A Dangerous Seduction. Patricia Frances Rowell
The doctor turned in surprise. “Lord Morgan! Or I guess I should say ‘Lord Carrick’ now. I heard you were back. It’s good to see you.”
“Thank you. Have you found anything of interest to a sailor here?”
The doctor narrowed his eyes shrewdly. “Do you mean, have I found evidence of foul play?” He shook his head. “Not that I can see. Looks like the sea did the work, but it’s impossible to tell for sure. I’ll tell you this, though. None of them have anything valuable on them.”
Morgan looked around at the men still hovering near the cliff top. None of them returned his gaze. Well, that didn’t surprise him. Lanreath straightened from his work, coming stiffly to his feet. “Nothing more I can do here. They may as well bury them. Join me for a tankard at the Pilchard?”
“With pleasure.” Morgan retrieved his horse and followed the older man’s gig to the village. The tavern, identified by a worn sign featuring a sad-looking fish peering from a stargazey pie, looked much as it had nineteen years before. They found a place at a table in the tap room, the cool shade welcome after the warm day.
Morgan surveyed the assortment of patrons collected there, most of them talking about the wreck. Some of them he vaguely recognized, but the bull-necked man with the completely bald head serving the drinks was a stranger to him.
He returned his gaze to his companion. “Has Wendrom given up the Pilchard?”
“In a manner of speaking.” The doctor took a long draught of his ale. “He died of a fever last year, and his wife sold the tavern to Killigrew there. Don’t know why he came here—speaks as though he hails from London. Don’t like him above half myself. Mean customer. Doubtless into smuggling.”
Morgan raised an eyebrow, watching as the man, his massive muscles bulging, easily hoisted a keg and lifted it into the rack. “Aren’t all innkeepers?”
“Oh, aye, but this one…” Dr. Lanreath shrugged. “I’m only thinking out loud, and not very loud at that. Some sorts of thinking can prove to be very bad for one’s health. Don’t want to become my own patient.”
Morgan nodded thoughtfully, but didn’t pursue the subject. “I don’t recognize many of these fellows. I guess they were just lads when I went away.”
“Aye, that they were, and many of them have been abroad fighting Napoleon. A large number of fishermen were impressed into the navy, as I’m sure you know. Now they’re home, and with damn little work for them to do, unless they want to work for the preventives—which they don’t. Put that with a man like Killigrew… Well, I’m talking out of turn again.”
“Just so. Best you be careful on that subject.” Morgan swallowed down the last of his ale and shook hands with the doctor. “I better get back to Merdinn and see what my scamp of a nephew is up to. Stop in to see us when you’re passing.”
Morgan emerged into the sunlight and started for home. Everyone in the district seemed to have driven out to have a look at the scene of the disaster. By the time Morgan had spoken with half a dozen old acquaintances met along the road, he barely had time to wash and change his clothes for dinner.
He tied a fresh cravat with a bit more than his usual care, wondering if Eulalia Hayne would wear the same mouthwatering dress, or whether the magically discovered trunk had yielded more than one. He was humming as he made his way downstairs to the dining room.
The humming came to an abrupt stop as he approached the table. Only one cover had been laid, resting in solitary splendor at the head of the table.
Hmm. The suspicion blossomed in Morgan that he had just been shown his place.
Chapter Four
T he hell with this!
Halfway through a plate of some kind of spicy meat rolled in cabbage leaves, Morgan threw down his napkin and picked up his plate. Eating alone was not what he had in mind, even if he was the master of the house. Apparently Mrs. Hayne was giving him the opportunity to regret his reminding her of her new status. On inquiry, James had assured him that she was presently dining in the kitchen as she always did, so possibly she was simply following her usual custom. But she was bound to know that he intended his invitation the previous night to be of a standing nature. Wasn’t she?
In any case, he did not relish lordly solitude.
He grabbed the wine bottle and made his way down the steps to the kitchen. How to handle this? His first thought had been to let the lady sulk. But that would deprive him of her voluptuous company. He might have little time to spend with her in coming days, and he required proximity for his intentions to become reality. This situation must be nipped in the bud.
And it must be done subtly. If he confronted her directly, he would merely confirm the fact that her withdrawal had nettled him. That would not do. No, he would do better to sound magnanimous—the gracious lord politely delivering a command disguised as an invitation. The gracious lord not too high in the instep to join his overworked staff in the kitchen until help arrived. Yes, that should set the tone nicely. Never mind the gracious lord who wanted to keep his prey in his eye.
Pleased with this strategy, Morgan strolled into the kitchen nonchalantly. Mrs. Hayne came immediately to her feet, delicate eyebrows drawn together. “Lord Carrick! Is something wrong with your dinner?”
“Oh, no. On the contrary.” He set the plate and bottle on the table and slid onto the bench opposite her. “I find that good food requires good company to be properly appreciated.” He let his gaze rest on her face for a long moment. “And I don’t wish to add to your work unnecessarily. The rest of the kitchen staff will be here day after tomorrow. I’m content to eat here until then.”
She did not speak until Morgan asked, “Where is my nephew?”
“In his room, my lord. He was hungry earlier, so I gave him his dinner and suggested he play quietly until I come to tuck him in.”
Morgan nodded approval.
He lifted the wine bottle, offering for them to join him. Mrs. Hayne shook her head and sat down again. James jumped up with alacrity and brought two cups to the table. Peggy stared at her plate. Morgan glanced at the elderly woman sitting at the foot of the table. This must be the grandmother. She calmly finished the last of her food and, without a word, handed her plate to Peggy and left the room. Peggy scurried into the scullery.
Feeling a bit like the skeleton at the feast, Morgan nevertheless took his time finishing his dinner. He and James talked a bit about the wreck, speculating as to the cause until the bottle of wine had been emptied. Mrs. Hayne contributed nothing to the conversation, but listened attentively.
He was on the point of asking about her grandmother when that lady reappeared. Still without speaking, she began to spread thick slices of bread with jam and clotted cream. She brought a plate of this delicacy to Morgan’s place. He turned to face her at her approach.
She quickly stepped back and said something Morgan did not understand. He looked inquiringly at her granddaughter.
“She said, ‘Bolde kut, kako.’ With the Roma the men are always served from the back. A woman must not pass in front of a man or between two men,” Mrs. Hayne explained. “Therefore she asks you to turn away.” Morgan obediently faced forward and the plate was set before him.
Apparently only he merited this service. The old woman placed the bread and containers on the table, and the rest of the group served themselves. When all had finished the plain dessert, Morgan rose and thanked the ladies for an excellent repast, refusing to acknowledge the awkwardness around him. He smiled.
Let Mrs. Hayne reap what she sowed.
“I’d best go up and see to Jeremy.” Lalia rose from her bench and started out of the room.
“I’ll come with you and tell him good-night.” Lord Carrick hastily stepped ahead of her to open the door, but he did not provide quite enough clearance for