The Many Sins Of Cris De Feaux

His thoughts could not have been visible on his face, given that she did not slap it. ‘The doctor said you were to stay in bed yesterday and you ignored him, so no wonder you are not feeling quite the thing this morning. If you have a tendency to bronchitis it is completely foolish to risk aggravating it and what is this about a painful back?’

Cris discovered that he did not like to be thought of as weak, or an invalid, or, for that matter, prone to bronchitis, which should be of no importance whatsoever beside the necessity of convincing Mrs Perowne that he should stay put in this house. His pride was, he realised, thoroughly affronted. That was absurd—was he so insecure that he needed to show off his strength in front of some country widow? ‘The merest twinge, and Collins exaggerates. It is only that I had a severe cold last winter.’

‘Oh, sir.’ The reproach in Collins’s voice would have not been out of place in a Drury Lane melodrama. ‘After what the doctor said last year. Madam, I could tell you tales—’

‘But not if you wish to remain in my employ,’ Cris snapped and they both turned reproachful, anxious looks on him.

‘Mr Defoe, please, I implore you to stay. My aunts would worry so if you left before you were quite recovered, and besides, we are most grateful for your company.’ There was something in the warm brown eyes that was certainly not pity for an invalid, a flicker of recognition of him as a man that touched his wounded pride and soothed it, even as he told himself not to be such a coxcomb as to set any store by what a virtual stranger thought of him. Before now he had played whatever role his duties as a not-quite-official diplomat required and it had never given him the slightest qualm to appear over-cautious, or indiscreet, or naïve, in some foreign court. He knew he was none of those things, so that was all that mattered.

But this woman, who should mean nothing to him, had him wanting to parade his courage and his endurance and his fitness like some preening peacock flaunting his tail in front of his mate. He swallowed what was left of his pride. ‘If it would not be an imposition, Mrs Perowne, I confess I would be grateful for a few days’ respite.’

‘Excellent. My aunts will be very relieved to hear it.’

‘They are not within earshot, then?’ he enquired, perversely wanting to provoke her.

He was rewarded with the tinge of colour that stained her cheekbones. ‘You reprove me for eavesdropping, Mr Defoe? I plead guilty to it, but I was concerned for you and suspected you would attempt to leave today, however you felt.’

Now he felt guilty on top of everything else and it was an unfamiliar emotion. He did not do things that offended his own sense of honour, therefore there was never anything to feel guilty about. ‘I apologise, Mrs Perowne. That was ungracious of me when you show such concern for an uninvited guest.’

‘You are forgiven, and to show to what extent, let me lead you through to the breakfast room and you may tell me what you think of our own sausages and bacon.’

Cris, ignoring Collins’s faint smile, which, in a lesser man, would have been a smirk, followed her into a sunny room with yellow chintz curtains and a view down the sloping lawn to the sea. ‘Should we not wait for your aunts?’

‘They always breakfast in their room.’ Mrs Perowne gestured to a seat and sat opposite. The centre of the table had platters of bread and ham, a bowl of butter and a covered dish. ‘Let me serve you, you will not want to be stretching to lift dishes.’ As she spoke she raised the dome and a tantalising aroma of bacon and sausage wafted out.

‘Thank you.’ He meekly accepted a laden plate and tried to work out the enigma that was Mrs Tamsyn Perowne. She was well spoken, confident, competent and a lady, even if she was decidedly out of the ordinary. She was distantly related to a viscount, but she had married a local man who had died one leap ahead of the noose.

‘That is a charming portrait on the wall behind you,’ he remarked. ‘Your aunts do not resemble each other greatly. Are they your mother’s relations or your father’s, if I might ask?’

‘Aunt Isobel is my mother’s cousin. Aunt Rosie is not a relation.’ Mrs Perowne shot him a very direct glance as though measuring his reaction. ‘They left home to set up house together when they were in their late twenties. It was—is—a passionate friendship, as close as a marriage.’

‘Like the famous Ladies of Llangollen?’

‘Yes, just like that. It was their inspiration, I believe. Are you shocked?’

‘No, not at all. Why should they not be happy together?’ Lucky women, able to turn their backs on the demands of society and its expectations. But daughters did not bear the same weight of expectation that sons did, especially elder sons, with the requirements of duty to make a good match, bring wealth and connections into the family, provide an heir to title and estates.

‘And you?’ he asked when she gave him an approving nod and turned her attention to a dish of eggs in cream. ‘What led you to make your life here?’

‘My father was a naval man and I cannot even recall his face. He was killed at sea when I was scarcely toddling. Mama found things very difficult without him. I think she was not a strong character.’

‘So you had to be strong for both of you?’ he suggested.

‘Yes. How did you know?’ The quick look of pleasure at his understanding made Cris smile back. She really was a charming woman with her expressive face and healthy colour. And young still, not much above twenty-five, he would estimate.

‘You have natural authority, yet you wear it lightly. I doubt you learned it recently. What happened to your mother?’

‘She succumbed to one of the cholera epidemics. We lived in Portsmouth and like all ports many kinds of infection are rife.’

‘And then you came here?’ He tried to imagine the feelings of the orphaned girl, leaving the place that she knew, mourning for her mother. He had lost his own mother when he was four, bearing the sibling he never knew. His father, a remote, chilly figure, had died when he was barely ten, leaving Cris a very young, very frightened marquess. Rigorously hiding his feelings behind a mask of frigid reserve had got him through that ordeal. It still served him well.

‘Do your duty,’ was his father’s dying command and the only advice he ever gave his son on holding one of the premier titles in the land. But he had found it covered every difficulty he encountered. Do your duty usually meant do what you least want to do because it was hard, or painful, or meant he must use his head, not his heart, to solve a problem, but he had persevered. It even stood me in good stead to prevent me sacrificing honour for love, he thought bitterly.

‘Aunt Izzy is a maternal creature,’ Tamsyn said. ‘She adopted Jory, she took me in.’ She slanted a teasing smile at Cris. ‘I think she sees you as her next good cause.’

‘Do I appear to need mothering?’

‘From my point of view?’ She studied him, head on one side, a wicked glint in her eyes, apparently not at all chilled by his frigid tone. ‘No, I feel absolutely no inclination to mother you, Mr Defoe. But you could have died, you are still recovering, and that is quite enough for Aunt Izzy.’ Having silenced him, she added, ‘Will you be resting today?’

‘I will walk. My muscles will seize up if I rest. I thought I would go along the lane for a while.’

‘It is uphill all the way for a mile until the combe joins Stib Valley, but there are several places to rest—fallen trees, rocks.’ Mrs Perowne was showing not the slightest desire to fuss over him, which was soothing to his male pride and a setback for his scheme to draw her out.

‘Will you not come with me? Show me the way?’

‘There is absolutely no opportunity for you to get lost, Mr Defoe. If you manage to reach the lane to Stibworthy, then by turning right you will descend to Stib’s Landing. Left will take you to the village and the tracks to either side will lead you to the clifftops.’

‘I was hoping for your company, not your guidance.’ Cris tried to look wistful, which, he knew, was not an expression that sat well on his austere features.

Tamsyn took the top off a boiled egg with a sharp swipe of her knife. ‘Lonely, Mr Defoe?’ she enquired sweetly.

Cris did not rise to the mockery. ‘It is a while since I had the opportunity to walk in such unspoiled countryside and have a conversation with a young lady at the same time.’

She pursed her mouth, although whether to suppress a smile or a wry expression of resignation he could not tell. ‘I have to go and see our shepherd about the...incident yesterday. I am intending to ride, but I will walk with you up the combe until you tire, then ride on from there. There is no particular hurry, the damage has been done.’

Cris wondered whether she was as cool and crisp with everyone or whether she did not like him. Possibly it was a cover for embarrassment. After all, he had come lurching out of the sea, stark naked, seized hold of her and then kissed her, neither of which were the actions of a gentleman. But Tamsyn Perowne did not strike him as a woman who was easily embarrassed. She had an earthy quality about her, which was not at all coarse but rather made him think of pagan goddesses—Primavera, perhaps, bringing growing things and springtime in her wake.

It was refreshing after the artificiality of London society or the Danish court. There, ladies wore expressions of careful neutrality and regarded showing their feelings as a sign of weakness, or ill breeding. Even Katerina had hidden behind a façade of indifferent politeness. And thank heavens, for that, Cris thought. Self-control and the ability to disguise their feelings had been all that stood between them and a major scandal. Mrs Perowne could keep secrets, he was sure of that, but she would find it hard to suppress her emotions. He thought of her spirited response to the magistrate, the anger so openly expressed. Would her lovemaking be so passionate, so frank?

It was an inappropriate thought and, from her suddenly arrested expression, this time something of it had shown on his face. ‘Mr Defoe?’ There was a touch of ice behind the question.

‘I was thinking of how magnificently you routed that boor of a magistrate yesterday,’ he said.

‘I dislike incompetence, laziness and foolishness,’ she said. ‘Mr Penwith possesses all three in abundance.’

‘Doubtless you consider me foolish, almost getting myself drowned yesterday.’ If she thought him an idiot she was not going to confide in him, and unless she did, it was going to be more difficult to discover what was threatening the ladies Combe. Not impossible, just more time consuming and, for all he knew, there wasn’t the luxury of time.

‘Reckless, certainly.’ She was cutting into her toast with the same attack that she had applied to beheading the egg. ‘I suspect you had something on your mind.’

‘Yes,’ he agreed. ‘That must be my excuse.’

‘Mr Defoe.’ She laid down her knife and looked directly at him across the breakfast table. ‘It is easy to become...distracted when we are hurting. It would be a mistake to allow that distraction to become fatal. There is always hope. Everything passes.’

She thinks I was trying to kill myself. The realisation hit him as he saw there was no smile, no teasing, in those brown eyes. Then he saw the ghost of something besides concern. Pain. She is speaking of herself. When her husband died did she want to die, too?

‘I know. And there are responsibilities and duties to keep one going, are there not? I was angry with myself for my lack of focus, Tamsyn. I have no desire to find myself in a lethal predicament again because I have lost concentration.’

Cris realised he had called her by her first name as her eyebrows lifted, giving her tanned, pleasant face a sudden look of haughty elegance. She was not a conventional beauty, but he was reminded again what a very feminine creature she was, for all her practicality. ‘I apologise for the familiarity, but your concern disarmed me. May we not be friends? I do feel we have been very thoroughly introduced.’

Tamsyn laughed, a sudden rich chuckle that held surprise and wickedness and warmth even though she blushed, just a little. ‘Indeed we have... That moment in the sea. I do not normally...’

‘Kiss strange men?’ Now she was pink from the collarbone upwards. ‘If it is any consolation, I do not normally kiss mermaids.’ That made her laugh. ‘It felt like touching life when I thought I was dying.’

‘It was an extraordinary moment, like something from a myth. You thought I was a mermaid, I thought you were a merman, Christopher.’

‘Cris,’ he corrected. ‘St Crispin, if we are to be exact.’

‘“And Crispin Crispian shall ne’er go by, from this day to the ending of the world, but we in it shall be remember’d,”’ she quoted, visibly recovering her composure. ‘Your parents were Shakespearian enthusiasts? Or is your birthday October the twenty-fifth?’

‘Both. My father was much given to quoting Henry V. “Once more unto the breach, dear friends.” He would mutter it before anything he did not want to do, such as attending social gatherings.’

‘How infuriating for your mother.’

‘She died many years ago, in childbirth. My father was shot in the shoulder in a hunting accident and developed blood poisoning.’ He stopped to calculate. ‘It was nineteen years ago, the day before my tenth birthday.’ He would not normally speak so openly about their deaths, but he wanted Tamsyn to talk of her husband’s fatal plunge from the cliff and his frankness might encourage hers.

‘I am so sorry. You poor little boy, you must have been so alone. I was ten when I lost my mother to that epidemic, but at least I had the aunts.’

‘There were many people to look after me.’ Four trustees, one hundred servants, indoor and outdoor. There had been three tutors, a riding master, a fencing master, an art master, a dancing master—all dedicated to turning out the young Marquess of Avenmore in as perfect a form as possible.

‘I am glad of that,’ Tamsyn murmured. ‘Now, some more coffee before we take our walk?’ She passed him the pot, a fine old silver one. ‘I cannot delay much longer or Willie Tremayne will think I have forgotten him. I will meet you at the garden gate.’

Cris sat with his coffee cooling in the cup for several minutes after she had gone from the room. This household, and its inhabitants, were unlike any he had encountered before. He supposed it was because, used as he was to palaces, government offices, great houses or bachelor lodgings, he had never before experienced the world of the gentry. Were they all so warm, so unaffected? He gave himself a shake and swallowed the cold coffee as a penance for daydreaming. He had to get his reluctant limbs moving and find a coat or he would be keeping Tamsyn Perowne waiting.

Chapter Five

The garden gate was as good a perch as it had been when she had first come to Barbary, but now it did not seem like a mountain to climb. Tamsyn hooked the toes of her riding boots over a rail and kept her weight at the hinge end, as a proper countrywoman knew to do. The breeze from the sea blew up the lane, stirring the curls that kept escaping from under the old-fashioned tricorn she had jammed over her hair and flipping the ends of her stock until she caught them and stuffed them into the neck of her jacket. She felt almost frivolous, and if that was the result of looking forward to a very slow walk up the lane with an ailing gentleman, then it was obvious that she was not getting out enough.

Mr Defoe—Cris—emerged from the door just as Jason led out Foxy, her big chestnut gelding, and she bit her lip rather than smile at her own whimsy. He might think she was laughing at his cane.

‘Leg up, Mrs Tamsyn?’

‘I’m walking for a little while, thank you, Jason.’ She jumped down from the gate and pulled the reins over the gelding’s head to lead him and he butted her with his nose, confused about why she was not mounting.

‘That’s a big beast.’ Cris was walking slowly, using the cane, but without limping or leaning on it. She did her best not to stare. He would experience enough of that if he walked as far as Stibworthy and the locals had a good look at his pale tan buckskins and beautiful boots. He might as well have dressed for a ball, as donned that dark brown riding coat and the low-crowned beaver. He clicked his tongue at Foxy and the horse turned his head to look at him. ‘Powerful hocks and a good neck on him. Is he a puller?’

‘No, he’s a pussy cat with lovely manners and a soft mouth, aren’t you, my handsome red fox?’ She was rewarded with a slobbery nuzzle at her shoulder. ‘But I wish you were a tidier kisser.’

That provoked a snort of amusement from the man holding the gate open for her. Possibly references to kissing were not such a good idea. She could still feel the heat of his mouth on hers, in shocking contrast to the cold of his skin. And despite any amount of effort with the tooth powder, she imagined she could still taste him, salty and male.

Two years without kisses had been a long time, and this was a man who seemed to have been created to tempt women. He probably has several in keeping and has to beat off the rest with his fine leather gloves. Intimacy with a man to whom she was not married had never occurred to her before now. Was it simply that the passage of time had left her yearning for the lovemaking that she had learned to enjoy? Or was it this man?

She had never seriously considered remarrying, although sometimes she wondered if, given any encouragement, Dr Tregarth might have declared an interest. But it would be unfair to any man when she... With my past, she substituted before she let herself follow that train of thought.

Thoughts of illicit intimacy were certainly occurring to her now and the fact that Cris Defoe was walking with a cane and complaining of a bad back and weak chest did absolutely nothing to suppress some very naughty thoughts. They turned up the lane and she wandered along, letting Cris set the pace. The sound of their feet and the horse’s hooves were muffled by the sand that filled the ruts in the pebbly turf, and the music of the sea behind them and the song of the skylark high above filled the silence between them.

‘Salt from the sea, vanilla from the gorse and wild garlic,’ he said after a few minutes. ‘The air around here is almost painfully clear after the smoke of towns or the heat of inland countryside, don’t you think?’

Cris was not breathing heavily, despite the increasing slope of the lane as it rose up the combe. He was certainly very fit. She remembered the muscles strapping his chest and his flat stomach, the hard strength as she had gripped his bare shoulders in the sea. Unless he developed the chest infection his valet seemed to fear, his recovery should be rapid. ‘I do not know about towns—I hardly recall Portsmouth and our local ones, Barnstaple, Bideford and Bude, are small and they are not the kind I think you have in mind. How is your back?’

‘My... Oh, yes. Amazingly the exercise has already straightened the knots out of it. You have never been to London, then?’

‘No, never.’

And I’ll wager you have never had bronchitis in your life and your back hurts you no more than the rest of you does. So what is this nonsense about being unable to endure a coach ride over rough roads?

The track turned as they came out from the trees on to the pastureland. ‘There’s a fallen tree.’ Cris stopped, made a show of flexing his shoulders. ‘Shall we sit a while? The view looks good from here.’

And you need a rest? He was a good actor, she would give him that. But she suspected that this man would no more willingly admit weakness than he would ride a donkey, so he must have a good reason other than exhaustion or sore muscles for wanting to stop. ‘Certainly,’ she agreed, and tossed Foxy’s reins over a handy branch. ‘Don’t mind me, you sit down,’ she added over her shoulder. As she turned back to the tree trunk she was treated to a fine display of bravely controlled wincing and the sight of Cris’s long legs being folded painfully down to the low seat.

She could go along with it and let him fish for whatever it was he wanted, or she could stop this nonsense now. Jory had been a man who was constitutionally incapable of giving a straight answer, a husband who could keep virtually his entire life, and certainly his thoughts, secret from his wife, and she was weary of mysteries.

‘Mr Defoe.’ His head came up at her tone and his eyes narrowed for an instant before he was all amiable attention. No, he was doing a good job of it, but she was not at all convinced by this harmless exterior.

‘Why so formal all of a sudden, Tamsyn?’

Now he was trying to unsettle her because he knew she was not entirely comfortable with first names. Tamsyn sat down. ‘Because I have a bone to pick with you, sir. You are no more in need of a rest than I am. I can believe that you are sore and your muscles are giving you hell, but if you are so sickly that you are about to succumb to a chest infection and you are incapable of riding in a coach over rough ground, then I am the Queen of the May.’

‘You are flattening to a man’s self-esteem, Mrs Perowne.’

‘Why flattening? I imagine you hate being thought less than invincible. Most men do.’

‘Ouch. Now that hurts. I mean that I dislike being so transparent.’

‘You are not. But I saw you stripped to the core yesterday—and I do not mean stripped of clothes,’ she added as that infuriating eyebrow rose. She did so wish she could do that... ‘You would have kept on going until you dropped dead rather than lie there passively on the beach and be fetched. You hated being weak and in need of help. If your man with your coach had been anywhere in the neighbourhood, you would have crawled a mile to him on your hands and knees rather than admit to needing three women to help you. So why so unwilling to travel now and leave here?’

Cris leaned back against a sapling, folded his hands over the head of his cane and looked at her. It was a long, considering stare with no humour and no flirtation in it. If she was a parlour maid being interviewed, she suspected she would not get the position. If she was a horse for sale, he was obviously doubtful about her bloodlines. When he spoke she almost jumped.

‘You may well have saved my life. I am in your debt. There is something very wrong here and if it is in my power, I will remedy it.’ From another man there would have been a note of boasting, of masculine superiority over the poor, helpless females. But this sounded like a simple declaration of fact. Something was wrong. Crispin Defoe would fix it.

It had been so long since there had been anyone from outside the household to confide in, or to lean on, just a little. Even Jory could be relied on only to do what suited his interests. They had been fortunate that he had adored Aunt Izzy and had been fond of Tamsyn. But this man would be leaving, very soon. He did not belong here, he had drifted to Barbary Combe House, borne on the current of a whim that had brought him across England. Soon he would return and to rely on him for anything—other than to disturb her dreams—was dangerous.

‘Nonsense. You do not owe us anything, we would have done the same for anyone who needed help. And there is absolutely nothing wrong except for a rogue dog and some valuable sheep lost.’

‘You see?’ The austere face was disapproving. ‘That is precisely why I felt it necessary to have an excuse for lingering here. You are going to be stubborn.’

‘I am not stubborn—if anyone is, it is you. You find three women living alone and assume they are incapable of dealing with life and its problems.’ She walked away across the grass, spun round and marched back, temper fraying over her moment of weakness. ‘We are managing very well by ourselves, Mr Defoe, and I am rather tired of gentlemen telling me that we are not.’

‘Who else has the nerve to do that?’

‘It takes no particular nerve, merely impertinence.’ She took Foxy’s reins, led him to the far end of the tree trunk and used it as a mounting block. ‘I am sure you can manage the path back.’ Cris stood up and took the reins just above the bit. ‘Let go at once!’