Secrets of Midnight (20 page)

"You'll what, Pascoe?" Donovan demanded. "Push
a few hogsheads down a hill and hope you'll crush the man? Just like you did
yesterday in Porthleven? But then it wasn't Gilbert you were after, was it?"

A long silence fell over the cottage; Donovan felt a
vein pounding in his temple now that the man hadn't immediately proclaimed his
innocence. Just when he thought he'd have to grab the fool and throttle an
answer out of him, a low, hoarse chuckling broke the stillness. Jack Pascoe
scratched his crotch as he shuffled forward into the light, the red hair on his
head dirty and matted and sticking up like a rooster's comb.

"Ais, I should have known you'd come looking for
me. But I didn't do it—though I've no liken for that bitch 'ee took for your
bride."

"So you know what happened," Donovan said
through his teeth, suddenly tempted to shoot the man right then and there.

" 'Course
I do! One of
the mine cap'ens from Great Work saw the whole thing—visiting his dear old
mother in Porthleven, he was. Said those barrels caused quite a stir. Wish I'd
seen it. But I was already at the mine, an' 'ee can ride right out there an'
check for
yerself
too. Spent the whole day there an'
into the night, then, for my first core, just to get used to the place. 'Tes
huge, 'ee know, five times bigger than yer little place and richer to boot. And
fancy them hiring me so fast after leaving your mine only this past Saturday—"

"Fancy them firing you, too, if I hear the
slightest word that you're making the tinners suffer as you did at Arundale's
Kitchen," Donovan cut him off, sickened by the man's smug smile that he
was very pleased to see had suddenly faded. "The same thing, too, if you're
seen anywhere near my wife or her family. Are we understood, man?"

Jack Pascoe didn't readily answer, but his pocked face
had turned a mottled red that nearly matched his hair. Yet finally he spat, "Stuck
on that meddling wench, are 'ee? Well, more's the worse for 'ee, then. I hope
she yells yer ears off like she used to holler down into the shaft whenever she
came
looken for me, calling me names that would make
the saints blush. I think she might have followed me, too, if it wasn't that
the men'll have no women down in the mines. Bad luck, 'tes, and I wish you
plenty of it with that one!"

Donovan smiled grimly, thinking that he could tell this
man a thing or two about having his ears yelled off. But now that he knew
Pascoe hadn't been involved in yesterday's incident, he wanted out of a cottage
that stunk of urine, sweaty unwashed bodies, and sex. He lowered his pistol and
left the place without another word, Jack Pascoe shouting after him.

"Eh! What of my door here? I hope 'ee plan to pay
for it, my lord. A good door costs dear these days, it does!"

"Give him five shillings," Donovan ordered
Henry, who was hard-pressed to keep his eyes off the woman's fat, jiggling
bottom as she ducked back into the cottage. "Gilbert?"

"Oh, yes, yes, my lord. At once!"

Donovan didn't wait for the transaction to be completed
but strode away, inhaling deep breaths of fresh drizzly air as if he could
cleanse himself of the unnecessary filth he'd just encountered. The man was
disgusting, living like a rat in a hole—

"All done, my lord. Where to now? Arundale's
Kitchen?"

Donovan nodded at Gilbert, his jaw clenched as he
glanced back at the cottage. "Why does Pascoe live like that? He must have
some coin to his name. God knows you paid him like a king when he was under our
employ, and I've no doubt that he stole his share from the tinners."

"Gambling, my lord. Terrible voice. And women."
Henry gave a nervous shrug, clearly having nothing more to say and probably
afraid to.

But it was enough for Donovan. His insides churning to think
that their family agent could have given so much power to a man who was no more
than scum, he didn't trust himself to speak as he caught the reins and mounted
Samson while Henry clambered atop his horse.

But finally, after they'd ridden some distance from
Pascoe's cottage, he had calmed himself enough to ask, "Did my wife really
do that? Yell down into the shafts?"

Gilbert bobbed his head, looking somewhat apprehensive
after Donovan's long silence and more than anxious to please. "Oh, yes
indeed, she did. You could hear her across the heath sometimes if the wind was
right, all the way to the house. I'm ashamed to admit it, but that was always a
good sign it was time for me to hide."

Donovan couldn't help smiling. It was all so
ridiculous, really. Jack Pascoe heading deep into the earth, Henry Gilbert no
doubt diving under a bed, and all because one angry-eyed, sharp-tongued woman
had the conviction to stand up to injustices she was determined to change. Good
God, she was admirable!

His smile faded just as quickly as it had come, Jack
Pascoe's words ringing in his mind.

"
Stuck on
that meddling wench, are 'ee?
"

Bloody hell, was that how he appeared? Surely not. He'd
gone to see the man because he had his business arrangement to protect, nothing
more. He'd be damned if he was going to start over with some other country
chit, oh, no. One wife was enough for any lifetime, even if she was only
temporary . . .

"It must have been an accident, my lord. I don't
see any other way around it."

Donovan looked over at Henry Gilbert, who blinked at
him in the thickening rain.

"Those barrels, I mean. If it wasn't Jack Pascoe—"

"We'll be keeping our eye on him all the same, no
matter what that bastard said." His tone must have been dire, for Henry
gulped, the man keeping any further thoughts to
himself
as they galloped in a spray of mud toward Arundale's Kitchen.

***

"Are 'ee sure that I can't send one of the men
along with 'ee? It'll be dark before you're halfway home—"

"So then I'll be riding in the dark,"
Corisande said firmly as she shrugged into her cloak, although she eyed Oliver
Trelawny with fond suspicion. "If you're acting like this because I'm a
married woman now, well, it's silly! It's not as if I haven't ridden across the
heath at night a thousand times before. And on Biscuit, too, while this evening
I've a young strong gelding to carry me."

"Maybe so, but it should have been a carriage,
especially in this foul weather. But you've always been a stubborn one, an' I'm
sure that new husband of yours can vouch for that. I still can't believe Lord
Donovan didn't insist 'ee let his coachman take 'ee about—"

"The coachman was more than glad for the day off,"
Corisande lied guiltily, but she turned before Oliver could read anything in
her eyes, and headed for the heavy oak door leading out of the inn's back room.
They always met here to discuss their business, a quiet private place well away
from the tobacco-smoking, ale-drinking, story-telling customers. But at the
door she turned, her expression grown serious. "Godspeed, Oliver, and fair
winds. The weather seems to have turned against our favor but—"

"Ais, Corie, when has a gale kept me from
Brittany? I love it all the better, an' it keeps the king's excisemen at home
in front of their fires where they can cause no trouble! We'll see you in a few
days' time with a shipload of niceties for the good gentry, yes?"

She nodded silently, smiling, then lifted her hood over
her hair and stepped outside. At once the door was almost flung from her hand
by a strong, salty gust of wind, which only made Oliver curse behind her.

"See? A carriage would have kept 'ee nice an' dry
an' well out of this mess!"

She waved and left him standing shaking his head after
her, his burly bulk filling the doorway and limned in lamplight, while she went
to retrieve her mount from the small stable next door. But Oliver was gone back
inside when she rode out a few moments later, ducking her head against the
stiff wind whipping off the harbor.

Lord, she supposed a carriage would have been nice but
she shoved away the thought as she nudged the big brown gelding into a trot. In
no time she'd left behind the snug, well-lit houses lining the quay and moved
farther into the village, and soon even those familiar houses—including the
parsonage, which made her wish she was going there instead—receded into the
distance and swiftly gathering darkness as she rode out across the heath at a
full gallop.

She would probably be late for supper, but there was no
help for it. She'd had so much to do. Taking time out for the wedding yesterday
had put her so far behind.

First she'd stopped at the parsonage to check on her
father, Corisande finding him in his study poring over his books. He'd said
virtually nothing to her, no, not even wishing her Godspeed when she left his
room, which she'd found strange. But Frances assured her that everything seemed
back to normal although Linette, who already missed Lindsay so much, had
apparently cried herself to sleep.

So Corisande had gone straightaway to the church
schoolhouse to see her sisters, excusing them for a few moments from their
studies to give hugs all around. Her heart ached at how usually matter-of-fact
Linette clung to her after Marguerite and Estelle left to return to their
desks, her sister's pretty brown eyes swimming with tears.

"Oh, Corie, can't you come back to be with us? I
miss you so much. It isn't the same! Nothing's the same!"

Her throat tight, Corisande had wanted so badly to
assure her that, yes, she would be home very soon to stay. She had long sensed
that perhaps Linette had suffered the most when their mother had died, being
only four and too young to understand that Adele Easton would never return. And
now with Lindsay having left and Corisande, too, Linette looking so miserable .
. . ah, but she couldn't tell her the truth. At least not yet.

"Linette, I'm married now, sweet. I have to stay
with my husband. That's the way of things, and someday you'll have your own
home and family. But I'll still be here if you need me. I'm not very far away,
after all."

Thankfully Linette had seemed to understand, smudging
away her tears with the palms of her hands although her small chin had still
trembled. Corisande had almost been relieved to leave her, and with a host of
other things to do—visiting the poorhouse to see that Eliza Treweake had
everything she needed for her charges, tending for a few hours to the church
accounts, and then meeting with Oliver to make some last arrangements for their
next shipment of contraband—she'd had very little time to worry further

"What . . . oh, Lord! Easy, boy!"

A gust of such violent force had suddenly hit them
broadside that the gelding had ground to a halt and tried to rear, Corisande
gripping the reins with all her might and fighting to maintain control of the
frightened animal and keep her seat.

"Easy! Easy now, boy!"

They wheeled in place, the horse snorting and blowing
and tossing its head, but finally the poor creature grew calmer as Corisande
continued cajoling and soothing him.

"It's all right, boy. Just a sou'westerly, and a
healthy one too. Didn't that Henry Gilbert ever take you out on a ride before
in such lively weather? If he had, you wouldn't have been so surprised."

The gelding nickered, shaking his thick mane, which
made Corisande feel as if they could start out again. She rubbed his neck first
a few times and then veered him around, catching her bearings and . . . and . .
. who in blazes was that?

Corisande squinted against the cold drizzle hitting her
face and peered through the near pitch-black darkness at the undeniable shape
of a horse and rider some distance away. They weren't moving either, just
standing there beside a stunted tree, which was odd. The weather really was
quite miserable. Who would be outside if he didn't have to be?

"Hello!"

The whistling wind sucked up her cry, but surely the
rider must have heard her. Yet he still wasn't moving—oh, Lord. It couldn't be.
Had Donovan ridden out to meet her?

Here she'd hoped he might even still be at the mine,
and then he wouldn't have known at all that she had chosen to ignore his ridiculous
command. Now he probably planned to play the outraged husband and lecture her
all the way to the house about the correct behavior for the wife of a lord, but
oh, no, she was going to have none of it!

"On with you, boy! Go!" Corisande kicked the
gelding into a gallop, but the big horse surprised her, probably so eager to be
home and well out of the approaching storm that he lengthened his strides to a
breakneck run.

Which was perfectly fine with her.
Donovan would have no hope of catching them now, no, not even riding his fine
steel-gray stallion. They'd had too great of a head start, and just to make
sure, she glanced over her shoulder and saw that, indeed, they were being
followed; but Donovan was still so far back that he almost blended into the darkness.

Facing front, Corisande smiled giddily as she hunched down
over the gelding's lunging neck and held on tightly, her hood flying off her
hair, her cloak billowing and snapping in the wind. She may have decided that
she was going to behave as if she and Donovan had the happiest marriage in
Britain no matter what had happened—although she'd been encouraged that no hint
of Fanny's gossip had yet reached Porthleven—but right now, it was just she and
Donovan out here in the windswept dark where no one could see them.

Why not frustrate him entirely by refusing to wait up
for him? Why not show him that she needed no silly carriage to take her here
and there, her riding skills quite capable, thank you very much! She began to
laugh with sheer exhilaration, the lighted windows of the house appearing
through the thickening trees as they thundered into the wide valley that nature
had cut through the heath.