me.”
She hid a swift grin behind her teacup. “You clearly remember her.”
“No greater gossipmonger was ever birthed.” Gervase considered, then amended, “At least not this side of Basingstoke.”
She shot him an amused glance. “Are there worse in London, then?”
“Oh, yes. Those in London aspire to the epitome of the form.”
“If you remember Mrs. Henderson, then there are few others here you won’t know.”
“Ah, but are they as I remember them? For instance”-continuing to stroll, he directed her attention to a large gentleman of middle years hovering over an older, sharp-featured lady seated on a chair with a cane planted before her-“is George as much under the cat’s paw as he used to be?”
“His mother’s hold on him only increases with the years-and the maladies she likes to consider herself a victim of.”
“She seems in rather robust health.”
“Indeed. The general opinion is that she’ll probably bury George.” Madeline paused, then added, “Of course, she would almost certainly soon join him, for without him she’d have no one to harangue, harry and hound, and that appears to be the sole purpose of her life.”
“I would say ‘poor George,’ but if memory serves he always was one to simply give way.”
She nodded. “No spine. And, of course, she’s never let him marry.”
“So what of local scandals? The Caterhams are still together, I see.”
“Yes, that blew over-as it was always likely to. They seem settled these days.” Madeline looked further afield. “The Juliards are as devoted as ever, and all others go on much as before-oh, except for the sensation of Robert Hardesty’s marriage.”
“I heard about that.” In response to the steel that had crept into his tone, Madeline glanced sharply at him. He kept his expression scrupulously noncommittal. “What’s the new Lady Hardesty like?”
“I really can’t say-few of us have met her. The reports from those who have aren’t all that complimentary, but as the comments run along the lines of ‘London flirt,’ I’d prefer to meet the lady before judging her. We don’t see many of the London set, for want of a better designation, so her behavior might be no more than what passes for normal in the capital.”
Inwardly acknowledging the wisdom of her stance, he glanced around. “Enough of our neighbors. Tell me about local matters in general. I know about the mining-what about the fishing? How have the last few seasons gone?”
As he steered her down the long sloping lawn, he questioned, she answered, and he listened. He’d gleaned bits and pieces from others-his agents, his steward, his grooms-but her account was more comprehensive, more balanced. More what he needed. Her point of view and his were largely the same; she was the de facto Gascoigne, and he was Crowhurst, and that similarity that had shone on the clifftops also impinged, as did her straightforward, no-nonsense way of dealing with the world.
Levelheaded, rational, competent and observant; in those traits she was much like him. More than anyone else he trusted her view of matters enough to act on her intelligence; the truth was she was infinitely better connected with this world he’d returned to than he. It wasn’t just his years away that separated him from the locals, but also his quieter, more reserved nature.
While they strolled, others came up and exchanged ready greetings and snippets of information, those last directed to Madeline. She was a person everyone around about knew, and not just trusted but felt comfortable with. His years as an operative had taught him to value that gift of putting others at ease. It wasn’t one he himself could employ; he simply wasn’t the sort of man others readily confided in.
He recognized her worth in that, perhaps more clearly than she did.
Eventually they reached the low stone wall at the bottom of the vicarage lawn. Pausing, they looked eastward over the cliffs to the sky and the sea. After a moment, she said, her voice low, “My brothers.” She glanced at him. “Have you learned anything?”
He felt her gaze, but didn’t meet it. He’d spent the last day and a half letting the local smugglers know he was back at the castle, and encouraging them to fill him in on recent developments. “The boys are known to the smugglers-all three gangs. And all know them for who they are. As you’re aware, running with smugglers is virtually a rite of passage in this area. The boys will be safe-or at least as safe as they might be.”
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 feeling 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.
