Chapter Twenty
“SHE DOESN'T SPEAK A WORD OF ENGLISH, GOVERNOR.”
“Who doesn't?” The viscount looked up irritably at this interruption. He glowered at David, who stood somewhat hesitantly in the doorway of the library, unwilling to come farther without an invitation.
“St. Simon's doxy, sir,” Charles put in from behind his brother. “We thought you'd like to know.”
Cedric carefully folded his newspaper and put it on the sofa beside him. “You thought what?” His black eyes had narrowed. “I trust you haven't been meddling in my affairs, sir.”
David shuffled his feet but responded with his habitual note of sulkiness. “You said the other evening at dinner that you'd like to know who she was. We thought you'd like us to find out for you.”
“And just what could have given you that idea, you bungling clod!” Cedric exploded with a soft ferocity that was all the more alarming for its quietness. The two young men took an involuntary step backward. “Since when have I ever asked you to involve yourself in my business? Just what have you been doing?”
“We asked the girl a few questions,” David said lamely. “But she doesn't speak English… rattled on in some foreign language.”
“Not Froggie, though,” his brother put in helpfully.
“We'd have known if it was that.”
Cedric stared at them in disbelief, wondering how it was that they could still surprise him with their idiocy. “She's Spanish,” he said deliberately. “As I've known for the last two days.”
“Oh.” Charles scratched his head. “Only trying to help, Governor.”
“Oh, spare me,” Cedric said in disgust. “Where was the girl when you had this illuminating discussion?” His eyes sharpened. “Not on St. Simon land?”
“Oh, no, sir,” they said hastily. “She was in Fowey, so we followed her and… and just asked her her name.”
Cedric leaned back against the sofa and regarded them steadily and with a powerful revulsion. “Did you hurt her?” he asked gently. “Did you hurt a woman under St. Simon's protection? A woman living as a guest in his house? Of course you didn't. Of course you wouldn't do anything so asinine… Would you?” he shouted suddenly.
“No, sir… no, of course we didn't,” they said almost in unison. “We just asked her a few questions.”
Cedric closed his eyes with a sigh of weary disgust.
He knew them too well to believe them. It seemed they could derive sexual pleasure only from causing a woman pain. Their father had had the same quirk, and his wife, a pathetic little mouse, had cowered and hidden her bruises until she'd died from a fall down the stairs when she was six months pregnant. No one who knew Thomas Penhallan had believed Mary had fallen down the stairs. But the twins had inherited his twisted appetites. At least in general they devoted their malign attentions to women of the streets and left their own class alone. It was to be hoped no woman was ever fool enough to marry one of them.
Presumably in this instance they'd concluded that the girl was St. Simon's whore and therefore fair game.
“Besides, she wouldn't know who we were,” Charles said on a note of pride. “We wore loo masks-”
“You wore what?”
“She won't be able to identify us… not like the other girl,” David explained. “Not that we did hurt her,” he added hurriedly. “It wasn't like that other time at all.” They looked at their uncle hopefully, still expecting some congratulation on their foresight, at least. There was clearly to be no gratitude for their impulse to assist him.
Congratulations were not forthcoming. “Get out off here!”
They fled, and Cedric stared into the empty fireplace, wondering how much damage they'd done. He'd set his own inquiries in motion and had discovered easily that the woman at Tregarthan was Spanish, that she'd come from Spain ostensibly under the protection of Colonel, Lord St. Simon at Wellington's behest. That was common knowledge in the neighbourhood now. Thanks to his nephews' spying, he knew rather more about the relationship than the neighbourhood did. He wasn't particularly interested in whether St. Simon was sleeping with the girl or not, but he was intrigued as to what had brought them together, and why in the world St. Simon would trouble to bring his mistress from Spain and house her at Tregarthan.
Who was she and why was she there?
Whichever way he looked at it, he couldn't ignore two facts: the girl bore an uncanny resemblance to Celia; and she was Spanish.
Pure coincidence? No, Cedric didn't believe in coincidence. He believed in planning and minds as devious as his own.
The abduction had gone according to plan, except for that fool Marianne, who had lived to tell the tale. However, he'd dealt with her easily enough-fear, a generous pension, and a secluded cottage in the Highlands had ensured her silence. She'd been dead these last ten years, carrying the secret to her grave. But had Celia escaped from her abductor? Escaped… married some Spaniard… fathered a child?
It didn't make sense. If she'd escaped, she would have come home. It wouldn't occur to her that her brother could have had anything to do with some robber on a mountain pass. And if the girl was legitimately Celia's daughter, why didn't she come out and say so?
If she did have anything to do with Celia, then he had to deal with her. A matter somewhat complicated by St. Simon's protection. And further complicated by the fact that she now knew that someone was unusually interested in her. It was, of course, possible that she wouldn't be able to identify her masked attackers. She was a stranger, she'd certainly never seen the twins before. There was no reason why she should connect them with himself… unless she told St. Simon of the attack. He would have little difficulty naming those louts. But there was no reason why he should link their behavior with Cedric. He would be most likely to assume that they were up to their old tricks again.
He got up and poured himself a cognac, rolling the amber liquid on his tongue, frowning. If the girl did have anything to do with Celia, what could she possibly want? She had to want something. Everyone wanted something. Was it money she was after?
Well, whatever it was, he would discover soon enough. Perhaps he could encourage her to reveal her hand.
“It wouldn't be a big party, Julian,” Lucy said, her china-blue eyes glowing with enthusiasm. Just ten couples or so, and the usual families. No formal dancing, although perhaps we could roll up the carpet after supper. Not an elaborate supper-”
“My dear Lucy,” Julian interrupted, raising a hand to halt the flow. “If you wish to give a small party, I have no objection. The only question is whether Tamsyn wishes to try her society wings so soon.”
“Oh, of course she does,” Lucy said warmly. “It won't be in the least alarming. Everyone is so kind and they're all so interested in her and want to get to know her. You do wish to, don't you, Tamsyn?”
Tamsyn, who'd been listening to Lucy's bubbling excitement with some amusement, said obligingly, “If you say so, Lucy.”
“But you know how you become quite overcome with shyness and forget all your English,” Julian pointed out casually, leaning back in his chair, regarding her from beneath drooping eyelids. “Do you think you're really ready to burst upon the social scene without becoming completely incomprehensible?”
“But Tamsyn speaks perfectly good English,” Gareth protested, frowning as he flicked with his handkerchief at a spot of dust on his glistening Hessians. “Native, I would have said.”
“Ah, that may seem to be the case,” Julian said gently. “But, unfortunately, under pressure she forgets all her English and lapses into streams of Spanish.”
“I believe I've conquered my shyness,” Tamsyn declared with dignity. “I believe I'll be able to conduct myself without disgracing you, milord colonel.”