The Many Sins of Cris De Feaux (Lords of Disgrace) Page 7

  He was a man who knew about these things, she was sure. Elegant, sophisticated widows probably indicated their availability to him on a daily basis when he was not stuck in the wilds of Devon. And there was the rub. Sophisticated. Tamsyn hooked the latch with her riding crop and let Foxy push the gate open, then reined back to hook it closed again. She could attend the local assemblies at Barnstaple or Bideford looking perfectly respectable and well dressed. She would receive a gratifying number of requests for dances, she was never short of a supper partner, but none of those gentlemen had one-tenth of the poise or finish that Cris Defoe possessed. And while she entertained with confidence and knew she had nothing to be ashamed of in her education or her manners, her social skills had never been tested in a London drawing room.

  Which was not really the problem, Tamsyn told herself as she urged Foxy into a canter across the level ground of the headland. Put her in a drawing room with a duchess and she was sure courtesy and imagination would see her through. But how did one go about indicating one’s availability to a man, other than by coming right out and stating one’s desires? Or dressing immodestly?

  She’d had to do neither with Jory. One day she had bumped into him as she came running across the meadow, late for tea because of a difficult encounter with Franklin. They had clung together, breathless. He had been laughing until he saw the tears she was fighting not to show. They had been old friends, comfortable together. And then their eyes had met and the laughter in his had died, and the comfort was replaced by something that was not at all cosy or familiar, and the next thing his mouth was on hers and…

  ‘Mizz Tamsyn!’ It was Willie, hailing her from the far gate, his battered old hat pushed far back so his weathered face was clear to see. He looked grim, but he raised a smile for her as she drew close. Behind him he had the sheep penned under the watchful eye of his black and white Border collie, Thorn.

  ‘A bad business, Willie.’ She stayed where she was, not wanting to disturb the remains of the flock any more than she had to.

  ‘Aye, it is that. And deliberate, too. The hurdle was dragged out of the gap and thrown aside. There’s no way it could have been pushed out by the sheep, or blown by the wind.’

  ‘I know, you always wire it back into the gap when it isn’t being used to move the flock.’ She saw him relax a little. ‘Does anyone recognise the dog?’

  ‘No, it’s not from round here. Scrawny, mean-looking beast, but not mad, I reckon.’

  ‘Someone brought it in, especially?’

  ‘Aye, that’ll be it. Someone got a grudge, Mizz Tamsyn? Folks is starting to talk, what with the ricks and all that. Isn’t anyone local—you know that. We all owe too much to you and the ladies, and no one forgets Jory Perowne, not round here.’

  ‘No, it isn’t a grudge, Willie. I think someone is out to scare us, though. Tell people to look out for strangers, will you?’

  ‘We will that.’ He grinned suddenly, exposing his tobacco-stained teeth. ‘Not likely to be yon merman you fished out, that’s for sure.’

  ‘He’s no merman, Willie. Just a gentleman who got caught in the current when he was swimming.’

  ‘Ha! Fool thing to be doing, that swimming lark. They do say that folks are visiting Ilfracombe specially to get in the sea in wooden huts on wheels and they pay to be ducked by hefty great females. Pay good money! What they be wanting to do that for, Mizz Tamsyn? ’Tis foolishness.’

  ‘Some doctors say seawater is good for you, Willie.’

  ‘Huh! Good for drowning in, more like.’

  ‘Well, they must find something good about it, given how hard it is to get to Ilfracombe with the roads like they are.’

  ‘That what yon gentleman was doing, then? Sea bathing for his health?’ He nodded, obviously pleased that he had solved the mystery. ‘He’ll be some weedy invalid then, all spindleshanks and a cough.’

  ‘Not quite.’ Tamsyn managed not to smile. There was absolutely nothing spindly about Cris Defoe. ‘But he will be staying with us for a while longer. For his health.’

  ‘Will he now?’

  Tamsyn knew the tone. It could be roughly interpreted as, Some of us will take a look at him and we’ll sort him out proper if he’s up to anything with Jory Perowne’s widow. She appreciated their loyalty, but there were times when the fact that the whole close-knit community knew everyone’s business made her want to scream with frustration.

  ‘Yes, he will. Now, do you think we ought to pay some of the lads to watch the animals at night for a while?’

  ‘Good idea.’ Willie, distracted from the thought of a strange man under the Barbary Combe House roof, leaned his elbows on the gate and settled down to a discussion of who was reliable and whether one lad alone was more reliable than two or three, all egging each other on for mischief.

  *

  Cris stood up and, now that he was alone, permitted himself the indulgence of a long, slow stretch. His muscles were still sore across his shoulders and deep in his thighs, but the walk uphill had done them good. By tomorrow he would be himself again, and now he needed to walk, stride out and work up a sweat and distract himself from the memory of a pair of amused brown eyes and the novelty of a woman who seemed to say exactly what she thought.

  Why that was arousing he was uncertain, and he was not sure he wanted to explore why that should be. It was bad enough, every time he got close to her, to find himself imagining her naked under him as the surf pounded on the beach and the sun beat down hot on his back. The fantasy had kept him awake in the small hours of the night, too. It felt disloyal to Katerina, it disturbed his conscience and it was discourteous to his hostess.

  Cris surveyed the rough track that led onwards towards the head of the valley. It looked challenging enough to drive any thoughts of sex out of his head for a while. How the blazes Collins had got the carriage over this road without breaking an axle was a minor miracle, he decided as he jumped a particularly evil pothole. He had thought the roads to Hartland Quay were bad enough, but this area appeared to have had nothing done in the way of road-making since before the Romans.

  By the time he walked into the village he had taken off his coat, his body felt warm and limber and he had worked up a healthy thirst. There had to be an alehouse hereabouts. He surveyed the main street, which forked where he stood, the other arm presumably running to his right down to the quayside. The road was lined on both sides with single-storey cottages, some thatched, some with slate roofs. The whitewashed walls bulged and looked as though they were made with clay, but the quality improved slightly as the street rose from the fork, with a few two-storey dwellings, a public house with a faded sign showing a galleon in full sail swinging outside it, a shopfront and, rising behind the rooftops, the stumpy grey tower of the church.

  Cris shrugged on his coat again and turned to walk up to the Ship Inn. The street was roughly cobbled, with narrow slate pavements raised on either side and, although he could see no signs of prosperity, neither did it look poor or neglected. A woman came out and emptied a pot of water into a trough of flowers that stood beside her door, stared openly at him, then went inside again, shooing a small child in front of her.

  Two more women came down the street, baskets on hips, skirts kirtled up to show their buckled shoes and a glimpse of ankle. They smiled at him as they passed and broke into shy laughter when he doffed his hat. He kept it in his hand as he ducked under the low lintel of the inn door. ‘Good day, gentlemen.’

  The half-dozen men in the taproom fell silent, stared at him with the calm curiosity he was beginning to expect, then there was a murmur of greeting before they went back to their ale. He heard the click of dominoes from the table next to the window. The big man behind the bar counter waited, silent, as Cris made his way between stools and settles, then nodded. ‘Good morning, sir. What can I do for you?’

  ‘A pint of your best, if you please.’ Cris leaned one elbow on the bar and half turned, letting the others take a good look at him. ‘Is this cider country?�
�

  ‘No, sir. Nor hops, neither, so we’ve no beer. We brew our own ale. Or there’s brandy,’ the landlord added.

  ‘Your ale sounds just the thing at this hour.’

  The brandy, no doubt, was French and smuggled. Cris picked up the tankard that was put in front of him and took a long swallow, then a more appreciative mouthful. ‘A good brew.’

  ‘Aye, it is that.’ The man nodded, unsmiling, well aware of his own worth. He went back to polishing thick-bottomed glasses and Cris drank his ale and waited.

  Finally one of the dominoes players slapped down the winning tile and shifted in his seat to look across to the bar. ‘You be the gennelman down at Barbary?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘Mizz Tamsyn fished you out the sea, is what we hear.’

  ‘She found me staggering out and the ladies were kind enough to let me recover at their house.’

  ‘Huh. Swimming. Don’t hold with it, just makes drowning last longer.’

  ‘It certainly seemed to go on a long time,’ Cris agreed, straight-faced, provoking laughter from the other tables. ‘I was most grateful to the ladies. Popular landowners hereabouts, I imagine.’

  ‘Miss Isobel is that and all. A proper lady, for all that she’s a bit scatty sometimes. Miss Rosie does a power of good for the school, too, poor lady, despite her afflictions. But Mizz Tamsyn makes certain it all runs right and tight.’ There was a murmur of agreement round the room.

  ‘They’re having a difficult time just now, I understand. Rick fires, the sheep over the cliff.’ Around him the dim room fell silent. Cris took another swallow of ale and waited.

  ‘Nothing that won’t get sorted. Mizz Tamsyn’s one of ours now.’ There was a warning in the voice from the shadows.

  ‘What manner of man was her husband?’ Now the silence was tangible, thick.

  ‘Another one of ours,’ the dominoes player said, putting down a tile and placing both formidable fists on the table. ‘We look after our own. No need for strangers to get involved.’

  It was said pleasantly enough, but the threat was quite plain. He was an outsider, this was not his business and if he continued to probe they would assume the worst and take action. He couldn’t blame them for it, for all that it made life damnably difficult. Time to change the subject. ‘Fishing good at the moment?’

  As he spoke the latch on the door beside the bar snicked up and Dr Tregarth walked through, rolling down the cuffs of his shirt, bag under one arm. ‘Your daughter will be fine now, Jim. It was a clean break. Just make sure she puts no weight on that leg until I say so or it will grow out of line. Now, where did I put my coat?’

  ‘Here, Doctor.’ The innkeeper produced it from behind the bar. ‘I’m rightly glad to hear it ain’t worse, given that she went down the stairs top to bottom. The little maid was crying fit to break her heart. What do I owe you?’

  ‘A jug of ale and my noon meal will suit me just fine.’ He shrugged into the coat. ‘I’ve got to go down to the Landing, but I’ll be back directly.’

  ‘Old Henry’s rheumatics, that’ll be,’ the other dominoes player remarked.

  ‘There’s no privacy to be had around here,’ the doctor said, turning with a grin, then saw Cris. ‘Mr Defoe. How the blazes did you get up here?’

  ‘Good day to you, Dr Tregarth. I walked.’

  ‘Sore?’

  ‘Some,’ Cris returned, equally laconic. ‘Exercise eases it, I find, once I get going.’

  ‘First mile’s the worst, eh?’ Tregarth made for the door. ‘I’ll be back for that slice of pie, Jim. Make sure these rogues don’t eat it all.’

  ‘I’ll walk with you, if you’ve no objection.’ Cris laid a coin on the bar. ‘Thank you, landlord. Good day, all.’

  Outside, they walked in silence for a few yards. ‘That will have provided more excitement than the last pedlar in the village a month ago,’ the doctor remarked as he turned downhill. ‘You’ll be a major source of gossip and speculation for many a day.’

  ‘More interesting than wondering how a strange dog got into Mrs Perowne’s flock on top of a chapter of other incidents?’

  ‘You’ve heard about that, then?’ The other man’s voice was carefully neutral.

  ‘I have. Do you have any theories?’ Cris ducked under a washing line slung across the street.

  ‘As you say, a chapter of accidents.’

  ‘I said incidents, not accidents.’

  ‘At the risk of sounding rude, Mr Defoe, what concern is it of yours?’ The doctor reached out the hand not encumbered with his medical bag, seized a runaway toddler by the collar and passed him back to his pursuing, breathless, mother. ‘He’s in fine form, Mrs Pentyre.’

  Cris tipped his hat to the mother, sidestepped the struggling child. ‘The ladies at Barbary Combe House may well have saved my life. It is clear something is wrong and, as a gentleman, I owe them my help.’

  ‘And you know about agricultural matters?’ Tregarth enquired. There was more than a hint of warning in his tone.

  ‘Some. I know more about plots and sabotage, scheming and secrets.’

  ‘And no doubt I wouldn’t get a straight answer if I asked how you came by that knowledge. Mrs Perowne is an attractive lady.’

  They had cleared the last cottage and the street bent into a rough track. Cris sidestepped sharply, forcing the doctor into the angle of the wall and a gate. ‘Are you suggesting that I have dishonourable intentions towards the lady, Tregarth? Because if so, I am quite willing to take offence.’

  Chapter Seven

  Cris watched the other man’s eyes darken, narrow, and wondered if he was about to be asked to name his seconds. He knew he was being hypocritical because his thoughts, if not his intentions, were downright disgraceful as far as Tamsyn Perowne was concerned, but if he did not react he risked damaging her reputation with one of the pillars of the local community.

  ‘Naturally, if you give me your word, sir.’

  ‘That I do not wish Mrs Perowne harm? You certainly have my word on that, although as you do not know me from Adam, I am not sure how you judge the worth of the assurance.’ What the devil was wrong with him? If he was observing this encounter, he would assume he was trying to force a fight on Tregarth, as though they were rivals for Tamsyn.

  Oddly, the doctor relaxed. ‘I trust you. Judging character is one of the tricks we medics must acquire, just as a horseman learns how to judge an unreliable animal. You, sir, have an odd kick to your gait, but I judge you are not vicious.’

  ‘Thank you, for that,’ Cris said drily, stepping back. He thought he had found an ally. Tregarth straightened his coat and they fell into step, as far as the surface of the track would allow. ‘Miss Holt has a nephew.’

  ‘The charming Lord Chelford. An acquaintance of yours?’

  ‘I have encountered him in London. I would trust him as far as I could throw him. Possibly rather less if he had a deck of cards in his hand.’

  Tregarth laughed. ‘I suspect Tamsyn would say the same.’ There was an awkward silence as the doctor realised he had used her first name. Cris did not comment, but noted it. ‘He pressed her to marry him, quite persistently, and did not like getting no for an answer.’

  ‘Before she married Perowne?’

  ‘Then—and again after she was widowed. The first time she took refuge in marrying Jory, the second she had the iron in her soul and she sent him packing with no help from anyone.’

  ‘Where did the iron come from?’

  They rounded another bend and the land to the south fell away, giving a view of the sea and another towering headland. Tregarth nodded towards it. ‘Black Edge Head. For a woman to see her husband hunted to his death it’s either going to break her, or temper her steel.’

  ‘He jumped from that?’ Cris stared at the sheer face, the sea crashing at its foot, the snarling rocks. ‘That is a long way down to regret an impulse.’

  ‘Jory Perowne did not work on impulse. He was a realist and no coward. A man can dangle for
half an hour on the gallows if the authorities are determined to make him suffer and Perowne had his pride. He would never have let them take him alive and jumping from there certainly made an impression.’

  ‘And that old fool of a magistrate really thought he had to check that a strange man under Mrs Perowne’s roof was not her husband? After he went over there in front of witnesses?’

  ‘They never found the body and Jory was a legend. He had charisma, magic. No one would be surprised if he walked dripping out of the sea one dark night. Cornwall has King Arthur and, of late years, we had Jory Perowne. But if he does come back it will be as a ghost. Enough men saw him hit those rocks to know he died that day.’

  Tamsyn had chosen marriage to a brigand who sounded like a swashbuckling rogue from the last century rather than submit to a man who would have given her status and title, if not happiness. She had survived seeing her husband’s horrific death and lived with the consequences, and now she supported and protected two charming, and apparently unworldly, ladies. She ran an estate, kept a tart tongue in her head and she kissed like an angel. Cris was beginning to wonder who needed protection from whom.

  *

  ‘But where is he?’ Aunt Izzy enquired plaintively for the fourth time. ‘I cannot believe you simply abandoned the poor man like that and rode off, Tamsyn. Why, he might be collapsed in a ditch from exhaustion.’

  ‘I did not abandon him, he is not a poor man and there are no ditches anywhere around there.’ Exasperated, Tamsyn eyed the walking cane she had picked up when she rode home past the fallen tree. ‘He was walking perfectly well and he can hardly get lost around here. He will turn up when he wants his luncheon, I have no doubt. He is a man, after all.’ There was no doubt about that either. She braced her shoulders against the sensual little shiver that ran through her at the thought. She should tell them that Cris Defoe had exaggerated his weakness in order to have an excuse to stay there and protect them, but she suspected Aunt Rosie would be indignant and that Aunt Izzy would make a hero out of him.