The Marsh Hawk Read online

  He rapped at the door again in the same rhythm, louder this time. It was well into the wee hours, and the vicar was undoubtedly asleep, but he wouldn’t mind the intrusion. How often had they played this scene out over the years? He couldn’t count the times. Slumped there, inhaling the seasoned oak as the cool, damp wood soothed his brow, he savored the peaceful silence. It came at a price. There would be a lecture, sure as check. That was inevitable.

  He was just about to knock a third time, when the door came open in the hand of Vicar Robert Nast, Simon’s closest friend since their school days, standing barefoot, mouth agape in his nightshirt, with a worn green dressing gown thrown hastily over it, the fringed sash trailing on the parquetry. His wheat-colored hair was disheveled, and his eyes were still glazed with sleep when recognition sparked in them.

  “Simon?” he breathed, all but dropping the candlestick in his hand. “Good God, you’re bleeding!” He hauled him over the threshold and poked his head out, looking left and right. “Where’s your horse? Are any in pursuit?” He slammed the door and bolted it. “I told you this would happen one day!”

  “I came by coach,” Simon explained. “I sent it back to the Hall, and no one is following.”

  “Well, that’s a switch,” said the vicar ruefully, taking him in from head to toe. “Here, let me help you to the study. You could use a stiff brandy by the look of you. What’s happened?”

  “I’ve met . . . a woman,” Simon told him.

  The vicar jerked to a stop and stared, slack jawed. “And this is the result?” he blurted, taking his measure again.

  “Not directly,” Simon growled, “but yes, this is the result.”

  “Well, I hope you’ve sent her packing,” the vicar said, leading him through the door of a small, sparsely furnished room with book-lined walls.

  “I’m going to marry her,” Simon announced flatly. The familiar aroma of leather laced with lemon polish greeted him the minute he crossed the threshold. He breathed in deeply. It put him at ease.

  “The devil you say?” the vicar erupted, meanwhile setting his candlestick on the gateleg table nearby. “Are you foxed? No . . . you aren’t, are you? You’re serious! This I’ve got to hear, but not before we get you cleaned up. Sit.” He poured a brandy and handed it over. “Drink this,” he charged, “and stay put. I’ll be back directly.”

  Simon tossed back the brandy before the vicar had quit the room, and poured himself another, which he sipped with more aplomb. He sank into the chair, leaned his head against the cool leather, and leaked a soft moan. He was exhausted. The snifter dangled precariously from his fingers, and he made a conscious effort to hold on to it as he felt himself slipping away. He had almost lost the battle, when the vicar padded back into the room carrying a basin of water and a bottle of antiseptic, with a wad of bandage linen and a clean shirt tucked under his arm. Between them, they re-dressed the wound, while Simon told him how he’d met Jenna, and recounted the particulars of the duel.

  “You were unarmed when he did this?” the vicar queried. “By the look of it, the bounder tried to kill you, and damn near succeeded.” Setting the basin aside, he sank down on the lounge opposite as Simon gingerly tugged on the shirt.

  “Damned fool, Crispin, jumped in and engaged the blighter when he came at my back. That boy was no match for Marner, Rob; he’d have gutted him. I shoved him out of the way, and Marner got me before I could wrestle the épée out of Crispin’s hand.”

  “Well, he got you good. The stitches are holding—just barely, but you need to get off your feet for that to mend properly. What the deuce are you doing here? You ought to be home abed.”

  “I can’t go home,” Simon returned. “Jenna is there unchaperoned. I can’t compromise her like that.”

  “You’ve got her at the Hall?” the vicar cried. “Have you lost your mind? We’ll have scandal all over again here!”

  “I’m going back to Town with the twins in the morning, after I’ve asked Jenna to be my wife,” Simon explained. “I don’t want her to know how serious the wound is. I told her it was only a scratch.”

  “Outstanding!”

  “I mean it, Rob. There is no need to overset her. It’ll mend at the town house with no one the wiser. I’ll be there at least a fortnight arranging for Crispin’s commission, and getting things underway for Evy’s come-out.” He frowned. “I don’t know the first thing about managing that. I’m hoping Jenna will lend a hand with it if she accepts me, or perhaps Lady Jersey if she doesn’t; she’s always bent over backward to accommodate the twins. The woman’s been a godsend. But no! I don’t want to even give rise to that possibility with conscious thought. Jenna has to accept me.”

  “This is madness! Absolute madness! How long have you known this gel—less than a sennight, and you’re contemplating marriage? You?”

  “I love her, Rob.”

  “But . . . marriage. Simon, is that wise? Think! Think what you’re about. It’s bad enough that Phelps and I know. What if it all comes out? You know it’s bound to, sooner or later. It’s only a matter of time, and what happens to her then?”

  “You don’t imagine I’m going to tell her, do you?” Simon retorted. “Give me some credit, for God’s sake.”

  “You cannot start a marriage like that!” the vicar said with raised voice. “Besides, a sennight ago the gel was betrothed to Marner—”

  “She wasn’t in love with him,” Simon flashed. “I knew that the minute I met her.”

  “Let me finish!” the vicar barked. “How well could you possibly know each other on such short acquaintance? Whirlwind romances almost always end in failure. I ought to know. I’ve married enough lovesick buffleheads in my time. Their sour stares haunt me in that pulpit next door.” He gestured roughly. “I will not suffer yours among them.”

  “You needn’t worry about that.”

  “No, I expect not. How long has it been since you darkened that door? Hah! I can’t even recall when you last came to a Sunday service.”

  “Stubble it!”

  The vicar’s posture collapsed. “Simon, don’t you think I want to see you happily married? Don’t you know I pray for that? But . . . as things are . . . with so much at stake, it just isn’t practical. You need to take stock. If that’s what you really want, it’s time to lay this . . . alter ego of yours to rest. Then, once you’ve gotten to know her—”

  “I love her,” Simon intoned. “And I can’t give the other over. Not yet. But soon.”

  The vicar threw his hands in the air. “Fine! Have it your way. Just remember what ‘love’ did to your brother. It drove him straight to his grave. He’d still be here—alive and well—if he’d controlled his . . . urges, and waited it out until your father died. You want to follow in his footsteps? Be my guest. Just don’t expect me to have a hand in it. Don’t even think to ask.”

  “You haven’t even met her.”

  “That’s right, I haven’t. You want me to, I take it? That’s what this is about, is it?”

  “Of course I want you to, but with an open mind.”

  “This is ludicrous!”

  “No, it’s necessary,” Simon corrected him. “I need your help, Rob. I need you to keep an eye on things . . . on her, while I’m gone. I needn’t tell you that Marner isn’t exactly ecstatic about the outcome of his gala engagement weekend. He made some pretty cryptic threats against the both of us on that dueling ground. I’m hardly concerned for myself, but I am for Jenna, since I can’t be here to physically protect her—not until we wed. I’m leaving Phelps behind to look after things, and none of the servants will admit Marner, should he be fool enough to attempt to lay siege to Kevernwood Hall. I’ll see to that, but I’d rest a good deal easier if I knew that you were keeping watch as well.”

  “And do what, exactly—sacrifice my anonymity in your madness defending a fair maiden in the castle?”

  “If needs must.”

  “I believe you have attics to let. You won’t be happy till they hoist us both
up the Tyburn Tree, will you?” He breathed a nasal sigh, and threw up his hands again in a gesture of defeat. “All right—all right, you win. I will keep an eye out, but don’t you dare come grousing to me when this brew you’re stirring boils over and scalds you. You were warned.”

  “I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

  A strangled laugh replied to that, and Simon flashed a lopsided smile at the sound. He’d heard that reproving guttural chuckle more times than he could tally over the years, but, be that as it may, the outcome was always the same. Robert Nast never refused him. The maddening thing was, he was probably right, as always, but that didn’t matter. All that remained was to persuade Lady Jenna Hollingsworth to be his bride.

  “I’m free for the most part day after tomorrow,” the vicar grumbled. “I’ll go ’round then. It would be good of you to let her know I shall be paying a call.”

  “Splendid!” Simon rejoiced, offering a crisp nod. “Of course I’ll prepare her.”

  “For the inquisition, eh?” the vicar blurted, dourly.

  “Just don’t fall in love with her yourself.”

  “You must really have caught one of Cupid’s darts. You’ve always trusted me with your wenches before.”

  “This is no ‘wench,’ Rob. She’s a lady. Not just titled, but literally. God knows I’ve known enough of the other sort to make a fair distinction.”

  “Yes, well, I shall have to take your word for that, shan’t I? Not being acquainted with her, what other choice have I?” He shook his head. “I don’t know . . . the whole damned thing just seems a bit rash to me—even for you. I’d like nothing better than to see you married well . . . and happy—God knows you’ve earned it—and she may be the one; I just wish you weren’t rushing into this with such a crashing disregard for common sense.”

  “Meet her first, before you judge her—or me, come to that. Be fair. You do have a tendency to be a tad judgmental you know.”

  “It comes with the calling.”

  “Hmmm, don’t go all vickerish on me now. That tack has never worked in the past, and it shan’t on this occasion, either, I assure you. What I need more than this deuced lecture at the moment is some sleep, if I am to be about the business of proposing marriage in the morning. What say we call a truce? After I’ve pressed my suit, I’ll stop by on my way to Town and tell you the outcome. If all goes well, she is to be my wife, Rob. Don’t be formal. Her name is Jenna. Make her feel welcome.”

  “Her name is ‘Lady’ Jenna till she dictates otherwise,” the vicar amended. “That must come from her. And when have you ever known me to be unwelcoming to any of your friends—lady or ladybird—I’d like to know?”

  “Sorry, old boy. That’s never mattered before.” He flashed a sheepish grin. “Since you’re obviously set upon playing your role, will you pray for me at least?”

  “That I will do. You can bet your blunt upon it!”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Jenna woke in a hand-carved mahogany sleigh bed late the following morning. For a moment she was disoriented in her new surroundings: a spacious suite of third-floor rooms overlooking the sea at Kevernwood Hall. It was the sound of the sea that woke her. The flaw was at the full height of its fury, flinging diaphanous clouds of spindrift over the brow of the cliff below. Little by little the events of the past twenty-four hours trickled back across her memory and her heart leapt. It wasn’t a dream. Rupert had disgraced himself on the dueling ground and they had left him standing in the teeming rain on Bodmin Moor, shouting ugly threats after them as Simon’s carriage sped away.

  They had arrived at Kevernwood Hall very late. The earl needed stitches, and his doctoring in Bodmin village took longer than anticipated. While that was taking place, Phelps saw that she and Crispin were well fed at the Heatherwood Arms, since they wouldn’t be stopping again until they reached Newquay in an effort to outrun the storm that was headed west toward the rocky coast.

  During the earl’s absence, Jenna had plenty of opportunity to question Crispin, but she decided against it. She remembered Simon’s disapproving look when Crispin called him “uncle.” The explanation for that needed to come from the earl himself, not secondhand. She would not invade his privacy. She kept the conversation as casual as was possible under the circumstances, but that by no means kept her from wondering. She used the time instead to observe the young man, who was as handsome as his sister was beautiful, fair and blue-eyed, with a likable manner that showed good breeding. She was dying to solve the mystery surrounding them both, but that would have to wait.

  By the time the earl returned from the surgeon, Phelps had loaded his luggage on the chaise, as well as Crispin’s, and the small leather valise that housed the valet’s own toilette. Jenna had nothing but the clothes on her back. Exhausted, more mentally and emotionally than physically, she let the swaying of the coach rock her to sleep in the earl’s arms for the last lap of the journey. They arrived at Kevernwood Hall at two in the morning, and though she was bursting with questions, the earl insisted that they postpone discussing their circumstances until they’d both had a good night’s rest. Now, morning had come, and she was almost sorry. What on earth would she say to the man whom she had literally let abduct her?

  She swung her feet over the side of the bed. They’d scarcely touched the carpet when a light rap came at the door, and her head snapped toward the sound. She was wearing a cream-colored flannel nightgown that smelled fresh, of pine tar soap, which was donated by the housekeeper, Mrs. Rees, who had been unceremoniously roused from a sound sleep upon their arrival the night before. Middle-aged and good-natured, the woman had taken Jenna’s bedraggled riding habit down to the servants’ wing to dry beside the fire and press with the flatiron. The knock came again, and Jenna clutched the quilt over her nightgown.

  “C-come,” she called guardedly, fearing that it might be the earl himself.

  To her great relief, it was the housekeeper who entered, bearing a tray. A chambermaid followed on her heels carrying Jenna’s riding habit, which the girl carefully draped over a wing chair at the edge of the Aubusson carpet in the center of the room. She then went straight to the hearth, where she began to coax the dwindling fire to life again with fresh logs and the bellows.

  Mrs. Rees set the tray down on the drop-leaf table across the way and folded her hands across her crisp, white apron, like a quaint mechanical doll.

  “The master wants the fires kept going in your rooms, my lady,” she said. “It’s cold here on the water clear into June sometimes, what with the storms and all.”

  “How is the master this morning?” Jenna queried.

  “He’s just come home, my lady.”

  “Just come home, did you say?” Jenna frowned, perplexed. Where on earth had he gone at two in the morning?

  “Just a bit ago,” the housekeeper replied with a nod. “He’s waiting for you down in the conservatory, my lady.”

  Jenna got up and reached for her riding habit.

  “Oh, no—no, not till you’ve eaten, my lady,” Mrs. Rees said, raising a quick hand in protest. “The master was most particular about that. You’re to take your time, my lady.”

  The maid, a plain little mouse of a girl, whom Jenna had heard the housekeeper address as Molly, straightened up from her chore at the hearth and helped Mrs. Rees carry the drop-leaf table closer. They left her then, after giving her directions to the conservatory, and she began to eat the delicious fare consisting of coddled eggs, grilled sausages, and warm cheese scones oozing freshly churned sweet butter. In spite of the housekeeper’s directive, she ate quickly, and flushed it all down with the wonderful Darjeeling tea that accompanied the meal. It was a wonderful breakfast, and she regretted that she was far too anxious about her situation to enjoy it.

  The halls were cold and damp out of the fire’s reach, and Jenna began to appreciate the reasoning behind having them lit into June. Thistle Hollow, her own estate east of Launceston, was far enough inland to be spared much of the battery of wind and
water that plagued the Cornish seacoast, and it wasn’t nearly as dank.

  The conservatory was on the first floor facing the drive, far from the threat of flogging by storms driven landward by the sea. Towering walls of leaded glass jutted into the courtyard. Inside, a veritable jungle of plant life, both domestic and exotic, thrived in a near-perfect atmosphere. Situated on the southeast corner of the house, the breathtaking room got sun most of the day, when the coast was lucky enough to see it.

  When she entered, the earl was standing beside the east wall watching heavy sheets of rain slide down the panes. Though her step was light, it turned him around, and he reached her in three strides. Taking her in his arms, he gazed deep into her eyes, with his own eyes dilated and penetrating in the half-light called by the storm.

  “Did you sleep well?” he said.

  “Yes, my lord,” she murmured.

  “I liked it better when you called me Simon.”

  “That’s going to take some getting used to,” she said. “I misspoke. It’s hardly proper.” Hot blood rushed to her cheeks. Was she blushing again, in spite of her resolve?

  He smiled and pulled her closer. “Nothing else about this business is proper. Why should we stand upon ceremony over names? Besides, it is what I wish . . . when we are alone, if that better suits your sensibilities.”

  “Take care! Your wound!” she cried, as her hand grazed the bandage beneath his cambric shirt.

  “I told you, it’s nothing to worry over—just a scratch.” He hesitated a moment before asking, “Why did you come to the dueling ground?”

  “I couldn’t bear it, yet I had to see—to be there. I was so afraid . . .”

  His liquid sapphire eyes looked into her soul.

  “The land we fought on is rich in legend, you know,” he told her. “The tale goes that, back in the mists of time, the saints and giants fought on Bodmin Moor. The saints were claiming too many wells and erecting too many crosses to suit the giants, who elected Uther to represent them in a duel of sorts—a rock throwing contest. It was St. Tue, who fought Uther for possession of the place. The rocks they threw took form in the shape of a standing stone, and all went well for the saints until the last toss. The final rock was too heavy for St. Tue, and, as legend has it, an angel came and carried that stone up to crown the Cheesewring menhir, where it sits defying gravity to this very day.”