Seduction In Silk: A Novel of the Malloren World (Malloran) (6 page)

She hurried toward the cider.

“Your skirt, dearie. You’re showing your ankles.”

“He’s already seen them,” Claris retorted, but she unpinned her skirt so it fell to a decent level. Then she picked up the cider and glasses and marched out.

Mr. Perriam dislodged Yatta and rose.

Oh, so gracefully.

Claris set the glasses on the table and sat on the bench, right at one end. He took the hint and sat at the other end, leaving feet of space between them.

Claris took a sip. “Now, Mr. Perriam, how may I help you?”

He too sipped and then put his glass down. “As I said, Miss Mallow, my distant cousin, Giles Perriam, knew your father in their younger days. He required me to come here.”

“For what purpose?”

“May I ask what you know of the connection?”

“You may ask, but I see no reason to answer.” Claris realized that was an error, implying that she did know. “Indeed,” she added, taking another drink, “how could I know? The acquaintance occurred before I was born.”

“Stories are passed down in families. In mine, we gnaw on an event many generations ago, when the Perriam lands were divided between two sisters, which led to one part being lost from the whole.”

He’d come to talk of his family’s history? At least that seemed safe.

“Lost?” she said. “Weren’t both sisters of the same family?”

“I salute your common sense, Miss Mallow, but property goes to the eldest son so that it may be kept whole. Keeping estates whole is a sacred trust.”

“Among the grand perhaps. The Perriam family is noble?”

She’d sensed it, but she still hoped it wasn’t true.

“My father is the Earl of Hernescroft.”

Heaven help her.
“Then I’m even more surprised that you think you have business with me, sir.”

“Roots and branches can spread a long way. Your parents never spoke of the sad history of your aunt, Clarrie Dunsworth?”

Claris wished she were a better liar. “I know she died young and that my mother believed the blame lay with the man you claim as cousin.”

“Very, very distant cousin. The scion, in fact, of the younger of those sister heiresses, as I am a scion of the older. The two branches of the family are not fond.”

“Yet you come here at his bidding? Enough, Mr. Perriam. I have work to do. What do you want?”

Oh, he wasn’t used to being commanded, this fine gentleman, especially by a woman, and a woman such as she. Claris met his angry eyes.

“I too have work to do. My cousin Giles is recently deceased, and his will requires that I marry you, Miss Mallow. I hope to do it as expeditiously as possible.”

Claris stared, truly speechless.

“Marry me?” she managed at last.

“Marry you. I am Giles Perriam’s heir, but in order to claim the inheritance, I must marry you. It might be some deathbed attempt to put right an old wrong, or even to deflect a curse—”

“A curse!”

“—but it is assuredly an act of malice. Still, it must be done.”

Claris rose to her feet, needing a hand on the table to steady herself.

“I fear you are unbalanced, sir. Please leave.”

He too rose but made no move to obey. “I’m as sane as any man in this demented world. Come, come, Miss Mallow, don’t cling to the conventional response. The marriage will give you all possible advantages, and I pledge to be an amenable husband.”

“Amenable?”
Claris echoed. “Be amenable, sir, by leaving this instant!”

For the first time she noted that he wore a sword.

A sword!

She moved to one side, putting the length of the table between them.

“Miss Mallow . . .”

She glanced around for any weapon but didn’t even see a trowel.

“
Ellie!”
she shouted.

Stupid, stupid. What could Ellie do?

Then Ellie came out of the cottage, astonishingly with a pistol in her hands. Though it was a small gun, it seemed too large for her to manage, so Claris snatched it and pointed it, hands trembling.

“Leave, Mr. Perriam, and do not return!”

She’d never held a pistol in her life, and it was shockingly heavy. Could she bring herself to fire it?

“You heard Miss Claris, sir,” Ellie said. “You’d best be off before she does something she’ll regret.”

He suddenly laughed, eyes bright with it. “I’m tempted to test that. But how delightful this is, Miss Mallow. I very much look forward to our further acquaintance.”

His eyes in some way held hers, sending a shocking frisson through her.

Fear.

But it didn’t feel exactly like fear, even if it did make her knees loosen and her hands tremble. She raised the pistol a little higher, trying to steady it on him.

Without urgency, he picked up his gloves, hat, and riding crop. Then he bowed, in an elaborate style that must surely be from court and power but was all insolence, and walked away. What was worse, he turned his back in complete disregard of the gun. Claris was tempted to shoot him for that alone.

Yatta leapt down and followed, perhaps pretending to himself that he was chasing the enemy away, but Claris knew the truth. They couldn’t have forced that man away if he’d not been willing to go. Even so, she kept the pistol trained on him until he rounded the cottage and was out of sight.

Ellie took the pistol from her weakening hands. “There, there, dearie, he’s gone now.”

Claris collapsed back onto the bench. “He’ll return.”

“Likely he will.”

“Then I
will
shoot him.” It was the frisson speaking. “Show me how.”

“It’s not a skill learned in a day, dearie. This one isn’t loaded or primed or I’d not have let you take it.”

Claris sank her head in her hands. She’d threatened him with nothing, and perhaps he’d known that. She looked up to glare at the gun. “Where did that thing come from? Why do you have a pistol?”

“We’ve been in some unruly places, Athena and I.” Ellie put the pistol on the table and sat beside Claris to take one of her hands. “Now, dearie, what did he do to set you screeching?”

Claris clutched that hand. “I’d think I’d dreamed it if not for those two glasses. And the pistol. Ellie, he proposed marriage! No, he didn’t propose. He stated that he was going to marry me. As if I had no say in the matter at all!”

“Perhaps he thought you’d snatch at the chance.”

“That’s it! He did. Said how comfortable I would be, how amenable he would be. How dare he?”

“Like I said, he likely thought you’d be honored, a fine gentleman like him. Though that could be a sham. Many a fine man eats oats.”

“Eats oats?”

“Or any other poor food. If you’re thinking of it—”

“Of marrying him? Of course not!”

“I’m merely saying that if you were, you’d best confirm that he’s as prosperous as he seems. But then, why should he deceive you? That’s the line a scoundrel takes with an heiress.”

Claris shook her head. “I think you’re as mad as he is. I have no intention of marrying anyone, be he rich as Croesus, but certainly not a stranger claiming to be forced into it.”

“Forced? Now, that’s interesting. It’d take a bit to force a man like that.” Ellie pushed to her feet and picked up the pistol. “You tell us all about it when Athena’s home. But for now, I’ve the floors to finish and the stew to tend.”

“I’ll help.”

Ellie looked at her. “Perhaps that’s best. Keep busy, dearie. And keep an open mind.”

“On marriage to that wretch? Closed as a tomb. I’m mistress of my life, and so I shall remain.”

P
erry returned to the inn to collect his horse, his amusement fading. Damn Giles Perriam for plunging him into this mess.

He’d not expected this mission to be entirely smooth, but he’d not thought to terrify a lady and be cast as a villain. He shouldn’t have let her manner trigger him into making his proposal so abruptly, but Zeus alone knew why it had frightened her so badly. He wasn’t the sort of man who frightened women, and he’d never given one cause to scream for help.

May Giles be writhing in hell’s hottest flames,
he thought. A furnace even fiercer than the one in the village smithy, which blasted out at him as he passed. The smith, stocky and broad, was standing by his door and nodded good day. He was probably keeping an eye on the stranger.

Perry returned the salute, wondering what the man thought of the coven at the cottage. He put aside such nonsense. He’d been driven off by a gun, not a spell, and all in all he admired a woman willing to come to pistols to make her point.

His shabby bride-to-be certainly had fire in her. Given her mother and her aunt, he’d been a dolt not to have expected that, but what a family to marry into! A cursing witch, a vicious harpy, and a pistol-waving virago. He had no choice, however, so he’d return tomorrow better prepared, and win.

It must be an idle day in Old Barford, for the innkeeper was standing outside his hostelry, puffing on a pipe. He was as big a man as the smith, but softer.

“You’ll be wanting your horse, sir? Can I offer you some ale before your journey?”

Perry almost rejected the offer, but inn chatter might be useful. If Miss Mallow was as impoverished as she seemed, why had she rejected his offer without a thought?

He went into the taproom and accepted a foaming tankard. The only other person present was a hunchbacked ancient on a settle, whose gnarled hands clutched a tankard of his own. He gave Perry a deeply suspicious look from under bushy white brows but said nothing.

The innkeeper picked up his pipe again and puffed it back into life. “Gather you visited Lavender Cottage, sir.” As he’d thought, nothing went unnoted in a village, especially a stranger. “Sad case, them being left orphaned so shockingly.”

“Shockingly?” Perry responded, as he was supposed to.

“Well, see, their mother went first. Ten years ago, would you say, Matt?”

The ancient nodded. “Near enough, Rob, near enough. But went quietly in her bed did Mistress Mallow.”

“Aye, despite being a restless woman in life.”

Old Matt cackled. “More than restless, I’d say. Whenever I pass her grave I expect to see the ground churning.”

Perry looked to the innkeeper for a second opinion, but he nodded. “Never happy, sir. Always angry over something, and freely voicing it.”

The harpy.

“A difficult wife,” Perry said.

“You have the right of that, sir, but Reverend Mallow was difficult in his own way.” The innkeeper leaned forward as if to impart a secret, though ancient Matt must know all. “Reverend Mallow had a weight of sin on him, sir. He spoke of it often, though he never said exactly what. He had a mighty fear of death, sir, because he dreaded hell.”

“I had a relation who was exactly the same,” Perry said.

“The sinner’s burden, sir, the sinner’s burden. The godly man has no fear of death.”

Yet many do,
Perry thought.

The innkeeper went on. “Often preached a powerful sermon on damnation, did Reverend Mallow, sir, confessing himself a sinner and begging God for forgiveness. He’d urge us all to follow his example—to forego worldly luxuries and give all we could to the poor.”

“He’s to be admired for setting such an example,” Perry said, but he now had the explanation for the poverty of the rector’s dependents.

“Indeed, sir,” the innkeeper said, but without sincerity.

A noise from the old man indicated a similar doubt.

“But that brought his end,” the innkeeper went on. “He was in powerful form one Sunday, describing the horrors of hell, when he turned purple and died. Right there in the pulpit. Or perhaps from the fall,” he added thoughtfully, “for he tumbled out to land at his children’s feet.”

Now, there was an image to stick in the mind.

Especially a sensitive lady’s.

Was Miss Mallow mad as well as angry?

Would insanity be an excuse to overturn the will?

“They must have been deeply shocked,” Perry said.

“Indeed they were, sir, but there was worse to come. With Reverend Mallow dead, the rectory was no longer their home, even though they’d lived there all their lives. Lost his stipend too.”

“A sad case.”

“And like to be tragic except that their grandmother turned up. The rector’s mother, that is. Never seen here afore, but she took charge. She could do no better than to secure some sort of pension and find them a home in a laborer’s cottage, but at least they’re not tramping the roads.”

Perry drank more of his ale. The story explained much but made Miss Mallow’s behavior more peculiar. She’d been raised to a better life and must know her only hope of improvement was through marriage. The grandmother sounded more practical. Perhaps she’d take his side.

“Mistress Mallow wasn’t at home when I called. I hope to meet her soon.”

Old Matt muttered something and cackled. Perry was about to demand an explanation when the ancient spoke.

“A daft man was Rector Mallow, sir. Told me m’aching joints were a gift from God to wash away m’sins. He’d probably have called Grannie Mallow’s cream a work of the devil, but I’ll take me chances on the hereafter for a bit of ease today.”

Perry’s image of a kindly grandmother with round cheeks and smiles shattered.

In rural parlance, “grannie” often designated an old woman skilled in herbal lore—one who in less enlightened times would have been called a witch. And Grannie Mallow wasn’t related to Carrie and Nora Dunsworth.

Sorcery on both sides of the family?

The innkeeper turned to Perry. “Mistress Mallow’s skilled in plant lore, sir, which she shares with her neighbors at very little cost, as a good Christian would.”

“Rector Mallow couldn’t abide her,” said Old Matt. “Heard him once refer to his mother as the Whore of Babylon.”

He pronounced it “wore” with relish.

“You shut your mouth, Matt Byman. There’s no call to repeat such filth. A very respectable lady, sir, and from a good family. Her maidservant once said as her father was a titled gentleman.”

Perry’s vision of Grannie Mallow shifted again.

Grandmother, grannie, lady, and whore?

He couldn’t wait to meet the woman, but he’d no idea now of how she’d affect his goal.

He drained his tankard. “My horse, if you please.”

The innkeeper went to a back door to shout the order and then returned. “Can I hope you brought the Mallow family good news, sir?”

“I believe so. I’ll be returning tomorrow when Miss Mallow has had time to consider matters and speak with her grandmother.”

“I hope your matters are to their advantage, then,” said Old Matt, “or Grannie Mallow’ll put the evil eye on you.”

“Hold your wicked tongue, Matt. She does naught but good.”

The overhung eyes fixed on Perry. “I’m just warning this fine gentleman not to try any mischief with the Mallows, that’s all.”

“And that’s a fair point, sir,” said the innkeeper, amiably enough but meaning it. “No one would take kindly to that.” It carried more weight than a wavering and probably unloaded pistol. The villagers cared enough about the family to make life difficult for anyone harming them.

“As I have no ill intentions, I’m at ease.” Perry put some coins on the bar. “Another drink for you, sir,” he said to Old Matt, “and my thanks for your warning. I know it was well intended.”

He left the inn, mounted, and rode off with enough puzzles in his head to occupy a month.

A month he didn’t have.

He had only twenty-two days to get his bride to the altar.

His rebellious bride.

His unreasonably rebellious bride, who’d turned a pistol on him. When he returned tomorrow, it would probably be loaded, so he’d best put together the pieces and find the right way to proceed.

Her father had been driven mad by guilt.

Perry had assumed that the connection between Cousin Giles and Claris Mallow was only the betrayed Clarrie Dunsworth and her vengeful sister, Nora. What if Henry Mallow’s dread sin had been his active part in Clarrie’s destruction? But if Mallow had helped ruin Clarrie, why marry the sister?

An attempt at penitent restitution?

Possible, but why would she marry him?

The vicious harpy. The angry, tumultuous woman. Old Matt’s musings about the heaving earth over her grave could make the hair stand on end. Harpy Mallow had approached Giles, offering to lift the curse if he’d pledge to marry her daughter, who was a mere child. Her mother hadn’t considered her happiness. She’d been obsessed to the point of insanity.

Witchcraft on both sides of the family, and insanity as well. All that was needed was a giant helmet falling from the sky for his life to be a piece of nonsense to rival Horace Walpole’s
Castle of Otranto
.

He gave thanks that he was a guest at Cheynings. The Marquess of Ashart was a rational man, a scientist with a particular interest in the study of the skies. Perhaps he could refocus this mess into normality.

*  *  *

Claris wore herself out with work, waiting desperately for her grandmother’s return so she could discuss the situation. But a short time after Athena returned, the twins came home from their lessons in the next village. Unusually, they were arguing.

“You did,” Peter yelled.

“I didn’t!” Tom yelled back.

“You are such a dunce!”

“Stop.” At their grandmother’s voice, they paused. “Or you will get none of the honey Mistress Trueby gave me.”

They turned into eleven-year-old angels. Truly they could look angelic, with their clear eyes and skin and tumbling brown curls, but no angel would ever be so noisy. Despite that, Claris would miss her brothers when they left for school, which they must do soon if their education was to progress as it should.

They all sat to rabbit stew followed by bread and honey, talking of their day. Claris didn’t mention the visitor in front of the boys and was grateful when Ellie didn’t either.

When they’d all finished, she rose to clear the table. “Off to your tasks,” she told the twins. “There’s a weak spot in the chicken coop and water to bring from the well.”

They went willingly enough, still full of energy after a long day. They were probably hoping for encounters with some village lads that might lead to a game. They rubbed along well with the local boys, whereas Claris had never made friends in the village. Her mother had kept her too close for that, and after her mother died she’d had the twins to care for.

Her mother would have allowed her to have friends from the local gentry, but those families had avoided the Mallows as much as possible. Claris couldn’t blame them.

“Let’s sit outside,” she said. “It’s a lovely evening.”

Only Athena took up the invitation. She sat on the bench and said, “Who was this visitor to have you all on end? Gideon Barnett finally plucking up courage to propose? Or some other suitor?”

Claris laughed but then realized that in a way her grandmother was right. “A threatener, more like.” She described the encounter, then asked, “What am I to do?”

“Marry him? It would be a better life than this.”

So she
did
want Claris to marry them into comfort!

“I’m sure your life with your husband was ‘better’ in those terms,” Claris pointed out, “but you couldn’t bear it.”

“A point. A salient point. Let me amend my advice. If this Mr. Perriam is a decent, kindly man, which my husband wasn’t, you could marry him.”

“If he were a saint from heaven I’d not marry him, so take heed of that.”

“Very wise,” Athena said, undisturbed. “Saints make poor husbands, quite apart from their having to be dead to be canonized. What of this curse? Do you know anything about that?”

“Of course not. I know nothing of Perriams other than the occasional mention by my father. Do you not know anything?”

Athena stared at her. “I paid no attention to my husband or Henry after I left, but I assume it’s possible Henry’s mad guilt has some connection to the Perriam curse.”

“Even if so, it’s not for me to expiate their sins. Yet that man is going to return and try to insist.”

“You could shoot him. I gather you waved Ellie’s pistol around.”

“No jokes. Why on earth does Ellie have a pistol?”

“We’ve traveled in places where it was wise. Do you think it drove him off?”

Claris would have liked to say yes, but she shook her head. “I think it suited him to leave then.”

“To give you time to consider.”

“As if I’m some weak-minded fool whose convictions re-form by the moment.”