The Defiant Lady Pencavel (2 page)

“You should really do something about that woman. The laws say you can correct your wife, but nothing about her correcting you,” Griffin admonished. Females should be kept firmly in their place or they tended to spiral out of control—though meek girls bored him, he must admit. That temperamental Italian mistress had kept his interests for nearly two years, then she’d demanded marriage. Aware he couldn’t wed such a lower-class woman, they’d parted amicably enough after monetary compensation. He’d never loved her. He doubted he was capable of such an emotion, except when it came to his family.

“What I was about to say is, a missive arrived for ‘ee.” Jacca held out a sealed letter. “Looks important, it does.”

“How are my affairs? Soon I’ll be off to London to consult with my man of business and I want to be aware of any details I should be apprised of. Have the deplorable estate taxes risen again?” Griffin took the letter without glancing at it.

“Naw, sir.” His bailiff flipped open an account book. “An’ everythin’ runs smoothly at your properties, as always. The sheep produce well, the wool good an’ selling in West Riding at them new manufactories.”

“Ah, the manufactories. They’re putting the cottage industries out of business, people out of work and on parish relief.” Griffin leaned against his large desk, unbuttoned his frock coat, and slapped the ignored letter across his knee. “And the aristocracy, such as I, fund the parish relief, which is the least we can do.” He tapped the letter, still not looking at it. “I encourage progress, but it hurts the common people.”

“Ess, it does. As far as smooth running of affairs, our nocturnal dealin’s be an entire different matter.” Jacca winked his un-bruised eye, but it barely stirred his craggy features.

“My man of business is well-acquainted with our secret transactions, as you well know.” Griffin warmed at the idea of the risks he took. Danger kept life exhilarating. A reason to rise from bed each morning, especially now that the house was lonelier after his mother and father’s unfortunate accident at the manor chapel when an embossed ceiling beam had fallen on them during prayer three years past—and his younger brother’s death in the Austrian Netherlands the year before that. Griffin stiffened against the carved edge of the desk. He hated to dwell on such losses.

He sighed and glanced at the letter’s seal. A fancifully executed P was pressed into the red wax. He fought down a grimace.

Jacca watched him carefully. “You look a bit pale, if I may be so bold. Bad news?”

“I’m anticipating unwelcome,
or
if I could be hopeful, a refusal from this party on something agreed to many years ago.” Griffin broke the seal and read. His stomach sank as if he’d swallowed a lead ball. He’d put this arrangement into the recesses of his memory, and now it stared him in the face like a pregnant tavern wench accusing him of paternity. “Deuce it all. The Earl Pencavel is forcing my hand.”

Chapter Two

Melwyn twirled in the middle of the spread-out circle of stones that thrust up like granite sentries from the heather on the Bodmin Moor. “I wish I had magic powers and could fly off to Greece, or rather first to Italy, free from distasteful contracts made when I was too young to protest.”

A curlew flapped overhead as if mocking her in flight.  

“We all has our duties to bear, don’t we? Me more an’ ‘ee.” Clowenna stood off to the side, the wind off the moor tugging at her scarf. “‘Tis a mite cold out here, m’lady, an’ my gloves be not as warm an’ fine as yours.”

“I’ll buy you new gloves at Michaelmas. Don’t servants, or most uneducated people, believe in the power of the stones?” Melwyn teased with a wry grin. She scrutinized a nearby quoit, six supporting stones with a capstone that formed an internal chamber. “This was built in the early Neolithic period, about 3500 BC, and it’s thought it was originally covered by a mound.”  

“Looks like a pile o’ rubble to me.” The maid hunched in her spenser jacket. “Learned or no, some ancient fools had too much time on their hands.”

Melwyn inhaled the damp air and held her cloak close. “But we’re Cornish. This is part of our heritage. I was always fascinated by the megalithic long cairns and these stone circles.” At first, she’d used such interests to ignore the deterioration of her parents’ marriage—her mother’s neglect of her—then a burning concentration took over.

“Then why Italy? Why not dig about here in our homeland?”

“I want to broaden my horizons, if I can evade my abysmal
intended
.” Melwyn surveyed the standing stones to redirect her thoughts. “The Hurlers are supposed to be a group of men frozen in stone by St. Cleer for playing sports on the Lord’s day.” She’d climbed them as a girl, now she studied their mystery. Who had placed them here and why? She pointed at two isolated, tall thin stones. “Those are called the Pipers.”

“I see no pipes, nor lips to play ‘em.” Clowenna rubbed her upper arms. “Don’t ‘ee quality hate superstition?”

“Alas, we do.” Melwyn’s shoulders sagged. “We’re supposed to lead by example. But I need moments of mirth. Lord Lambrick could be here any day to devour me.” She shivered, from that inevitability and the cold breeze. “Why are men allowed to remain unmarried, roam and cavort, but women are not?” She faced the weak sun. “I’m hoping to burn my face, acquire freckles, so the viscount will be repulsed by me.”

“Too early in the year for that, m’lady.” Clowenna wrapped her scarf close. “An’ blather on at the poor sod, that should do it.”

“You’re right, my shrew of an abigail, and I mean that in the kindest way.” Melwyn laughed, chasing her qualms like marbles about inside her. “After all, I can refuse him since the indenture was made while I was underage. I just hate to disappoint Papa yet again.” If only she had a wise mother to turn to for advice. However,
her
mother would have encouraged her to shag a servant.

That distant twinge of regret wriggled through her.

A footman dressed in the silver and blue embroidered coat and knee-breeches of the Pencavel livery ran over the heather in their direction. He doffed his bicorn hat. “Your father has had word. The viscount should be here by tomorrow, my lady.”

Melwyn swayed then hardened with affront. “I will face him without fear, and disappoint him from the moment we meet.”

“Oh, la. I have no doubt o’ that. I could use a cup o’ tea.” Clowenna groaned and turned toward home. “What if he be a nice gent, what then?”

Melwyn took a deep breath as she stepped along the rocky ground where the first sprigs of meadow sweet sprang up. “Then he will be deterred all the more faster.” She prayed he wouldn’t be too nice; even her relentless determination should have its limits.

****

Clowenna jerked the laces of Melwyn’s stays tighter. She exhaled in a whoosh as the whale bones dug into her flesh through her cotton chemise. “Ooof. I feel like a sausage. I’ve heard that in France they’ve stopped wearing corsets or any underwear.”

“And they’re also lopping heads from bodies, so we shouldn’t follow none o’ their choices.” Clowenna tied the laces. She helped Melwyn slip on her claret-colored gown with fringed stomacher. “This be a bold hue for a late afternoon, m’lady.”

“I wish to impress Lord Lambrick with my, let’s say, fiery persona.” Melwyn laughed, though inside she dreaded this meeting. Her stomach knotted. “He’s come here to peer at the horrid mistake he’s made, being the son of father’s close friend, and probably agreeing to this union three sheets to the wind after several glasses of port.”

“Try not to be too offensive. Show your father what fine breedin’ ‘ee has.” Her abigail pulled the hot curling iron from the flames in the fireplace and primped at her mistress’s chignon. “Or should o’ had.”

“An example of the usual schooling, embroidery, painting, pianoforte, and oh, the fact her mother is living in sin with a servant? That sort of breeding, do you mean?” Melwyn preened in the cheval mirror; she did cut a fine figure. Her bosom swelled from the bodice like two creamy orbs. “We women are taught to be useful but not too intelligent.”

“‘Tis true. But please gentle your words in his lordship’s company.” Clowenna wrapped a white silk handkerchief around Melwyn’s throat. “This will make ‘ee look a mite pure an’ hide your bubbies.”

“If I’m to impress him as a future wife, shouldn’t I show off my womanly charms?” Melwyn removed the silk and tossed it on her bed. “Or he’ll think I’m a wanton of the first order and scuttle away.”

“Don’t scandalize him with no talk o’ diggin’ for relics, m’lady.” Clowenna refolded the scarf, shaking her head in resignation.

“Why must women have to pretend to be simple-minded to please men? I’m proud of my expertise in the romance languages, which will help me on the continent.” It chafed her to be in “polite” society. Talks of fashion (well, she did enjoy fashion now and then), the Prince of Wales’ disastrous marriage to Caroline of Brunswick, or tittering over a man’s silly jokes, irked her. Anything with boundaries felt suffocating. Is that how her mother had felt? 

Melwyn left her room and hesitated at the top of the staircase. She trembled in anticipation. Lord Lambrick had arrived last night, after she’d retired. Now she’d come face to face with this man who years earlier hadn’t seemed such a threat to her happiness.

Her father stood in the hall with a tall stranger. The gilt bronze chandelier above them flickered with many candles.

“And here is my lovely, so gently bred, daughter.” Her father turned, his gaze hopeful on that issue, along with the slim man beside him.

Gliding down the stairs, she took stock of their guest. He had dark brows and the striking eyes she’d remembered. His black hair was tied back in a queue, his face lean and handsome—though he reminded her of someone you wouldn’t care to meet alone on a remote path.

He made a slight, almost mocking, bow as he assessed her. His tailored buff frockcoat and breeches fit him like a glove. He showed well-built legs in white silk stockings, his buckled shoes polished.

“Lord Lambrick, may I present my daughter, Lady Melwyn Pencavel.”

Melwyn gave a shallow curtsy. He didn’t look impressed and that annoyed her, while also giving her hope he’d refute her. “I suppose I’m honored to meet you, sir.”

“As am I to see you again, my lady.” His deep voice sounded cold, which caught her off-balance. Still, this was what she’d prayed for. “Griffin Lambrick, at your service. It has been a long while since we’ve met.”

“An Incredibly long and unpredictable time, I’d imagine.” She gave him a fleeting smile. “Things change, people change, don’t you agree?”

“Good manners should never change. Shall we have refreshment in the parlor?” Father ushered them into that room with its ornate plaster ceiling, upholstered furniture and small walnut tables—a neglected place where ladies once sipped tea. He poured them glasses of sherry.

“How have you busied yourself all this time, my lord?” Melwyn sipped the sweet beverage. “During all these years you’ve never bothered to revisit here? Not that I minded in the least.” Yet she might have discouraged him that much sooner.

“A bold question, is it not?” He looked amused, for an instant. He had a few lines around his eyes and on his brow, his skin sun-burnished. No pasty-faced man of quality was he. “I have numerous interests, and estates to manage.”

“Do you not pay someone to manage them for you?” She gave him a wide-eyed look of innocence. However, his close contemplation unnerved her, and she disliked the feeling. “Certainly you’d never tax your own exertions.”

“Melwyn, my dear,” Father cautioned. “If you will please refrain from such–”

“Sorry, Papa, but talk of niceties tires me.” She wished she could dissemble, after seeing her parent’s sad expression. She fingered the intricate grooves in her crystal glass. “We might discuss Dr. Jenner’s recent discovery, the small pox vaccination.”

“Ah, a well-read girl, how refreshing.” Lambrick’s tone was satirical. “And what do you do, other than hone your rapier tongue, to busy yourself, my lady?”

She was relieved Lambrick didn’t fawn over her, or make false compliments. “I ride, read, travel when I can. Soon, I intend to visit the excavations in Pompeii, Italy.”

“That is out of the question, my dear,” her father groaned. “Ladies do not make such excursions, unless with family or a
husband
.”

“What do you know about excavations, Miss Pencavel?” Lambrick narrowed his eyes.

“I also follow the events across the channel. The bloody Terror, as it was called, two years past, in 1794.” She was taken aback by his sharp inquiry, and decided to change the subject.

Her father’s eyes widened farther in dismay. He pulled his Bilston enamel snuffbox from his waistcoat pocket. “Uh hem, as you can see, Lord Lambrick, my daughter is familiar with the news
and
the latest classical fashion from France, although she seems to have dressed for the opera tonight. Let us hope that is all those frog-eaters import. They should never have murdered their king in the name of republicanism.”

“They murdered the king because he tried to escape, and incriminating letters to his wife’s Austrian relatives were found in his possession.” She paced toward the ornate, marble hearth, certain Lambrick would board the first coach out of the district now.

“You are well informed, my lady. Perhaps too much so.” Lambrick’s eyes twinkled. Had she made a mistake and impressed him?

“My beautiful daughter is really quite adept at...was it cooking, no, sewing, doubtful...?” Her father scratched his head in quandary.

“I’m capable at anything I wish, and far from being a silly schoolgirl.” She turned, fringe swinging, and stared at the faded rectangle on the wall where her mother’s portrait used to hang. Father had finally removed it last year. She blew out her breath “I can learn as well as any man.”

“I may have allowed her too much access to the lending library.” Papa fumbled with the snuffbox lid painted with a bucolic setting. “How are affairs at your estate here in Cornwall, your lordship?” He took a pinch of snuff. “Merther Manor, near Padstow? A grand place I once visited often, where
any
woman would be proud to preside over.”