gentleman or his agent to encourage locals to sell their leases.”
He tapped a pile of letters stacked to one side of the blotter. “Like yours, my London contacts confirmed no suggestion of any diminution in the tin trade, but rather an expectation of improved returns. They were puzzled that I should have heard anything to the contrary. Beyond that, I also wrote to St. Austell, the Earl of Lostwithiel, and Viscount Torrington-his estates are near Bideford.” He glanced at Madeline. “Both hold tin mining leases and are members of the Bastion Club.”
“Your private club?”
He nodded and lifted two letters. “Both replied in much the same vein as all else we’ve heard. No hint of any problem with tin mining, but rather an expectation of increased profits.” His lips curved ruefully. “They, of course, now want to know why I asked.” He dropped the letters back on the pile.
Glancing up, he found Madeline’s gaze fixed on a point beyond his shoulder.
“It occurred to me,” she murmured, “that while most of us-the gentry and aristocracy-are unlikely to sell on the basis of rumor, not without checking if not with London then at least with each other, there are many others who hold leases who are not as well connected, not as well informed.”
She met his gaze. “Should this rumor become widespread, if an offer is made to them, small farmers will likely sell.”
He nodded.
Looking down, chin firming, she started pulling on her gloves. “I’m going to ride to Helston and see if I can locate this agent, and ask him to explain these rumors. If I can’t find him, I intend putting it about that I would like to speak with him concerning selling some leases.” She looked up and smiled-icily. “That should bring him to my door.” Gloves on, she rose.
Forcibly reminded of his Valkyrie analogy, Gervase rose, too. “I’ll ride with you.”
She might be her brother’s surrogate, but he was the local earl, the senior nobleman in the district. A fact she acknowledged with an inclination of her head, and no argument.
Ten minutes later, they were galloping side by side-riding hard, wild, unrestrained. She had her chestnut again, and he was on Crusader; they pounded north across the golden-grassed downs, an exhilarating run, shared and carefree, before, in wordless concert, they mentally sighed, remembered who they were, and eased back and swung northwest for Helston.
They approached the town from the south, trotting along a newly macadamized stretch of road. “Let’s start our search in the northwest quadrant.” He glanced at Madeline. “More taverns there.”
She nodded. Entering the town, they walked their mounts on.
The next hour saw them, side by side, talk to seven tavern and inn keepers. All recognized the man Squire Ridley had described; all had seen him about town, or in their taps, but none knew who he was or where he was staying.
“Nope.” John Quiller shook his head in answer to Madeline’s final query. “Ain’t seen him with no one else either. Keeps to himself but polite with it. He talks readily enough, will join in a discussion if asked, but o’ course no one’s been so bold as to ask him outright what he’s here for.”
Inwardly sighing, Madeline nodded.
“If you see him again, John, tell him I’d like a word.” Gervase took her arm. “Tell him it might be worth his while. Send him to the castle.”
“Aye.” John nodded. “I’ll do that.”
Steered out of the Cow & Whistle, Madeline considered protesting Gervase’s usurpation of her idea, but then dismissed the notion. All the better if he was willing to pursue this troublesome subject; she had enough on her plate with her brother’s estate, and her brothers.
And he was the senior nobleman; it was only right and proper that in this she cede to him.
They paused on the pavement; she glanced down the street. They’d tried most of the likely places and had circled back to the center of the town. Sensing Gervase studying her, she glanced at him, then arched a brow. “What?”
He shook his head and retook her arm. “I was waiting for your protest. I expected some snide comment at least.”
She sniffed and elevated her chin as they proceeded down the street. “I decided against it.”
“Ah.”
The gentle humor in his tone robbed the syllable of any offense; indeed, she was rather impressed that he’d realized he’d come close to stepping on her toes.
They turned into Coinagehall Street, the town’s main thoroughfare; Gervase glanced around as they walked. “It’s lunchtime. Why don’t we stop for a bite at the inn?”
He waved at the Scales & Anchor, the main inn in the town, just ahead of them; they’d left their horses in the stable there.
Hungry herself after their busy morning, Madeline nodded. “Alice Tregonning keeps an excellent table.”
“Good. I’m famished.” Ushering her up the inn’s steps, he reached past her and opened the door.
An hour and more later, after a meal as excellent as she had prophesied enlivened by relaxed conversation that neither had had to work to achieve, they left the inn in companionable good humor. Pausing on the pavement, eyes adjusting to the bright sunshine after the dimness of the parlor inside, they looked around, then Gervase touched her arm.
“Let’s go down to the river.” Coinagehall Street dipped steeply to the banks of the Helford. “If I recall aright, there are two boardinghouses facing the old docks. Perhaps our man is staying at one.”
One hand smoothing back her wayward hair, she nodded. “Let’s go and see.”
Unfortunately, no one at the boardinghouses had sighted their quarry. They were toiling slowly back up Coinagehall Street, heading to the inn to fetch their horses, when carriage wheels rattled on the cobbles behind them.
Glancing back, Gervase saw an open landau with a collection of fashionably garbed ladies and gentlemen- escapees from London, if their studied airs of sophisticated boredom were any indication.
The dark-haired lady in the middle of the rear seat, a frilled parasol shading her fair skin, saw him; she studied him for an instant, then leaned forward and spoke to the coachman.
The carriage slowed, then drew in and halted alongside Gervase and Madeline.
They both paused, turned. Madeline was wearing a dark blue riding dress; unlike a conventional habit it didn’t possess a train, but the skirts were still long enough that she’d needed both hands to lift them as they’d climbed the steep street. Consequently, he hadn’t taken her arm, but had been walking beside her as if they were mere acquaintances.
Furling her parasol, the lady leaned forward. Her gaze lingered on him, then shifted to Madeline. The lady smiled. “Good afternoon. I’m Lady Hardesty. And you must be Miss Gascoigne.” Lady Hardesty held out her gloved hand. “I’ve been wanting to make your acquaintance, Miss Gascoigne-sadly I missed doing so at the vicarage tea.”
“Lady Hardesty.” Stepping to the carriage’s side, Madeline touched her gloved fingers to her ladyship’s. Unsurprised to see Lady Hardesty’s gaze flick to Gervase’s face, she gestured his way. “I believe you’ve yet to meet Lord Crowhurst.”
“My lord.” Lady Hardesty’s eyes locked on Gervase’s, held as he took her hand.
“Lady Hardesty.” His expression coolly distant, he half bowed, then released her.
She immediately gestured to the others in the carriage. “If you’ll permit me to introduce…”
Madeline exchanged nods and greetings with the other ladies and the two gentlemen, one of whom was Mr. Courtland. The ladies, following their hostess’s lead, fixed their attention avidly on Gervase, leaving Madeline to Mr. Courtland and Mr. Fleming, neither of whom were backward in trying to engage her.
Or, as she cynically suspected, attach her.
“Perhaps,” Mr. Courtland suggested, “I could call on you?”
She smiled the distant smile she’d relied on for years to quell the aspirations of overly enthusiastic males. “My aunt is elderly. She rarely entertains.”
Courtland’s smile developed an edge. “It’s not your aunt I’d be coming to see, m’dear.”
Madeline held his gaze, and slowly, pointedly, raised her brows.
