In fact, he thought, looking at their thin, pointed faces, he might almost enjoy watching St. Simon exact that retribution. Their reputation preceded them wherever they went. It was no wonder no respectable family would countenance a match with either of them, despite the Penhallan name.
“Bring cognac to the library,” he ordered, pushing back his chair with a harsh rasp on the oak floor. His voice and the sound of the chair were like a thunderclap after the long silence.
The twins half rose politely as their uncle stalked from the dining room without a further word to them, the butler following him with the brandy decanter.
A footmen placed a decanter of port at Charles's elbow, bowed, and left them to themselves.
“What say we answer his question for him?” Charles filled his glass and pushed the decanter across the table to his brother.
“What question?” David squinted in the candlelight that now lit the room. His eyes, like his brother's, were glazed. While they'd had little appetite for dinner at the beginning of the meal, they'd had no such problem with the wine.
“About St. Simon's doxy,” his brother explained carefully, draining his glass and reaching for the decanter again. “Governor wants to know who she is, we'll find out. He'll be glad to know, stands to reason.”
“Maybe even grateful,” David said, tapping the side of his nose suggestively. “But how do we find out?”
“Ask her… politely, of course.”
“Ah, yes, ask the whore politely,” his brother agreed, winking. “But how can we ask her if we're barred from St. Simon land?”
Charles thought about this, staring into his glass as if the answer would be contained in its ruby depths. “She's got to venture out sometime. Can't stay there forever. People to see, errands to run, shopping to do.”
“Unless St. Simon keeps her naked in the house,” David suggested with a lewd chuckle. For a minute they contemplated the exciting prospect of a woman kept naked to await their pleasure.
“Not St. Simon's style, though,” Charles said finally on an almost regretful note. “Household would be bound to know. Be all round the county in no time.”
“She'll have to leave the house at some point. So we'll ask her nicely when we come up with her,” David pronounced: “If we ask her nicely enough, she'll tell us what the governor wants to know.”
“Best she doesn't know who we are, though,” Charles said wisely. “Governor wouldn't like it… not after the other one.”
“Loo masks,” David said. “Loo masks and maybe even dominoes… that'll do it.”
“Not dominoes,” his brother said earnestly. “Can't carry a domino in your pocket, not like a loo mask. Carry that everywhere and no one knows you've got it. “
“True,” his brother agreed, seeing the wisdom of this practicality. “We'll carry 'em with us everywhere, and when we see her, we pop 'em on and ask some questions.”
Well satisfied, the brothers turned their attention more seriously to the port.
“The mail carrier brought you a letter.” Tamsyn entered the library the next morning flourishing a wafer-sealed paper. “It's from a woman, judging by the handwriting. Do all society ladies write with these flowery curls? Should I learn to do it too?” She examined the missive with a critical air. “Very fancy… and on pale-blue paper too. Is she your mistress?”
Wordlessly, Julian extended his hand for the letter.
Tamsyn passed it over and perched on the edge of his desk. “Do you have another mistress? But, then, I don't think 'mistress' is the right word to describe me, do you?”
“I don't believe the language contains a suitable description for you,” he observed dryly. “You beggar description. Get off the desk. It's most unladylike.”
“Why, certainly, milord colonel.” She slipped off her perch and essayed a demure curtsy, sweeping her muslin skirts to one side, one foot delicately pointed, her rear sinking onto her other heel. “Is this deep enough for the king, or will it only do for the queen?”
Julian regarded her with a gleam, certain she hadn't realized the dangers of her exaggerated position. “Now try to get up.”
Tamsyn realized immediately that it was impossible.
She overbalanced in a heap on the carpet and sat there with such an expression of aggrieved mortification he couldn't help laughing as he returned his attention to the letter.
His amusement died rapidly. “I suppose I should be grateful she doesn't scent her writing paper,” he muttered, breaking the wafer.
“Who doesn't?” Tamsyn scrambled to her feet, dusting off her skirts.
“My sister,” he said shortly, scanning the crossed and scrawled lines of the epistle. “Hell and the devil! Gareth put her up to this-it has that ramshackle idler's mark all over it.”
“Over what?” Tamsyn resumed her perch on the edge of the desk.
“My sister and her husband are paying me a visit. I imagine Gareth wishes to remove himself from his creditors' orbit for a while, and enjoy some free hospitality while he's doing so.”
He looked up at her, and deep frown lines creased his brow, the humor of a few minutes earlier completely vanished. “I just told you not to sit like that!” He slapped her hip in emphasis.
Tamsyn stood up and regarded him thoughtfully.
“Why are you so annoyed that your sister is coming?”
“Why do you think?”
“Because of me?”
“Precisely.”
Tamsyn frowned. “Why will it be a problem? Won't I like her? Or is it that she won't like me?”
He stared at her for a minute, wondering if she was being disingenuous. But she was returning his gaze with her usual candor, and as he took in the small nose and determined, pointed chin, the flutter of her luxuriant eyelashes on her smooth brown cheeks, a rapid, unbidden surge of desire startled him. In achingly vivid memory he felt her body moving against his, heard her exultant little chuckle as she drew close to her own mountaintop.
How could he possibly house this extraordinary creature under the same roof as his sister? Lucy was such an innocent, so well schooled, so demure, a perfect lady. Everything that a St. Simon woman should be. And this misbegotten brigand, his mistress, was' her antithesis in every respect.
But it was too late to do anything about it. Judging by the date on the letter, Lucy and Gareth would be arriving any day. They could be crossing Bodmin Moor at this moment.
“Let's get one thing clear,” he said, his voice as flat as the Dead Sea. “My sister is to know only the story that everyone else knows. You are an orphan, a protegee of the Duke of Wellington who has consigned you to my unofficial guardianship. You will at no time give any indication that that is less than the truth. Is that clear?”
Tamsyn shrugged and nodded. “I've no desire to upset your sister.”
“Make sure that you don't, because one word out of place and you leave my roof.”
Tamsyn chewed her lip. “But if your sister's married, she can't be a total innocent.”
Julian's eyes flashed blue fire. “You are not qualified to make any kind of judgment on my sister. You couldn't begin to understand women like her… the way they've been educated, the way they look at life.
You don't know the meaning of the word 'virtue,' you couldn't begin to understand the sanctity of the marriage vows. For God's sake, your own parents didn't see the point of marriage-”
“Don't you criticize my parents,” Tamsyn said with deadly ferocity. “Let me tell you, Lord St. Simon, that you with your prating about convention and form and sanctity and virtue, that you couldn't begin to understand the depths of a love that doesn't need society's sanction to validate it.”
She was pale with anger, but there was more than anger in her eyes, as huge and depthless as a violet sea. She turned from him with an inarticulate gesture, and there was more than bitterness in her voice now. “You couldn't imagine loving someone just for her own sake, could you? You couldn't imagine loving someone who didn’t fit your perception of the right mold.”