Seduction In Silk: A Novel of the Malloren World (Malloran) (5 page)

P
e
rry approached a terrace of four small cottages, skeptical that one housed Miss Claris Mallow, daughter of the Reverend Henry Mallow, once a friend of Giles Perriam. On arrival in Old Barford, he’d left his horse at the inn and gone to the rectory, which was a handsome house that couldn’t be more than forty years old. There he’d learned that Mallow was a year dead and that his family was living at Lavender Cottage.

Sometimes “cottage” was applied to a small house of some style and dignity, and that’s what he’d expected. This row lacked both, but the end one on the left was fronted by lavender plants, so that must be his destination. The modern rectory lay only a hundred yards away as the crow flies, but it was a hundred miles away in all other respects. Henry Mallow hadn’t provided well for his family, but that could be to his own advantage.

If the family was impoverished, Miss Mallow would be eager to wed. In fact, he’d be an angel to rival Gabriel at the Annunciation. Amused by that image, he walked up to the warped door and rapped on it with the head of his riding crop. He’d soon be back in Town.

In the week since Giles’s death, he’d received two reproaches about tasks abandoned when he’d obeyed Cousin Giles’s summons. One was indirectly from the king. There’d also been a fuming letter from his father. As usual, his father fumed to no purpose, for there was nothing to be done about Perriam Manor other than this.

He was about to knock again when the door was opened by a maidservant so short he thought her a child until he saw the wrinkled face. Sixty if she was a day, though when she smiled her teeth all seemed sound.

“Good afternoon, sir. Can I help you?”

“Is Miss Mallow at home?”

“
Miss
Mallow, is it?” the maid asked, seeming surprised.

“Yes.” Was she married after all? No, for then she’d not be a Mallow.

“She’s in the garden, sir. Would you mind going round, for I’m swabbing the floor.”

He could see the truth of that behind her. The door opened into a front room with an uneven flagstone floor that was awash with water. A mop was propped against the wall. Oddly, the room contained a large table and shelves of jars and bottles.

A stillroom?

Potions?

The curse returned unsettlingly to mind.

Clarrie had laid a curse on Giles, and her sister, Nora, had claimed to know how to raise it. Nora was Claris Mallow’s mother.

Would he be marrying into a family of witches? Witches who knew how to cast curses?

Even so, it must be done.

“A shame to bring Miss Mallow indoors on such a lovely day,” Perry agreed. “The path to my left?”

“That’s right, sir. She’ll likely be down the end.”

Whatever that meant. Perry headed for the path.

The cottage was in a poor state, but it had some rural charms. The path was bordered on the right by a bed bursting with colorful flowers, worked over by bees on this sunny afternoon. To his left lay a hedge, twitteringly full of birds.

When he came to the end of the path, he found a contrast. Far less color here, because the garden was devoted to herbs. He had little interest in horticulture, but he was sure everything here had its purpose for cooking or healing, even the brash marigolds crowding along some edges.

Cooking, healing—and magic?

He looked around for other evidence of witchcraft but found none.

A bench sat in one corner with a wooden table in front of it in a position that would catch the afternoon sun. Behind it, a line strung from house to tree carried a full load of white laundry, stirring in the breeze. His life rarely involved lines of laundry, and there was a simple beauty in the movement.

Then he noted the simplicity of the undergarments and that some were patched or darned.

Impoverished.

Excellent.

So where was his bride?

Down the end.

He circled the herb garden and realized that a trellis covered by climbing flowers wasn’t the end of the garden but a partition. He went behind to find a gated fence, and beyond that a vegetable garden being pecked over by hens.

Still no sign of Miss Mallow.

Then a movement drew his eye behind a tall frame covered by scarlet-flowered vines. He went through the gate and walked down a side path.

A sturdy woman was hoeing between rows of cabbages as if weeds were imps from hell. She wore a wide hat from which straw escaped around the edge and from which dark hanks of hair escaped down her back. Her shabby black gown was kirtled up to show battered leather shoes and six inches of dirt-splashed white stockings.

Another servant, so Claris Mallow couldn’t be in truly dire straits, alas.

Where was she?

As he approached the woman to ask, she straightened. Some hair must have fallen on her face, for she brushed it away, taking a moment’s rest and turning to look around. At the sight of him, she stared, and something about her manner alerted him to the astonishing truth.

He bowed. “Good day to you, ma’am. Do I address Miss Mallow?”

He still expected denial, probably a laughing denial in a broad country accent, but she said, “Who are you?” in a well-bred voice.

“Your pardon, ma’am. Your servant advised me to come back here. She’s washing the floors.”

She laughed then, pushing back her hair again, leaving a dirty streak on her round cheek, and not the first one. She was a mess, but her speech was that of a lady. He’d never imagined his bride with a country burr, but given her appearance it could have been so. He counted his blessings.

“Ellie would do that. I beg your pardon, sir. How may I help you?”

Miss Mallow in the flesh.

His bride-to-be.

How very ordinary she was.

A strange word to come to mind, but appropriate.

She was of average height for a woman, and average build. Her general appearance was below average, but that was because of the dirt, the hat, the extremely unflattering black gown, and the grubby apron. Her face held all the normal features, decently arranged, but her complexion showed that she didn’t wear her battered hat often enough. He reminded himself that her physical attributes made no difference. He must marry her.

“My name is Perriam, Miss Mallow, and I believe your father was once acquainted with a relative of mine, Giles Perriam, of Perriam Manor, Berkshire.”

The details had merely been intended to ease into his subject, so he was surprised to see her eyes widen, perhaps with fear. She did have quite fine eyes—clear and perhaps hazel.

Had she been in her mother’s confidence?

Did she know all about the curse?

She recovered, but her eyes slid from his. “Perriam? Perhaps I do vaguely remember. However, my father is dead.”

“I am aware of that, Miss Mallow. It is with you I wish to speak.”

She focused on him. “Me? About what?”

“It is both complex and delicate. Perhaps we could speak in the house?”

“Not if Ellie’s doing the floors.” He thought she might refuse, but then she shrugged. “We can sit outside.”

She propped her hoe against the frame and led the way back through the gate. Her straight back was tense, but she moved lightly and her shortened skirts swayed with the movement of her hips in a rather attractive way.

She seemed to be a practical, no-nonsense sort of woman, so this should go well.

She led the way into the herb garden and indicated the bench. “Please be seated, Mr. Perriam. I’ll wash my hands and return. Would you like something to drink? We have small beer and cider.”

“Cider, if you please.”

It was a drink he rarely tasted, but it seemed suited to the setting and might make her more at ease. He sat on the bench and reviewed the situation.

Well-spoken, well-mannered, and not given to drama. All to the good.

Direct and perhaps brave, which could be challenging in an opponent, but a virtue in a wife.

She wasn’t a beauty, but he’d have no cause to be ashamed of her once she was decently dressed. There were creams and lotions to soften and lighten a lady’s complexion. Given the herbs and the stillroom, it was odd she didn’t employ them already.

A brush on his thigh startled him. A sleek black cat had leapt onto the bench and was staring at him with amber eyes, as if seeking the secrets of his soul. The cat licked his fingers, the tongue abrasive; then, as if it had learned something, it butted his hand. Perry took the hint and stroked it. It purred, and he chuckled.

“Do people always do as you command?”

He continued to stroke, for he liked cats. They were elegant and self-sufficient. They didn’t fawn or learn demeaning tricks, and they would correct sharply if displeased.

Would the cat’s owner have similar qualities?

If so, the marriage might even prove amusing.

*  *  *

Claris hurried into the kitchen, where she poured water into a bowl and washed her hands. She welcomed the blended herbs that made the smell of Athena’s soap so soothing.

“Trouble, is he?” Ellie asked, coming into the kitchen with her mop and bucket.

“He’s a Perriam.”

“Ah.”

Ellie had never lived at the rectory, but she’d heard of Reverend Mallow’s ravening guilt over some long-ago sin, a sin connected to a Perriam.

“I’ve offered him cider.”

“Right, then.” Ellie went into the larder to bring out the big earthenware jug.

Claris reached down two glasses from a shelf. They rarely used glasses, but she didn’t feel able to serve that man in a pottery mug. She couldn’t find words to express how he alarmed her.

“His dress is simple—leather breeches, brown jacket—but . . .”

“London made and costly.” Comments like that always pointed to Ellie being more than she seemed. “Don’t you go fussing, dearie. There’s nothing he can do to you, be he ever so grand.”

Claris wished she could feel sure of that.

“It’s not just his clothing. He’s . . . he’s like a butterfly.”

“A butterfly?” Ellie asked, staring.

“Oh, I don’t know. But he moves, he speaks, he gestures . . . nothing like any man around here.”

“London ways, is all. Likely a court gallant.”

“But what’s a court gallant doing
here
? And what does he want with me?”

“Best take him his cider and find out.”

Claris poured cider into the glasses. “I wish Athena were here.”

“You can deal with him. Whatever brings him, it’s nothing to do with you.”

“I wish I could be sure.”

She’d never told Athena or Ellie about her mother’s obsession with avenging her sister’s death. They knew Claris was named after her dead aunt, Clarrie Dunsworth, but not the rest. It was too demented to be spoken of. Oh, dear heavens, was this man here about her mother’s attempts at blackmail? Mother had been dead for eleven years!

Ellie was frowning at her. “Are you truly frightened, dearie?”

Claris found a smile. “No, and you’re right. Whatever crushed my father with guilt happened long ago and he did his best to suffer for it on earth.”

She hadn’t told Athena or Ellie all about his suffering, either.

She picked up the cider and walked toward the door but paused by the window to steal another look through the half-open window. He was sitting on the bench stroking Yatta. Sitting shouldn’t be remarkable, but she was taken aback by how elegantly he’d disposed himself, probably without thought.

London ways.

A court gallant.

A court gallant could mean power.

Even the nobility.

Claris had little to do with the local gentry, never mind the nobility, but she’d seen the Marquess and Marchioness of Ashart now and then. They were the local grandees, and their great house, Cheynings, lay not far away, so they sometimes passed by.

Claris realized that was what she’d recognized. This Perriam was from the same mold.

Yatta fancied himself a guard cat, so his verdict was made—Perriam was safe.

Claris feared that this time, the cat was wrong.

His hair should reassure her, for it wasn’t darkly dramatic like the marquess’s. It was brown, wavy, and simply tied back with a black ribbon, but the sun caught copper and gold, making it seem more alive than was natural, and even fiery. . . .

A hank of hair tumbled over her eye, alerting her to what a mess she must be.

She put down the cider, whipped off her hat, then ran to the tiny mirror to pin up her hair, which always stayed stubbornly brown in even the brightest sun.

“If you’re fussing,” Ellie said, “your apron’s grubby.”

Claris whipped it off, but what difference did it make? She was in one of the old mourning gowns she wore for work. She must still look a draggle-tail.

“Oh, don’t be foolish,” she muttered. Her elegant visitor had no more interest in her appearance than he had in the garden gate.