Rae-that I might steal a march on your puzzle-solving through my superior knowledge?’
‘No,’ Rachel said. ‘I merely wondered what you thought of him. He had a great collection of local maps and histories and yet the rest of his library comprised of false books! What use is that?’
Cory put the rifle down and stared at her. In the firelight his face was shadowed and still. ‘False books?’
‘Yes. Book frontages with blocks of wood behind.’ Rachel looked disgusted. ‘No one could be a true scholar who fills his shelves with wooden blocks. I found them all when I was clearing the library in order to put out Papa’s journal collection.’
‘And where are they now?’ Cory asked.
‘The journals?’
‘No, Jeffrey Maskelyne’s blocks of wood.’ Cory picked up the rifle again and admired his work in the firelight. ‘What did you do with them?’
Rachel looked at him. ‘That is an odd question, Cory. I stacked them all in boxes and put them in the stables. Why do you ask?’
Cory shrugged. ‘No reason.’
‘Hmm. You do not generally ask pointless questions.’
‘Humour me,’ Cory said.
Rachel shrugged in her turn. ‘Your behaviour is of the most suspicious,’ she said. ‘And you have not answered my question, if it comes to that. What manner of man was Jeffrey Maskelyne?’
Cory put his head on one side. ‘Maskelyne was the sort of man that you would do well to avoid, Rae. He was a professional lover.’
Rachel gave a little crow of laughter. ‘What a splendid description! You mean that he was a rake?’
‘Of the worst kind. I believe that many cuckolded husbands and anxious fathers breathed a sigh of relief when he was drowned in the river.’
Rachel arched her brows. ‘A rake of the worst kind? Is there any other sort?’
Cory gave her a wry glance. ‘I suppose not. But Maskelyne was the worst of all for he had no scruples. And, no-he was not a scholar.’
‘It makes one wonder why he went to the trouble of collecting all those maps and making notes on them,’ Rachel said thoughtfully. ‘I am surprised that he did not find it too taxing.’
‘Oh, Jeffrey was not stupid,’ Cory said. ‘He merely chose to exercise his talents in other directions. All the same, Rae, I should be careful of deciphering Jeffrey’s notes. Knowing his interests, I fear that you might find it far too shocking.’
Rachel laughed. ‘Perhaps I should ask you to solve it after all. In all of our acquaintance I have yet to see you shocked.’ She pushed the packet of food towards him. ‘Are you not going to eat? Mrs Goodfellow prepared it especially for you, having heard how much you enjoyed my breakfast this morning!’
‘I hope that you did not tell her the full tale of how we met,’ Cory said feelingly.
‘Of course not,’ Rachel said. ‘I would not do that to you, Cory. At present Mrs Goodfellow labours under the misapprehension that you are charming. If she heard of your penchant for strolling naked through the undergrowth, she would very likely attack you with her rolling pin and denounce you as a pernicious influence of the sort we do not want in Suffolk. She already believes that London folk are a byword for depravity!’
There was quiet whilst Cory ate some of the bread and cheese. A curlew called down on the mudflat and was answered by the breathy hoot of an owl.
‘This is just like old times, is it not?’ Cory said. ‘Orkney, Egypt, Malta…A camp fire and a tent and the open skies…’
‘You make it sound idyllic,’ Rachel said. Her memories of the same events were far from rosy-cold, wet, dusty and dirty beyond toleration. She never wanted to see another tent as long as she lived.
‘It was idyllic for me.’ Cory looked up and gave her a faint smile. ‘Why do you think I am out here now instead of enjoying the comforts of Kestrel Court?’
‘I did wonder,’ Rachel said, unpacking some more of the food and helping herself to a piece of cheese. ‘It is beyond my comprehension that someone who has the hospitality of the Duke of Kestrel at his disposal should choose to be out here cleaning his own rifle by a camp fire under the stars.’
‘A good rifleman should always clean his own gun,’ Cory said. ‘Besides, I have volunteer drill tomorrow morning in Woodbridge and do not wish to disgrace myself.’
‘And you had an invitation to a card party at the Langs’ this evening,’ Rachel said. ‘Miss Lang told me herself when I saw her at the reading group today. She was looking forward to meeting you very much.’
Cory’s lips twitched. ‘I am desolated to disappoint her.’
‘No, you are not!’ Rachel looked accusing. ‘You always do exactly as you please, Cory Newlyn. It is the greatest mystery to me why the ladies fawn on you so much when you treat them with such indifference.’
‘There you have your answer,’ Cory said, with a shrug of his shoulders.
Rachel looked at him, the indignation swelling within her. The firelight was sliding in slabs of orange and gold across him as he worked, flame and shade, darkness and light. His lean face was shadowed, the expression in his eyes one of concentration as he put the barrel of the gun aside and reached for the pot of oil to grease the mechanism. The tawny hair fell across his brow and tangled in the nape of his neck. Looking at him, Rachel felt a strange rush of pleasure that she could sit here talking to him like this when he would not tolerate other company. Then she felt annoyed at his arrogance.
‘Your hair is too long,’ she said abruptly.
‘Thank you for that,’ Cory said, without looking up. ‘I shall not allow you to cut it for me. The last time you tried I ended with a fringe that would have graced a lady’s shawl.’
‘What did you expect? I was only fourteen at the time.’
‘And I was twenty-one and a laughing stock. I only permitted you to touch my hair because I did not wish to hurt your feelings.’
‘Handsome of you,’ Rachel said. ‘You would have done better to refuse since it evidently made such an impression on you that you remember it to this day.’
‘Whereas you do not?’
‘Of course not. I have far greater concerns than your sartorial disasters.’ Rachel put her head on one side and studied him. ‘On second thoughts, it is better that you do not attend any of the Midwinter social events. I would not wish the ladies to be disappointed in you.’
‘Do you think that they would be?’ Cory’s tone was mild.
Rachel laughed. ‘The temptation to give you a set-down is strong, Cory, but I cannot do it in all honesty. No, I do not think they would be disappointed. Your reputation precedes you. The combination of rake and adventurer is utterly lethal. They would expect you to look somewhat dishevelled and be dissatisfied if you did not.’
Cory threw back his head and laughed. ‘That is what I like about you, Rachel. Your company is so bracing. You tell it just as it is.’
‘Thank you.’
‘But I do have to dispute the charge of being a rake,’ Cory continued. ‘I cannot lay claim to such a title.’
Rachel opened her eyes wide. ‘Do you expect me to believe that?’
‘On my honour.’ Cory shifted. ‘I simply do not have the time.’
Rachel stifled a snort of laughter. ‘You are claiming that to be a rake requires an investment of
‘Of course.’ Cory put the pot of oil aside and wiped his hands on his trousers. Rachel shuddered. ‘Time, energy and strategy,’ Cory said. ‘Those are the prime requirements for life as a libertine and I am simply too busy.’
‘You have evidently studied this in detail,’ Rachel observed. ‘Do you not have a cloth on which to wipe your hands? You will get oil on the food.’
‘What? Oh…’ Cory reached behind him for the greasy rag that lay in the grass. He rubbed his hands vigorously. ‘That’s better.’
‘No, it isn’t,’ Rachel said. ‘You have merely managed to spread the oil around more.’
Cory shrugged. ‘We are not all of us so orderly as you, Rae.’
‘I had noticed it,’ Rachel said, wrinkling her nose up. She drew her knees up to her chin, making sure that her skirts were neatly deployed about her ankles. ‘So if you did have the time and energy,’ she said, ‘would the life of a rake appeal to you?’
