Between the Devil and Ian Eversea (11 page)

He was already standing on the balcony. A moment later it occurred to her he was standing unusually still. Staring out over the strata of Sussex colors as she had, only he’d likely seen them countless times before. When he turned to look out over the morning, she thought she saw, but couldn’t be sure, darker hollows beneath his eyes. Probably from staying up all night counting the women he’d seduced, the way other people counted sheep. He turned his head, and it seemed to her he was a trifle tense and white about the mouth. Perhaps he’d been at the Pig & Thistle until very late, or romping with a widow, and now his head was pounding.

And at last he stretched as he always did, bending backward, thrusting his arms into the air, and the beautiful line of him arching pulled something taut in her, too, like a bowstring drawn back. She could feel that pulling, tightening sensation inside her.

He began to roar, as she’d heard him do before in the morning, but stopped abruptly and winced. Then he rested his hands on the edge of the balcony and breathed, his big shoulders moving slowly, deeply. As if something hurt and he was breathing through it.

She could vouch for how hangovers hurt. She wasn’t utterly devoid of sophistication.

Perhaps all that heartbreaking he went about doing had worn the poor soul out.

Cod liver oil, she reminded herself. And gave a haughty sniff.

She backed away from the curtain.

Chapter 11

“A
RE YOU SURE YOU
wouldn’t like to come along?” Genevieve hovered in the doorway, pulling on her gloves. “You could accompany Olivia to the meeting of the Society to Protect the Sussex Poor. They would love to have you, I’m certain.”

Tansy very much doubted Olivia would love to have her. And besides, she had other plans, and they didn’t include spending the day with the frighteningly beautiful Olivia Eversea, whom she had begun to think of as her competition, or, more specifically, the bar above which she planned to rise in Sussex. Because every woman needed a goal. Four bouquets and counting, she thought. And a book.

As if summoned by her thoughts, a footman appeared in the doorway, bearing a great vase full of pink and white flowers. “For you, Miss Danforth. Where would you like me to put them?”

More flowers! She clapped her hands together.

“Thank you so very much! How delightful!”

She peered at the note attached and read it aloud. “ ‘Because their brightness and purity reminded me of you.’ Henry Thorpe, Lord Lester.”

Purity
, was it, Lord Lester? What on earth had given him that impression? Still, it was meant to be a compliment and so she was pleased.

“That’s five bouquets for you this morning, and four for Olivia,” Genevieve said, somewhat wickedly. “Good heavens, I never did think anyone would give Olivia any bouquet competition.”

“Oh, I would
never
dream of counting!” Tansy said, staring down at her note. “What a generous lot the young men of Sussex are.”

“I suppose they are.”

She turned to the footman. “Perhaps we can distribute the flowers a little more widely? If you would take a bouquet to Mrs. deWitt, and then perhaps send one down to the vicarage for anybody buried in the churchyard who might need a flower or two?”

The footman was clearly enchanted, too. He beamed at her. “Anything you like, Miss Danforth.”

Genevieve watched the footman depart, the corner of her mouth quirked wryly. “Will you be all right on your own today, Tansy? We’ll in all likelihood be gone until this evening, at least. With luck we’ll be home before dinnertime.”

Genevieve sounded genuinely worried. Tansy reached impulsively for her hands.

“Oh, you’re so very kind to invite me along with the two of you, but I’ve so much correspondence from home to attend to—a few matters of business, you know—and it would be a wonderful opportunity to see to it. And tomorrow, with the marksmanship contest, will be so very social and lively. But perhaps I can persuade a groom to accompany me on a short ride? I do so love to ride!”

“What a wonderful idea! Of course! I’ll have them saddle my mare for you! She’s lovely. And the groom will be happy to accompany you.”

Tansy also had no intention of taking a groom, and had every confidence she could concoct a story to convince the groom to stay put and not make a fuss. Why
should
she take someone? She rode like she was born to the saddle, which she nearly had been, and she was accustomed to riding alone over her property at home, or with her papa at her side. She wasn’t going far. She could, in fact, see her destination, if she peered hard enough through her bedroom window. It wasn’t as though she would be set upon by brigands. There was no place for them to hide in this mild little landscape, unless perhaps they dressed all in green and leaped out from the shrubberies. A brigand would get bored indeed waiting for someone to trundle by, and would likely fall asleep before someone did.

And she just didn’t want anyone to witness what she wanted to do today. Not even a groom, who likely wouldn’t say a word, given that servants were paid for their discretion.

She told the groom she was off to meet a friend at the end of the drive and kicked the little mare into a trot before he could say anything.

She had her eye on the fluffy knot of woods beyond the stream and not far off the road she’d walked with Genevieve into town.

The air was delicious; both she and the mare gulped great winey draughts of it, and tossed their heads. She would love to have undone her bonnet and let her hair fly free.

She drew the mare to a halt.

A girl was sitting next to the stream, arms wrapped around her knees. A long apron covered a brown walking dress decorated only with a narrow band of lace at the sleeves.

“Oh. Good morning,” Tansy said cautiously.

“Good morning,” said the girl, just as cautiously. Very politely.

It seemed that no other conversation would be forthcoming. They continued to study each other.

Until the girl asked, “Are you Miss Danforth?”

“Why, yes, I am.” In a small town, doubtless nothing remained a secret for long, and this girl probably knew everyone there was to know.

“How do you do, Miss Danforth. I’m Polly Hawthorne. My father owns the Pig & Thistle. The pub.”

“Oh, of course! I’ve seen it. Seems a lovely place. I hope to visit while I’m in Sussex.”

It was the right thing to say. Polly smiled. She was a pretty thing, almost elfin, small and slight with big dark eyes, a pointed chin, and black hair wound up in a braid.

The two wordlessly eyed each other a bit longer. Tansy sensed no one knew Polly was here, either. While at the same time, the girl doubtless knew that well-bred young ladies didn’t ride alone, unless they were up to something.

“I just like to have a bit of a think here, when I get a moment away from the pub,” Polly said by way of explanation. “About life, and the pub, and the Everseas, and the like.”

Tansy shrugged, as if this went without saying. “It’s hard not to think about the Everseas, I daresay. There are so many of them and they’re everywhere you look. And admittedly they are easy on the eyes.”

Polly grinned at that. “They do brighten up the Pig & Thistle. And to think so many of them almost died.”

This was startling. “You don’t say?”

“Well, I was just thinking about it this morning, you know, because I hear Captain Ian Eversea will be traveling again, and on a dangerous trip, for all of that. Master Colin, he nearly lost his life at the gallows, until there was an explosion and he disappeared. And Master Chase—the other Captain Eversea—his leg was injured. And Master Ian nearly lost his life in the war, I’m told. It’s livelier at the pub when they’re all home, and they do leave generous tips. And they’re so kind. Sometimes I think Master Ian is kindest of all.”

It was quite a fascinating litany. Colin had gone to the gallows?
Had
Ian nearly lost his life? Tansy’s heart clutched at the thought. To think she might have never seen him from across a crowded ballroom and lost so many things: her ability to think, to speak, to charm.

And he was
leaving
?

When would that be?

Her gut felt hollow at the thought.

She tossed her head. It mattered not at all to her.

Well, so be it. She’d sworn off him, anyway, and it was so much more pleasant to be celebrated rather than ignored.

“It’s a pleasant spot for a bit of a think. I was looking for one of my own,” she said to Polly, tentatively.

“I won’t keep you.”

Tansy nearly laughed. She liked this strangely regal young girl, for no real reason except that she seemed utterly self-possessed. And she was convinced Polly wouldn’t say a word about seeing her here.

“Perhaps I’ll see you at the Pig & Thistle, then.”

Polly nodded politely, and Tansy drew her horse around and set a course for the trees. And presumably Polly resumed pondering Everseas. Polly, who would likely live and die in Pennyroyal Green, and might never even see London, and so the Everseas, such as they were, comprised the weather of her days.

There was a lovely hush in this little wild portion of the woods; some of the trees seemed as old as time itself, through birches and hawthorn, over a little rise, until she saw a clearing.

It was small, mossy, surrounded by a number of large oaks and a horseshoe of shrubbery, but it would get enough light, and one day, perhaps next spring, anyone meandering by would think they’d stumbled across a fairy bower, if everything went according to plan.

She would have to hurry, as the sun was growing higher and she didn’t want to perspire through her muslin.

She dismounted and tangled the reins in a hawthorn, then unwrapped a bundle of things she’d brought with her.

An hour or so of dirty, satisfying labor later her work was nearly done. She stood back, peeled off her work gloves, and surveyed her handiwork. Then sprinkled it all carefully with water from the two flasks she’d brought with her.

Then she led her horse over to the fallen tree and settled herself in the saddle again.

Polly was gone. Back at the Pig & Thistle, no doubt.

On the way home, Tansy indulged in loosening her bonnet and letting it dangle behind her so the breeze could run its fingers through her hair. Surely she wouldn’t brown in just the few minutes it took to ride from the forest back.

She rode blithely back to the stables at Eversea House, confident no one would have witnessed a thing.

She was blissfully unaware of Ian Eversea standing at his window, frowning, watching her golden head bobbing like a guinea atop Genevieve’s mare, scandalously, well-nigh incriminatingly, alone and looking a trifle disheveled.

S
OME KIND OF
thud in the wall had awakened Ian from a perfectly satisfactory nap. It was the second night in a row that such a thing had happened. Were the rodents brawling for territory in the walls? Perhaps they ought to get a few cats.

He rolled from bed and was instantly, mercilessly, humbled by the fact that he was no longer twenty years old and able to abuse his body in all manner of ways without consequences. His muscles had tightened after all that bending and hammering on the vicarage roof. He needed to stretch and bend all his limbs and have a good scratch before he could move with any sort of grace.

He settled in at his desk and bent again over his map. He’d marked his ports of call with a neat little star. China. India. Africa. South America. America. He could keep moving just like this for years, if he wanted to. And something in him eased when he looked at that map. Whenever he felt like a dammed river, whenever he felt caught between Sussex and London, whenever Chase or Colin said the word “wife” in a way that made him want to kick both of them, he found the map a great comfort. The day was coming when he would set foot on the ship and it would move over the ocean and not stop moving. It sounded perfect. He had no doubt about what and whom he would miss. It was just that he suspected moving would feel like a relief, and that whatever dogged him might finally be left behind somewhere on the South Seas.

He looked down at the book on his desk. He hefted it in his hand, idly ruffled the pages, and quirked his mouth wryly. Why in God’s name would Miss Danforth give him a bloody book? And blush scarlet while doing it? In all likelihood for the same reasons Landsdowne had given
her
one. Perhaps she had a cat’s talent for crawling into the lap of the one person who could scarcely tolerate it. Miss Danforth was likely the sort who couldn’t rest until everyone worshipped her. It was wearisome and irritating, yet admittedly faintly amusing.

All in all, however, the very notion of her made him tired. The girl wasn’t quite who she wanted everyone to think she was, and that troubled him.

Still, the book had been a gift. And as he remembered her face flushing scarlet, he laid it aside again with a certain tenderness he couldn’t quite explain.

He looked up.

It was nearly twilight, and a stiff breeze was beginning to sidle in through his window, which was open a few inches.

He crossed to it to pull the curtains closed and peered out, then ducked back in, hiding behind the curtain.

Miss Danforth was out on the balcony, and her blond hair down about her shoulders—good Lord, she had miles of it— almost created its own light, so brilliant was it beneath the half-moon. Soothing stuff. His hands flexed absently as he imagined drawing his fingers through it.

He watched, mystified, as she leaned slowly forward and assumed something like an awkward arabesque. Her night rail filled like a sail in a passing breeze, and he was treated to a glimpse of very fine white calf before it deflated. She tilted her head at an impossible angle, and her hair fell in a great sheet down her back. Soothing as watching a river move.

But what the devil was she
doing
? Perhaps it was some sort of interpretive dance? Was she bowing toward America the way Muslims bowed in the direction of Mecca?

He winced as she gracelessly righted herself again, her arms seesawing. He could rule out dancer.

She slumped again, propped her chin on her fists on the rail of the balcony and returned to gazing out at the black of the Sussex hills, as if she expected something to emerge from it, or something had vanished there. Perhaps expecting some beau to come and climb the balcony, à la Romeo Montague.

It was funny, but he’d done that more than once, too: stare off into the dark as if it were a crystal ball, as if the dark could reveal to him as much as it concealed.