The Defiant Lady Pencavel (21 page)

“There is your ill-conceived tongue again.” He stalked toward her, pistol raised.

“I agree, it has always gotten me into trouble.” She thrust out her hand to hold him back, her heart twitching. “I can arrange for monetary compensation for your unfortunate insult at my selfish actions. I’m sure my betrothed-again, Lord Lambrick, will pay handsomely for my release.”

“You’re
betrothed
to that rapscallion?” Showreynold’s mouth nearly gaped to the floor. His voice rose to a high-pitch. “Will the affronts never end?”

“I meant to keep that to myself, so forget I spoke.” Melwyn cursed inwardly. Perspiration gathered under her arms as she watched his crazed expression. “But if money is what you—”

“Enough!” He poked the pistol into her chin. “I’m getting what I abducted you for, you heartless hussy—but p-please don’t be upset afterwards.”

Melwyn squirmed. She grabbed for the barrel while ducking her head to avoid having it shot off. “Unhand me, you spineless sprig! I’m beyond furious now!”

Showreynolds growled and pushed her down on the bed. His fingers groped at her neckline, and she screamed and kicked at him. The pistol clattered to the floor.

****

Griffin stood in the anteroom of the Bodmin Jail, a place he had no intention of spending any more time than necessary in. He took a steadying breath to calm himself. “Raw, really, what did you actually see. Me blinking my lantern? What mischief is there in that? I was guiding the ship around our treacherous shoals, that’s all.”

“I wish I could leave it at that, Grif.” Rawlyn leaned against his desk, his bony shoulders hunched. “But I had a complaint from a prosperous citizen. I can’t ignore such accusations.”

“I know the citizen in question, and he has a bone to pick with me over his aspirations that I would wed his daughter.” Griffin’s jaw tightened as he thought of Trefoile. “The man has a vendetta against me.”

“Why wouldn’t you wed his daughter? The entire region laments that it’s far beyond time you took a wife.” Rawlyn looked genuinely puzzled. “Miss Trefoile isn’t that off-putting to look at, and her dowry is generous.”

“I’m in love with another, if you must pry.” Griffin strode across the room, lovely blue eyes softening his anger. “Which reminds me. I need to get word to my fiancée, who is probably traveling from London to Cornwall. I don’t want her to worry.”

“Is it that fetching lady I met that day at Merther Manor? I’ll let you have paper and ink.” Rawlyn plucked up a quill from his desk. “But I’ll have to hold you over for the quarterly assizes, Grif. I have no choice.”

“I refuse to spend another night in that pit in your cellar.” Griffin brushed down his sleeves for emphasis. He’d heard rats in the walls all night long. He fought a grimace. “I am a man of refined tastes, after all.”

“Our gaol is fairly new. The buildings were designed by Sir John Call, Bart. J.P., M.P. in 1778, and based on the plans and ideals of the prison reformer John Howard,” Rawlyn intoned, his brow creased in annoyance. “Bodmin Gaol is a milestone in prison design.”

“Yes, yes, I’ve heard it all. It’s light and airy and therefore healthy, with different isolated areas for felons, misdemeanants and debtors.” Griffin strutted about the room, throwing a hand in the air. His father had contributed to its erection. Griffin thanked God his father couldn’t see his downfall. “There is hot water, a chapel, an infirmary for sick prisoners and individual sleeping cells. Very good, but I don’t wish to inhabit the place for long.”

“Plus, don’t forget, your valet was in attendance, at my permission.” Rawyln smirked as he pulled paper from a desk drawer. “I understand you supped on roast mutton and good claret, hardly the feast of the subjugated.”

“Kenver? He’s mooning over my betrothed’s abigail, so not quite so attentive a valet as I’d like. He brought me the second-best claret, and the mutton was slightly gristly.” Griffin sighed and shook his head at the vagaries of servants. “Kenver and the sham Mrs. Bucket seem to have formed an attachment.” And Griffin understood well how a man could be distracted by a woman.

“I’ll put you in a better cell, closer to the necessary, if that will help.” Rawlyn held up a ring of jangling keys, his gaze almost sympathetic. “I did warn you to cease your nocturnal high jinks.”

“You can’t be serious. I’m a peer, and should be above such things.” For the first time, the idea he could spend years in prison crept through Griffin, dampening his core. How would he enjoy intimate moments with Miss Pencavel, or sire children, if he was locked away? What would happen to Merther Manor without him there to guide her? He’d also miss his horse!

“Sir! Sir!” A familiar voice called. Jacca appeared, red in the face, a constable gripping his arm and dragged along behind. “I have a confession to make.”

“What is the meaning of this commotion?” Rawlyn thrust his hands on his nonexistent hips.

“I took him for his walk, as prisoners get a short walk, but he insisted on coming in here,” the constable stammered. “He’s strong for an old bugger.”

“Sirs, Sheriff Tremayne an’ Lord Lambrick. I must be allowed to confess.” Jacca staggered over to them, the constable still hanging on his arm.

“Confess to what?” Griffin asked as he opened a bottom drawer in the sheriff’s desk where he knew brandy was stashed. Jacca wasn’t about to spill the beans, give them up, and thus ruin everything? His anger heated up. “Surely you have naught to say. As your employer, I do object.”

“That’s
my
question as an officer of the law, if you don’t mind,” Rawlyn grumbled. He turned to Jacca. “Confess to what, bailiff?”

“I did it all, alone, the smugglin’, the sellin’ of artifacts from them foreign ports. An’ never once did I pay no taxes. I were a miscreant.” Jacca raised his arm high. “The king should want to shoot me personal.”

“No, don’t lie for me,” Griffin protested, stunned by this turn of events. “I refuse to allow it. Though I appreciate the sentiment, you’re carrying allegiance far too far.”

“’Tisn’no lie. It were all me doin’ an’ his lordship knew nothin’.”

“Don’t be foolhardy, bailiff. We caught your master with you,” Rawlyn said, bemusement in this tone. “As much as I’d like to set him free, I simply can’t.”

“He were tryin’ to stop me, he was.” Jacca bowed toward Griffin. “Lord Lambrick be an upstanding citizen of the realm. No better man anywhere, I’ll be bound.”

“Jacca, please, this isn’t necessary,” Griffin said, infused with shame. He uncorked the brandy and took a gulp of the smoky liquid “I insist that you desist and—”

“But it is! ‘Ee think I want to go home to me old woman? Nearly lost me scalp last time the harridan went at me.” Jacca heaved a troubled breath. “I hope they’ll convict me an’ transport me to the Americas. Oh, wait, we lost them didn’t we? Then that land down under, Aussietrailia. That’ll be far enough away from the brutal witch.”

“Jacca, you don’t know what you’re saying.” Griffin clasped his bailiff’s shoulder, choked up by the man’s loyalty, and his desperation to flee his spouse. “Rawlyn, you can’t consider what he’s admitting to as the sole perpetrator? However, I won’t admit that any crime took place so there was nothing to perpetrate.”

“Believe it, Sheriff. I’m the one ‘ee want.” Jacca nodded his glum face vigorously, and the man did look the happiest ever. “Just me an’ no one else.”

“How could you have pulled this off from right under your master’s nose?” Rawlyn stared in skepticism from Griffin to Jacca. “As much as I’d like to believe you.”

“I’m a sneaky old codger, an’ the master be a heavy sleeper.” The bailiff poked the sheriff and winked. “I’ll show ‘ee the secret tunnel under the estate. I dug it meself.”

“I beg you to think this over.” Griffin wrestled with the scruples he was surprised to possess. His face seared. “How can I allow you to take the blame?” He glanced at Rawlyn. “If there
was
any crime to be admitted to in the first instance, which there is not.”

“But I
need
to do it, being I’m the guilty one, sir, an’ ‘ee were totally ignorant.” Jacca’s eyes pleaded with him, his hands gripped together in supplication. “I’d be quite the jackaroo down under, I would.”

“I can picture you herding kangaroos,” Griffin said dryly, realizing how truly desperate his bailiff was to escape the country. His stomach started to unknot. He would have his glorious wedding. He turned to the sheriff. “Raw, can I get a guarantee my man will be transported and not simply incarcerated or hung?”

“I’d take the rope over seein’ me old woman again,” Jacca admitted.

“I suppose arrangements can be made, greasing the right palms as is the custom.” Rawlyn sighed, snatched the brandy bottle from Griffin and took his own gulp. “You’re released, Grif. And I sincerely hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

“I believe I have. I am in your debt, both of you.” Griffin began to relax; no more smuggling for him. Miss Pencavel, or rather soon to be Mrs. Lambrick, would be all the stimulation he required. He grasped Jacca’s hand. “Take care of yourself, my good man. Stay clear of the wallabies.”

“Your lordship, if I may be so rude as to interrupt.” Kenver rushed over, the valet immaculate in his striped waistcoat and perfectly knotted cravat. He removed his hat and pressed it to his broad chest.

Griffin felt disheveled in comparison, after a night in a dingy cell.  He scratched at an itch in his side. “You may. Then you may follow me home and draw me a hot bath. I pray I won’t need a delousing.”

“I have an urgent note from Lady Pencavel’s aunt, Lady Penpol.” Kenver handed him the note.

Griffin broke the seal. His heart clenched as he read. “Deuce it all. My beloved has been abducted by a crazed baron’s son. I must away to London to save her.” As only he could, being the brave—and now honest—hero that he wished to embody.

Chapter Nineteen

Melwyn wriggled violently under the heaving form of Mr. Showreynolds. His knees bumped her legs, his fingers ripping at her bodice. His stocky body squeezed the air from her chest. She writhed about, then bit his ear, tasting flesh and blood.

“Ouch, you bitch!” he cried as he jerked back. “Give me leave to unbutton my breeches.”

“Fie! You dare to chastise me, when you’re the one abusing my person?” She strained to catch her breath. With all her strength she shoved him to the floor. Scrambling to her feet, she picked up a chamber pot and smashed it over his head. “You couldn’t take a simple apology? You were badly raised, sir.”

“You are a heartless wench,” he groaned as glass shards scattered over the room. He slumped to the planks, blood trickling down his face.

She snatched up the pistol and ran to the door. “I’ll tell your father and the authorities where to find you. If I feel so inclined.” She hurried down the stairs and out the front door. Her pulse skittering, she brushed back her hair with shaking fingers.

She felt for the coins in her inside pocket, thankful they were still there. She finally hailed a hackney, as most of the jarvies stared at her rumpled visage in suspicion, and she returned to her aunt’s in Grosvenor Square.

“Oh, my poor darling. How I worried!” Aunt Hedra embraced her in a puff of lavender and pomade. “I’ll send a missive to a Bow Street Runner to apprehend that churlish knave.”

“I hope they parade him through the streets naked.” Melwyn sighed in relief to be free, then frowned, chewing her lower lip. “On second thought, no one wants to witness that ugly spectacle.”

“Oh, la, you’re not dead an’ dropped into a ditch in the city.” Clowenna hugged her fiercely. “Let’s leave this den of iniquity called London.”

“No, not yet. The poor gel must rest after this frightening incident.” Aunt Hedra  scrutinized Melwyn through her quizzing glass. “Be that as it may, you are still virginal, aren’t you, Mellie?”

“Indeed I am, Auntie. Only a little bruised, but not where it might count.” Melwyn stared up at her aunt’s hair, where now a string of pearls was entwined like a path of snow winding up a peak. “At least I finished my gown measurements before I was kidnapped. The dress will be exquisite.”

“I’ll prepare a bath, as ‘ee greatly need one.” Clowenna waved her hand before her face. “But I’m that glad ‘ee wasn’t raped an’ left to fend for yourself in a St. Giles rookery.”

“I can’t rest too long. I must journey to Padstow, and the dashing Lord Lambrick. I’ve missed him so.” She never thought she’d say that, Melwyn mused with a silly laugh as her chest heaved then heated with desire. “I need his strong arms to hold me. And I have a wedding, my own, to attend.”

“‘Ee might be more a trial, that is too smarmy, in love, I do fear,” Clowenna groused as she helped her mistress up the Adam’s staircase. 

“I’ll order the servants to haul up buckets of hot water at once.” Aunt Hedra bustled toward her kitchen, petticoats rustling and pearls clicking. “Then send for that Bow Street Runner. Hopefully one with more astuteness than the one searching for you.”

“You weren’t hurt, were you, Clowie, when that dastardly baron’s brat pushed you?” Melwyn fought a shudder, reliving her and her abigail’s ordeal. They entered the guest bedchamber.

“Naw. Only bruised me bum a bit.” Clowenna helped her mistress out of her torn and dirty clothes. “Your aunt sent word to his lordship ‘bout what happened.”

“That will take days to reach him, then he’ll take days—because I’m certain he’ll want to rush here—to reach me.” Melwyn checked the scratches on her body, wincing at the soreness. “I must write immediately to let him know I’m all right, but then that letter will no doubt miss him in transit.”

Several maids hurried in with steaming buckets of water, which they poured into a copper bathtub. Melwyn donned a clean chemise and lowered herself into the soothing water. She scrubbed her skin with Crown soap while Clowenna washed her hair in dissolved soap shavings, then rinsed her tresses with lemon juice, to remove the sticky soap.

Melwyn luxuriated in the attention. Dried off, she sat before the vanity and her maid brushed her hair to bring back the natural oils.

“I suppose you’re anxious to see the valet?” Melwyn smiled at her in the mirror.