The Many Sins of Cris De Feaux (Lords of Disgrace) (18 page)

It should have been a huge relief, of course.
Damn him
, Tamsyn fumed.
In he strolls, setting my life straight with the bank as well.
Dear Mr Defoe,
says Izzy.
Interfering, patronising marquess,
I say.

It was unworthy and ungrateful and she should think of the aunts’ security and happiness, not her own wounded heart and dented pride. She was still talking herself out of the sullens when Rosie gave a shriek.

‘They
are
by Rubens! The oil paintings, Mr Defoe says they are by Rubens and worth—oh, my goodness, I must be misreading his handwriting. Isobel, dear, you see what it says.’

Izzy took one look, added her own shriek. ‘I don’t believe it! That much, for two little pictures? Whatever am I going to do? I am very fond of the paintings, but hardly to the extent that I would see anyone hurt to keep them.’ She looked as though she might weep at the thought.

‘Nothing,’ said Rosie fiercely. ‘If your nephew had been a decent young man and you had discovered this, then of course you would tell him. But he is responsible for that poor man’s death, whether he intended it or not. Your father wanted you to have the pictures. That should be enough—it is not as though you could or would sell them and they will go back to the estate eventually.’

‘If he takes them, he will only be stealing his own property,’ Tamsyn said thoughtfully. She got up and went to sit beside Izzy, put an arm around her and gave her a hug. ‘I am trying to think of what we could accuse him of if there is no evidence about the murder. He would be breaking the terms of your father’s will and he would be breaking and entering, I suppose.’

‘We must think on it when we have got over the shock,’ Rosie said. ‘Ring for some tea, Tamsyn dear, and let us open the rest of our post.’

Even tea did not entirely stop Izzy’s agitated murmurings, but eventually she opened the remainder of her letters. ‘This is from Cousin Harriet—do you recall her, Rosie? Sylvia’s daughter, such a nice girl, and she made a good marriage, to Lord Pirton, and had three sons and a daughter, Julia. I haven’t heard from her in an age, but she says she has been in a whirl with her daughter’s come-out and marriage! Goodness...to Lord Dewington. And she—Harriet, that is—says she was quite cast down with anti-climax and Pirton is insisting on staying in London during the summer because of some government business and she’s been meaning for an age to invite us all to stay, but couldn’t because of Julia—’ Izzy paused for breath ‘—and would we like to come now?’

‘But—’ Tamsyn began.

‘But neither Rosie nor I enjoy cities,’ Izzy continued. ‘You could go, though, dear. You have never been to London, after all.’

‘I couldn’t leave, not now, with all this going on. And surely Lady Pirton knows about my marriage and Jory. She wouldn’t want me visiting, surely?’

‘Yes, she knows and she was very sympathetic and understanding at the time. And it is not as though the season is under way,’ Rosie said. ‘You could see the sights and keep her company for a week or so, do a little shopping. We will be quite safe here with our two sturdy bodyguards. And Mr Defoe says in his letter something about the dealer he took the pictures to.’ She searched painfully through the scattered sheets in her lap until her arthritic fingers found the page she was looking for.

‘Yes, here it is. He says that the dealer has put the pictures into his own strong room until we decide what to do about them. I really think it would be best to go and talk to this Mr Masterson and get all the details, don’t you? He may have advice about looking after them.’

But...
No, she couldn’t just sit there mouthing the same word over and over. Tamsyn made herself look at the issue objectively. The aunts had their large and capable bodyguards and she was certain that if she asked him, Dr Tregarth would call in daily. She had strengthened the security on the farm and the livestock. It would be sensible to talk to the dealer about the paintings now that they knew what a responsibility they were. She might even find out more about Franklin and whatever mess he had got himself into. Which left the real reason she did not want to go to London—Cris was there.

Coward.
‘Yes, I will go,’ she found herself saying before she could think about it any more. ‘I will go to London.’

Chapter Eighteen

‘E
xcellent,’ Aunt Rosie said. ‘You deserve a holiday, my dear, and you will enjoy London.’

Will I?
Tamsyn had her doubts, starting with the risk of encountering Cris, through qualms about her lack of familiarity with society beyond the local gentry and assemblies at the nearby towns, to the prospect of making the longest journey she had ever attempted.

She mentally stiffened her spine and told herself not to be feeble. She could do this. ‘Will you write at once, Aunt Izzy, and say I would be delighted to come for a week? And I will send a note to the Golden Lion in Barnstaple and book a seat on the stage for the day after tomorrow.’

‘I will say a month,’ Aunt Izzy said from her seat at the writing desk. ‘It is too far to make a week’s stay worthwhile. The roads are better than the last time I went to London, but they are still poor as far as Tiverton, so you will be a good two days on the road, besides having to set out from here the day before to stay at the Golden Lion
.
You had best take Harris with you, you can’t go staying at inns by yourself and we can manage with Molly. I can always get in more help from the village if necessary.’ Purposeful now the decision had been made, she was writing rapidly as she talked.

Tamsyn went to her own desk and wrote a note for the doctor, then another to the inn to reserve a room and two inside seats on the stage, and finally a list of things to do that took up three sheets of notepaper. It was not until she fell into bed that night with a grateful sigh that she realised that she had not thought about Crispin de Feaux for at least eight hours. That seemed like a small, but significant, victory.

* * *

Tamsyn swam up through clouds of sleep into a pale blue light and, for a moment, had no idea where she was. She fought her way upright against a heap of pillows, looked around and remembered. She was in London. Had arrived yesterday afternoon and had been swept into the warmth of Lady Pirton’s welcome.

‘My dear Tamsyn! May I call you Tamsyn? Such a pretty name. Welcome to London!’

Her hostess, in a flurry of silken skirts, had come across the drawing room, hands outstretched as Tamsyn collected her scattered and travel-tossed wits and executed a respectable curtsy, trying not to stare like a yokel at the elegance of Lady Pirton and her drawing room. ‘Lady Pirton, thank you for your invitation.’

‘Harriet, dear. Why, we are almost cousins, are we not? Now then, are you exhausted? What would you like best? A nice bath and your bed? A little something to eat? A walk in the fresh air? You must tell me just what would suit you.’

‘A bath, something to eat and my bed, Cousin Harriet,’ Tamsyn had admitted honestly. ‘I do apologise, but I have to confess that the room is jolting up and down and I forget when I last had more than a few hours’ sleep together.’ And when she had closed her eyes it had been to fall into a restless doze, full of anxious dreams about the aunts and disturbingly erotic fantasies of Cris.

As she had travelled, grown more weary of the jolting, crowded coach, the hectic, grubby inns, the constant need to look out for their possessions and to find their way in unfamiliar places, she had felt both her uncertainty about what to do deepening but her determination to do
something
about Franklin strengthening.

‘You are a heroine for even attempting a stagecoach journey of that length,’ Cousin Harriet said with a shudder. ‘Now, up to your suite and I will send my woman to look after you. I have no doubt yours is in as much need of a rest as you are.’

And now it was full morning, judging by the light. A bell pull hung by the bed and she tugged it, wary of just who might appear and hoping it would not be Cousin Harriet’s very superior lady’s maid, Fielding, who had helped her into her bath, unpacked her battered valises and had refrained with crashing tact from showing any reaction to her workaday, unfashionable wardrobe.

But, thank goodness, it was Harris who came in, neat as a pin as usual and looking as rested as Tamsyn felt. ‘How are you feeling, Harris?’

‘Much better, Mizz Tamsyn. Sorry—madam, I should say.’ Harris wrinkled her nose. ‘Lord, but they’re a starched-up lot below stairs, for all they’ve made me very comfortable. All precedence and Miss Fielding this and Miss Harris that. And a butler called Pearson with a poker up his—yes, well, you know what I mean.’

Tamsyn snorted with laughter and felt better. ‘It is all very grand, is it not? What is the time?’

‘Eight o’clock, madam. Her ladyship says, would you care for breakfast in your chamber or will you join her in the breakfast parlour in half an hour?’

‘I’ll go down, I can’t lie about in my room any longer.’ Tamsyn slid out of bed. ‘It will have to be the green morning dress, I think, Harris. It is the better of the two.’

* * *

Cousin Harriet was just entering the breakfast parlour as Pearson, the stately butler, showed Tamsyn to the door. She managed to say, ‘Thank you, Pearson’, without giggling over Harris’s pungent description of him and took her seat.

‘Now then, what would you like to do, my dear? I have all kinds of suggestions, but this is your visit.’ Lady Pirton heaped her plate from the buffet with an enthusiasm that belied her slender figure and gestured to Tamsyn to help herself.

‘I have a few errands, and some shopping for myself and my aunts, but you must tell me how I might be of use to you, Cousin Harriet.’

‘By keeping me company and letting me come shopping with you. I miss my darling Julia and you must stop me moping and keep me young. Now, what are your errands?’

‘There is a picture dealer I must visit on behalf of Aunt Isobel and a shopping list of alarming proportions for both her and Aunt Rosie—I suspect I will be visiting every bookshop in London.’

‘And dress shops for yourself?’ Lady Pirton buttered another slice of toast and reached for the strawberry conserve.

‘Yes, I fear my wardrobe is hopelessly out of date and provincial,’ Tamsyn confessed. ‘Not that we have an extravagant social life in Devon, but I would like something pretty for the occasional assembly and certainly for local dinner parties. And perhaps a new riding habit and a walking dress or two.’ She looked down at her sprigged green skirts. ‘And a morning dress.’

‘And shoes and shawls and all the trimmings. Excellent.’ Lady Pirton beamed. ‘And I have invitations to some select little parties you will enjoy, so I suggest we visit my
modiste
first so she can make a start and then we can go to your art dealer and the bookshops. You won’t need to dress up for either of those.’

Which implies that I’m not yet fit to be seen in any of the fashionable lounges like Bond Street or Hyde Park
, Tamsyn thought with an inward smile.

* * *

The visit to the
modiste
, who proved to be the famous Mrs Bell, much to Tamsyn’s alarm, was thoroughly embarrassing. She was stripped down to her plain and functional underwear, which was
tutted
over, then she was measured, peered at, discussed and turned around like a doll in the hands of a group of little girls.

‘I think I might... Do I really need...? But how much...?’ All was ignored until she pulled herself together, put up both hands and said, ‘Stop, please! I need to know how much each garment will be before I commit myself. And I most certainly do not require a ball gown.’ It was not as though she could not afford a new wardrobe, but her practical soul revolted at the idea of wasting her money on things she did not need and would never use.

Finally she escaped with an order that satisfied both practicality and a purely feminine desire for a few frills and furbelows that were, perhaps, not entirely necessary.

‘That is a reasonable start,’ Cousin Harriet commented as they took their places in her smart town carriage with its hood down.

Tamsyn tried hard not to stare about her like a yokel. Bond Street, Albemarle Street, fashionable squares and elegant town houses. And the traffic...and the people and the noise. By the time they reached the pleasant side street close to Grosvenor Square she was both dizzy and exhilarated and had to calm herself down in case she let slip too much slip in front of Cousin Harriet when they entered the dealer’s shop.

Fortunately the older woman appeared to think that Aunt Izzy was thinking of selling the paintings and therefore took herself off discreetly to one side to study a Fragonard while Tamsyn spoke to the dealer.

‘Yes, Mrs Perowne, they are undoubtedly by Rubens. I took the precaution of seeking a second opinion from an expert who considers them excellent, although small. If your aunt wishes to place them on the marketplace, I would be happy to act as her agent.’ His eyes gleamed, presumably, Tamsyn thought, with the prospect of the commission.

‘The disposal is not entirely in my aunt’s hands,’ she said carefully. ‘Will you be able to keep them securely for a few more weeks? Would there be a charge for that?’

‘As I am acting on behalf of the Marquess of Avenmore in this matter, and he is an excellent customer of mine, it would be entirely
gratis
, ma’am, I assure you.’

It niggled at her pride to be beholden, yet again, to Cris, but common sense told her this was the safest place. All she had to do now was to try to think of a way of dealing with Franklin, which was proving as hard here in London as it had in Devon. With a mental shrug, Tamsyn allowed herself to be swept off by Cousin Harriet for more shopping. The important thing, she assured herself, with half an ear on Harriet’s discourse on the best place to buy ribbons, shawls and lace, was to keep calm, and then a solution would present itself.

* * *

Three days later the only things that presented themselves were a pile of dress boxes from Mrs Bell, Lady Pirton’s
coiffeuse
to give her a fashionable crop and an alarming pile of invitations.

‘Now that your hair has a modish touch and you are outfitted in style, what is to stop you from going to parties? Lady Ancaster’s informal supper dance tomorrow will be just the thing. It will not be a crush, the food and music will be excellent and Hermione’s little gatherings are always delightfully unstuffy.’

* * *

‘Hermione’s little gathering’
appeared to consist of about two hundred beautifully dressed people all talking at the top of their voices. Tamsyn told herself that she, too, was beautifully dressed, in sea-foam-green net over matching silk with cream lace at neck, sleeves and hem. She had borrowed pearls at her neck and in her earlobes and a simple ribbon threaded through her smart new crop. She found her smile and her poise and lunged into the throng.

* * *

Half an hour later her hair ribbon slipped. ‘Just through the arch on the left,’ Harriet advised. ‘Then down the passageway and you’ll find the ladies’ retiring room. I won’t have moved far when you come back.’

Tamsyn found the arch and then discovered three possible passages. She took the left one at random, rounded a corner and walked into the back of someone large, solid and male.

‘I do beg your pardon, sir.’ He turned. ‘Oh. Lord Edenbridge.’

Behind Gabriel a tall blonde girl with lovely blue eyes put her hand to her mouth, turned and hurried away.

‘Come back!’

The young woman stopped, looked back with something close to despair in her eyes.

‘Don’t be a fool. You don’t have to marry him and you don’t have to...damn it, I’ve burned the thing.’

‘A promise is a promise,’ the blonde said, chin up. Tamsyn recognised someone holding back tears by sheer pride and willpower. ‘But if you do not want me—’ She shrugged, turned and walked away.

What on earth was that all about?
Tamsyn eyed Gabriel’s furious expression and began to back warily away.

‘What in Hades are you doing here?’ he demanded as the brown gaze focused into recognition. ‘Does Cris know?’

‘Certainly not. I do not need Lord Avenmore’s permission to visit a relative.’

‘Come with me.’ He took her arm and swept her back into the main reception room and up to a handsome couple who were in the middle of what looked like a heated, but amiable, discussion.

‘Alex, Tess, stop bickering.’

‘But Alex says I must not cut my hair.’ The woman Gabriel had addressed as Tess turned deep-blue eyes on him. ‘And I want to be in the mode.’ She smiled at Tamsyn. ‘I want a crop like yours, with the curls at the front and long at the back. Who did it for you?’

Tamsyn made a dab at her slipping hair ribbon as the man called Alex smiled at her apologetically. ‘Darling, we haven’t been introduced. You cannot interrogate people about their hairdressers without an introduction.’

‘Don’t be stuffy—’

‘Alex, Teresa, allow me to present Mrs Perowne,’ Gabriel cut in, earning a rap over the knuckles with Teresa’s fan. ‘Mrs Perowne, the Viscount Weybourn, Lady Weybourn. This,’ he said, turning to his friends and ignoring Tamsyn attempting to curtsy, ‘is the person I told you about. Cris’s problem.’

‘Gabriel,’
Lady Weybourn gasped.

‘I am no one’s problem,’ Tamsyn said hotly at the same time.

‘In here, I think.’ The viscount, smiling amiably, took Tamsyn’s arm with his right hand and a firm grip on Gabriel’s elbow with his left and walked with apparent casualness towards one of the small retiring rooms. Lady Weybourn came, too, muttering under her breath about
overbearing men
.

The room was, thankfully, empty. Lord Weybourn, showing rather more decision than Tamsyn had assumed from his amiable appearance, promptly locked the door. ‘Now, what’s going on?’

His wife took Tamsyn’s hand and urged her to sit next to her on the sofa. ‘Yes, what
is
going on? That was rude, even by your standards, Gabriel.’

‘Mrs Perowne is the widow of a smuggler who cheated the gallows only by a lethal leap from a cliff. She is embroiled in a feud with Lord Chelford and she has seduced Cris into a declaration of marriage in front of a courtroom full of yokels.’

‘They were not yokels and I have not seduced anyone,’ Tamsyn said, furious.

Lord Weybourn studied her face, which she could feel was pink with anger. ‘No? I must say, I had not thought anyone was capable of seducing de Feaux against his will. I was about to congratulate you, ma’am.’