“No,” Tamsyn said, unconvinced. She could well imagine Gareth's approaching Julian with a hearty masculine laugh and a wink and the invitation to share the juicier aspects of his liaison. But she could as well imagine Julian's response, and if Gareth could imagine it, too, then he would hold his tongue.
“Well,” she said, “that is one reason why I'm going back to Spain.”
“Do you think you'll marry Julian?” Lucy was frowning now, nibbling her bottom lip.
Tamsyn swivelled on the stool to face the mirror as she tied the crisp linen stock at her neck. “Do you think I'd make him a good wife?” she countered lightly.
Lucy didn't immediately reply, and Tamsyn wished she hadn't asked. Then Lucy said, “If you love him, then of course you would. Do you?”
“Yes.” She turned back to the room. “But I doubt your brother thinks I would make an appropriate Lady St. Simon.”
“Well, you are rather… well, rather unlikely,” Lucy said slowly. “But I don't think that should make any difference.”
Tamsyn shrugged into her jacket. A full description of exactly how unlikely she was would require several hours of explanation that Lucy would find hard to credit. “Mistresses usually don't become wives,” she said casually. “Lucy, I have to run an important errand, so you must excuse me. I'll see you at dinner.” She went to the door and opened it invitingly.
“Where are you going?” Lucy, with obvious reluctance, prepared to leave the room. “Shall I accompany you?”
“No, because I intend to ride Cesar, and there isn't a horse in the stable that you can ride that would keep up with him.” Tamsyn smiled to soften the statement. Lucy was a dreadful horsewoman, and Tamsyn suddenly vividly remembered the moment outside Badajos when Cesar had shied and the colonel had grabbed her bridle. She'd been furious, and he'd explained that he was used to being on the watch when riding with his sister.
Lucy pulled a face but didn't argue further. “I'll see you later, then.”
“Yes.” Tamsyn waved from the door as the other woman trailed rather mournfully down the corridor to her own room.
Tamsyn closed the door with a sigh of relief and began to gather things together.
Copies of the documents Cecile had given her went into the pocket of her cloak; the locket was around her neck, as usual. The original documents were hidden in a jewel cask in the armoire. She thrust her pistol into the waistband of her skirt and strapped knives to each calf over her britches.
She didn't expect this meeting with Cedric Penhallan to turn: violent. But just in case, she was prepared, both physically and mentally. Her head was clear, her heart cold and determined and filled with vengeance. She was going to drop like a bolt from the blue into the vicious, orderly world of Cedric Penhallan. And she was going to claim her mother's diamonds as the price of her silence. It could be called blackmail, of course, if one was being a particularly fussy stickler for ethics, but she was dealing with an attempted murderer… and goodness knows what other crimes he'd committed in the interests of ambition throughout his long career. It was simple justice. And besides, the diamonds belonged to her.
An inconvenient little voice trilled that Julian would say it was still blackmail, however you painted it. But he was safely in London and never going to find out.
Josefa came bustling in as she was putting on her hat, a rather dashing tricorn. The Spanish woman was wreathed in smiles and hadn't stopped smiling since they'd returned with the glorious news that they were going home. She rushed around the room, picking up Tamsyn's discarded afternoon gown, scolding her nurseling for her untidiness, but her smile unwavering.
“Josefa, I'm going for a ride, if anyone wants to know. I'll be back by five o'clock at the latest.” Tamsyn planted a kiss on one shiny round cheek and left the room, running down to the stables.
Five minutes later she was on the road to Lanjerrick.
She and Gabriel had ridden over one afternoon a few weeks before, to get a sense of the extent of the Penhallan estates, but they hadn't entered the grounds. The gray stone house stood on a promontory overlooking St. Austell Bay and was easily seen from the road. It was a house of turrets and gables, with a steeply pitched roof and transomed windows. Tamsyn had taken an instant dislike to it, finding it forbidding after the soft, golden warmth of Tregarthan.
She turned through the stone gate posts and rode up a weed-infested drive. Apprehension and excitement prickled along her spine as she left the road behind her and rode deeper into Penhallan land. This was Cecile's home, the place where she had spent the years of her growing. Had it changed much in the last twenty years? Had she missed it much? Tamsyn realized she'd never given that question any thought. Cecile had always seemed so joyful in her life that it was hard to imagine she had any regrets. But perhaps sometimes she had thought of her childhood home with nostalgia, as Tamsyn thought now with an ache of longing of the mountain villages and the icy peaks of her own childhood.
The drive opened out into a gravel sweep, and the house loomed, ivy covered, the stonework cracked in places, its windows curiously blank, like blind eyes. It struck Tamsyn as strange that a man as rich and powerful as Cedric Penhallan should neglect his property. When
Cecile had talked of Lanjerrick, she'd described its magnificence, the grand parties, the weekend shooting parties, the endless stream of guests. But there had been women in the house then. Now there was only Cedric and the vile twins. Presumably they didn't notice the air of neglect.
She rode boldly up to the front door and dismounted. As she did so, the door opened and a liveried flunkey in an old-fashioned powdered wig stepped out. “'You have business here?”
“Yes, I'm come to call upon Lord Penhallan,” Tamsyn said cheerfully, tethering Cesar to the stone pillar at the base of the steps leading up to the front door.
The flunkey looked momentarily nonplussed. Taking advantage of his uncertainty, Tamsyn swiftly mounted the steps. “Would you announce me to the viscount?” Without waiting for a response she pushed past him and stepped into the hall. An expanse of black and white marble tiles stretched to the staircase, and light came from a series of arched diamond-paned windows along one wall. As she stood looking around, curiosity now superseding her apprehension, a pair of greyhounds leaped out of nowhere and raced past her.
“Walters, what the devil are you doing?” An irascible voice rasped from the rear of the hall. “Close the bloody door, man, before the dogs get out.”
The door banged shut behind her, and the two dogs sloped back into the shadows.
“Who in the name of the good Christ are you?” the same voice demanded. Cedric Penhallan came forward, glaring into the gloom. Then he stopped as he saw his visitor clearly.
Tamsyn raised her head and looked her uncle full in the face as she had done at the party at Tregarthan. She saw, as then, a choleric countenance, flat black eyes, a shock of iron-gray hair, a beaky nose above a fleshy mouth. A massive, powerful frame beginning to run to fat. Her scalp lifted as she felt that aura of menace flowing around him, and for the first time she felt fear.
Cedric stared at her. The minutes passed, and the only sound in the room was the scratch of a dog's claws on the tiles. “Who are you?” His voice was suddenly quiet, a strange light enlivening his hard eyes. He knew the answer but he wanted it spoken.
Tamsyn stepped closer to him on a sudden surge of exultation, banishing her fear. He knew and yet he couldn't believe what he was seeing. “Good afternoon uncle.”
“Good God, it's St. Simon's doxy!” Before Cedric could respond, the slurred voice of Charles Penhallan came from the stairs. He held a wineglass in one hand and his eyes were unfocused. “Look what we've got here, David. The little whore's come back for more.” He laughed and came down the stairs, only then seeing his uncle.