The maid curtsied, gathered up the discarded clothes, and hurried out with them.
“Gareth sleeps in his dressing room when he comes in late so he won't disturb me. He's very considerate that way.”
“Comes in late from where?” Tamsyn sipped tea, watching as Lucy lowered herself into the water. She had a pretty round figure, with a tiny waist, swelling bosom, and curvy hips. Very pretty, Tamsyn thought a mite enviously, wondering for the first time in her life if she was perhaps rather under endowed.
“Oh, from his clubs, or wherever. Men are never at home. I'd thought perhaps married men might be, but it doesn't seem to be the case.”
There was a touch of constraint in her voice, and she began to soap her legs busily. “Tell me how you come to be here, Tamsyn. My brother didn’t really say m his letter. He's not very communicative at the best of times,” she added.
Tamsyn gave a word-perfect rendition of the approved version of her tale. “I think your brother is hopping to persuade you to sponsor me when I make my debut in October,” she added.
“Oh, I should be delighted,” Lucy said with genuine pleasure. “It will be such fun to have someone to go about with. And have dinner with. Gareth doesn't often dine at home.” She slipped down into the water and switched the subject. “I'll help you learn how to go on in society while I'm here… I'm sure it's very different from Spanish society… We should have a little party for you. I'm sure Julian would approve. It's been ages since Tregarthan had a proper party… not since my wedding.”
Lucy was chattering as if they'd known each other all their lives. Tamsyn had never spent much time with other girls; her position as El Baron's daughter had set her apart in the encampments, but she'd seen and often envied the easy camaraderie of the village girls. In the same way, Lucy's confidential chatter seemed to assume some kind of shared female experience and viewpoint.
Lucy stood up in a shower of water and reached for the towel. “How do you get on with Julian?” she asked somewhat diffidently. “He's not easy to talk to, is he?”
“Oh, I think he is,” Tamsyn said, surprised. “I never have any difficulty talking to him.” At least, not when we're in charity with each other.
“Is he very strict?” Lucy stepped out of the bath. “He always was with me.”
Yes, Tamsyn thought, I'm sure he was. He sets very high standards of behavior for a St. Simon.
“I'm not his sister,” she said neutrally. “He's merely repaying a favor to my father and following the Duke of Wellington's orders. He doesn't like being away from his regiment, and it makes him annoyed on occasion.”
“It's not comfortable when Julian’s annoyed,” Lucy confided.
“No,” Tamsyn agreed. “It's not.” Abruptly, she stood up. “I must go and change for dinner.”
“Oh, what are you going to wear?” Lucy was immediately diverted. Swathed in a towel, she bounced over to the bed, where her clothes lay waiting to be hung in the armoire. “We should coordinate our gowns so we don't clash.”
Tamsyn blinked. “Clash?”
“Yes… you know. If I wear a pink gown and you wear puce, we'll look awful.”
“I don't have a puce gown,” Tamsyn said with relief.
“No, it's a horrid color. It was just an example.”
Lucy riffled through the pile of material. “Now, which do you think?”
Tamsyn pretended to devote her attention to this clearly important question. Lucy's china-blue eyes were not as sharp or as piercing as her brother's, but they were a lovely color. Her skin was fair, and her brown hair had chestnut glints in it, much less startling than her brother's thick red-gold thatch.
“The dark blue,” she said at random. “How long have you been married?”
“Ten months.” Lucy held the gown up and examined it in the mirror. “Yes, I'll wear this.”
“And your husband sleeps in his dressing room?”
Tamsyn was not known for her tact.
Lucy flushed. “When he comes in late, he's usually foxed. Men are like that.”
Tamsyn looked doubtful. “Are they?”
“Oh, well, you wouldn't know because you're not married, dear,” Lucy said, adopting a slightly patronizing air. “When one's married, one learns a great deal about men.”
Tamsyn scratched her head. Lucy was a year younger than Tamsyn, and it didn't seem that she knew anything at all about anything very much. But that, of course, was only to be expected. She was a virtuous, sheltered English lady. Heaven forbid she should come face-to-face with some of life's grittier realities. “I daresay Spanish men are different,” she said neutrally. “I'll see you downstairs.”
“Oh, no, I must come and see your wardrobe,” Lucy said, dropping the towel and shrugging into a wrapper. “I do so love shopping, don't you? Perhaps Julian will let us borrow the landaulet and we could go into Bodmin, or maybe even down to Truro. We could buy matching outfits.” Linking her arm through Tamsyn's, she ushered her out of the room. “Which bedroom do you have?”
“The corner room in the east tower.”
“Oh, yes, that's such a lovely room.” Chattering gaily, Lucy pranced down the corridor, arm firmly linked in Tamsyn's.
Julian, appearing at the head of the stairs, caught sight of the two disappearing into Tamsyn's apartments, the sound of Lucy's bright prattle hanging in the air.
Tamsyn wouldn't be fool enough to defy him, he reflected, entering his own apartments. They hadn't made up their quarrel, but he couldn't believe she would ruin her own plans just to get back at him.
She was a damnable, manipulative, seductive hellion.
But she was neither a fool nor vindictive. Untying his cravat, he strolled to the window, looking out across the lawns to the sea. Why did he find her so impossible to resist? He wanted to go back to Spain, go back to his men and his friends, fighting and dying in the broiling summer heat. He wanted to forget all about this bloody minded brigand… didn't he?
He tossed the cravat to the floor and shrugged out of his coat. He'd spent the afternoon riding around the estate, visiting his tenants, asking questions of the older ones, the men and women who'd been on Tregarthan land for the last fifty years or so. He'd been asking if anyone remembered the disappearance of a young girl from one of the families of the landed gentry. No one had anything to offer. There'd been a Penhallan daughter who had died in Scotland. An elaborate funeral, the family in mourning for a year. Everyone remembered that. But no disappearances on trips to Spain.
He stepped out of his britches and went to the washstand, splashing cold water on his face. Perhaps Tamsyn was the daughter of some minor landowner from farther south, beyond Truro, toward Penzance.
He buried his face in a towel, scrubbing briskly. He had until October to find them. And if they couldn't be found, then that was Tamsyn's problem. He'd have fulfilled his end of the bargain.
Tamsyn, having finally persuaded Lucy to return to her own apartments, thoughtfully flicked through her own selection of gowns, brushing her hair while Josefa fussed around her.
Her mind was racing as she realized just how Lucy's arrival could be turned to good account. The idea for a party at Tregarthan was ideal for her purposes. It was essential that Tamsyn be accepted in society when she exposed Cedric Penhallan. It was essential that she be seen to be respectable, to be under the protection of a powerful family; otherwise, no one would give credence to her story. But people would listen in horror to the friend and confidante of Lady Fortescue, the protegee of the Duke of Wellington, the unofficial ward of Lord St. Simon.
And once she'd told her story, it would be over.
She'd have to flee the colonel's wrath with all dispatch, abandon this burgeoning love, and return to her old life that now offered only a barren landscape.