The Many Sins Of Cris De Feaux

Bachelors for life!

Friends since school, brothers in arms, bachelors for life!

At least that’s what The Four Disgraces—

Alex Tempest, Grant Rivers, Cris de Feaux and Gabriel Stone—believe. But when they meet four feisty women who are more than a match for their wild ways these Lords are tempted to renounce bachelordom for good.

Don’t miss this dazzling new quartet by

Louise Allen

His Housekeeper’s Christmas Wish

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His Christmas Countess

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The Many Sins of Cris de Feaux

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And don’t miss

The Unexpected Marriage of Gabriel Stone

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Author Note

When I started to tell Cris and Tamsyn’s story I had a very clear image of how it would begin and also just where it would be set—on the wild and rugged coast where North Devon and North Cornwall meet. I have known and loved this coastline, with its towering cliffs, secret coves and tales of smugglers, since I was a child.

All of the towns mentioned are real—as is Hartland Quay, where Cris’s adventure begins—but the villages are imaginary, although based on the places where I spent many happy hours. I also borrowed Hawker’s Hut on the cliffs at Morwenstow—possibly the National Trust’s smallest and most charming property—for Tamsyn’s secret hideaway. If you search online for images, they will give you a vivid picture of this lovely setting.

I do hope you will enjoy the story of how Cris de Feaux, the least likely of the Lords of Disgrace to lose his head and his heart, meets his match in one very independent Devon lady with a scandalous past.

The Many Sins

of Cris de Feaux

Louise Allen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

LOUISE ALLEN loves immersing herself in history. She finds landscapes and places evoke the past powerfully. Venice, Burgundy and the Greek islands are favourite destinations. Louise lives on the Norfolk coast and spends her spare time gardening, researching family history or travelling in search of inspiration. Visit her at louiseallenregency.co.uk, @LouiseRegency and janeaustenslondon.com

For the Quayistas, in memory of a very cheerful week’s research.

Contents

Cover

Lords of Disgrace

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Cris de Feaux was drowning. And he was angry. The realisation of both came with the slap of a wave of icy salt water in the face and he shook it out of his eyes, cursing, while he came to terms with the fact that he had swum out from the little cove without thinking, without stopping to do anything but shed his clothes on the rocks and plunge into the breakers.

It had felt good to cut through the surf out into deep water, to push his body hard while his mind became mercifully blank of anything except the co-ordination of arms and legs, the stretch of muscles, the power of a kick. It had felt good, for once in his life, not to consider consequences, not to plan with care and forethought. And now that indulgence was going to kill him.

Was that what he had wanted? Eyes wide with shock, Cris went under, into a watery blue-green world, and kicked up to the surface, spitting and furious. He had fallen in love, unsuitably, impossibly, against all sense and honour. He knew it could never be, he had walked away before any more damage could be done and now his aimless wanderings across England had brought him here, to the edge of North Devon and the ocean.

Which was about to kill him, unless he was very lucky indeed. No, he did not want to die, however much he ached for what could never be, but he had swum too far, beyond the limits of his strength and what he could ask of his hard-exercised horseman’s body.

Use your head, he snarled at himself. You got yourself into this mess, now get yourself out of it. You will not give up. I am not killing myself for love.

He studied the shore between sore, salt-crusted lids. High cliffs, toothed at their base with jagged surf-lashed rocks, mocked him, dared him to try to land and be dashed to bloody death. But there were little coves between the headlands, he knew that. The current was carrying him south-west along the line of the shore so he would go with it, conserve his strength until he saw a point to aim at. Even in those few minutes as he hung in the water it had already carried him onwards, but he dared not risk just lying there, a passive piece of flotsam on the flow. It might be the first day of June, but the sea was strength-sappingly cold. He could hardly feel his legs, except for the white-hot pain of over-extended muscles and tendons. His shoulders and arms felt no better.

The wind shifted, slapping the water into his face from a different angle. There. Above the nearest towering headland, a drift of something against the blue of the perfect sky. Smoke. Which meant a house, a beach or perhaps a jetty. Swim. Ignore the pain. Dig down to every last ounce of strength and then find some more. Whatever it was that eventually killed the fifth Marquess of Avenmore, it was not going to be a hopeless love and a lack of guts.

Time passed, became simply a blur of pain and effort. He was conscious, somewhere in the back of what was left of his consciousness, that he could not stay afloat much longer. He lifted his head, a lead weight, and saw land, close. A beach, breakers. It seemed the scent of wood smoke and wild garlic cut through the salt for a second. Not a mirage.

But that is. In the moment of clarity he thought he saw a woman, waist-deep in the water, thick brown hair curling loose on her shoulders, calling to him, ‘Hold on!’

Mermaid... And then his body gave up, his legs sank, he went under and staggered as his feet hit sand. Somehow he found the strength to stand and the mermaid was coming towards him, her hands held out. The water dragged at him, forcing his legs to move with the frustrating slowness of dream running. The sand shifted beneath his feet as the undertow from the retreating wave sucked at him, but he struggled on. One step towards her, then another and, staggering, four more.

She reached for him as he took one more lurching step and stumbled into her, his hands grasping her shoulders for balance. Under his numb hands her skin was hot, burning, her eyes were brown, like her hair. There were freckles on her nose and her lips were parted.

This was not a mermaid. This was a real, naked, woman. This was life and he was alive. He bent his head and kissed her, her mouth hot, his hands shaking as he pulled her against him.

She kissed him back, unresisting. There was the taste of woman and life and hope through the cold and the taste of salt and the hammering of the blood where his hands rested against her throat.

The wave broke against his back, pushing them both over. She scrabbled free, got to her feet and reached for him, but he was on his feet now, some last reserve of strength coming with that kiss and with hope. He put his arm around her waist and lifted her against him.

‘I do not require holding up—you do,’ she protested as they gained the hard sand of the beach, but he held on, stumbling across the sand, over stones he could not feel against his numbed soles. Then, when they reached the grass, his legs finally gave way, and he went down again, hardly conscious that he was falling on to rough grass and into oblivion.

* * *

Tamsyn stared down at the man at her feet, Adam-naked, pale, tall, beautifully muscled, his hair slicked tight to his head, his face a mask of exhaustion and sheer determination even in unconsciousness. A sea god, thrown out of his element.

You could not live on this coast for long without knowing what to do when someone was near drowned. Tamsyn did not hesitate, for all that her head was spinning and an inner voice was demanding to know what she thought she had been doing just then in his arms. She threw all the towels she had over the still body, then her cloak, dragged her shift over her head and set off at a run up the lane that sloped up past the front lawn of her aunts’ house on the left and the steep flank of Stib’s Head on the right, shouting for help.

‘Mizz Tamsyn?’ Johnny, the gardener, came out from the woodshed, dropping the armful of logs when he saw her. ‘What’s amiss?’

She clung to the gatepost, gasping for breath. ‘Get Michael and a hurdle. There’s a man down at the shore, half-drowned and freezing cold. Bring him back here and keep the cloak over him. Hurry!’

Her aunts’ cook just stared as she burst into the kitchen. ‘Get Mrs Tape, tell her we need blankets and hot bricks for the couch in the bathing room.’

She made herself stop in her headlong dash and open the door into the bathing room more slowly so as not to alarm her aunts. They were there already; Aunt Rosie, tight-lipped with pain, had just reached her armchair after the slow walk from her bedchamber, supported between Aunt Izzy and Harris, her maid. Steam was rising from the big tub, where she took the two long soaks a day that were the only remedy that eased her crippled joints. All three women looked up.

‘Tamsyn, dear, your clothes...’ Izzy began.

‘They are bringing a man up from the beach, he needs to get warm.’ Tamsyn plunged her hands into the water, winced. ‘Too hot, it will be agony, I’ll let some out and run in cold.’ She moved as she talked, yanking out the plug, turning on the tap. ‘I’m sorry, Aunt Rosie, but I think he will die if we don’t do something drastic. I’ve never felt anyone so frozen.’ Except for his mouth. ‘I’ve sent Cook for Mrs Tape and blankets, we’ll have to use the couch in here for him.’

‘Yes, of course. Izzy, Harris, never mind me—help Miss Tamsyn.’ Rosie was all practicality as usual. ‘Hot bricks, do you think? And lots of towels. Warm them by the range and then they can go on the bed to wrap him in, you must keep replacing them as they cool.’ The urgency animated Rosie’s face, even as she frowned in anxious thought. ‘Poor creature, a fisherman, I suppose.’

‘I’m heating that beef broth.’ Cook bustled in and held the door open. ‘Here they come. There’s a lot of him, that’s for sure.’

Johnny and Michael had clearly sent for help, for along with them Jason, the groom, had one corner of the hurdle while Molly, the maid of all work, and skinny little Peter, the odd-job boy, struggled with the other.

Over six foot of solid, unconscious man was indeed a lot, Tamsyn realised, as they lowered their burden to the floor. She checked the water—warm, but not hot—and pulled the cloak and towels from him. Aunt Izzy gave a squeak, Cook sucked in her breath and Molly murmured, ‘Oh, my...’

‘For goodness’ sake, stop having the vapours, all of you. Haven’t you seen a naked man before?’ As she spoke she realised that the aunts probably hadn’t, even if Cook and Molly had quite active social lives and she... Never mind that now. ‘Lift him up and lower him into the water.’

That brought him round. Cursing, the stranger flailed at the men’s hands as he was lowered into the big tub until only his head was above the surface. ‘What the hell?’ His eyes opened, red-rimmed from the salt. ‘Damn, that hurts.’ Tamsyn saw him focus on her, then his hands moved convulsively under the water to cover himself.

‘Not you, too,’ she scolded, dropping a large towel strategically into the tub. ‘It doesn’t matter in the slightest that you are stark naked. No one is looking and we need to get you warm.’

‘I apologise for my language.’ The words came out in a mumble through chapped lips that set into a tight line as he closed his eyes.

‘That is of no account either. I know this is painful, but we need to warm you.’ A sharp nod was his only answer, so Tamsyn reached into the water, took his right hand and began to chafe it. ‘Molly, you rub his other hand. And, Harris, could you help Miss Pritchard back to her room? You had best go, too, Aunt Izzy.’

‘Nonsense, we will stay right here.’ Aunt Rosie was as brisk in her manner as she was slow in her movements. ‘Johnny, ride for Dr Tregarth.’

‘Don’t need a...’ Cris began.

‘You be quiet, young man. Do as you are told and stop wasting your energy.’

Across the tub Tamsyn met Molly’s amused gaze. She doubted whether the man under their hands, who must be about thirty, had been addressed like a stubborn schoolboy for quite some time. He was exceedingly handsome in a severe way and very blond now that his hair was drying patchily. She shuffled along on her knees, dipped her hands into the water and felt for his feet, which recoiled at the touch, bringing his knees above the water and a small tidal wave slopping over the edge.

‘I’m sorry if you are ticklish. Can you bear it if we add more hot water?’

‘Yes. And not ticklish,’ he muttered. ‘Taken by surprise.’

And aren’t you cross about that, my merman? He was not used to being at a disadvantage, Tamsyn suspected. Certainly he was unused to his body not being under his complete control. She stood up to reach for the hot tap, hoping the supply of hot water would last. As she leaned across him he opened his eyes and looked directly at her.

Tamsyn realised she was wearing nothing but a linen shift that clung to her wet body in a manner that was barely decent and was probably thoroughly unflattering into the bargain. And not only was the stranger looking at her, but the room was full of male staff and a lad who certainly shouldn’t be exposed to the sight of the youngest lady of the house in such a state. She topped up the hot water and picked up the cloak from the floor with an assumption of ease. ‘I’ll just go and put on something...warmer. Keep chafing his hands and feet. Oh, there you are, Mrs Tape—can you make up the couch as a bed and get it warm, please? I’ll be back in a minute.’ She fled.

It was a perfectly calm and collected exit, on the outside. But it was flight nevertheless. Her hands were shaking as she stripped off the shift, sponged the salt from her skin as rapidly as she could, heedless of drips and splashes. Her hair, curly and wayward at the best of times, was resistant to having the salty tangles combed out, but the pain as the comb snagged and pulled was a welcome distraction.

The stranger surely wouldn’t recall that they had kissed in that hot, open-mouthed exchange of life and...well, desire on her part, she might as well face it. She couldn’t pretend it had been shock and that she had been merely passive. She had kissed him back, she knew she had. Goodness only knew what had made him kiss her. Delirium, maybe?

He probably wouldn’t recall being dumped stark naked into a large vat of warm water with an interested audience of most of their household, male and female, either. He would be lucky to survive this without catching an inflammation of the lungs, and that was what she ought to be worrying about, not wondering what had come over her to feel a visceral, dizzying stab of lust for a total stranger.

He had a beautiful body and she had seen it, all of it, and she was not made of stone. She was, after all, the notorious Tamsyn Perowne of Barbary Combe House and she might as well live up to it, once in a while.

But that was quite enough scandal for one day. The gown she pulled from the clothes press was an ordinary workaday one with sleeves to the elbow and a neckline that touched her collarbone. She twisted up her plait, stabbed a few hairpins into it and topped it with a cap. There, perfect. She gave her reflection a brisk nod in the mirror. No one in history ever had inappropriate thoughts while wearing a cap, surely?

* * *

When she re-entered the bathing chamber the couch was heaped with pillows, towels and blankets. Mrs Tape was wrapping bricks in flannel and the aunts had retreated behind the screen. Molly was up to her elbows in the tub, rubbing the stranger’s feet with what Tamsyn decided was unnecessary enthusiasm.

‘That will do, Molly. I think we had best transfer the gentleman to the couch.’

‘We?’ It came out as a croak. He opened his eyes, narrow slits of winter-sea blue. Perhaps she had over-estimated the likelihood of him forgetting anything.

‘Jason and Michael, help the gentleman out and to the couch. Come, Molly, behind the screen with you.’ She shooed the maid along in front of her and grimaced at her aunts. Aunt Izzy was looking interested, although anything from the mating habits of snails to the making of damson jam interested her. Aunt Rosie wore an expression of mixed amusement and concern.

‘Did he say anything while I was changing?’ Tamsyn whispered while splashing, grunting and muffled curses marked the unseen progress from tub to couch.

‘Nothing,’ Aunt Izzy whispered back. ‘Except, when we added more hot water, some words in a foreign tongue we do not know. They sounded...forceful.’

‘Perhaps he is a foreigner.’

‘I do not think so.’ Aunt Rosie pushed her spectacles further up her nose. ‘He looks English to me and definitely a gentleman, not a fisherman, so goodness knows what he was doing in our bay. He reminds me of a very cross archangel. So very blond and severe.’

‘Are you acquainted with many archangels, dear?’ Aunt Izzy teased. ‘And are they all English?’

‘He is how I have always imagined them, although I have to confess, he does require a pair of wings, shimmering raiment and a fiery sword to complete the picture and I do not think he is looking quite at his best, just at the moment.’

‘Excuse me, ladies, but the gentleman is in bed now.’ Michael, their footman, stepped round the screen, his hands full of damp towels. ‘I brought one of my own nightshirts down for him. It’s not what he’s used to, I’ll be bound, but it’s a clean one.’

‘Excellent. Thank you, Michael. Now, if you could just drain the tub and refill it for Miss Pritchard I’ll set the screen around the bed and everyone can be private.’

‘All the hot water’s gone, Miss Tamsyn. Jason’s gone to stoke up the boiler.’

‘In that case, if you’ll help me through to the front parlour, Michael, I’ll rest in there.’ Aunt Rosie put one twisted hand on the footman’s arm. ‘I have no doubt our visitor would appreciate some peace and quiet.’

Tamsyn left Aunt Izzy and Molly to accompany Rosie on her painful way to the front of the house, straightened her cap, and, hopefully, her emotions, and went to see how her patient was.

He opened his eyes as she approached the bed. ‘Thank you.’ They had propped him up against the pillows, the covers pulled right up under his armpits, but his arms were free. His words were polite, but the blue eyes were furious.

‘Do not try to speak, it is obviously painful. Have they given you anything to drink yet? Just nod.’

He inclined his head and she saw the beaker on the edge of the tub and fetched it over, sniffed the contents and identified watered brandy. ‘Cook will bring you some broth when you feel a little stronger. Sip this. Can you hold it?’ He did not look like a man who was taking kindly to being treated like an invalid, whether he was one or not. His long fingers closed around the beaker, brushing hers. The touch was cold still, but not with the deadly chill his skin had held before.

Tamsyn went to fuss with the screen, pulling it around the bed so he wouldn’t feel she was staring at him if he fumbled with the drink. She would find some warm water in a moment so he could bathe his sore eyes.

The beaker was empty when she turned back and she took it from his hand, disconcerted to find those reddened eyes watching her with a curious intentness. Surely he does not remember that kiss? She willed away both the blush and the urge to press her lips to his again. ‘What is your name, sir? I am Tamsyn Perowne and the two other ladies are Miss Pritchard and Miss Isobel Holt.’

‘Cri... De...’

She leaned closer to catch the horse whisper. ‘Christopher Defoe? Are you a connection of the writer? I love Robinson Crusoe.’ He shook his head, a sharp, definitive denial. ‘No? Never mind. Whoever you are, you are very welcome here at Barbary Combe House. Rest a little and when the doctor has been in I will fetch the broth. In fact, that sounds like him now.’ The sound of raised voices in the entrance hall penetrated even the heavy door. ‘And someone else. What on earth is going on?’ She had barely reached the other side of the screen when the door opened and Dr Tregarth strode in, speaking angrily over his shoulder to the man who pushed through after him.

‘Don’t be a fool, Penwith. Of course this isn’t Jory Perowne. The man went over Barbary Head on to the rocks two years ago, right in front of six dragoons and the Revenue’s Riding Officer. He was dead before you could get a noose around his neck and he certainly hasn’t walked out of the sea now!’

‘That’s as may be, but he was a tricky bastard, was Perowne, and I wouldn’t put it past him to play some disappearing game. And I’m the magistrate for these parts and I’ll not take any chances.’

Squire Penwith. Will he never give up? Tamsyn stopped dead in front of the man, hands on hips, chin up so he could not see how much his words distressed her. Stupid, vindictive, blustering old goat. She managed not to actually say so. ‘Mr Penwith, if you can tell me how a man can go over a two-hundred-foot cliff on to rocks and survive the experience I would be most interested to hear.’ That glimpse of the shattered, limp body in the second before the waves took it... She hardened her voice against the shake that threatened it. ‘My husband was certainly a tricky bastard, but I have yet to hear he could fly.’

Chapter Two

So, his mermaid in a dowdy cap was a widow, was she? Cris winced as the cracked corner of his mouth kicked up in an involuntary smile at the sharp defiance in her voice, then the amusement faded as the other man, the magistrate, began to bluster at her.

‘He wasn’t the only tricky one in this household. I wouldn’t put it past the pair of you to have rigged up some conjuror’s illusion—and don’t open those big brown eyes at me, all innocent-like. I know the smuggling’s still going on, so who is running it if your husband’s dead. Eh? Tell me that.’

‘Smuggling’s been a way of life on this coast since man could paddle a raft, you foolish man.’ Cris liked the combination of logic and acid in the clear voice. ‘Long before Jory Perowne was born, and for long after, I’ll be bound.’ Mrs Perowne spoke as though to a somewhat stupid scholar.

‘Don’t you call me a fool, you—’

‘Penwith, you must not speak to Mrs Perowne in that intemperate manner.’ That was the doctor, he assumed.