Regency Surrender: Sinful Conquests: The Many Sins of Cris de Feaux / The Unexpected Marriage of Gabriel Stone

‘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.

‘Here he comes now, from the beach,’ Rosie said from her seat by the window.

‘The beach?’ And so he was, striding up over the lawn as though he had never experienced so much as a mild muscle twinge in his life. But how did he get there without being seen?

Cris raised his hat when he saw Rosie, then turned to take the path round to the kitchen door. Like all of them he had developed the habit of ignoring the front entrance. He obviously felt at home at Barbary Combe House and, strangely, the aunts, who were so protective of their privacy, seemed quite comfortable that he had become part of the household in only two days.

‘Mr Defoe is back so I’ll serve luncheon, shall I, Miss Holt?’ Mrs Tape enquired. Through the open door his booted feet taking the stairs two at a time sounded quite clearly.

‘By all means,’ Tamsyn muttered as Aunt Izzy agreed with the housekeeper and they both went to help Aunt Rosie to her feet. ‘Let us females wait upon the convenience of The Man.’ She was thoroughly out of sorts and it was not helped by the fact that she felt guilty for being so scratchy. The aunts enjoyed having a man in the house again—Izzy to fuss over, Rosie to sharpen her wits on—and she was being a curmudgeon about it.

Booted feet clattered down the stairs again and she realised why she was feeling like this. The house had a man inhabiting it again for the first time since Jory’s death. There were the male staff, but they were different; they did not fill the space in the same way. Nor did she desire them.

The sight of Cris as he came into the room affected her as though he had touched her, instead of immediately going to Aunt Rosie’s side to offer his arm. Tamsyn tried to ignore the hollow feeling low down in her belly and the sensation that she was altogether too warm.

Whatever Cris Defoe had been doing had left him with colour on his cheeks and a sparkle in those blue eyes and he looked exactly what she had thought all along—a splendid male animal in his prime. And a more cunning one than I have been giving him credit for. But was he using his intelligence to help them or had he some other motives? Surely he could not be in league with Franklin? No one would risk drowning like that. Yes, he had been interested in Jory’s legendary hoard...but the same objection held. All he’d have needed to do if he had wanted to be ‘rescued’ and taken in was to sink a boat in their bay or stage a fall from a horse outside the house.

‘You came from the direction of the beach, Mr Defoe,’ she observed when they were all seated. ‘A remarkable feat, considering where we parted.’ He looked at her with a faint smile. ‘Do have a nice pilchard.’

‘Thank you, but I feel sufficiently fishy for one day.’ He sliced some ham and offered it to Aunt Rosie. ‘I begged a ride back from one of the fishermen at Stib’s Landing and his craft is liberally encrusted with fish scales. Dan Cardross, I think? He was going to lift his crab pots and said this was on his way.’

Dan had been Jory’s right-hand man. Tamsyn tried not to read any significance into that. ‘You had a long walk.’

‘I went up to Stibworthy, had a pint of ale in the inn, encountered Dr Tregarth and walked with him down to the harbour. I will admit to being glad of the boat ride back,’ he added to Aunt Izzy, who was making anxious noises about overdoing it and recklessness.

Tamsyn believed none of it. If he had needed to walk back, then Cris Defoe was quite capable of doing so. ‘You must rest this afternoon,’ she said, sweetly solicitous. ‘Perhaps your manservant can give you one of his massages.’

‘You are all consideration, Mrs Perowne, and I must admit, the thought of bed is a temptation.’ His lids lowered over the sinful blue eyes, the only acknowledgement that he was teasing her with a double entendre that went right past the two older ladies. ‘But I have correspondence to attend to, which will be restful enough. How does one get a letter to the post from here?’

‘Jason will take it up to the Ship Inn, which is our receiving office. The post boy comes in every day except Sunday at about eleven, delivers the mail, picks up our letters and takes them to Barnstaple. Post going out of the county is taken to Bristol by one of the daily steam ships and from there by mail coach. A letter you send up tomorrow morning will be in London in three days.’ Tamsyn delivered the information in a matter-of-fact tone, refusing to allow him to see the image that the conjunction of Cris Defoe and bed and temptation conjured up reflected in her expression.

‘Steam ships?’

‘They have been a boon for this coast because our roads are so bad. That is how the visitors to Ilfracombe and Instow arrive. We have quite a little sea-bathing industry in North Devon these days.’

‘That is what gave us the idea for the bathing room,’ Aunt Izzy explained. ‘I read how beneficial for rheumatic complaints the new hot-seawater baths are, but of course, Rosie could not tolerate the rough roads to reach Ilfracombe from here. So we decided to build our own.’

‘Ingenious. Would you object if I made sketches of the plumbing? I am tempted by the thought of hot baths in my own houses.’

‘Houses?’ He had more than one? Aunt Izzy shook her head at Tamsyn’s abrupt question but Cris showed no offence at her curiosity.

‘The house in the country and a pied-à-terre in London,’ he said vaguely. ‘Would you pass the butter?’

Tamsyn handed him the dish. ‘How lovely, to be able to go to London whenever you please.’

‘Shops?’ Cris enquired. He was teasing her, she could tell. The infuriating man did not so much as smile, but she was learning to watch for the slight dimple that appeared at the corner of his mouth when he was hiding amusement and the crinkle of laughter lines at his eyes.

‘Of course.’ She would not be drawn into a defence of shopping. ‘And bookshops and theatres and the sights—St James’s Palace and Carlton House and the parks.’

‘You enjoyed your season, then?’

‘I never had one. But as for the social round and the Marriage Mart, I am not sorry to have missed those.’

‘Your absence was society’s loss, Mrs Perowne. Think of all the bachelors deprived of the opportunity to court you, all the balls and assemblies ungraced by your presence.’

‘I am sure those bachelors survived heart-whole. After all, they had no idea what they were missing.’

Aunt Izzy laughed and turned to Rosie. ‘Do you remember at that assembly in Exeter, the evening before my eighteenth birthday?’ In moments they were lost in reminiscence over some private joke.

‘Yes, the poor souls have been languishing in ignorance,’ Cris said slowly, answering Tamsyn, ignoring the laughter beside him. He raised his glass of ale to his lips and sipped, his eyes on hers as he did so. ‘It is incredible that one can continue for years unaware of a gaping hole in one’s life.’

Surely he did not mean that he recognised her as something missing from his life? No, he must mean that she was existing here, cut off from the world, not realising what she was missing. That was more likely. How very...humiliating to be pitied. ‘And it is incredible how difficult it can be for some people to recognise when others are happy, just because they value different things,’ she retorted.

There was a sudden flare of emotion in Cris’s eyes. ‘I think we may be at cross-purposes, Tamsyn.’

‘Probably because we come from two very different worlds.’ So, he had not meant to insult her, but the exchange had served to remind her how distant from polite society she was, here at the edge of England, cut off by sea on one side and rough tracks on the other. She was country gentry, teetering on the verge of slipping into something else since her marriage. The small resources that she felt gave her everything she needed were pitiful against the wealth that Cris Defoe was obviously used to with his beautiful boots and elegant coats, his valet and his London home. She must seem pathetically provincial and unsophisticated.

And in danger of slipping into self-pity and unjustified feelings of inferiority. I’d like to see him striking a bargain in a cattle auction or setting up a village school or teaching himself French from books ordered from an Exeter bookshop. I would like to see one of the elegant ladies of his acquaintance running a farm and a fishery.

They finished the meal in polite, prickly silence with each other, letting the two older women take the burden of conversation. How complicated men are, Tamsyn thought as she dropped her napkin on the table and nodded her thanks as Cris pulled back her chair for her when, finally, Aunt Izzy stopped chattering and noticed that they had all long since finished eating.

He went to offer his arm to Rosie and Tamsyn followed them out. ‘That is a good walk with wonderful views that you took this morning,’ Rosie was saying as he led her to the drawing room. ‘It must be five or six years since I could manage it. I should not repine, this is a lovely house and I have an ever-changing view of the sea from the garden, but I confess that I miss being able to stride along the clifftops, see the expanse of the ocean and Lundy Island in the distance with the ships sailing by.’

If they could spare the money she would have the track up to the village made into a proper lane, with a surface levelled and graded by Mr McAdam’s new method, but it would cost more than they could spare and Aunt Rosie would no doubt protest at the idea of spending so much on something intended for her pleasure alone.

‘A penny for your thoughts?’ Cris had stopped beside her at the foot of the stairs and was regarding her with a quizzical smile. Tamsyn realised she must have been standing there, staring blankly at the front door.

‘I was speculating on road building,’ she admitted. ‘An expensive investment.’

‘You, Mrs Perowne, are a constant source of surprise to me,’ he murmured. ‘You will allow me to stay for a few more days, despite my pretence of feebleness being exposed?’

‘I suppose so.’ Her dark mood lifted as rapidly as it had descended. ‘I can hardly cut short your seaside holiday, now can I?’

‘Holiday?’ Cris’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. ‘It was hardly that.’ He turned to climb the stairs.

‘What was it, then?’ She reached out and touched his hand as it gripped the carved ball on top of the newel post.

For a moment she thought he would not answer. Then he twisted his hand to catch hers within it and lifted them, joined, to his lips. ‘A journey from reality, from the loss of a dream, from the acceptance of what is inevitable,’ he murmured against her fingers. ‘Perhaps that is the definition of a holiday.’ His breath was warm, the touch of his lips no more than the brush of a feather. His fingertips were against the pulse of her wrist and he must have felt the thunder of the blood, the surging response, the desire.

It was madness, a dangerous madness if it could be so powerful when ignited by such a light touch, such a gentle caress. I want him and he would not say no if I came to his bed. But how did one carry on an affaire, however brief, under the same small roof as two doting and observant aunts? And how could she risk it—her reputation...my heart...for a few moments of pleasure with a man who would be gone within days?

Behind her, from the window embrasure out of sight of where they stood in the hallway, she could hear her aunts discussing their latest order to be sent to the circulating library in Barnstaple. Innocent, safe pleasures. This was not innocent and not safe and suddenly she had no desire for either. Tamsyn reached up and slid her fingers into Cris’s hair, just above his nape, pulled down his head and lifted her face to his. One kiss, surely she could risk that?

Chapter Eight

His kiss was not tentative, nor respectful. Certainly it took no account of where they were. Cris turned from the stair, took her in his arms and swept her back against the front door, the length of his body pressed against hers, the thrust of his arousal blatant, thrilling. Tamsyn twisted and got her hands free so she could lock them around his head, the shape of his skull imprinted on her palms, the heavy silk of his hair caressing across her fingers.

Her mouth was open to him, his tongue forceful, demanding that she open more, let him taste her, explore her. She pulled back so she could nip at his lower lip, making him growl, low and thrilling, the sound reverberating from his chest to her breast, before she drove her own tongue into his mouth, refusing to allow him mastery. If this was to be nothing else, there would be equal desire, equal responsibility.

They broke apart, panting. Tamsyn wondered if she looked as stunned and wild as he did, with his hair tousled, his eyes dark. She reached behind her, turned the doorknob and staggered back on to the porch, pulling him with her. ‘Summer house.’

Without waiting to see if he was following her she ran across the lawn, round the corner of the dense shrubbery that sheltered one side of the garden, and into the little summer house that looked out over the beach. Cris followed her, the door banging closed behind him. Tamsyn collapsed on the bench, her knees failing her.

Cris stood with his back against the door as though glad of its support. ‘What in Hades was that?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve been on the edge of an avalanche in the Alps and it was rather less violent. It was certainly less frightening.’ She realised that he was smiling. It transformed the austerity of his face, changed him from beautiful to real.

‘I thought a kiss would be...’ Nice? Do not be ridiculous. ‘I wanted to kiss you again.’

‘You will get no argument from me on that score.’ He still had not moved from the door.

‘I noticed.’ She could feel her lips twitching into an answering smile. It had not occurred to her that there might be anything amusing in giving in to this attack of desire. ‘That is all it can be, you realise that? Just a kiss. This is quite inappropriate.’