and shawls and all the trimmings. Excellent.’ Lady Pirton beamed. ‘And I have invitations to some select little parties you will enjoy, so I suggest we visit my modiste first so she can make a start and then we can go to your art dealer and the bookshops. You won’t need to dress up for either of those.’

  Which implies that I’m not yet fit to be seen in any of the fashionable lounges like Bond Street or Hyde Park, Tamsyn thought with an inward smile.

  *

  The visit to the modiste, who proved to be the famous Mrs Bell, much to Tamsyn’s alarm, was thoroughly embarrassing. She was stripped down to her plain and functional underwear, which was tutted over, then she was measured, peered at, discussed and turned around like a doll in the hands of a group of little girls.

  ‘I think I might… Do I really need…? But how much…?’ All was ignored until she pull
ed herself together, put up both hands and said, ‘Stop, please! I need to know how much each garment will be before I commit myself. And I most certainly do not require a ball gown.’ It was not as though she could not afford a new wardrobe, but her practical soul revolted at the idea of wasting her money on things she did not need and would never use.

  Finally she escaped with an order that satisfied both practicality and a purely feminine desire for a few frills and furbelows that were, perhaps, not entirely necessary.

  ‘That is a reasonable start,’ Cousin Harriet commented as they took their places in her smart town carriage with its hood down.

  Tamsyn tried hard not to stare about her like a yokel. Bond Street, Albemarle Street, fashionable squares and elegant town houses. And the traffic…and the people and the noise. By the time they reached the pleasant side street close to Grosvenor Square she was both dizzy and exhilarated and had to calm herself down in case she let slip too much slip in front of Cousin Harriet when they entered the dealer’s shop.

  Fortunately the older woman appeared to think that Aunt Izzy was thinking of selling the paintings and therefore took herself off discreetly to one side to study a Fragonard while Tamsyn spoke to the dealer.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Perowne, they are undoubtedly by Rubens. I took the precaution of seeking a second opinion from an expert who considers them excellent, although small. If your aunt wishes to place them on the marketplace, I would be happy to act as her agent.’ His eyes gleamed, presumably, Tamsyn thought, with the prospect of the commission.

  ‘The disposal is not entirely in my aunt’s hands,’ she said carefully. ‘Will you be able to keep them securely for a few more weeks? Would there be a charge for that?’

  ‘As I am acting on behalf of the Marquess of Avenmore in this matter, and he is an excellent customer of mine, it would be entirely gratis, ma’am, I assure you.’

  It niggled at her pride to be beholden, yet again, to Cris, but common sense told her this was the safest place. All she had to do now was to try to think of a way of dealing with Franklin, which was proving as hard here in London as it had in Devon. With a mental shrug, Tamsyn allowed herself to be swept off by Cousin Harriet for more shopping. The important thing, she assured herself, with half an ear on Harriet’s discourse on the best place to buy ribbons, shawls and lace, was to keep calm, and then a solution would present itself.

  *

  Three days later the only things that presented themselves were a pile of dress boxes from Mrs Bell, Lady Pirton’s coiffeuse to give her a fashionable crop and an alarming pile of invitations.

  ‘Now that your hair has a modish touch and you are outfitted in style, what is to stop you from going to parties? Lady Ancaster’s informal supper dance tomorrow will be just the thing. It will not be a crush, the food and music will be excellent and Hermione’s little gatherings are always delightfully unstuffy.’

  *

  ‘Hermione’s little gathering’ appeared to consist of about two hundred beautifully dressed people all talking at the top of their voices. Tamsyn told herself that she, too, was beautifully dressed, in sea-foam-green net over matching silk with cream lace at neck, sleeves and hem. She had borrowed pearls at her neck and in her earlobes and a simple ribbon threaded through her smart new crop. She found her smile and her poise and lunged into the throng.

  *

  Half an hour later her hair ribbon slipped. ‘Just through the arch on the left,’ Harriet advised. ‘Then down the passageway and you’ll find the ladies’ retiring room. I won’t have moved far when you come back.’

  Tamsyn found the arch and then discovered three possible passages. She took the left one at random, rounded a corner and walked into the back of someone large, solid and male.

  ‘I do beg your pardon, sir.’ He turned. ‘Oh. Lord Edenbridge.’

  Behind Gabriel a tall blonde girl with lovely blue eyes put her hand to her mouth, turned and hurried away.

  ‘Come back!’

  The young woman stopped, looked back with something close to despair in her eyes.

  ‘Don’t be a fool. You don’t have to marry him and you don’t have to…damn it, I’ve burned the thing.’

  ‘A promise is a promise,’ the blonde said, chin up. Tamsyn recognised someone holding back tears by sheer pride and willpower. ‘But if you do not want me—’ She shrugged, turned and walked away.

  What on earth was that all about? Tamsyn eyed Gabriel’s furious expression and began to back warily away.

  ‘What in Hades are you doing here?’ he demanded as the brown gaze focused into recognition. ‘Does Cris know?’

  ‘Certainly not. I do not need Lord Avenmore’s permission to visit a relative.’

  ‘Come with me.’ He took her arm and swept her back into the main reception room and up to a handsome couple who were in the middle of what looked like a heated, but amiable, discussion.

  ‘Alex, Tess, stop bickering.’

  ‘But Alex says I must not cut my hair.’ The woman Gabriel had addressed as Tess turned deep-blue eyes on him. ‘And I want to be in the mode.’ She smiled at Tamsyn. ‘I want a crop like yours, with the curls at the front and long at the back. Who did it for you?’

  Tamsyn made a dab at her slipping hair ribbon as the man called Alex smiled at her apologetically. ‘Darling, we haven’t been introduced. You cannot interrogate people about their hairdressers without an introduction.’

  ‘Don’t be stuffy—’

  ‘Alex, Teresa, allow me to present Mrs Perowne,’ Gabriel cut in, earning a rap over the knuckles with Teresa’s fan. ‘Mrs Perowne, the Viscount Weybourn, Lady Weybourn. This,’ he said, turning to his friends and ignoring Tamsyn attempting to curtsy, ‘is the person I told you about. Cris’s problem.’

  ‘Gabriel,’ Lady Weybourn gasped.

  ‘I am no one’s problem,’ Tamsyn said hotly at the same time.

  ‘In here, I think.’ The viscount, smiling amiably, took Tamsyn’s arm with his right hand and a firm grip on Gabriel’s elbow with his left and walked with apparent casualness towards one of the small retiring rooms. Lady Weybourn came, too, muttering under her breath about overbearing men.

  The room was, thankfully, empty. Lord Weybourn, showing rather more decision than Tamsyn had assumed from his amiable appearance, promptly locked the door. ‘Now, what’s going on?’

  His wife took Tamsyn’s hand and urged her to sit next to her on the sofa. ‘Yes, what is going on? That was rude, even by your standards, Gabriel.’

  ‘Mrs Perowne is the widow of a smuggler who cheated the gallows only by a lethal leap from a cliff. She is embroiled in a feud with Lord Chelford and she has seduced Cris into a declaration of marriage in front of a courtroom full of yokels.’

  ‘They were not yokels and I have not seduced anyone,’ Tamsyn said, furious.

  Lord Weybourn studied her face, which she could feel was pink with anger. ‘No? I must say, I had not thought anyone was capable of seducing de Feaux against his will. I was about to congratulate you, ma’am.’

  ‘Cris is to marry you?’ Lady Weybourn caught Tamsyn totally off guard by planting a kiss on her cheek. ‘Kate and I told you he was in love,’ she added triumphantly to the two men.

  Who on earth is Kate? ‘No, he is not! At least, not with me. It was a ploy, because otherwise I was going to be accused of murder and he was establishing an alibi for me.’

  ‘Murder?’ Lord Weybourn sat down. ‘You told us that Cris had formed an unsuitable attachment—and I must say, coming from you, Gabe, that is rather rich—but you said nothing about the lady in question being a murderous seductress.’ His smile to Tamsyn was teasing and she realised he thought her neither of those things.

  ‘Cris might show the world a façade of ice, he might be a marquess and none of us have ever seen him put a foot wrong, but that does not mean he isn’t vulnerable and that when he is, that we don’t guard his back, just as he guards ours.’ For once Lord Edenbridge’s air of care-for-nothing cynicism had slipped and Ta
msyn found herself liking him for his fierce loyalty, if nothing else.

  She stood up. ‘If you are Cris’s friends, then ask him to tell you all about his time in Devon, but believe me, I want nothing to do with him, ever again. Will you kindly unlock that door, my lord?’ Stepping out into the crowded reception was like plunging into roaring surf. Tamsyn took a deep breath, fixed a smile on her face and went in search of the retiring room once again.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Cris regarded the stolid figure of the Bow Street Runner seated across the desk from him as he finished his description of the lying witness.

  ‘Thin, forgettable face and brown hair? Shabby, respectable and with an Essex accent? Aye, I know that one. What’s he calling himself, my lord?’

  ‘Paul Goode, solicitor’s clerk.’

  ‘That’s what he was before he went to the bad.’ Jem Clarke, the Runner, nodded, his satisfied smile holding a wealth of promises for Mr Goode. ‘I’ll be glad to lay my hands on Paul Gooding, which is what his real name is. What’s he done this time?’

  ‘Murder and perjury, for a start,’ Cris said.

  ‘Hanging crimes.’ The Runner was beaming now. ‘How strong is the evidence?’

  ‘The perjury, good enough. For the murder, I think we’ll need to trick a confession out of him and do that by confronting him with the man who paid him. And he, I fear, is a viscount.’

  ‘Tricky. The corners of the Runner’s mouth turned down, then he brightened. ‘But you’re a marquess.’

  ‘I am. Let me tell you the background to this.’

  *

  He was almost finished with the explanation when Dyson, his butler, scratched on the door and opened it just enough to slide inside. ‘I know you did not want to be disturbed, my lord, but Lord Edenbridge—’