Glancing at her, he saw she was frowning.
A minute ticked past, then she met his eyes. “If the boys already know the local smuggling gangs, what are they searching for in the caves?”
His lips tightened. He hesitated, then said, “I think they’re searching for evidence of wreckers.”
Her eyes widened. He went on, “I asked, and the word is that there’s been no activity of that kind for months. There won’t be anything for the boys to find—no cache, and very likely nothing else.”
The smugglers broke the excise laws, but most locals happily turned a blind eye to that. Wreckers, on the other hand, were cold-blooded killers. Along with the wider community, the smugglers regarded wreckers as an unmitigated evil.
“No one knows who the wreckers are. Secrecy is their watchword—you know that. It’s unlikely the boys have had any contact with them, equally unlikely that they ever will. They might find a boat hidden in caves close by the Lizard, or up near Manacle Point, but other than that…”
She searched his eyes; today, hers were pale green, the color of the sea, serious and unshielded. Then she drew breath, and asked, “Do you believe they’re in—or courting—any danger?”
He felt the weight of the question, the importance of it to her. He took a moment to consult his own inner gauge of pending trouble; it had never been wrong—that was why he still lived. “I don’t believe they are.”
She studied his eyes, then exhaled. Looking again at the view, she grimaced. “Would that I could forbid them to search, to go down to the caves, but that would simply be wasted breath.”
He didn’t bother nodding, but was conscious of an impulse to try to, if not lift, then at least ease the burden of her brothers from her shoulders. He glanced at the distant sea. “I was wondering if I might interest them in going sailing or fishing.” He met her eyes. “If they wish to, would you approve?”
She blinked; eyes wide, she studied his expression, then frowned. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I?”
“My background.” He paused, then clarified, “My years as a spy. The boys will be interested—they’ll quiz me.”
He didn’t say more; he felt perfectly certain, acute as she was, she’d understand his point. Not everyone considered the life of a spy a suitable subject for polite conversation. He’d broached the subject deliberately, not knowing how she felt. As she stared at him, still frowning, he wondered with an odd sinking fee
ling whether he’d discovered the incompatibility he’d been searching for.
If she thought his past was less than honorable, she’d be unlikely to entertain any offer from him—and he was even less likely to make one.
Madeline continued to frown; she couldn’t believe he’d think she would object to his past, find his service to his country—the manner of it—less than laudable. That she was the sort of silly female who might. She let irritated exasperation seep into her expression—and her tone. “I’d be relieved to know the boys were out with you—and of course they’ll question you, and you may, with my blessing and even my encouragement, tell them as much as you deem fit—whatever you’re comfortable telling them. I warn you they’ll ask about anything and everything once they get started.”
The words brought home the fact that she trusted him not just over but with her brothers. There wasn’t a single other gentleman she trusted in that way. The realization was a little shocking, and annoying, too; it would have to be him, of all men, and just now, when he’d decided for some incomprehensible reason to be a thorn in her side.
Not that he’d been all that difficult that day.
He nodded. “I’ll ask them, then.” He glanced back up the lawn, then offered his arm. “Come, let’s stroll back.”
To the rest of the guests. Acquiescing, she took his arm.
While he guided her up the gentle slope, she thought of that moment by the stone wall, when he’d waited to see how she would react. In that instant she’d sensed a vulnerability in him, a man she’d imagined hadn’t a weak spot anywhere. Yet how she’d reacted had mattered to him.
The truth was she admired him, both as a man and for what he’d done with his life. As far as she was concerned, he could distract her brothers with tales of his past, and her only response would be gratitude.
They rejoined the guests; some had departed, but others had arrived. Gervase remained by her side; reluctantly, grudgingly, she had to admit she was comfortable with him being there. Their occasional private comments, colored by their similar views of their neighbors, enlivened the moments; the predictable conversations no longer seemed quite so dull.
“Miss Gascoigne, I believe?”
She turned to find a gentleman beside her, one she’d never set eyes on before. He was dressed well—too well to be a local—in a blue coat of Bath superfine and a nattily striped waistcoat; she thought it the ensignia of the Four-in-Hand Club. With his air of urbane polish, he almost certainly hailed from town. Still, if he was at the vicarage afternoon tea…She raised her brows, inviting him to continue.
He smiled. “Mr. Courtland, Miss Gascoigne.” He bowed. “We haven’t been introduced, but in this setting I hope you’ll forgive my impertinence in approaching you.”
He was a personable man; she smiled in reply, still unsure why he was there.
“I came with Lady Hardesty’s party.” With a nod, he directed her gaze to a group of similarly garbed gentlemen and dashingly gowned ladies across the lawn. “We were starved of entertainment, so thought to come here, to see who else lived in the locality.”
There was an underlying tenor to the comment Madeline didn’t entirely like—as if having identified her as being a local, he was imagining she might entertain him.
Still smiling, she offered her hand. “I am Miss Gascoigne.” She omitted the customary “of Treleaver Park.” “And this”—shifting to the side, with her other hand she indicated the looming presence beside her; she’d been aware of Gervase’s sharpened attention from the moment Courtland had spoken—“is Lord Crowhurst, of Crowhurst Castle.”