Devil's Prize (3 page)

‘You see?’ Morwenna demanded of her husband. ‘How we can expect any decent man to make an offer for her when she insists on conducting herself like – like a hoyden!’

‘But I don’t want the men you consider suitable. They’re either old and boring or young and stupid.’

 ‘Now, now,’ her father warned.

Jumping up, she hurried to his side, slipped her arm through his as she pleaded. ‘Papa, there’s only one man for me. I want Devlin Varcoe.’

Her mother squeaked then slumped back in her chair and fluttered her handkerchief.

‘For heaven’s sake, Tamara.’ John Gillis frowned and stretched his chin and forced a callused finger down between his neck and the starched cravat that despite his wife’s urging he refused to tie in anything but the simplest knot. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘I’m not!’

‘It’s out of the question.’

‘But why, Papa? If you are so anxious for me to marry, then at least let me have the man I –’

‘You don’t –’

‘Papa, you’ve known the Varcoes all your life.’ She would not be silenced. She had to make them understand. ‘You’ve built boats for them.’

‘That’s different. That’s business. Listen, girl, and hear what I’m saying. Devlin Varcoe is not for you.’

‘Why?’ Tamara demanded. ‘Because he’s a smuggler? Is that why, Papa?’ she repeated trying hard to sound more reasonable. He looked, she thought, like a man already floundering and desperate not to sink any deeper.

‘That is one reason. There are others. And no, I do not intend to discuss them with you.’ He rubbed his palms together, visibly embarrassed.

‘That’s not fair!’

‘Enough! I mean it, Tamara,’ he warned as she opened her mouth. Clearing his throat and avoiding his daughter’s flushed cheeks and stormy gaze, he moved across to the fireplace and studied the dancing flames. ‘Listen to your mother. She knows far better that you what’s best.’

‘Best for who?’ Tamara cried.

‘Whom, dear. It’s
whom
,’ Morwenna corrected gently, sitting up straight once more.

‘I don’t care!’ Tamara yelled. ‘I love Devlin.’

‘Love?’ Morwenna tilted her head. Her patronising smile made Tamara want to scream. ‘My dear child, what would you know of love? You’re far too young to –’

‘I’m not a child. I’m nineteen,’ Tamara cried. ‘And if I’m old enough to be married off to a man of your choice, I’m certainly old enough to know about love.’

Her mother paled, darting a shocked and frantic glance towards her husband.

‘That will do!’ Her father thundered, startling all three of them. Clearing his throat he continued in a quieter tone. ‘I want no more talk like that. You’ll upset your mother.’

Tamara threw up her hands. ‘Mama’s always upset about something. Papa, this is important. It’s my whole future –’

‘Not with Devil Varcoe.’ John Gillis was grim. ‘He’s not for you.’

Hot tears of fury welled but she blinked them back. This was too serious. Besides, she had never resorted to weeping to get her own way. That was her mother’s behaviour. It would never be hers. ‘You care more for what other people might say than you do about my happiness.’

‘Oh, Tamara.’ Morwenna buried her face in her handkerchief.

Anger darkened her father’s features. ‘You listen to me, my girl. It’s because we care about your happiness that we want to see you safely married to a man of –’

‘I won’t marry someone I don’t love. I’d sooner not marry at all.’

‘So what will you do instead?’ her father demanded.

Tamara shrugged. Wanting Devlin, determined to have Devlin, she had never considered alternatives. ‘I could – I could be a governess.’

‘Oh yes? Where?’

‘Here,’ she retorted defiantly. ‘In Porthinnis.’ While Devlin stayed so would she.

‘The only governess in this village is Miss Everson. She’s been with Dr Avers fifteen years and will no doubt be with the family for another fifteen if Mrs Avers continues breeding.’

‘Mr Gillis,
please
!’ Morwenna gasped.

Ignoring his wife he raged on. ‘Or will you work in the pilchard cellars among women with coarse clothes and coarser minds who stink of fish? How long would your pretty dresses last then?’

‘John!’

‘If you really want to drive your mother to her death-bed you could take a job at The Five Mackerel where you’ll be leered at and pawed by drunken fishermen and farm labourers.’

‘Oh!’ Morwenna shrieked. ‘The shame – I couldn’t bear – Quick, my smelling salts! I feel faint.’

‘Now, now, my dear.’ Guiding the vinaigrette clutched in his wife’s hand to her nose, John glared at his daughter. ‘See what you’ve done? Are you happy now?’

‘But I didn’t – why are you blaming me?’ Hurt and furious, she went to the door.

‘Tamara, wait. Your dinner –’

‘I’m not hungry.’ She raced upstairs, her eyes burning. Why wouldn’t they listen? 

Chapter Three

Thomas Varcoe rode down the long incline of Lemon Street into the town of Truro. Crossing the bridge at the bottom he glanced to his right, his gaze drawn to the trading schooners, brigs, and fishing luggers moored alongside quays on both sides of the river. Their hatches were open, decks swarming with men loading and unloading cargoes. Behind the quays, warehouse doors gaped like open mouths to receive sacks and boxes and balks of timber.

Men shouted, iron-shod hoofs clattered against the granite setts, heavy carts creaked, winches squealed. The village could be noisy, but it was nothing compared to this. Unsettled, Thomas’s horse tossed its head. He urged it on with a sharp kick, scattering barefoot children clad in filthy rags who, recognising a stranger, darted between carts and carriages to run hopefully alongside.

‘Gi’ us a penny, mister. A ha’penny? A farthing? Go on, mister. Please?’

He ignored their grubby outstretched hands and rode past, disregarding the curses screeched after him.

‘Tight as a duck’s fert, you are, mister.’

‘Skin a turd for the tallow, he would.’

He had left Porthinnis early yesterday, stopped for dinner and the night at the Norway Inn, and set off again this morning. Now after almost four hours on the road he was saddle-sore and extremely hungry.

Reaching Boscawen Street, an even more imposing thoroughfare since the demolition of a row of houses down the centre had more than doubled its width, he glanced at the façade of The Red Lion. Four stories high, with three gables at the front and pediments over the windows, the majestic building had once been the town house of a prominent family.

Thomas’s chin rose. When he’d made his fortune he would have a town house. Nothing too large – one had to consider the cost of running such an establishment – but certainly grand enough to indicate his success. He’d show all those who still harboured doubts that he was more than equal to his father. His father was dead, for God’s sake. He was in charge now. Had he owned such a house nothing would have induced him to part with it.

But instead of crossing the busy thoroughfare to take a room there he turned left. Impressive it might be but he’d had enough of coaching inns. They were exceptionally busy places with noise and bustle that lasted long into the night and began again in the early hours.

He preferred The Bull. Situated opposite the coinage hall, the inn was popular with mine owners, tin and copper smelters, and free-trading businessmen like himself. The rooms were neat, the sheets properly aired, and the landlord kept an excellent table and wine cellar. Dismounting, Thomas waited for the boy to unfasten his bag from the saddle and hand it to him. Then as his horse was led round to the yard and stables, he entered the inn.

An hour later, fortified by a hearty meal of cold beef, cheese, and good claret, he went out once more into the busy street. He had two calls to make. One he dreaded. The other – he patted his chest and was reassured. Tucked into a hidden pocket on the inside of his double-breasted waistcoat, the emerald lay snugly against his heart. It was a particularly fine stone. Certainly the best of the gems Trevanion had brought back from India.

Unfortunately it was also the last. Trevanion’s announcement had come as an unpleasant shock. While Thomas was still coming to terms with all the implications, the colonel had dealt him a further blow. Despite the brandy fumes on his breath and the floridity of his complexion, Trevanion’s instructions had been unequivocal.

He trusted Thomas would get the best price possible. But this time only half the sum would be invested in cargo. The remainder was for his daughter Jenefer’s dowry.

This presented Thomas with not just one but several problems. He already owed his uncle for part of the last cargo. To buy time he’d sent a letter with Devlin to Roscoff citing late payment by a couple of his customers. But Hedley had his suppliers to pay and would expect the debt cleared when Devlin arrived to collect the next shipment. If it wasn’t – Thomas’s skin tightened in a shiver. He couldn’t fail. He’d find the money. He had to, because if he didn’t, all his plans, his whole future – he slammed a mental door on thoughts too horrifying to contemplate.

Following his father’s death two other venturers had decided to retire. Both had told him it was nothing personal. But he knew better. They hadn’t waited, hadn’t even allowed him an opportunity to show that he was just as shrewd, just as able. If they had only given him a chance he would have proved it.

He felt a rush of anger, a fierce quickening of his pulse as he relived the memory. Overcoming his pride he had actually pleaded. And still they’d turned him down. He hated that they had seen his desperation. Their rejection was an insult he wouldn’t forgive. Nor would he forget. He’d show them. His time would come. When it did revenge would be sweet.

Since their defection Colonel Trevanion had been his only source of finance. But with no more gems to sell the next cargo would be his last investment. In addition, when an increased profit was vital in order to balance the accounts, the colonel was reducing his stake. It was imperative to find a new venturer.

But who? No one else in Porthinnis had that kind of money. Apart from the Casvellans: but Branoc Casvellan was a justice of the peace. Though his sentencing of smugglers was usually less severe than that of his colleagues, he flatly declined any involvement in free trading. Thomas’s mouth twisted bitterly. Was the man blind or simply naïve? Did he really believe duty had been paid on his after-dinner brandy?

Yet even he could not be as much of a hypocrite as Sir Edward Pengarrick, who regularly sentenced Mount’s Bay men to transportation when everyone knew he was the venturer backing the Cawsand smugglers.

Someone bumped his shoulder, jolting him into awareness of his surroundings. Startled, he realised he had reached the shop without any recollection of the journey. Taking a moment to clear his mind he focused on the negotiation that lay ahead. His dead father still cast a long shadow. But he ran the business now. Devlin was just a courier. It was he, Thomas, elder son and his father’s heir, who held the reins and the power. He breathed deeply, felt new strength and determination infuse him, then pushed open the door.

Later that evening, replete with an excellent meal accompanied by more fine wine, Thomas sat beside a roaring fire in the coffee room, reliving once more the pleasurable part of his afternoon. He had secured an excellent price for the emerald. Unwilling to trust the landlord’s strongbox, and far too wary to leave anything of value in his room, he had secreted the money in various secret pockets about his person. After another brandy he planned to retire to bed. The journey back to Porthinnis would require an early start.

‘Why, damme, it’s Thomas Varcoe!’

Looking up, Thomas saw a brawny figure he knew by sight and reputation. Standing at well over six feet, Harry Carlyon was a head taller than almost every other man in the room, including himself. Thomas found this doubly irksome as it reminded him of his brother. Because thinking about Devlin always filled him with anger and resentment he usually avoided doing so.

The most successful smuggler in Coverack, Harry wore his notoriety as comfortably as he wore his well-cut frock coat. Bitterness burned in Thomas’s stomach. If Devlin possessed such a garment, he’d fill it with the same careless ease.

‘Carlyon,’ Thomas greeted with a smile, and snapped his fingers at the landlord who was hurrying past with a bottle but appeared not to see.

‘Jack!’ Carlyon roared above the rumble of conversation and laughter. ‘Two glasses of your finest cognac.’

‘Coming right up, Mr Carlyon,’ the landlord shouted back.

‘So,’ Harry folded himself into the high-backed settle, forcing Thomas to move along and making him feel cornered. ‘What brings you to Truro?’

‘Business.’ Thomas said curtly, still smarting from the landlord’s snub.

‘Me too.’ Harry’s expression was open, his grin expansive, but his narrowed gaze was as sharp as a gimlet. ‘I tell you, if my bank manager had bowed any lower he’d have been sweeping the floor with his nose. Does your heart good to see them grovel, doesn’t it?’

Thomas responded with a wry nod, intimating shared experience while his dinner curdled inside him. He had known the meeting with Mr Daniell would be difficult. But it had been worse. It had been a disaster. The banker was immovable. Until the current overdraft had been reduced, a further loan was out of the question. He hadn’t even softened his words with an apology. Thomas had found this deeply insulting.

Wanting to grab the man by the throat and shake him until his teeth rattled, instead Thomas had inclined his head, saying he understood perfectly. This acceptance was the banker’s cue to relax. When he didn’t, Thomas found himself driven to further explanation. The situation had come about because money due to him had been delayed. Unfortunately, this had compromised his own affairs.

‘Indeed.’ The banker’s response was totally devoid of inflection. But Thomas’s shirt had grown damp as he masked his embarrassment and fury behind a casual smile.

‘I did consider taking a mortgage on the property –’

‘A second charge, Mr Varcoe?’ the banker interrupted, his brows climbing. ‘As I understand it, there is already –’

‘You did not allow me to finish,’ Thomas chided gently. How in the name of all that was holy did Daniell know? ‘I said I considered it. But as I fully expect to clear the overdraft within the next few weeks –’ His gesture intimated that it wouldn’t be worth the trouble. It was a wild impossible claim but he didn’t care. The only thing that mattered was to escape with the few shreds of dignity remaining to him.

‘I shall look forward to it.’ The banker’s tone made clear the meeting was over.

Thomas bowed and bade him good day, receiving in return a nod of minimal politeness. He left the bank fuming with rage and indignation. But beneath the anger lay cold numbing fear.

He smiled at Harry. ‘It’s always good to hear of someone else doing well.’ Careful not to betray the slightest trace of envy, his tone implied there was plenty of business for both of them.

Harry rubbed his palms together. The rasp of callused skin grated on Thomas’s raw nerves like a blacksmith’s file. The landlord set two goblets half full of golden-brown spirits on the table and hurried away. Harry picked up one and swirled it gently, then inhaled the vapours. ‘Bit of all right, that is.’ He raised the goblet in a toast. ‘Fair winds for all but the revenue men.’

Saluting with his own glass, Thomas drank deeply.

Harry cradled the goblet between scarred hands that were twice the size of Thomas’s soft pale ones. He shook his head. ‘Got to admit I’m bleddy exhausted. Demand’s so high it’s hard to keep up. In fair weather I’m making a run every three or four days.’

Thomas was sceptical. ‘You can’t get to Roscoff and back in such a short time.’

After a brief and apparently casual glance round, the smuggler half–turned so his back faced the room, and lowered his voice. ‘Not Roscoff, Guernsey.’

‘Even so, no lugger could –’

‘I sold my lugger. I’ve got a cutter now. Fast as a swallow she is. I can outsail anything on this coast.’

‘Even the revenue boats?’ Thomas challenged, an idea beginning to take shape in his mind.

Harry grinned. ‘Especially the revenue boats.’

It was a risk, but life was a risk. It would solve all his problems. What if it failed – why should it? He was supposed to take the money back. The colonel didn’t need it immediately. No banns had been posted, so his daughter could not be getting married for at least a month. By then he would have recouped both the investment and a sizeable profit. Besides, most of the time Trevanion was too drunk to know what day of the week it was. It would be easy enough to fob him off. He’d say the jeweller wanted to take the emerald to Exeter to get a better price.

‘Do you believe in fate?’ Thomas blurted, telling himself if Carlyon laughed he’d forget the whole thing.

The smuggler swirled his brandy again and raised it to his lips. He held the spirit in his mouth, savouring the bouquet and taste before swallowing.

‘Funny you should ask that,’ he murmured. His expression grew pensive but his gaze remained sharp. ‘How long is it since I saw you last? Must be two or three months at least. Yet here we are, enjoying a drink and a yarn, both doing well and looking to do better. Would you call that fate?’

Harry Carlyon had turned the question without actually answering it. But Thomas was only half-listening. Surely this was exactly the opportunity he’d been waiting, hoping for? It was too good to miss. Raising his own glass he swallowed deeply, allowing himself sufficient time to control swelling excitement. He had to give the impression of offering, not needing.

‘Well,’ he smiled, ‘fate or not, our meeting like this could do us both a bit of good. As it happens I’ve got some spare funds to invest.’ Just saying the words made him feel powerful. ‘Would you be interested?’

Carlyon’s gaze flicked up. ‘Certainly would. Do you want to take delivery and arrange your own distribution, or –’

‘No. You handle all that. I’ll settle for my stake plus the profit less your costs. What’s your percentage rate?’

After a few minutes of haggling they agreed terms.

‘How long?’ demanded Thomas.

‘Two weeks.’ Harry Carlyon grinned. ‘Meet me back here and you can buy me dinner.’ They shook hands on the deal and Thomas excused himself, going to his room to remove the money in private. Then he called for pen and paper and wrote out a receipt. After signing the document, which Thomas pocketed, Harry stuffed the cash inside his coat and called for more brandy.

The following morning Thomas mounted his horse carefully in deference to the dull throbbing in his skull. He was two hours later than he’d planned. Sitting talking late into the night with Harry, he’d drunk far more than he usually did and woke with a sour stomach and a pounding headache. But after a wash, a shave, and several cups of strong coffee, he had managed to eat a decent breakfast.

The residue of his hangover faded as he pictured his return to Truro, and Harry handing over a bag of golden guineas or a thick wad of the new five-pound notes. His mind leapt forward to his next visit to the bank. It would give him great pleasure to put the supercilious Daniell firmly in his place. But that would be only a passing pleasure. What he really wanted, and was determined to have, was Tamara Gillis.