‘Ghosts flitting about in the moonlight? Have you been having a bedtime tipple, Mrs Goodfellow?’
Cory Newlyn had come into the kitchen, his hands full of pottery. Bradshaw was following him in with a bucket full of shards. Rachel jumped at the sight of him, then winced as more sandy soil was trampled into the house.
Mrs Goodfellow beamed at the newcomers. ‘No need for your sauce, my lord! I haven’t touched a drop since my John died. No, and I know what I’ve seen as well. Men with shields and helmets on, just like in the history books.’
Cory raised his brows. ‘Men with shields? Really? We have just found some bits of Anglo-Saxon pottery, so who knows, you may be right, Mrs Goodfellow.’
He put the pot gently into the sink and gave the housemaid his heart-shaking smile. ‘I do apologise for bringing you all this extra washing up, Rose…’
Rose looked as though she was about to melt under the warmth of Cory’s smile. She bobbed a curtsy and mumbled something incoherent.
‘It’s no trouble,’ Mrs Goodfellow said, changing her tune rather smartly. ‘Anything for you, my lord.’
Rachel smothered an unladylike snort. She suspected that more than one woman had said that to Cory in his time.
‘I could lend you Bradshaw later if you have any heavy jobs need doing,’ Cory offered. ‘By way of a thank you.’
Mrs Goodfellow eyed the valet. ‘Thank you, my lord, but no. I don’t want my girls’ heads stuffed with any more silly ideas than are already there. You keep the lad with you and out of trouble.’
Rose giggled and blushed.
Rachel came forward to have a look at one of the pieces that Cory was washing gingerly in the sink. Clearly this was too delicate to be entrusted to Rose, and when she saw it Rachel could understand why. It was a drinking horn with a decorated metal rim and, though it was a little battered and had a piece missing, it was still very beautiful.
‘How lovely! I wonder who this belonged to…’
Cory gave her his swift smile. He leaned closer, so close that his hair brushed her cheek and momentarily distracted her. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to the elbow and Rachel was taken by an insane desire to run her fingers over the smooth nut-brown skin of his arm. She put both her hands behind her back.
‘I think it was for feasting and was modelled on an auroch horn,’ Cory said. He held it out to her. ‘The decoration on the rim is incredibly delicate.’
‘It must have been kept for very special occasions,’ Rachel said, touching the damp surface very gently. ‘I can see Mrs Goodfellow’s warriors all sitting around a fire in the great hall, passing the drinking horn and telling their battle stories…’
She looked up from the horn to see Cory smiling at her. She felt her knees go weak and caught hold of the edge of the sink to steady herself, pretending that she was checking the pieces waiting to be washed.
‘It is nice to hear you so enthusiastic, Rae,’ she heard Cory say. ‘I thought you did not care for antiquities.’
‘I like history,’ Rachel said, trying to concentrate. ‘It is all the digging I cannot abide.’
‘Ah, then you will not wish to join us this afternoon.’
‘No, thank you. I am visiting Mrs Stratton in Midwinter Mallow.’ Rachel wiped her hands on a cloth. ‘Papa was looking for you, Cory. He has read your article in the journal of the Royal Society.’
‘I know,’ Cory said. ‘I saw him as we were coming in. He told me that my conclusions were all wrong.’
‘He told
Cory went, still smiling, and Rachel felt happy and relieved. Things were back to normal. She and Cory had achieved their old footing and the same easy friendship as before. No doubt everyone felt weak at the knees when Cory smiled at them. It was just his way.
‘Yon’s a fine gentleman,’ Mrs Goodfellow said, pointing her knife in the direction that Cory had gone. ‘Surprised you did not snap him up years ago, Miss Rachel.’
‘Oh, Cory and I are just friends, Mrs Goodfellow,’ Rachel said airily. ‘Nothing more.’
She bent to sweep up the dirt on the floor and therefore completely missed the cook’s look of transparent disbelief. Mrs Goodfellow even went so far as to roll her eyes and shake her head, setting Rose the maid off into a paroxysm of silent laughter.
‘Friendship, eh?’ Mrs Goodfellow murmured, as Rachel went outside to put the sand back where it belonged. ‘The Quality can never see what’s under their noses. They say that love is blind, Rose, but Miss Rachel gives a whole new meaning to the notion!’
And Rachel, pausing by the sand pit in the courtyard, was busy proving that very point for she found herself standing staring in the direction that Cory had gone, long after his tall figure had disappeared.
Chapter Six
A meeting of a very different nature from that of the reading group took place at Kestrel Court that night. Although the June dusk lingered, the curtains were drawn tightly and the candles were lit. Cory Newlyn joined the Duke of Kestrel and his two younger brothers, Richard and Lucas, in the drawing room, where Justin Kestrel dispensed glasses of brandy to the gentlemen and then put forward a certain proposal.
It was lucky that his companions had strong drink with which to fortify themselves, for the shock was extreme.
Cory was the first to regain his breath. ‘I beg your pardon, Justin, but you wish us to do
Justin Kestrel sat back in his armchair and tilted his brandy glass to his lips. A smile lingered in his eyes as he surveyed the consternation on the faces of his guests. ‘You heard me correctly, Cory,’ he said. ‘That is exactly what we would like you to do.’
Cory and Richard Kestrel exchanged a glance. ‘You silence me, Justin,’ Richard said, ‘and that does not happen very often.’ He threw himself down into the chair opposite his brother, completing the circle of three sitting before the fireplace. Lucas Kestrel preferred to stand, restlessly pacing the room whilst the others lounged at their ease.
In the flicker of the candlelight the expressions on the faces of the Duke’s guests were varied. Richard Kestrel was a renowned poker player and his face, dark and saturnine, revealed nothing of his feelings. Lucas was looking frankly perplexed at his brother’s words. And Cory, who had thought that a day of hard excavation work had made him unnaturally slow and possibly deaf, waited for Justin Kestrel to elucidate, with a half-smile still lingering on his lips.
Cory had come late to the group, for he had met with Justin Kestrel at his club only the week before coming to Suffolk. When Justin had heard that Cory planned to join the Odells at Midwinter Royal, he had immediately invited him to join him at Kestrel Court-and had co-opted Cory to his plan. The broad outline of this was that the Duke of Kestrel was commissioned to catch a French spy who was currently working on the Suffolk coast. The details of the plan to entrap the traitor were just becoming apparent. Cory, who had joined in any number of escapades orchestrated by the Kestrels since their days at Harrow, nevertheless thought that this time Justin might have over-reached himself. Make love to the ladies of the Midwinter villages…There was only one lady who tempted him in that respect and, since making love to Rachel Odell was out of the question, he was destined to a long, celibate summer.
‘I had thought that gentlemen of your reputation would take such a suggestion in your stride,’ Justin murmured, the calm tone of his voice belied by the twinkle in his eyes as he watched his brothers and his friend. ‘Are you rejecting our commission?’
‘I thought that we were working on behalf of the Foreign Office, not some Covent Garden bordello,’ Cory observed. ‘Good God, Justin, when I offered my services this was not quite what I had in mind!’
‘One must do one’s patriotic duty, I suppose,’ Richard Kestrel murmured with a whimsical smile. He rested one
