True Story (The Deverells, Book One) (7 page)

"Too busy enjoying my other talents,
weren't they." He winked.

"Clearly those talents do not involve
a razor and comb."

"I don't believe in gilding the lily."
He smirked, rubbing the stubble of his chin and relishing her
expression of polite dismay. "Any woman who tries to keep me clean
shaven and fragrant, like a dandy, must not know how to appreciate
a real man."

"And any fellow who abandons all good
manners for fear it might somehow make him less of a man, must not
know how to appreciate a real lady."

"I see we're going to have friction
between us, you and me."

Her eyes widened.

"Best be careful we don't cause a
spark of fire," he added.

"Fortunately we are surrounded by
water. I'm confident any wayward sparks can be doused
efficiently."

No wonder Sims had been unable to
describe her. She was a curiosity. Accustomed to less complicated
women whose motivations were usually as blatantly displayed as
their bosom, True was utterly baffled by this briskly no-nonsense
widow who had bizarrely, and knowingly, put herself in his way.
Despite her unexpected youth, she was every bit as stern as he
would expect of a parson's wife. But the haughty expression and
starched manners didn't fit her any better than that ugly gown, the
sleeves of which were too big for her wrists.

This woman, he decided, was a fibber—
trying to persuade him that she was something she wasn't. Perhaps
even trying to persuade herself too.

Her hair was brown, divided by a
center part and swept back into a tightly braided lump at the nape
of her neck. No ringlets, nothing to soften her face, except those
tiny pearl earbobs. The bonnet set beside her on the table was a
simple, old-fashioned straw poke with a wide brim and a pewter
ribbon. The style of hat that hid a lady's face completely from the
side and reminded True of a horse wearing blinkers. Her version
even included a black widow's veil, just to be doubly sure she was
well hidden.

"So you think you can put the master
in his place, eh? Make him behave himself? A sad little thing like
you?"

"I didn't come here to be Mr.
Deverell's nanny."

"It's a natural instinct in females.
Makes 'em think they can change a man, once they get their infernal
fingernails dug into 'im."

"I keep my fingernails well trimmed
and always to myself."

"That'll be a change for the master
then," he muttered drily.

Her lips were very tightly pressed
together, her jaw set firm with the determined mien of one who
expected argument. And would cling to her side of it until blood
was drawn.

"You seem tense, woman. Unduly
cross."

"I have endured a long and tiring
journey, which involved changing coaches many times. You'll have to
forgive me if I'm not bright as a daisy."

"Should have come at least part of the
distance by railway. 'Tis faster and cheaper."

"Cheaper?" Her shoulders became even
more rigid, as if bone might soon poke through the material. Even
her lips paled. "Money is not a concern." Her spine was ramrod
straight, her expression defensive. "And as for the railway, I
would never venture onto that wicked, modern
contraption."

"It is quite safe. There are just as
many accidents with coaches as there are with steam trains, but
because the railway is still a novelty, we hear those tragedies
reported the loudest. It's progress, Mrs. Monday. No need to fear
it."

"I am not
afraid
of steam
engines," she exclaimed scornfully. "Nevertheless,
if
I must travel, I
shall continue to go by traditional methods, tried and trusted. Not
something that relies upon fire and rude eruptions of explosive
steam to get me from one part of the country to another in a
cacophony of vulgar noise."

Laughter sputtered out of him. Of
course, she wasn't afraid; she wanted him to believe she merely
objected to the noise, the soot and the speed. "Well then, you must
do as you wish."

"Thank you, Mr. Jameson. I
shall. How relieved I am to have
your
approval."

True rubbed a finger along his bottom
lip, watching her thoughtfully. "If money is no concern, why would
a young lady like yourself travel so far from your home to work for
an old rogue like Deverell?"

"I hardly think that's any business of
yours, Mr. Jameson. So, if you don't mind, I'll keep my reasons to
myself."

Well, whatever she said,
he knew she needed the coin. Chalke had told him about her
financial situation. But was this post really her only option? He'd
expected an elderly lady with a hint of desperation about her
edges. There was nothing desperate about Mrs. Monday apart from her
clothing. She acted as if she did
him
a favor by taking the post, not
vice versa.

As the owner and creator of London's
finest gentleman's club, and a man who had made his fortune from
understanding the stimulus of risk, True Deverell had seen a great
many gamblers throw in their all to 'play deep', unable to walk
away from a chance. But while he was adept at reading a customer's
thoughts and motives, his mind easily calculating the odds against
them, in the case of Mrs. Monday he suddenly hadn't a
clue.

Before either of them could speak
again someone entered the kitchen behind him and her gaze shifted
upward, over his head.

"Mr. Deverell, sir, I just brought in
the lobster pots and tied up the boat. Looks like a chill fog is
coming in over the sea tonight. I lit the beacon early,
sir."

"Ah, thank you, Jim," he said,
stretching back in the creaky wooden chair, still watching the
woman across the table. "Yes, the weather has definitely turned
today and I think we've seen the last of the summer."

Mrs. Monday blinked, just once, and
then she pinned him again with her steady regard. Her lips parted a
little, allowing the escape of one crisp, frosty huff.

He bounced upright, scraping chair
legs loudly across the stone floor. "Jim, this is my new secretary,
Mrs. Monday. She's come to help me write my memoirs."

"Aye, sir. I just carried the lady's
trunk upstairs to the old nanny's room."

"Excellent. We must take very good
care of her. She seems to think she's not welcome, and we can't
have that, can we? This, Mrs. Monday, is Jim Jameson, the handiest
man on the island. Far more use than me, as you will no doubt
agree."

Jim tugged off his cap. "Pleased
you've come, Mrs. It's time we had a lady about the place again.
There's been no woman here since..." he screwed up his face,
struggling to recall, "well...since the young miss went orf to her
mother."

"Quite." True turned to look at his
new secretary. "Since my ingrate daughter upped and left me there's
been no reason to keep a female on the permanent staff. You will
find us a rough-edged, uncivilized bunch, Mrs. Monday."

She stood, pushing her
chair back and muttering under her breath, "
Really?
"

True scratched his chin where she was
making his stubble itch. He was quite sure she caused the
irritation. Perhaps it was her perfume. Although very faint, it had
stealthily crept into his notice while they talked. He began to get
the sense they'd met before, but he couldn't think where. It was
rare for him to forget a face. "I'll show you to your room
now."

"If you give me directions
and a lamp, I'll find my own way.
Sir
."

"You will not. I'll lead the
way."

"But I'd much rather—"

"I insist."

From the tightening of her lips, she
was not accustomed to relying on anybody to show her
anything.

"I hope you're not going to be
difficult, Mrs. Monday," he added smoothly.

She glared.

"I expect my employees to do as
they're told." He gestured at the door with one sweep of his riding
crop. "It's a small island. No room for contention and
disobedience."

"I've never been contentious in my
life," she muttered— an unmitigated lie as he knew already. And as
she further proved in the next moment.

On her way to the kitchen door she
stopped in front of his handyman and said curtly, "I understand
this is tradition, Mr. Jameson," before leaning forward and
planting a kiss on the fellow's weathered cheek. "For
luck."

The poor man, staring bewildered,
tipped backward like a wooden skittle at the village fete, but
somehow kept his balance.

Having performed this little display,
she arched a defiant eyebrow in True's direction and then marched
out of the kitchen, leaving a slender drift of that insidious
perfume in her wake.

Jameson's eyes had glazed over. "Well,
I never...."

"Do close your mouth, Jim, before
something flies into it." True hurried after the truculent woman to
stop her wreaking further havoc.

Aha, there she was, moving across the
hall, as if she didn't think she needed a lamp or his
direction.

He overtook her with his long stride.
"I must give you a tour of the house, Madam. Sims usually obliges
the guests with his—"

"Surely that can wait until
tomorrow?"

Holding the lamp high, he studied her
frayed expression. "I'll take pity and give you the shortened
version then. Sims is the history enthusiast and he usually gives
the tours, but I'll try my best in his absence."

She closed her lips in that grim line
again. The woman must be wondering what she'd got herself into, he
mused. Made two of them.

"Roscarrock Castle was built in
fifteen...something or other... by the third Earl of...something or
other. The fellow didn't live in it for long as he lost his head to
the temper of Good Queen Bess and then the property passed to the
crown. It was left empty for many years. No one fancied the
isolation, it seems. The place is rumored haunted by the headless
earl, so if you hear steps up and down the gallery late at night,
best not look out to see who it is."

He bounded ahead of her up the stairs.
When he looked back, she was poised with one hand still resting on
the newel post while she examined his shattered portrait. Her face
was very white as it caught the curved edge of
lamplight.

"I hope you're not frightened by
ghosts, Mrs. Monday."

"Good heavens, no. I'm on their side.
Who would possibly pass up the chance to get a little spirited
vengeance on those who once plagued them?"

He laughed. "Is that a warning for
me?"

She did not respond to that, too
preoccupied by the painting. "Why have you not restored the
portrait?" she asked, gesturing to where the image of his face
should be.

"It stands there as a reminder never
to marry again."

Having considered this for a moment,
she said, "And no one can say how young you looked then, or remark
upon the silver strands creeping along your temples now. Your
vanity is safe."

"For your information, madam, I grew
into my looks. I was not as handsome then as I am now."

"Well, I'll have to take your word for
that, shan't I? Precisely my point."

Amused, he cleared his throat and
moved on, taking the stairs three at a time in his usual fashion.
Only when he reached the landing and found her still some way
below, negotiating the steps in semi-darkness, did he suppose that
he should have taken a slower pace to provide her with more
light.

But she managed, skirt lifted with one
hand.

He raised his lamp higher and saw that
she wore some wretched old boots indeed. Suddenly he realized she
was looking up at him and must have seen his puzzled glance at her
feet. Her cheeks turned dusky pink, and she hastily dropped the hem
of her skirt.

Clearing his throat, he continued,
"The castle was eventually occupied again and passed down through a
Cornish family, although the last inhabitant before me was accused
of smuggling and deliberately luring ships into the cliffs to claim
whatever bounty they carried. Thus, he met his end on the gallows.
His son never wanted to live here and—"

"You won the place from him in a game
of cards," she interrupted. "Yes, so I read." After a pause she
added, with cutting deliberation, "Considering the gloomy history
of the house, it would seem very few generations failed to keep the
custom of kissing a Jameson."

"Exactly! See what happens when
superstition is scoffed at, Mrs. Monday? And you thought I made it
up." He heard a dismissive huff. "I suppose you believe I won this
island by dishonest methods," he added.

She raised her shoulders in a stiff
shrug and looked bored.

"Cheating, Mrs. Monday, is not
necessary when one has a natural genius for numbers."

"Indeed?"

"A careful calculation of the odds
alone can ensure the house eventually triumphs, every time. One
must merely have the capacity to hold numbers up here." He tapped
knuckles to his forehead.