She’d known that in accepting his offer of information she’d be giving him another reason to call and see her privately, yet more disturbing than that, her brothers and their lives were not a matter with which she’d previously allowed others to become involved, but she’d bent if not broken that rule for Gervase.
Because he’d offered something she’d needed. And when it came to her brothers, there was little she wouldn’t do to keep them safe. Or at least safer.
And…
She refocused on her reflection-and pulled a face. Honesty forced her to admit-reluctantly-that, most peculiarly for her, she trusted Gervase, at least on the subject of the boys.
Frowning, she brushed harder, then laid down the brush, gathered her hair and twisted it into a loose knot.
That moment on the cliff-had it swayed her? More likely it had been her noticing how her brothers, usually quite stand-offish when it came to gentlemen, had reacted to Gervase. They’d been curious, intrigued…rather like their sister.
Perhaps it was her recent realization that Harry needed, and Edmond would soon need, some older male to be, if not an acknowledged mentor, then at least a pattern-card. And in that, they could do a lot worse than Gervase Tregarth.
So she’d accepted his help-and then he’d smiled and raised her hand and kissed the backs of her fingers.
She’d felt that light caress to the depths of her being.
Other gentlemen had kissed her hand and she’d felt absolutely nothing. It was a courtesy, one which perhaps they intended to convey more, but never before had the gesture affected her.
When Gervase’s lips had touched her skin…
She stared into the mirror, the moment, the sensations, alive in her mind…until the guttering candle recalled her. Snuffing it, she rose, and went to her bed-telling herself she’d do much better to ban Gervase Tregarth and all his doings from her head.
Two days later, she attended the monthly afternoon tea at the vicarage. Situated just along the lane from the church at Ruan Minor, the rambling house was set in ample grounds; in summer, afternoon tea was served on the back lawn. Muriel had declared she was too tired to attend; the truth was her aunt had little interest in the wider social round.
Passing among the other guests-all the usual local faces-Madeline kept her eyes peeled, but then realized Gervase wasn’t there.
She told herself she was relieved, and embarked upon her customary round of chatting with the other landowners and ladies of the district. The day was warm; she sipped and talked, and forced herself to concentrate on Lady Porthleven’s latest tale of her daughter’s offspring.
“Albert is a veritable jewel,” her ladyship enthused. “Quite the most gifted child!”
Madeline found her mind wandering, yet again. She tried to make herself pay attention, inwardly acknowledging that this-the normal extent of her social life-was, indeed, rather dull.
Excusing herself with a murmured word and a smile, she slipped from Lady Porthleven’s circle. She surveyed the crowd, decided to join Squire Ridley, took one step in his direction-and felt her nerves leap.
She glanced to her side and discovered Gervase exactly where she’d thought he was. Beside her, right by her shoulder.
Her gaze had landed on his lips; she saw them curve, felt his gaze on her face.
Rendered breathless again, she determinedly breathed in and lifted her eyes to his. “Good afternoon, my lord. I wasn’t sure we’d see you here.”
Gervase held her gaze for an instant, then, as she had, looked around. “Not, perhaps, my customary milieu, but as I have, indeed, taken up residence, I thought this might prove a useful venue in which to improve my local knowledge.”
He glanced at her. “In return for my scouting on your behalf about your brothers, I hoped you might assist me in this arena.” With his head, he indicated a couple chatting with Mr. Caterham. “For instance, who are they?”
“The Jeffreys,” Madeline supplied. “They’re relative newcomers. They’ve taken on the old Swanston farm at Trenance.”
“Ah.” He closed his fingers about her elbow and drew her into an ambling walk. She glanced at him sharply, but consented to move. He smiled. “If we remain stationary, Mrs. Henderson is going to come bustling up and trap me.”
She hid a swift grin behind her teacup. “You clearly remember her.”
“No greater gossipmonger was ever birthed.” Gervase considered, then amended, “At least not this side of Basingstoke.”
She shot him an amused glance. “Are there worse in London, then?”
“Oh, yes. Those in London aspire to the epitome of the form.”
“If you remember Mrs. Henderson, then there are few others here you won’t know.”
“Ah, but are they as I remember them? For instance”-continuing to stroll, he directed her attention to a large gentleman of middle years hovering over an older, sharp-featured lady seated on a chair with a cane planted before her-“is George as much under the cat’s paw as he used to be?”
“His mother’s hold on him only increases with the years-and the maladies she likes to consider herself a victim of.”
“She seems in rather robust health.”
“Indeed. The general opinion is that she’ll probably bury George.” Madeline paused, then added, “Of course, she would almost certainly soon join him, for without him she’d have no one to harangue, harry and hound, and that appears to be the sole purpose of her life.”
“I would say ‘poor George,’ but if memory serves he always was one to simply give way.”
She nodded. “No spine. And, of course, she’s never let him marry.”
“So what of local scandals? The Caterhams are still together, I see.”
“Yes, that blew over-as it was always likely to. They seem settled these days.” Madeline looked further afield. “The Juliards are as devoted as ever, and all others go on much as before-oh, except for the sensation of Robert Hardesty’s marriage.”
“I heard about that.” In response to the steel that had crept into his tone, Madeline glanced sharply at him. He kept his expression scrupulously noncommittal. “What’s the new Lady Hardesty like?”
“I really can’t say-few of us have met her. The reports from those who have aren’t all that complimentary, but as the comments run along the lines of ‘London flirt,’ I’d prefer to meet the lady before judging her. We don’t see many of the London set, for want of a better designation, so her behavior might be no more than what passes for normal in the capital.”
Inwardly acknowledging the wisdom of her stance, he glanced around. “Enough of our neighbors. Tell me about local matters in general. I know about the mining-what about the fishing? How have the last few seasons gone?”
As he steered her down the long sloping lawn, he questioned, she answered, and he listened. He’d gleaned bits and pieces from others-his agents, his steward, his grooms-but her account was more comprehensive, more balanced. More what he needed. Her point of view and his were largely the same; she was the de facto Gascoigne, and he was Crowhurst, and that similarity that had shone on the clifftops also impinged, as did her straightforward, no-nonsense way of dealing with the world.
Levelheaded, rational, competent and observant; in those traits she was much like him. More than anyone else he trusted her view of matters enough to act on her intelligence; the truth was she was infinitely better connected with this world he’d returned to than he. It wasn’t just his years away that separated him from the locals, but also his quieter, more reserved nature.
While they strolled, others came up and exchanged ready greetings and snippets of information, those last directed to Madeline. She was a person everyone around about knew, and not just trusted but felt comfortable with. His years as an operative had taught him to value that gift of putting others at ease. It wasn’t one he himself could employ; he simply wasn’t the sort of man others readily confided in.