The Temptations Of Lord Tintagel

Chapter Two

Courage, it appeared, required patience. She’d not bargained on that. And patience required nerves of steel in order to act as if nothing had changed. Only a day after sending the note to Inigo, she was already having difficulty with both. She paced her room ceaselessly and found herself jumping at the slightest sound. Her senses seemed fine-tuned to the smallest nuance. Even now she heard the front door open downstairs. Her father was home. She had not seen him since breakfast yesterday. He was sure to have news. She braced herself against what the news might be and the bellow that was sure to come. Once a sea captain, always a sea captain. She counted down: three, two, one. And on cue…

‘Audevere!’ Her father’s voice boomed up the grand staircase of Brenley House, echoing off the wainscoted ceilings, as if he were still on the deck of a ship. Audevere cringed against the invasion of the noise and what it might portend. She glanced at her little clock. If only time went faster! It seemed an age until tonight’s ball. She was ready for that at least. She’d rehearsed her words, the lines she wanted to say; she’d anticipated each argument Inigo might make. And he would argue.

They’d been good at arguing. Once, she’d looked forward to sparring with Inigo. He had a quick wit and a sharp mind, though with a darker shade compared to Collin’s light. The remembrance of those arguments brought a faint smile to her lips even as her father’s voice bellowed up the stairs again. ‘Audevere, come down here at once!’ Her father might wear the mask of a gentleman, dress in a gentleman’s clothes and live in a gentleman’s house, but he would always be a sea captain. He expected to be obeyed instantaneously. She’d learned quickly not to ignore a summons from her father, even though one was seldom summoned for good news.

She found him in his office, standing before the massive, polished mahogany desk from which he conducted all his business, legs spread apart, shoulders straight, hands behind his back. ‘Father, what has happened?’ She put on a mask of interest to cover her nerves. She hoped her note had not been discovered, that she’d not been called down here to be punished.

He smiled broadly and some of her fears eased. Her little subterfuge was safe. ‘I’ve brought you a gift, that’s what’s happened.’ He gestured towards the large dressmaker’s box, sitting on the low table before the sofa. It was tied with a trademark ribbon of pale-pink satin attached to a black card trimmed in gilt, marking the box as coming from one of the finest drapers in London.

‘For me?’ Audevere fingered the soft satin lovingly even as her mind was already on alert. This was an expensive and unexpected gift. The ribbon alone cost a worker’s wages for a month. She’d been fifteen when her father had begun his rise to fortune, old enough to remember life before the knighthood, before wealth permitted her to forgo counting pennies and questioning the need for fripperies, too young to realise the price of her father’s fortune.

‘Well, go on, girl. Open it and see if it suits.’ Her father waved at the box impatiently, and perhaps with a bit of pride in being able to shop at such an establishment. Even after seven years, that particular thrill had not faded for him, although it had for her. No matter how pretty the ribbon or the box, no gift from her father or his friends came without strings attached. She’d learned that lesson the hard way—through painful experience.

Ever wary, Audevere untied the ribbon and carefully laid it aside. There were yards of it, enough for her to do something clever with and still have some left to give her maid. Patsy was perhaps her one friend within the walls of Brenley House. She would be in alt over the ribbon. Audevere lifted the lid and reached into the depths of white tissue paper. Despite her caution, her breath couldn’t help but catch as she drew out the gown. ‘Oh! It’s lovely!’

She held the gown against herself, shaking out the skirts. Lovely was an understatement. Cranberry silk shimmered beneath an overskirt of soft ivory lace, a wide cranberry ribbon banded the waist. The gown was a tribute to autumn. Audevere could only imagine the hours that had gone into making the yards of lace for the overskirt. Once, she’d never dreamed of owning such a fine gown.

She spun in a quick circle, letting herself pretend for a moment that she had a normal father who would spoil his daughter because he loved and cared for her, that this gown was a gift she could enjoy without shame, without guilt, without fear. ‘I’ll wear it tonight at the Bradfords’ ball.’ The words had barely left her mouth when the fantasy was over.

‘I was hoping you would. I had ordered it in expectation of announcing your engagement—’ condescending disappointment edged his words ‘—but now we need the gown to do battle or we’ll lose the Viscount.’ Ah. The agenda at last. She’d suspected nothing less. But the news behind it was a surprise.

‘Lose him?’ Audevere looked up from admiring the dress. ‘Did something happen at Tattersall’s?’ She put the pretty dress back in the box with a sigh—a beautiful gown in exchange for an ugly favour that would advance his plans. She was pleased the Viscount seemed to have slipped her father’s hook, yet now she was needed yet again to grease the gears of her father’s advancement.

‘Tremblay didn’t come. Can you imagine that? He sent a note saying he was delayed by business matters.’ Her father’s features were hard. ‘Of course, I wanted to know why when he knew very well what the point of today’s meeting was. I discovered what those business matters were: afternoon drinks with Inigo Vellanoweth at White’s. Now he refuses to receive me. I asked for an appointment this morning and was denied. He insults both you and me with this behaviour.’ His fist came down hard on the surface of his desk, the inkpot jumping. ‘All summer we worked on this and this is how Tremblay treats me? I am a knight of the realm!’ It always came back to this. His title, his wants. Audevere had never known a more self-focused individual or a more dangerous one.

Audevere’s mind ran over her father’s revelation and all it could mean. A thrill shot through her at the thought: drinks with Inigo. Was it because of her note? Or had he not received it by then? She wished she knew. Timing was everything. If it was after her note arrived, it meant he’d agreed to help her and had gone immediately into action on her behalf. But if the meeting had occurred beforehand, it meant something entirely different—that he meant to meddle, perhaps for the purpose of striking a blow for vengeance against her father. Did that blow include her? Was his hate still so strong after five years that he wanted to strike at her, too? The latter interpretation of his meeting with Tremblay boded ill for the evening. She would have to tread carefully.

‘You need to get Tremblay back,’ her father was saying. ‘Tintagel is whispering poison in his ear.’ It was proof of her father’s anger that he referred to Inigo by his title. ‘Tonight, you dance with Tremblay, you flirt with him, you take him out on the veranda and kiss him. Find a few trustworthy friends to witness it if that’s what it takes,’ he growled. ‘We need the Viscount to come up to scratch. We need his proposal before he decides to leave town or before Tintagel ruins this like he ruined the Blaxford deal. I’ll be damned if we let him slip away now. We’ll look like desperate fools.’ He paused. ‘What? You look appalled. It’s nothing you haven’t done before,’ he dismissed her distaste.

No, it wasn’t, more was the pity, the guilt, the shame. She’d been cajoling his friends and business partners since she was sixteen. How many times had she flattered a man until he felt important, all so her father could win contracts, close deals and lead the less discerning astray? Not this time, Audevere vowed silently. It wouldn’t hurt to dance with the Viscount tonight, but she would not force his hand and she would not be dragged to the altar. If she’d had any lingering doubts about running or about approaching Inigo for help, this confirmed her choice. She had to act now and tonight at the ball was her chance to strike a bargain with Inigo. The old tattoo beat its rhythm more insistently than ever. Time to go, time to go. ‘I don’t like the idea of forcing Tremblay’s hand.’

‘We’re not forcing Tremblay to do anything.’ Her father smiled coldly. ‘We’re just helping him to remember why he likes you so much.’ He moved towards her, giving her a chuck under the chin. ‘Do I need to remind you of all that is at stake?’

It was a polite way of subtly cataloguing his threat against her, of what he would expose if she refused to abet his efforts. She did not think he would hesitate to do it either. He was not a good father. He’d been very careful to make sure she had no way out, no friends to turn to, no independence of her own. But now, if she were willing to risk it, perhaps it could be different. Perhaps, for the first time, she could wriggle out of his stranglehold. If she was brave. Courage starts today. The mantra had taken up a place beside the other one that ran through her head. Time to go, time to go.

He smiled with what passed as paternal benevolence. ‘Don’t fail me, my dear.’ The reminder was there in his tone, the message clear beneath the calm demeanour. She’d already failed him once. She couldn’t afford another dead aristocrat.

Audevere was here. After five years of avoiding her, she was now merely across the room. His memories of her had failed to do her justice. Inigo’s gaze followed Audevere about the ballroom, pausing when she paused, moving when she moved, taking in all the details of her: her hair was paler, her chin sharper, her green eyes brighter, her classical beauty more emphasised than it had been years earlier. Perhaps it was the staid company kept by the Bradfords that caused her to glitter so stunningly, or perhaps she would take his breath away wherever she was, whomever she was among, whatever she had done. He couldn’t let himself forget the last. She’d had a hand in Collin’s fate. That knowledge had kept him angry for years. He couldn’t set it aside now at the first sight of her, no matter how poignant her plea.

Her note was in his pocket. Short and concise.

I need your help.

The word ‘need’ was underlined twice for emphasis. What kind of emphasis? Desperation? Urgency? He touched his pocket, feeling the folded paper inside. Did she truly need help? Or was this note part of a vengeful plot hatched in retaliation for the Blaxford deal? He wouldn’t know unless he showed up.

Meet me at the Bradford ball. I will come to you.

The irony was that he’d been likely to meet her here anyway. Tremblay had invited him to come along and he’d thought it a good idea to keep his friend in his sights after their meeting at White’s. Apparently, Brenley was of the same mind. Brenley had not left the Viscount’s side all night. That was unnerving. Brenley did not mean to let Tremblay go without a fight and Gismond Brenley was doggedly tenacious.

Inigo took a moment away from watching Audevere and studied the two men standing together. He wondered what it was that Brenley wanted so desperately from Tremblay? Inigo had his guesses. A pocket peer in the House of Lords whom Brenley could manipulate? Or was he after Tremblay’s extensive sugar plantation holdings in the West Indies? Was it something else Inigo didn’t know about—although he couldn’t imagine what that might be. He’d thoroughly investigated the man. He liked to think he knew everything there was to know about Brenley’s holdings, the good—of which there was not much—and the bad—of which there was plenty.

The orchestra had taken a short intermission and Inigo used the opportunity to step outside for fresh air. The ball, while certainly not a crush—the Season was too far behind them for that—was full enough to be warm and he welcomed the cool air on his face, although he doubted others would. The chill would keep most people indoors. The veranda would be private. He’d give Audevere another hour to make her approach—more than enough time—and then he would leave. Perhaps he would persuade Tremblay to leave with him. They could stop at the club for a night cap. He could be in bed by midnight. Damn, but London out of Season was slow. It was past time to go home to Cornwall.

If it weren’t for this business of watching over Tremblay, he’d be in Cornwall by now, enjoying autumn on the coast with his friends—or what remained of them. Cassian Truscott, Collin’s older brother, was abroad and Vennor Penlerick refused to leave London. But the Trelevens were there, and the Kittos, as were Eaton and Eliza. There was the autumn recital to look forward to at the Kittos’ conservatory, truffle hunting in the woods with Eaton, and he wanted to check on Eliza’s mining schools to see the progress the children were making.

He was bone-tired of London, something he’d once thought impossible. London was less exciting now that Eaton and Cassian were married, choosing to spend the bulk of their time in Cornwall. Cassian could be excused—he was on his honeymoon—but when he came back, he would not waste time in town. Of their foursome, there was only Vennor Penlerick left. It had been over a year since Richard Penlerick and his wife had been killed coming home from the theatre. But Vennor’s grief was as deep as ever. At what point did one tell a friend it was time to get on with the business of living? Who had that right? Did he, when he still grieved for Collin? When he still sought to protect the world from the corruption of Sir Gismond Brenley? Who was he to tell Vennor to set aside his grief, to not let it consume him?

Inigo leaned on the stone balustrade of the veranda and looked out into the dark, unlit garden. Maybe that was his problem, too: he had let grief consume him where the others had not. Eaton and Cassian had found ways to live again, to love again. He hadn’t and now he was alone in his grief, isolated in his vendetta against Brenley just as Vennor was increasingly isolated in his search for his parents’ killer. That didn’t mean his cause wasn’t just. It only meant it was exacting more than he’d anticipated. The French doors opened behind him, casting a sliver of light on his slice of the veranda. He stiffened in anticipation and was not disappointed.

‘I thought I might find you out here. You always did like dark corners.’ He’d recognise those low-throated tones anywhere. Audevere Brenley had been blessed with a voice meant for seduction. Her scent met him on the air; it was the sweet spice of amber mixed with nutmeg. She smelled of autumn and memories.

Inigo turned, leaning back against the balustrade, allowing himself to take in the full beauty of her up close, her pale gold hair piled high, her long neck on display, her body dressed to its fullest potential in cranberry silk and ecru lace. ‘I received your note.’ It had been waiting for him when he returned from White’s.

‘Thank you for coming,’ she said easily, joining him at the rail as if they were still old friends. ‘It’s been a long time, Inigo.’ She favoured him with a soft smile that caught him off guard. He’d assumed since he’d couched their present relationship in adversarial terms that she did, too. Apparently that was not the case, or she was playing with him. He must always be alert to that possibility.

‘Too long, perhaps.’ There was censure in his tone to indicate it had been too long for first names. Perhaps it had been that way before when they’d been carefree, but no longer. Too much had happened between them. They were not friends. Not any more, if they ever truly had been.

She nodded in acknowledgement. ‘Perhaps. Forgive me for my forwardness; there is much at stake and I haven’t time for civilities.’

Inigo gave her a strong stare. She was different this evening—conciliatory, conspiratorial even. It was unlike her and he was instantly wary. ‘Is that your strategy? To woo information from me with sweetness? Did your father send you out here to beg information on the pretence of renewing old acquaintances?’

Her smile faded and some of her sweetness, too. His words had stung. ‘I came of my own accord. My father does not suspect I’ve sought you out. I hoped there might at least be honesty left between us.’

‘Then you would do better to ask me directly for whatever it is you want to know. Let’s not pretend you don’t know I met with Tremblay yesterday, or why I did so.’ Inigo watched her face harden, the mask of softness slipping from it into an expression he was more familiar with: sharpness. She was never more brilliant than when she was cornered.

‘Very well. Let me be direct. Are you attempting to interfere with my betrothal?’

Inigo gave a dry laugh. ‘That’s a bit hasty since there is no betrothal. Tremblay has not proposed.’

‘Not yet. But I had reason to believe he would, right up until yesterday.’ She slanted him a sideways glance, ‘Unless you’ve managed to dissuade him? I recall you were always very good at persuasion.’

‘Do you wish to marry him?’ A moment’s guilt swept him. Perhaps he was interfering with more than Brenley’s arrangements. Perhaps, by warning off Tremblay, he was interfering with her personal happiness, with her plan for escaping the clutches of her scheming father? It was difficult to think of Audevere Brenley as being entitled to her own happiness. She’d been the enemy for so long, she and her father. But she’d not always been his enemy. She’d once been something else quite wonderful and he’d liked her, admired her. There were other stronger descriptors he could use, but they admitted too much. Whatever those descriptors, it seemed his feelings weren’t altogether defeated. He didn’t want to feel empathy for her. Collin was dead because of her. ‘It is certainly my business if you think to ruin another good man.’

She looked genuinely wounded at the claim. She’d not missed his implication. ‘That was never my intention with Collin. I need you to believe that. I was young and naive. I had no idea what my father was doing until it was too late and I had no idea Collin would—’ Her voice broke and she could not manage the words.

Inigo managed them for her. ‘Take his own life?’ It was important. The words must be said, owned. He would not, could not, pretend this didn’t lie between them.

‘Yes,’ she managed to say the single word with soft feeling. ‘He was so full of life, so full of happiness, it never occurred to me he would do such a thing. Up until then, I think I believed he was in some way untouchable, that the world couldn’t reach him.’ She shook her head. ‘I see now it was naive of me.’

‘It’s hard to imagine you as naive, so forgive me if I reserve judgement.’ He’d expected her to be insulted by the insinuation, to flash a show of her hot temper, slap him even in her defence. His jaw was braced for it. Perhaps he even wanted to see her angry. He understood that person and that person was the enemy. It was harder to reconcile this other person who stood beside him, reflective and penitent, vulnerable in her own way, sharing the loss of Collin. But she did not rail. She touched him and it set his world on fire.

She laid a bold, gloved hand on his dark sleeve, the gesture sending a bolt of the old awareness up his arm, her touch as insistent as her words. ‘Whatever else you believe, believe this: I did not want Collin to die.’

No, probably not, Inigo thought uncharitably. That much was true. A dead Collin was no good to her father. A dead Collin was scandalous. There was no profit in scandal for a woman looking to marry well. Perhaps she’d paid for that death, her best Seasons spent shrouded by the knowledge that everyone knew she’d broken the engagement and that her fiancé had died through ‘misadventure’ shortly afterwards. Now she was finally able to venture forth and try again for a title, the scandal watered down by years of other scandals to diminish and obscure her own. He’d noticed. He’d made it his business to stay abreast of what the Brenleys were up to.

She persisted, seemingly unaware of his cynicism. ‘I will live with the guilt of his death for the rest of my life. Perhaps there was some clue I overlooked, perhaps there was some way in which I should have known how breaking the engagement would affect him.’ Her confession, so similar to his own—that he should have known, should have foreseen what Collin would do—threatened to convince Inigo she’d cared for Collin in truth. ‘That’s why I wrote to you, Inigo. That’s why I cannot let this marriage to Tremblay go through. I will not be the means by which another good man is ruined.’