Devil's Prize (9 page)

‘Miss Trevanion.’

Glancing over her shoulder Jenefer saw Devlin watching her.

‘You needn’t fear anyone will bother you.’

Not trusting her voice, Jenefer gave a quick nod. She knew she should be grateful. In fact she was terrified. She had never lived alone. But as of this moment all she possessed of her former life were two knotted sheets containing her clothes and some bed linen, and a small wooden box that held a few pieces of jewellery, some of it her own, the rest inherited from her mother.

She had nowhere else to go. Jared’s suggestion had been kindly meant but was impractical. There would only just be room at the Sweets’ for Betsy.

She had to accept Devlin Varcoe’s offer. Beggars could not be choosers. People would talk. Not if she paid rent. With what? She would sell her jewellery. Regret stabbed, sharp and painful, but she ignored it. It was the only way. If only – things were different? But they weren’t. Her father had employed the Varcoes. To be in debt to a smuggler was unthinkable. He was what he was. And she … was engaged to be married.

But the fire had altered everything. Betsy would marry Jared and no longer needed a home with her and Martin. What had not changed was that Martin’s proposal had been a generous offer made in good faith. He was far from home, his work vital to England’s security and trade. For her to break their engagement would expose him to rumour and gossip. Unpleasant for any man, but doubly so for someone blameless and whose career depended upon a spotless reputation. How could she justify such an act? And anyway what would it gain her? Devlin Varcoe?

Her heart leapt and fluttered and she tried to swallow but her mouth was dry. She should decline his cottage. And go where?

He was watching her. She cleared her throat. ‘Thank you, you’re very kind.’

Wrapped in her coverlet Tamara sat on the window seat in her bedroom and hugged her knees as she watched the flames and the bobbing lanterns of villagers still making their way along the track to join others clustered in front of the burning house. She knew a few would be there to offer help, others simply to watch, but most in case there might be any pickings.

She was desperately tired. She had always taken sleep for granted, drifting off within minutes of her head hitting the pillow, waking seven or eight hours later refreshed and ready for the day. But that had been … before.

For almost two weeks she had made herself to do all the things she had always done. Each morning she greeted her parents with a smile and asked if they had any errands for her. She commiserated with her mother over the little catastrophes that were a daily occurrence: a pulled thread in her kerchief, the wind rattling the window, Sally being late with the coffee. To distract them from her lack of appetite she told them bits of village news. But she never mentioned Devlin. She did not dare. And as soon as breakfast was over she escaped.

Each night she prayed it would get easier. But it didn’t. If anyone found out they would say she deserved to suffer. That what she had done was a sin. But she would never believe that. Love was not sinful, and she had loved Devlin. Loved him still, fool that she was.

She wondered how much longer she could maintain her pretence. But she had no choice. Give the village gossip to chew on? Allow them to see how badly he’d hurt her? Put up with gloating sympathy because she, who knew herself different, was no better than half a dozen other village girls: just another of Devlin Varcoe’s cast-offs? Never.

She was desperately tired, exhausted by lack of sleep and by the war raging inside her. She kept reliving every moment she had spent with Devlin in his loft and in his arms. She had always trusted her instincts and sensed in every fibre of her being that he had been as deeply and profoundly affected as she.

So what had happened? Why had he rejected her? She felt no shame at what they had done. It had been a transcendent experience, beyond imagination. The memory of it still turned her insides liquid, leaving her weak with longing. What gnawed at her, sapping her strength and her confidence, was bewilderment. How could she have been so wrong?

That first night she had been fired by rage. Fury at his cowardice, and for being so much less than she had believed, had filled her with nervous energy. But she hadn’t been able to hang onto it. Yet without that anger she had no support: nothing to cling to while she struggled to regain some emotional balance.

Lying awake in the darkness she could not escape the memories or block her thoughts by keeping busy. It was during these night hours that her emotions swung from incomprehension to grief as raw as an open wound. Then tears, hot and unstoppable, trickled down her temples to soak her hair and her pillow.

 But each morning when daybreak pearled the sky she left her bed and bathed her eyes so Sally would not notice anything amiss.

Days passed. Somehow she got through them, her performance so convincing that not even her parents noticed she wasn’t herself. Though the ache did not lessen, it was pushed deeper by a scar tissue of pride and necessity.

Tamara watched the glow of the fire pale to insignificance beneath an angry dawn of orange and purple cloud pierced by shimmering golden rays against which the smoking ruins were starkly silhouetted. As the sun rose the sky changed from milk to primrose then turquoise and the underside of the clouds blushed rose pink.

Crows circled, wheeling and diving on the rising breeze, while seagulls headed inland. There was more bad weather on the way. Then Sally knocked, bearing a cup of hot chocolate and hot water for her wash.

Craving the open moor and solitude, Tamara put on her forest green riding habit, and after brushing her hair, tied it back in a matching ribbon. Only then did she look in the mirror. Her pallor emphasised bruise-like shadows under her eyes. But this morning she had a ready excuse.

She paused outside the breakfast parlour and pinched her cheeks to give them some colour. She could hear her mother talking animatedly. Inhaling deeply she lifted her chin and opened the door.

‘Ah, there you are, Tamara.’ Resplendent in a thigh-length caraco jacket and matching petticoat of floral painted cotton, with a neckerchief of puffed white gauze at her bosom and a frilled cap covering her hair, Morwenna glanced up from the piece of bread and butter she was holding. The twin grooves between her brows deepened.

‘You’re looking pale this morning.’ It sounded like an accusation.

Tamara smothered a sigh. So much for her cheek-pinching. ‘I’m just a little tired, Mama.’

‘I hope that’s all it is, and you’re not sickening for something. Mrs Blamey was telling me yesterday that there’s a putrid sore throat in the village. Several of her acquaintance have caught it.’

‘My throat is fine,’ Tamara said, sliding into her chair. ‘I was watching the fire.’

‘I took a peek myself. Your father had ideas about going up there, but I wouldn’t let him.’ She turned to her husband who was working his way through two thick slices of ham. ‘I don’t know what you were thinking of, to suggest leaving us here unprotected in the middle of the night.’

‘I was thinking of the Trevanions,’ her father said.

‘Yes, well I’m sure it is a great misfortune for them. I must say I was astonished that the fire took hold so quickly.’

Anxious to prevent her mother making the obvious connection with stored brandy and mentioning Devlin, Tamara turned to her father. ‘Is the family safe?’

John shook his head. ‘Apparently the Colonel died in the fire.’ He glanced up as their cook came in with a fresh pot of coffee. ‘That’s right, isn’t it, Mrs Voss?’

Setting the pot down carefully she nodded. ’Tis what my nephew heard, sir. Andy went up along with Ben Tozer and Danny Pawle, but they couldn’t get near the place. Fire took hold so fast. Some fierce blaze it was.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Voss. That will be all.’ Morwenna waited until the door closed. ‘Sally happened to mention that Jared Sweet took Betsy Trevanion away in that wheeled chair he made for her.’ Morwenna sniffed. ‘I’m sure Mrs Trevanion would not have approved of such a connection. Things were never the same up there after the accident. Anyway, I was about to suggest to your father that we offer to put Jenefer up. Just until she can contact relatives. It would be an act of Christian charity.’

Tamara knew that while Christian charity might have figured briefly in her mother’s reasoning, a far greater incentive was the boost to her social status of having Colonel Trevanion’s daughter as a house guest. She set her cup down carefully. ‘I don’t think Miss Trevanion would accept, Mama.’

‘Oh? And why not, pray?’

‘She doesn’t approve of me.’

‘Indeed?’ Morwenna’s expression veered between indignation and frustrated acknowledgement of an irritating but undeniable truth. ‘So who will live up to her approval? Dr Avers might, I suppose. But he won’t have room. John, you go and find her and tell her she will be most welcome in our home.’

John Gillis sighed and cut into the ham.

‘Where are you going?’ Morwenna demanded as Tamara pushed her chair back.

‘I thought I’d take a ride on the moor before the rain comes in.’

‘But you haven’t eaten a thing.’

‘I’m not hungry.’

‘Tamara! You cannot go out without a proper breakfast. In any case, if Miss Trevanion is coming to stay I shall want you to –’

‘Leave the girl be. The fresh air will do her good.’

Surprised, Tamara flashed her father a smile of gratitude as she made for the door.

‘John, I wish you wouldn’t interfere –’

Tamara heard her father’s cutlery clatter onto his plate then the scrape of his chair as he rose. ‘It’s time someone did.’

Chapter Nine

‘Oh, ’tis you,’ Maisy Roberts’ frown softened and she opened the door wider. ‘Proper stranger you are.’

As his brother’s housekeeper moved back, Devlin stepped into the gloomy hallway. Immediately he was overwhelmed by memories, none of them happy.

After escaping the tyranny of his father and his bullying brother he had vowed never again to be beholden to any man. His was the power now. He gave the orders. He lived as he pleased and did as he wished. He owed nothing and needed no one.

He certainly didn’t need Tamara Gillis. So why could he not shut her out of his thoughts and dreams? She haunted him. He kept seeing her face, first dark-eyed, heavy-lidded, vulnerable, her mouth swollen from the bruising pressure of his: then pale with shock, chin high, her gaze blazing contempt as she called him a coward.

Had she been a man he’d have killed her for that. But no man worthy of the name raised his hand to a woman, even one as provoking as she.

What had happened had happened and that was an end of it. His intention had been to call her bluff, teach her a lesson. Only it had got out of hand. It was never supposed to mean anything. He would not allow it to. Need was weakness. He had learned that lesson as a child: learned fast and vowed never to forget.

Now he made the rules and held the power. His life was busy and demanding. It was the life he had chosen. If he wanted company of either sex he could find it at the Five Mackerel.

He had always been content alone. But now he couldn’t settle. Now he came home, not to the peaceful solitude of a place he had made his own, but to vivid memories and loneliness so deep he ached. Damn her.

Another woman would banish the taste and smell of Tamara Gillis. He wouldn’t even have to flash the silver. There were plenty willing to do whatever he wanted so that later they could boast of bedding Devil Varcoe. He was not vain, but he knew the power of his reputation. Yet he could not block the echoes of her soft sighs and scathing condemnation. He jammed a hand through his hair and ground his teeth, wanting to roar his frustration.

‘Is my brother at home?’

Closing the door, Maisy jerked her head towards the breakfast parlour further down the hall. ‘In there he is. I made’n breakfast. But I dunnaw if he’ll keep it down.’ She clicked her tongue. ‘Some mess he made. Blood all over the towels. I’ve put ‘em to soak in salt water but t’will be some job to get the stain out.’

Devlin frowned, his thoughts racing. Jenefer Trevanion had shot one of the tinners. They asked for gemstones. Someone must have told them what to look for. Thomas? Though Devlin didn’t trust his brother, he couldn’t imagine Thomas risking so much for so little. But he couldn’t be sure. It was those doubts as much as the need to know Thomas’s plans for the next run that had brought him here for the first time since his father’s death.

‘Blood? What happened?’

Maisy shrugged. ‘Cut hisself shaving. No wonder, the way he’s shaking.’ She clicked her tongue. ‘I never seen the like of they towels. Zachary didn’t make that much mess when he butchered the pig.’

Devlin was sure of one thing. No tinner, wounded or otherwise, had set foot in this house. Thomas indulged himself but was close-fisted with everyone else. As for tending a wound he was far too squeamish. Nor would he trouble himself, especially for anyone he considered an inferior.

Still the doubts persisted. Varcoes had never worried about breaking the law. With times so hard and prices so high survival was all that mattered. Yet as their father’s heir Thomas had inherited fishing cellars he leased out, a barking shed, and shares in a couple of fishing boats as well as the house. If he needed money he had assets he could sell. He had spent his entire adult life trying desperately to fight free of his father’s shadow and build a reputation as an important man of business. Surely he wouldn’t jeopardise that?

 ‘I just took in another pot of coffee. That’s the second this morning for all the good it’ll do. Bring another cup, shall I?’

‘No, I’m not staying.’

She nodded. ‘Well, you know your way. I must get on.’ Picking up the wooden box of cleaning materials she had set down to answer his knock, she trudged heavily up the stairs still muttering to herself.

Opening the parlour door Devlin paused on the threshold and studied his brother. The fawn frockcoat, green and yellow striped waistcoat, brown breeches, snuff-coloured stockings, and black leather shoes with pewter buckles were the clothes of a gentleman. The pallid sweaty skin, trembling hands, and puffy bloodshot eyes belonged to a drunk.

Thomas’s violent start spilled coffee over his hand and he cursed as he clattered the cup onto its saucer then wiped his fingers on the crumpled napkin.

‘What are you doing here? The fire at Trevanion’s I suppose. I saw it from my window. But in case I hadn’t,’ he sighed heavily in irritation, ‘Willie Grose arrived at sparrow-fart this morning to tell me about it.’

‘Why?’

‘Why what?’ Thomas picked up his cup again and tried to stop it shaking by resting his elbows on the table.

‘Why did Willie come to tell you?’

‘Why do you think? He’d have known from Charlie that the colonel put up the money for the contraband cargoes. I daresay he thought that telling me about the fire would earn him a tip. He says Trevanion didn’t get out. Is that true?’

‘Yes.’

Thomas shrugged and lowered his face to the cup. ‘Oh well. It’s fortunate I’ve found another investor.’ He sipped carefully.

Devlin’s tone was dry. ‘Your humanity does you credit.’

Thomas set the cup down and wiped his mouth. ‘Everyone knows Trevanion was drinking heavily. A brandy nightcap, a burning candle beside his bed.’ He shrugged one thickly padded shoulder. ‘The real surprise is that it didn’t happen sooner.’

Thomas’s reaction was exactly as Jenefer predicted. ‘So Willie didn’t tell you about the break-in?’ Devlin enquired, watching his brother.

‘Break-in?’ Lifting the cup again, Thomas grimaced, swallowed audibly, and closed his eyes. Setting it down hard he dabbed greasy sweat from his forehead and upper lip. ‘What break-in?’ His face was grey-green.

‘Two tinners, demanding gemstones and money.’

‘Did they get any?’

‘No. But one of them was shot.’

Thomas eyed Devlin over the crumpled cloth that hid most of his face. ‘Killed?’

‘No. They both got away.’

Saying nothing, Thomas wiped his forehead again.

‘Are you ill?’ Devlin enquired.

‘I’ve had a shock.’

‘You just said the fire was –’

‘Not the fire. Harry. Harry Carlyon.’

‘He’s dead.’

‘I know he’s dead!’ Thomas shouted. ‘But to go like that – the entire crew lost, and his cargo. Such a waste.’

Which bothered Thomas more, Devlin wondered. ‘I wasn’t aware you were that well-acquainted.’

‘Why should you be?’ Thomas wiped his mouth. ‘I know lots of people. Important people.’

‘Indeed.’ Whether this was just another of his brother’s empty boasts Devlin neither knew nor cared.

Thomas’s tongue snaked out to moisten paper-white lips. ‘Harry was staying at the Bull the last time I was in Truro. We spent a very convivial evening together.’ He mopped his face again. ‘Now he’s gone.’

‘You should be careful,’ Devlin turned to the door.

‘Why? What do you mean?’ Thomas jerked round, gripping the arms of his chair.

‘Either stop drinking so much or let Zachary shave you. Otherwise the next time your hand slips …’ Devlin made a slicing motion across his throat.

Thomas’s hand flew to his carefully tied neckcloth and he inserted a trembling finger between collar and skin. ‘When I want your advice I’ll ask for it.’

‘That’ll be a cold day in hell.’

Thomas pushed himself to his feet. ‘Oh go to the devil! No one asked you to come. I’m not myself today.’

‘Indeed you are, Thomas. You are exactly yourself.’

‘Get out! You’ve no business here.’

Devlin cocked an eyebrow. ‘I need to know when I’m making the next run.’

‘What?’ Clearly flustered by the question, Thomas waved his brother away. ‘I can’t think about that now. I’ll let you know.’

Devlin left the room and strode to the front door. If he never entered this house again it would be too soon.

Thomas remained in his chair until he heard the front door close. When he was certain his brother had gone he pushed himself unsteadily to his feet, crossed to the bureau-cabinet standing against the wall and took out the brandy decanter. Crystal clattered against china as he poured a generous measure into his cup. He swallowed deeply.

He had handled that well, diverting attention from the break-in. He poured more, gulped it down and waited with closed eyes for the heat to slide through his trembling limbs. That was better. As the tremors eased and his head cleared he felt himself relax.

Pouring a third measure into his cup, he replaced the decanter in the cabinet and closed the door. He straightened, steadying himself as the room swayed. Then carrying his cup he walked carefully out of the parlour and across the hall to the study.

No one knew about his deal with Harry. But unless he could find the money to pay his uncle, the business would collapse and he’d be a laughing stock. Damn Harry to hell and back. Running his boat onto rocks, how could he have been so bloody stupid?

He sucked air through his teeth. No use dwelling on that. Harry was dead. So was Trevanion. According to Willie the fire had started soon after the tinners broke in. Trevanion’s daughters had escaped with nothing but a few clothes and blankets. Any cash or brandy would have been lost in the flames. Searching the wreckage was impossible. It would attract too much attention. Not that there’d be anything left to find. The villagers would be in there before the ashes were cold.

Thomas sat in his father’s chair behind his father’s desk. Yours now, a voice in his head reminded. Somewhere in the distance he could hear knocking. Ignoring it he raised the cup and gulped down more brandy. Yes, by God they were his now, and no one was going to take them.

The knocking continued. His vision blurred as images filled his head: Daniell the banker who knew about the mortgage and had probably guessed about his debts; his father’s colleagues saying he’d never been man enough for the job; and Devlin, bloody Devlin, always mocking and sneering.

So get rid of him
.

The words were so clear that he looked round to see who had spoken, and was startled to find himself alone. He slumped back in the chair. How exactly had Devlin accumulated the money to buy his boat and the building that housed his workshop, net store, and loft? He’d even bought that burned-out cottage.

Devlin owned all that while he, a businessman and his father’s heir, was in desperate straits. How had it happened? He cheated you.

 Thomas drained the cup, and nearly choked as the door opened and Willie Grose peered round it.

‘What are you doing here? Who let you in?’

‘No one. I been out there ages. Me bleddy knuckles is black and blue.’ Willie rubbed his hand.

‘You’ve no business just walking in here –’

‘Yes I have, see?’ Willie raged. ‘Said it was an accident, didn’t he? Bleddy liar. T’wasn’t no accident at all. Only pushed’n off he did. Threw’n overboard like he was so much rubbish.’

‘What are you babbling about?’ Thomas snapped, massaging his forehead where a dull ache pulsed.

‘Your bleddy brother!’ Willie’s eyes were wild and spittle had gathered at the corners of his mouth. ‘Billy May told his wife who told her sister who told her husband who told me. ‘’T wasn’t no accident at all. Mister Devlin-bleddy-Varcoe tipped Charlie off the boat. Left’n there to drown, he did. Only I can’t do nothing about it, can I? Not on my own. Not when half the village think the sun do shine out of your brother’s arse.’

Satisfaction kindled warmth in Thomas’s belly that eclipsed the brandy’s heat. He felt a smile spread across his face. Yes.

‘What you grinning at?’ Willie spat furiously. ‘’T isn’t funny.’

‘No, it isn’t. I take it you’ve come to me because you want revenge?’

‘Bleddy right I do.’

Better and better, Thomas rubbed his hands briskly. ‘So do I, Willie. So do I.’ Once rid of Devlin he, as next of kin, would inherit all his brother’s possessions: the lugger, the galley, the new boat John Gillis had on the stocks, the building on the waterfront, and the cottage in Hawkins Ope.

With all that to call his own, even after paying off his debts he would be set up for the rest of his life. He’d be a man of substance commanding the respect he deserved. He would get rid of that virago Maisy Roberts, have this place painted, hire properly trained staff, and buy some elegant furniture to replace what he’d had to sell. Tamara Gillis wouldn’t turn her pretty nose up at him then. Her mother would make sure of that.

Morwenna Gillis had always fancied herself a cut above the rest of the village. How delicious it would be to see her curtsey and simper to him, anxious that he offered for her daughter and not someone else’s.

‘So what you going to do, then?’ Willie challenged. ‘Want me to find a couple more tinners?’

Thomas shook his head. ‘No, I have a much better idea. The next time my brother makes a run to Roscoff, the Riding Officer and the Customs cutter must be informed.’

‘If they catch’n you won’t get the lugger,’ Willie warned. ‘Smuggler’s boats is always forfeit. Saw ‘em in three they do, so they can’t be used no more.’

Thomas tapped his fingers on the grubby surface of the paper-strewn desk. ‘There is always a price, Willie.’ But in order to finally be rid of his hated brother, losing the lugger was a price worth paying.

With her old cloak hiding night attire now soot-stained and filthy, Jenefer sat shivering beside Ernestine Rowse’s hearth. She was cold to the marrow of her bones. Behind her Maggie talked to Ernestine, their voices too soft for Jenefer to hear what they were saying. She guessed Maggie was recounting the events of the night, events that once again had turned her life upside down.

Maggie placed a cup of hot milk into her trembling hand and gently closed her fingers around it. A plate containing a slice of soft white bread spread with butter was placed on a wooden stool beside her. Jenefer looked at it. She guessed the flour had been salvaged from the wrecked schooner, or smuggled over from France. But it was so much nicer than coarse dark barley bread. She looked up into Maggie’s concerned face. ‘Thank you.’