The Many Sins Of Cris De Feaux. Louise Allen
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‘Neither is ignoring ladies in distress.’ He stood there looking up at her, his hand firm on Foxy’s bridle. ‘I wish you would get down off your high horse, Tamsyn. Literally. You are giving me a crick in my neck. I happened to overhear something completely accidentally. Collins heard more because he likes to gossip. Now, of course, you may simply be a trio of hysterical females, leaping to conclusions and making a crisis out of a series of accidents—’
‘How dare you?’ Tamsyn twisted in the saddle to face him, lost her balance and grabbed for the reins. Cris reached up, took her by the waist and lifted her, sliding and protesting, down to the ground. Trapped between Foxy’s bulk and Cris’s body, she clenched her fist and thumped him square in the centre of the chest. ‘You are no gentleman!’
‘Yes, I am. The problem is that you do not appear to have any others in your life with whom to compare me. Now, stop jumping up and down on my toes, which is doing nothing for the state of my boots, and come and sit on the tree trunk and tell me all about it.’ She opened her mouth to speak. ‘And I am the soul of discretion, you need have no fear this will go any further.’
‘If you would allow me to get a word in edgeways, Mr Defoe, I would point out to you that I am unable to get off your toes, or move in any direction, because you still have your hands on my person.’ In fact they seemed to be encircling her waist, which was impossible, she was not that slim.
‘I have?’ He did not move, although she could have sworn that the pressure on her waist increased. ‘It must be a reflex. I was anxious that you were going to fall off.’ He still managed to maintain that austere, almost haughty, expression, except for a wicked glint in those blue eyes that should have looked innocent and instead held a wealth of knowledge and deep wells of experience. Thank goodness. He is going to kiss me.
And then he...didn’t. Cris stepped back, released her and gestured to the tree trunk. ‘Shall we sit down and try this again? I will tie up your horse again, he is becoming confused.’
‘He is not the only one,’ Tamsyn muttered. Of course he was not going to kiss her. Whoever got kissed wearing a dreadful old hat like hers? Certainly no one being held by an elegant gentleman whose boots would probably have cost more than her entire wardrobe for the past five years.
Cris came back to the tree and she noticed his cane was lying forgotten on the grass. ‘What else has happened besides the accident to the sheep yesterday?’ he asked as he sat beside her.
‘You will doubtless say we are simply imagining things.’
‘Try me. I can be remarkably imaginative myself when I want to be.’
‘A hayrick caught fire two weeks ago. Our little dairy herd got through a fence last week and strayed all over the parish before we caught them. All our lobster pots keep coming up empty. And now the sheep.’
‘All this in the span of two weeks?’ When she nodded he scrubbed his hand across his chin and frowned at the now-scuffed toes of his boots. ‘Even my imagination is baulking at that as a series of coincidences.’ His frown deepened and Tamsyn fought the urge to apologise for the state of his boots. ‘May I ask how your aunts are supported financially?’
She saw no harm in telling him, none of it was a secret, after all. ‘Aunt Izzy has the use of Barbary Combe House and its estate for her lifetime, along with all the income to spend as she wishes. She also has the use of everything in the house for her lifetime. Anything she buys with the income is hers to dispose of as she wishes, as are the stock and movable assets of the estate. Aunt Rosie has a very respectable competence inherited from her father and other relatives. She has high expenses, of course, because of her health—she paid for the bathing room, which uses a lot of fuel, and she also consults a number of medical men. Both of them live well within their incomes.’
‘And you?’ Cris said it quite without inflection, as though he were her banker or her lawyer gathering the facts before advising on an investment. And there was no reason why she should not tell him. After all, establishing her non-existent pride was simply another fact for his calculations.
‘I have a small inheritance from my parents. Aunt Izzy makes me an allowance and in return I act as her land steward.’
‘And your husband?’
The cool, impersonal voice left her no room for manoeuvre. Tamsyn shrugged. ‘Jory left me nothing. Or, rather, he had a fishing smack, a small house, nets, gear, firearms... All used in the commission of criminal offences, all seized by the Excise after his death. To have laid claim to anything would have been to admit I was a partner in his activities.’
‘And were you?’
‘I knew what he was doing, of course I did, even though he kept all the actual details secret. Everyone on this coast knew and I was married to the man, after all. He led a gang of smugglers.’
If she had thought for a moment that she would fob off Cris Defoe with that as an explanation, then she was mistaken, it seemed. ‘Smuggling covers everything from bringing in the odd cask of brandy under a load of herring, to a cover for spying, by way of full-scale organised crime accompanied by murder, extortion and blackmail. Where on that spectrum was Jory Perowne?’
‘You know a lot about it. Perhaps you are a magistrate yourself and I would be well advised not to compound my indiscretion.’ She smiled, lowered her lashes, wondered if she could remember how to flirt. If I ever knew.
‘No, I am not a magistrate.’ That was a surprise. He had said he was a landowner and most landowners of any standing were justices. ‘I have been crossing the Channel, back and forth, for ten years and one cannot do that without hearing about smugglers.’
There was a little nugget of information to tuck away and muse upon in that comment. Mr Defoe had been crossing the Channel at a time when England was at war with France, even if it was now five years since Waterloo had brought peace again. Had he been in the army? But the way that he spoke made it sound as though he was still crossing over to the Continent on a regular basis. He could hardly be a merchant, not with his clothes and the indefinable air of tonnishness that even a country mouse like her could recognise. And tonnish gentlemen did not engage in trade.
Perhaps he is a spy himself and he ended up in the sea after being thrown overboard by an arch enemy in a life-and-death struggle—
‘Mrs Perowne? Am I boring you?’
‘Not at all, Mr Defoe. I was merely contemplating the perils of the sea for a moment.’
And wondering why your voice sends little shivers up and down my back when you drawl like that when really I ought to give you a sharp set-down for sarcasm.
Just to prove she had been paying attention she added coolly, ‘Jory was in about the middle of your spectrum. He ran a highly organised smuggling ring with high-value goods and he was not averse to violence when his business was threatened by rivals or the Excise. But he protected the aunts fiercely, the people hereabouts worshipped him and he looked after them. You probably think me shocking for not condemning him, but he was loyal and courageous and looked after his men, and smuggling is a way of life around these coasts.’
‘The Excise must have given you a very difficult time after his death when they were looking for the profits of his activities.’
‘They could not have been looking as hard as I was.’ The villagers had needed the money when their main local industry collapsed overnight with Jory’s death. ‘They bullied me and threatened me and finally allowed that I was just a poor feeble woman led astray by a wicked rogue.’
‘Could Chelford be searching for hidden treasure on the assumption that Jory Perowne hid his ill-gotten gains somewhere on the estate?’ She must have been staring at him with her mouth agape because he enquired, dry as a bone, ‘Is that such a ridiculous idea?’
Despite herself, Tamsyn laughed. ‘Ridiculous? No.