Drake's Lair Page 2

  *

  An hour later, dressed respectably in a white shirt and neckcloth, black pantaloons, a white embroidered waistcoat under a coat of gray superfine, and polished black Hessians, the earl sat behind his desk in the study, Demelza’s gathering basket, tools, and gloves on the blotter before him. Drumming his fingers on the desktop he waited somewhat less than patiently for Mrs. Laity. When she finally entered, her skirts sweeping the door jamb, for she was very stout, he leaned back in the chair and folded his arms across his chest until she’d waddled closer.

  “What can you tell me about this?” he said, exhibiting the basket once she’d reached the desk with her plump hands clasped over her apron.”

  “That, m’lord?”

  “Yes, and the young woman to whom it belonged.”

  “B-belonged, m’lord?” the housekeeper breathed. The apples of her cheeks turned crimson suddenly. Veined with broken capillaries, they made her look like a cracked painted doll, and her lips began to quiver.

  “Now, now, I haven’t murdered the gel, I’ve simply divested her of this,” he said, brandishing the basket. “A Miss Demelza Ahern, I believe. I found her gathering herbs by the beck earlier. What do you know about that?”

  “I didn’t see where there was any harm in it, m’lord,” the woman defended. “The herbs are all going to waste, and—”

  “The devil take the herbs!” he thundered, assaulting the desk with a vicious blow of his white-knuckled fist that levitated the basket. “Is Jory Bell still groundskeeper on this estate?”

  “Y-yes, m’lord.”

  “Good! Have him come up to the house first thing in the morning. I want every herb on the place uprooted—burned out if necessary—clean to the beck. Every herb, Mrs. Laity, am I plain?”

  “Y-yes, m’lord, but—”

  “But what?” he demanded. Yes, bigod, he’d been away too long. When the servants defied him—let strangers run roughshod over his property—much too long. Picking herbs, no less. Could their memories really be that short? “Well, speak up!” he prompted.

  “The little miss has been gathering herbs on Drake’s Lair land for nigh on a year now, m’lord. She does no harm, and—”

  “Who gave her permission?” he interrupted.

  “Why, nobody, m’lord. You weren’t here to ask, and, well… nobody.”

  “Are you going to stand there and tell me you thought I would approve, considering?”

  “I… we—”

  “Is everyone on the place aware of this?”

  “Well, yes, m’lord, but—”

  “Jim Ellery included?”

  “Y-yes, m’lord. Begging your pardon, but will you let me explain?”

  “I wish you would, Mrs. Laity, I certainly wish you would.”

  “The lass came to St. Kevern a year ago—dirt poor, she is, though she didn’t start life that way. Her father was a duke, or a baronet or some such up north. When he died, he left her sailing the river Tick. Lost all his blunt in the gambling hells, and left her with nothing but a passel o’ bills. Killed himself, he did.

  “She never had a Season in Town—no fancy balls and fêtes and teas like the other gentle ladies. Instead, she came here to live with a poor relation cousin o’ hers, twice removed, on the west side o’ St. Kevern—Calliope Dane was her name, poor old thing. She died soon after as well, and left the lass all on her own to fend for herself out there.”

  “What has all that got to do with this?” He queried, brandishing the basket again.

  “It’s how she makes her living, m’lord, from the simples and ointments and balms she makes from her roots and herbs. Old Calliope must have taught her, that’s how she kept herself from swimmin’ in low tide before she passed on, poor old biddy. You must remember her, m’lord—Calliope Dane? Folks hereabouts used to call her a witch.”

  He vaguely did, but he didn’t address it, the housekeeper didn’t give him the chance. What Griggs lacked as a conversationalist, Mrs. Laity made up for ten fold. He’d forgotten how the woman could go on and on, like a wound up mechanical toy.

  “That’s what they call Miss Melly… Miss Demelza, that is—a witch,” she chattered on. “But it don’t mean nothing, and she don’t mind. She’s a fine-looking lass to be living way out there all alone, ‘tisn’t safe, and letting folks label her a witch helps keep undesirables away, if you take my meaning. I don’t have to tell you how superstitious folks are ‘round here.”

  “And you let her harvest the herbs for her… potions?” A surge of hot blood expanded the veins in his neck, they straining against his stiff collar, and he loosened his neckcloth. How could he be having this conversation after what happened five years ago? He raked his damp hair back with painstaking control.

  “Well, y-yes, m’lord, except I wouldn’t call them ‘potions’, exactly,” the housekeeper replied.

  “Just what would you call them, then… exactly?”

  “More like toiletries and medicines, m’lord, but don’t take my word for it, ask the vicar, or old Dr. Hale, they’ll tell you. She’s a blessing to us all, is Demelza Ahern.”

  “I suppose you’ll say next that old Calliope Dane used to steal my botanicals, too?”

  “No, m’lord. She had her own kitchen garden chockfull o’ herbs, but the soil went sour about the time she passed over. Some say ‘twas a blight o’ some kind, or too much salt in the ground from the flaws. Others say she really was a witch and took her secrets with her. But how anybody could accuse Miss Demelza of witchcraft with all the sorrows what’s come upon her since she came here is beyond me, m’lord. If she truly was a witch, she’d be able to cast a spell and prosper herself better to my thinking.”

  “So now you’re telling me that there are no other un-blighted herbs for her to gather in all of St. Kevern Parish except ours, then, I take it?” he said sarcastically.

  “Well, no, m’lord, I haven’t said that now. It’s just… ours are the closest.”

  “Ummmm, well, no matter. They’ll be gone by day after tomorrow, if I have to pull them up by the roots one by one myself. I have returned now, and you will take no more liberties with my property unless you consult me beforehand. Have I made myself plain?”

  “Y-yes, m’lord.”

  “Very well then, that will be all, Mrs. Laity. You may go.”

  “Yes, m’lord,” she murmured, backing out of the room with a surprisingly graceful curtsy for a woman of her proportions.

  “Oh and, Mrs. Laity,” he called, halting her in the doorway. “If I ever have need of a solicitor, remind me to engage you. You’d make an excellent counsel for the defense.”

  Two

  By the time Melly reached St. Kevern, it was well past nuncheon, and she stopped at the Terrill farm to pay her respects. She’d done that several times a week since the tragedy, bringing fresh herbs, and salves—whatever she had on hand for the cuts and bruises they had suffered when the roof caved in. There would be no token today. Her gleanings had surely been scattered, the stars alone knew where by now, and so she went empty-handed. That, however, did not prevent Bessie Terrill from setting out fresh buttermilk and scones, and taking a break from the chores and the children to join her, while her husband, Will, consulted with James Ellery, the earl’s steward, over the repairs.

  Had Melly known Ellery was there, she would have passed right by the cottage. She’d had her fill of Drake’s Lair inmates for one day, and Ellery always made her a little uneasy, only because she knew that he was interested in her. It didn’t take a witch to figure that, the way he hovered and strutted whenever their paths crossed, and she didn’t want to encourage him. There was no place in her life for distractions now. Not that he wasn’t attractive because he was, in a Corinthian sort of way. A man she supposed to be in his thirties, with coloring not unlike her own honeyed hair in the popular close-cropped style swept forward a la Brutus, and brown eyes. He wore a mustache, was always impeccably dressed, and smelled of mint scented shaving paste. Unfortunately, there was nothing else to recommend him.

  No, she wasn’t ready for complications. It was taking all of her wits and all of her time to keep a roof over her head. Looking now at the scathed remains of the Terrill’s roof, draped in sagging tarpaulins and weighted with planks and bricks above, was an acute reminder that nothing could be taken for granted when Mother Nature turned her attention toward Cornwall.

  She hadn’t mentioned her encounter—more at clash—with Tristan Hannaford that morning to the Terrills. James Ellery obviously didn’t know the earl had returned, or he wouldn’t be lollygagging about with Will. She was saving that tidbit in case she needed it to send the steward on his way to avoid pursuance. That she was dressed as a common field laborer in her dowdy, soiled twill frock, buttoned up to her chin, and scuffed ankle boots that looked like they belonged in the ranks of Wellington’s army was a plus. Such frumpy attire was hardly conducive to attracting a member of the opposite sex—even in provincial St. Kevern.

  Looking down at her grass and dirt stained skirt, she assessed the situation with a critical eye, and her spirits fell like a burst balloon. Had she presented such an image to the earl? No wonder he’d treated her like a common laborer—she was one. She certainly looked the part at any rate. That she was a lady by propriety’s standards went without saying. But she’d almost forgotten that underneath it all she was a lady by society’s standards as well, or would have been if her father hadn’t robbed her of the chance to be. Such a notion wasn’t even thought provoking until now. Her heart took a tumble at that. No one’s opinion of her had ever mattered before now. She was fending well on her own, making a respectable way for herself in a world that had rejected her—excluded her. She was proud of what she’d accomplished—proud of the good she had done among the people of
St. Kevern. It had been enough until now. Gray twill and practical boots had been satisfactory… until now.

  Bessie Terrill excused herself to correct the girls, who were pestering Will and James Ellery, while Melly wrestled with those thoughts. She’d just begun to order them when Bessie joined her again, but not before pickling some stray weeds out of her hair that had evidently gotten caught there when she’d sacrificed her herbs so theatrically earlier. Melly almost groaned aloud. It was worse than she thought. She must have looked the complete ninnyhammer. But she wasn’t given time to agonize long over it. Bessie had just refilled her cup when Will and Ellery came through the wounded door hung awry on its hinges and joined them.

  “Miss Ahern,” the steward greeted buoyantly. “I didn’t know you were here. How lovely to see you. What, no herb gathering today?”

  “Not today,” she said curtly, though the subliminal anger in her delivery was not directed toward him, but rather toward the author of her little forced holiday.

  “Ahh, on such a superb day?”

  She didn’t answer. Flashing a smile, she sipped her buttermilk. He was doing it again—strutting like a peacock. There he went, straightening his neckcloth, fumbling with his quizzing glass—gold to be sure. Was he trying to impress her? To what purpose, the stars only knew. She ignored his performance and turned to Will Terrill instead.

  “How is the roof coming?” she asked him, knowing full well it wasn’t coming.

  Will clouded. He was in his thirties, looking nearly twice that for his labors on the croft, and his recent heartaches, so was Bessie, come to that. Deep shadows clung to her eyes, and though she smiled, there was a haunted look in them that touched Melly’s soul. What must it be like to lose one’s only son? She couldn’t imagine it.

  “Mr. Ellery here is going to send a work crew, after all,” Will said, accepting the crock of buttermilk Bessie put in his grimy hand. “I thought I could do it with the help of the field hands, but ‘tis no use. The whole frame’s gone—rotted clean through. It won’t do no good to put new thatch over bad supports. It’ll never hold through a storm. I thought we could shore it up, but it keeps coming down as fast as we thatch it.”

  “It is flaw Season, after all,” Ellery put in, “and we’re due again. I’ll hire a crew tomorrow, and we’ll have it done in no time. That’s what his lordship would have wanted me to do in the first place. Why, if he were here, he would have insisted upon it.”

  “I believe he is here,” Melly said quietly. It was no use. It would surely come out that she’d seen him, what with the fuss he’d made over those herbs, and they’d only wonder why that wasn’t the first thing out of her mouth when she arrived on the Terrill’s doorstep. As it was, they had all converged upon her like a flock of swooping crows in the garden, posing questions in unison. The last thing she wanted was to give her encounter with the Earl of Shelldrake importance, so she smiled her most innocent smile toward Ellery, and said, “I’ve never met the man, of course, but I do believe it was he whom I encountered on the lane this morning, though he didn’t introduce himself.”

  “Dark-haired was he, sporting a queue, blue, deep-set eyes—an odd light color blue, like a Siamese cat’s?” the steward queried anxiously.

  “Ummhmm,” she replied with a nod, through a swallow from her cup.

  “Good God,” Ellery muttered under his breath. His face changed suddenly, as did his demeanor. The strutting peacock transformed into a hawk before her very eyes, and color seemed to leave his face. “I’d best get back,” he said. “I’ll see to that work crew first thing tomorrow.” He nodded to Bessie and Will, ruffled the three little girl’s blonde heads, and bowed to Melly. “I hope to see you again soon, Miss Ahern?” he said.

  “Mr. Ellery,” she replied, and waited until he’d ridden off in a cloud of dust toward Drake’s Lair, before rising herself. “I really must be getting home,” she said, “I’ve simples to make.”

  “Do you have to go so soon, Melly?” Bessie said, meanwhile quieting the disappointed girls. “We’ve scarcely had time for a visit.”

  “I do,” she replied, “but my door is open if you want to bring the girls and stay awhile when the work crew arrives.”

  “That’s kind of you, dear, if Will doesn’t need me. We’ll see.”

  Melly nodded and left them then, starting down the lane toward home. The sun was already sliding down from the zenith. Dusk came early on the coast. There would be no herb gathering today. A whole day wasted, because of an ill-mannered, boorish churl. And what was she going to do tomorrow? What could she do? He had her basket, gloves, and gardening tools, and she didn’t have enough money to replace them in the village. There was nothing for it but to sort out her wares and find suitable concoctions to trade with the Tinkers for new ones. They were a shrewd lot, Gypsy nomads encamped in the wood. They rarely bought tonics, salves, and tisanes from the locals; they usually made their own and sold them just as she did. But she had nothing else to barter. The devil take that thieving phantom. He was as rich as Croesus and he couldn’t spare her a handful of herbs? Why? It made no sense.

  She thought of the life he must lead—a life she would have led if her father hadn’t squandered her inheritance, scandalized the family name, cost her her emergence into society, then killed himself and made her a laughingstock and a pariah of the ton.

  The crunch of the gravelly lane underfoot echoed in her ears. It was a lonely sound. If she were in London, she wouldn’t be walking alone in the street. She wouldn’t dare go about unescorted—no lady would consider such a thing. Not so here. But then, here she wasn’t a lady, she thought bitterly; she was just the local witch in the vale.

  She thought of Cousin Calliope, old and in her grave before her time, and Bessie Terrill—twenty-nine and looking forty. Cornwall did that to women. The coast was rugged and wild, and it took a special breed to stand up to it. Was that what she had to look forward to? She was twenty-two years old. She may as well be fifty. Lady Demelza Ahern reduced to scrounging for stolen herb plants and begging to keep them.

  Where were these bizarre thoughts coming from? Such things had never bothered her until that morning. She hadn’t cared what she wore, or whether she walked abroad with an escort, or how many twigs and leaves and grass spears collected in her long, curly hair that drew them like a magnet on her outings… until that morning. She hadn’t thought about London, or her come-out, or anything like that since she’d come to live with Cousin Calliope… until now. Was it that he’d chastised her in a way that she hadn’t been chastised since her father was alive?

  No.

  In an instant, on what started out to be a magical morning doing what she loved to do, a phantom had showed her who she wasn’t—showed her what she had become… and she hated him for it *

  The earl was seated behind his desk in the study, when James Ellery burst into the room. They had been friends since their Town Bronze days, something of which the earl wasn’t particularly proud. He’d behaved in typical Corinthian fashion back then—racing around London, haunting Tattersall’s for first crack at the best horseflesh, trekking from Newmarket to Epsom, from Ascot to Dorchester, meanwhile, climbing between the sheets of London’s willing ladies and ladybirds alike in pursuit of pleasure in true rake fashion. He, the heir to the Shelldrake earldom, the only son of an absentee father, Ellery, the disenfranchise—the soon rolled-up—second son of a viscount hanging on to him and his money for dear life.

  Though he certainly wasn’t obligated, when his father, Alexander Hannaford, passed on and he inherited, making Ellery his estate manager seemed the ideal solution. Though public opinion accused Ellery of being a hanger-on, the earl didn’t hesitate. It was a respectable position that afforded his friend enough blunt to keep himself comfortably, with the added plus of living at Drake’s Lair. In short, he got a trustworthy estate manager, and Ellery got his pockets plumped. It seemed a fair enough exchange and Ellery was the only one he corresponded with while he was away… until lately that is. He hadn’t put quill to parchment in months.

  “Damn it all, Drake, you might have warned a person,” Ellery greeted from the doorway. Striding in, the steward embraced him. “You could have written you know. We had no idea if you were alive or dead.”