The Defiant Lady Pencavel (8 page)

The idea of her in Italy, with all those swarthy Italian Lotharios galled him. “Whether you retain your dowry is up to your father. In Italy you will fall in with shady types and certainly be taken advantage of. You’ll be used, abused, and left with nothing, ending up in rags and begging in the streets of Naples.” The idea of anyone else kissing her pouty lips infuriated him. “What do you know of archeology? Aren’t you some rich girl playing at being a great explorer?”

“I am quite serious about this endeavor. I’ve even bought chipping hammers.” She turned about as best she could to glare into his face. “I’ve studied in depth the work of Johann Joachim Winckelmann. He was the founder of scientific archaeology. He first applied empirical categories of style on a systematic basis to the classical history of art and architecture.” She tossed her fair head. “If I were a man you would encourage me in my dreams not discourage me.”

“You are a literate creature, and I admit I’m slightly impressed. Nevertheless, I’m only concerned for you.” He couldn’t stop himself from touching her bottom lip, though should have removed his glove first. “And if you
were
a man I wouldn’t want to do this.” He framed her face and kissed her, hard, until she gasped for breath and mewled into his mouth. His yearning rose to fever-pitch.

She finally jerked her lips from his. “You overstep yourself, sir. And my neck is twisted in this position. Undoubtedly, you are a perfidious scalawag for ‘kidnapping’ me for no apparent reason, except you must be mad.”

“Mad, perhaps; a scalawag, I’ve been accused of such before.” He chuckled, but wished he could go on kissing her, and much more. He resisted running his fingers through her honey-blonde hair, the sun glinting off the strands. By God, he was besotted, and barmy, and regretted it. He must ride swiftly to Merther Cove to receive his smuggled goods, and let the wind whip this sorceress from his brain. He wanted to shout that he’d release her, to cleanse her from his blood, but refused to give her that satisfaction. He needed time to think. To rally his forces, to keep the upper hand, to stop ranting these trite platitudes to himself.

He gripped her around the waist and lowered her to the ground, reluctant to let her go. “Return home to Cornwall. I will meet you at Langoron House in a fortnight. If you aren’t there, I warn you, the betrothal will stand.” He kicked the horse’s flanks and rode off, past the palace, the palace gardens, through the cool scent of woodland, and away from her enraged blue eyes, like pools of frozen ponds.

****

On Great Russell Street in London’s Bloomsbury district, Melwyn climbed the several steps of the British Museum, housed in the slowly deteriorating Montague House. She admired the grand seventeenth-century mansion’s façade of seventeen bays, with a slightly projecting three bay centre and three bay ends. The two-storied building had a prominent mansard roof with a dome over the centre.

“I dearly hope that impetuous lout of a viscount has returned to Cornwall, which I refuse to do yet, on principle.” Lambrick’s threat to her only served to stiffen her resolve to ignore him...for a time. His last kiss had curled her toes, and confused her mightily. “He can’t possibly force me to marry him.”

Aunt Hedra followed, adjusting her bonnet—a white and purple striped sarcenet hat, with an embroidered purple border. The item, trimmed round the crown with a rose-colored gauze handkerchief, clung to the top of her hair like a misplaced scarf. “You must stop this stubborn insistence on enriching your mind. Someday you will wish to marry, and you don’t want to appear smarter than your husband. Men don’t appreciate that. And wasn’t Lord Lambrick quite the
bon vivant
, snatching you in the park?”

“He’s an unabashed
roué
, who keeps taunting me over this betrothal. And I believe you’ve misinterpreted the meaning of
bon vivant,
Auntie.” Melwyn stared around at shadows as she primped at her demi-gipsy hat, trimmed with green ribands that formed a large bow in the front. “I trust your friend today will be much more deserving of my attention than the pathetic Mr. Fernworthy.”

“I will humor your aspirations, or at least pretend to.” Aunt Hedra puffed out her cheeks. “Mrs. Anna Bookbinder is a well-known writer here in town, and she expounds on the edification and education of women.”

“And she’s a member of the Bluestockings, that famous literary circle. I have read a few of her treatises on women’s rights:
Measure my Brain as it’s the same size as a Man’s, and just as Rational, No matter what You’ve Heard
, was especially enjoyable.” Melwyn entered the cool interior of the museum, anxious to visit Sir William Hamilton’s collection of Greek and Roman artifacts.

A tall reed-thin woman approached them. “Hedra, good afternoon. This must be your niece. Why, isn’t she precious.” Her long face with aquiline nose broke into a skeptical smile. “A fledgling archeologist did I hear, young lady?”

“I am indeed honored to meet you, Mrs. Bookbinder. I’m Melwyn Pencavel.” Melwyn took in the woman’s severe attire, a closed robe grey gown with a starched white kerchief tucked in the bodice. She resembled a nun without the wimple, and was the cliché of a bluestocking.

Melwyn compared it to her own dress, a round gown of striped muslin, the train trimmed with a broad green satin riband; the short full sleeves trimmed with lace. Just because a woman had brains didn’t mean she had to look frumpy.

“I’m sure you are, as I am a clever expert in numerous fields, and though a spinster, I rail against marriage as a slavery for women. They can be beaten by their husbands if they misbehave, and
he
determines what constitutes misbehavior.” Mrs. Bookbinder nodded her hatchet face. “You must read my newest publication:
A Few
Women are only Stupid because their Men have beat them Silly
.”

“That sounds riveting. And is why I’ll never marry. Do you delve into the sciences at all?” Melwyn surveyed the famous Warwick Vase, a marble receptacle with Bacchic—wine-related—ornamentation, found at Hadrian’s villa in Tivoli.

“Hadrian, was it?” Aunt Hedra raised her quizzing glass. “Wasn’t he the man who built the wall to our north to keep out the barbarian Scots? For what good it did.”

“I’m so proud of you, Auntie, you
do
listen to my talks on history.” Melwyn smiled, genuinely pleased.

“Sciences, you ask? I haven’t delved into them personally. But many women have excelled at math. Sadly they’re mostly Italians and French, races far inferior to we English.” Mrs. Bookbinder stared down her slope of a nose at the Portland Vase. This urn was blue and white cameo and depicted seven figures, one believed to be Paris. “I could use this piece for flowers.”

“You’re not very open-minded, when it comes to races or vases,” Melwyn whispered to herself, so as not to be rude to her aunt’s friend—and respect her elders. Another disappointing encounter. “What a beautiful
objet d’art
. I wish I could unearth something as momentous.” Melwyn sighed and studied the other artifacts: coins, medallions, jewelry, and bronze sculptures. “Much of this was discovered in Pompeii. I
must
go there. Sir William Hamilton, our illustrious ambassador in Naples, however, believed that vases and sculpture should be left unrestored.” She tapped her chin in contemplation. “I’d like to write my own treatise on why women should be included in this new field of archeology and welcomed at the Royal Society.”

“I will admit that you’re right, Hedra.” Mrs. Bookbinder nudged her aunt with a sharp elbow. “She does go on and in my opinion tends to be a braggart. I see no literary merit in the child as she’s never been anywhere or accomplished anything.”

“Yet you admitted to preaching about the disadvantages of marriage, and
you
have never ventured between the matrimonial sheets,” Aunt Hedra reminded her. “Don’t be so dismissive of her attributes. I’m afraid the gel is determined, and that’s what worries me.”

Mrs. Bookbinder snorted. “Don’t work yourself into a tizzy. She’s too comely, so no one will ever take her seriously. Read my article in last week’s
Bluestocking Bulletin
, ‘Why a Pretty face often Hides a Flibbertigibbet.’”

Melwyn fought down a stabbing retort. A footstep to the left alerted her. Someone slipped behind a huge statue of Zeus brandishing a lightning bolt. She quivered as visions of Lord Lambrick sprang to mind. Would he grab her here and carry her off like the heathen he was? Why did that excite her?

She tried to peer around Zeus, to catch a glimpse. A figure hurried off, but he was much shorter than the viscount. Could Lambrick change his height at will?

Melwyn slapped a hand on Zeus’s marble thigh, deciding it time to return to Cornwall and put an end to these machinations.

****

Griffin entered the tavern,
The Pig and Pickle
, in Highbury in Islington, leaving the reek of cow pens behind as cattle were driven through here on their way to Smithfield.

The dim, low-beamed place smelled of ale and smoke, and rarely scrubbed bodies.

He scanned the faces in the common room, candlelight flickering over sneers and glares. A man wearing a green bandana around his throat, as previously arranged, gestured Griffin over to a corner table.

Griffin stroked the handle of his pistol tucked in his breeches, approached and sat down across from him. “Mr. Shadedeal, I deduce?”

The man lifted the brim of his round hat. He had a pock-marked face with deep lines around his bulging eyes. “Aye. Will you share an ale with me, with you payin’ o’course, since you has the higher income?”

“As long as you don’t waste my time. I’m on my way home to Cornwall.” Griffin waved over a pot-boy and ordered two ales. The drinks arrived and they sipped, watching each other carefully. Griffin wasn’t impressed with the house ale as it tasted watered-down. “Now what do you think you might have for me?”

“It’s worth its weight in gold, for a man wi’ your connections.” Mr. Shadedeal stood. “But we’ll go in the back where we can talk private-like, an’ I’ll show you.”

“What do you know of my connections?” Griffin rose, wariness prickling on the back of his neck. He followed the man down a short hallway, pondering why a viscount was skulking about seedy taverns, with murky characters, where he could be murdered at any moment. The adrenaline rush, no doubt!

In a fetid back room, Shadedeal pointed to several crates. He pried one open and pulled out a long gun. “I has fifty of the sleekest flint-lock, muzzle-loaded, Charleville muskets.”

“Guns? I don’t deal in weapons of
any
type. You have been grossly misinformed.” Griffin’s face heated in anger. “And you show me vile French muskets, named after the armory in Charleville-Mézières, Ardennes, France? These guns are known to be inaccurate in their firing as they are smooth bore barreled.”

The man scowled and fingered the walnut stock. “These are standard French infantry muskets, good for firing from mass formations. What matters what you smuggle?”

“It matters. I will never dirty my hands with goods such as these—if I happened to smuggle at all, which I don’t admit. And I’ll
never
have anything to do with France. Besides, these weapons are slightly smaller than the British made Brown Bess.” Griffin turned to leave, his frustration rife.

“Will you report me to the constables?” Shadedeal asked in an accusing voice.

Griffin paused, wishing he could do just that. But any such ministrations would put the spotlight on him and his own fraudulent pursuits. “No. I will leave you to your evil gunrunning.”

“I don’t believe you. You quality lie an’ cheat us poorer folk.” The man tenderly placed the musket back in the crate, then lunged at Griffin with a suddenly whipped out knife.

Griffin grabbed the man’s arm before the blade nicked his chest. They struggled, wrestling to gain the superior advantage. “Dammit, man, I won’t let you kill me. I have a betrothal to overturn, and a damsel to harass. And my tenants count on me to take care of them.”

Shadedeal grunted, shoving the knife near Griffin’s nose. Griffin saw his life pass before his eyes, and thought,
I still have much more living to accomplish.
He shoved the man away, then punched him in the jaw, sending him crashing to the floor. The knife skittered away against the skirting board.

Griffin snatched out his pistol. Swiping his arm across his now sweaty brow, he said, “I’d shoot you, you worthless brigand, but I don’t wish to waste a bullet. And I’m a gentleman, and would never shoot an unarmed man. Stay in that corner and don’t follow me.” Griffin backed out of the room, pistol pointed. He stalked from the tavern, chiding himself for being a fool to have come here.

Chapter Eight

The Pencavel coach barreled down the London road toward the West Country. Melwyn felt her teeth judder as the wheels hit each bump and rut. She mused again on Miss Bookbinder from the day before. “I see how some women can think they’re superior to other women, and nationalities. If I’ve behaved that way to you, I apologize.”

“Did a statue fall on your head in that museum, m’lady?” Clowenna asked in all seriousness from the seat across.

“You’re right, why change our relationship now.” Melwyn glared out the window, slumped against the squabs. Rolling green hills, heath and heather and quant villages passed her vision. The air smelled light of foliage and farmland. “At least it’s Sunday, and public coaches are forbidden to operate, so we have the road mostly to ourselves.”

“You’re in a hurry to reach home, an’ be rid o’ Lord Lambrick for good?” Clowenna picked up the book that her lady had purchased in London.

Melwyn traced a finger down the coach window. “I’m preparing myself for monumental changes. I was rash to leave home. I should have considered my father’s feelings. That dumpy duchess is correct in that I will harm my family name if I don’t do things properly.” She stretched her sore back muscles, regretting that she should have to bow down to any propriety—and she wished she’d ever met the handsome viscount.