When she rose above him in the dark and impaled herself on his hard length, she sighed.

Dangerous it might be, but she knew she wouldn’t be giving up this pleasure, giving him up, anytime soon.

Not because she would have to battle to deny him, fight him for every inch of separation, not because avoiding him would be a social and logistical nightmare. Regardless of all else, as she rode him slowly, savoring the heat, the sweet build of passion, knowing the firestorm that would eventually come, feeling his hands close strongly about her waist, feeling the delicious tension rise…no matter the distraction, or perhaps because of it, one truth shone clearly in her mind.

She wouldn’t be curtailing their liaison because she didn’t want to.

Because she didn’t want to deny herself this pleasure.

Because she didn’t want to give up the feelings that along with the glory of satiation filled and swamped her heart.


The next morning they met as arranged near Tregoose, where the road from Coverack joined the road from Lizard Point. Madeline rode between Gervase and Harry as they continued past Helston and out onto the road to Penzance.

Breage was a small village north of the road about two miles west of Helston. The manor house they sought, however, lay to the south, between the road and the cliffs; they followed a narrow lane, then turned up a drive that ultimately led them to the front door.

No groom appeared to take their horses; looking around, they tied their reins to the low branches of a nearby tree. Then, with Gervase at her shoulder and Harry just behind, Madeline walked to the door.

Gervase’s sharp knock was eventually answered by an older middle-aged man, his neat clothes concealed behind a worn apron.

He looked from one to the other, then settled his gaze on Gervase. “How can I help you, sir?”

“Lord Crowhurst, Miss Gascoigne and Viscount Gascoigne to see Mr. Glendower.”

The man’s eyes widened; he recognized the names. He bobbed a bow. “I’m sure the master would be happy to see you, m’lords, ma’am, but he’s been called away. Urgent-like. He left early this morning.”

“Did he, indeed?”

Madeline glanced at Gervase; his eyes had narrowed. Summoning a smile, she took charge. “And you would be?”

The man responded to her smile with a grateful nod. “Gatting, ma’am. Me and the missus do for Mr. Glendower.”

“I confess we hadn’t realized until recently that he’d come to live in the district. How long has he been here?”

“Only a month or so, ma’am. He stayed at Helston at first, but then he said he fell in love with the manor and bought it, and got us in-we were living with my Elsie’s sister in Porthleven, but looking for a post just like this.”

Madeline smiled understandingly. “Hard to come by in the country.”

Gatting visibly thawed. “Indeed, ma’am. Is there anything I can do for you? Take a message for the master, perhaps?”

Brows rising, she exchanged a glance with Gervase, then shook her head. “Do you have any idea how long he’ll be away?”

A cloud passed over Gatting’s face. “No, ma’am. In his note he said he couldn’t say, but that we’d be kept on indefinitely. His London solicitor will send our wages.”

“Well, that’s good news then, at least on your account. How did you find Mr. Glendower to work for?”

Gatting waggled his head. “Gentry can be difficult, begging y’r pardon m’lords, ma’am, but Mr. Glendower was a pleasant gentleman-young, not much past his majority, I’d venture, but he was nice, unassuming, easy to do for. Never any fuss or bother. My Elsie was relieved we didn’t have to move on.”

Harry leaned around Madeline. “Did he say where he was going?” When Gatting looked at him, Harry tipped his head toward Gervase and her. “We might be going up to town, and if he’s there, we might look him up if you could give us his direction.”

“Indeed.” She nodded. “That would be the neighborly thing to do.” She looked inquiringly at Gatting.

Who grimaced. “Aye, he did say it was to London he was going, but he left no word of where. Said just to keep any letters that might come for him, although he didn’t expect any.”

“Did he have another man with him?” Gervase asked. “An agent, or a servant or groom?”

Gatting shook his head. “It was only him. Said he didn’t need any man’s help to get himself dressed or saddle his horse.”

“Did he have many callers?”

“No, m’lord, not a one as far as we know.” Gatting paused, then amended, “Well, Elsie did say he’d had a caller one day, while we were off down to Porthleven. Said there were two chairs in the parlor with cushions squashed. Course, he could have just sat in both himself, but she seemed to think it wasn’t so and someone had called. But howsoever, we didn’t ask.”

“Naturally not.” Madeline smiled benedictorially on Gatting. “Thank you, Gatting, you’ve been most helpful.”

Gatting bowed. “I’m only sorry the master wasn’t here to greet you, ma’am.”

With nods, they turned away.

They didn’t speak until they were back on the track; Gervase reined in just before the main road. “So, we’re left wondering whether our conjecture is correct, and Glendower, having bought two mining leases recently, is in truth our ‘London gentleman.’”

She grimaced. “No agent, or at least none sighted. And the Gattings don’t think Glendower is a wrong ’un.” She met Gervase’s eyes. “One thing I’ve learned is that staff generally know.”

He nodded.

“But,” Harry said, “if Glendower is our man, then if he’s left the area and returned to London the rumors and the offers for leases should cease.”

“True.” Gervase gathered his reins. “If they do, then he’s almost certainly the one behind them, but if he remains absent…”

“Then the problem he’s been causing in the district will simply go away.” Madeline glanced at him. “If he stays away and all our problems evaporate, there’s no reason we need to pursue him, is there?”

Gervase nodded, his expression a touch grim. “That would be my conclusion-and unless I miss my guess, that was his conclusion, too.”

She widened her eyes. “You think he realized we were about to descend on him?”

“Don’t ask me how, but his sudden departure at the crack of dawn seems a little too coincidental for my money.”

Madeline considered, then shrugged. “As long as he remains out of our hair, I’m content to leave him be.” Shaking her reins, she urged her chestnut forward.

As he held Crusader back to let her pass, Gervase’s gaze fell on the bright corona haloing her head; he remembered how it had felt when last night he’d run his hands through it, and decided she was right.

He and she had other fish to fry.

Flicking Crusader’s reins, he followed her onto the road.


At noon that day, eight men, all hailing from the London stews, gathered in the small parlor of a ricketty cottage outside Gweek. They knew each other at least by repute; a motley collection of bruisers, thieves and cutthroats, they found themselves joined in what would in the general way of their lives have been an unlikely alliance.

As ordered, they’d traveled down to Cornwall singly or in pairs. They’d arrived at the cottage over the previous day.

The cottage, they’d just learned, was to be their home while they performed the duties required by their new master. For all of them the accommodation, cramped and run-down though it was, was a significant improvement over their London holes; when their master, taking up a stance before the cold hearth, asked if they had any complaints, all eight shook their heads.

Even had they had complaints, none would have voiced them; quite aside from the fact the gentleman paid well, there was something about him that discouraged even the most hardened from even contemplating crossing him.

“Good.” The gentleman-he was obviously and unquestionably that, even though he wore a black cloak, a hat low over his brow and a black silk scarf loosely wound around his chin-spoke with the bored accents of one born to rule. “As I informed you in London, I need you to locate and seize a cargo of mine that was due to arrive here, delivered to the banks of the Helford River, nine nights ago. The ship…”

He paused, dispassionately surveying their faces, then imperturbably went on, “Sailed from France, from a port in Brittany, by way of the Isles of Scilly. It was crewed by Frenchmen, not locals, although I was assured the French captain was one of the sort who knew these waters well.”

The largest of the men, a hulking brute with small, surprisingly intelligent eyes, shifted his weight. “Smugglers?”

The gentleman looked at him. “Is that a problem?”

The bruiser shook his head. “No, sir-just wanted to make sure we knew who we might be rubbing up against.”

The gentleman inclined his head. “A wise question, and in that regard I can tell you that the crew of this French ship was not connected with any of the local arms of the fraternity. This run was one executed without their knowledge.”

He hesitated, then went on, his tone growing chillier, “However, after leaving the Isles, the French ship appears to have disappeared without trace. It’s possible the local smugglers intercepted the run. They might have seized my cargo, or know where it is. In addition, my sources tell me that there are wreckers active on the Lizard Peninsula. And the night the ship was due to arrive, there was indeed a storm. So it’s also possible the wreckers are now in possession of…what’s rightfully mine.”

He paused, mastering the anger that welled at the thought. Fate, a fickle female he’d long thought to be irrevocably on his side, had, it seemed, suddenly turned against him and handed his treasure-his prize-to others, denying him his due, his rightful triumph.

How could he gloat over outwitting his nemesis without his prize?

With an effort of will, he blocked off the thought; he would find his treasure, then he would gloat. “The wreckers are secretive, violently so, as one might expect. Your task is to investigate the local groups-smugglers and wreckers alike-and discover what they know of any recent cargo.”

Shaking back the enveloping cloak, he tossed a heavy purse on the small table in the room’s center; the purse landed with a dull clinking, immediately transfixing all eight pairs of eyes. “That’s for your expenses.” He looked at the bruiser who’d spoken earlier. “Gibbons, you’re in charge of the purse. See that the money’s used well. If you need more, more will be forthcoming, but only as long as it’s spent in the right cause.”

Gibbons nodded and reached for the leather pouch. “Aye, sir.”

The gentleman glanced around. “You’re all experienced-you know how to ingratiate yourselves, and how to cover your backs, and your tracks. That’s why I hired you. Operate in pairs, drink the locals under the table, buy them a woman, loosen their tongues by whatever means come to hand.”

Coldly, he ran his gaze around the circle of speculative expressions. “I want that cargo, and I don’t care what you do as long as you locate it.” He smiled in chilly promise. “Once you have, we’ll decide how to seize it.”

All eight men grinned, avarice gleaming in their eyes.

Satisfied, with a curt nod he turned to the door. “I suggest you get to it.”

The eight waited until the door closed behind him, then waited some more, until they heard the retreating clop of horse’s hooves. Then and only then did they relax.

Gibbons hefted the pouch, weighing it. “I’ll say this much for him, he doesn’t stint.” He glanced around at his companions, then grinned. “Well, lads, no time like the present. We’d better do as he said and get drinking.”

With laughs and cackles, all eight headed for the door.


Three hours later, Madeline sat in the drawing room at Crowhurst Castle inwardly smiling in pleased approval as Gervase presided over the final meeting of the festival committee. With only two days to go, all the myriad details were coming together nicely, but her satisfaction was occasioned more by Gervase’s ready acceptance of his rightful role.

She was really very pleased she’d suggested that the festival return to the castle.

Mrs. Entwhistle, beside her on the chaise, consulted her copious lists. “And the barrels for the apple-bobbing will be brought in by Jones, the innkeeper from Coverack, so that’s one thing your people won’t need to deal with, my lord.”

“Excellent.” Sitting negligently at ease in an armchair, Gervase crossed that item off his own list, the one Mrs. Entwhistle had handed him when she’d arrived. “And the horseshoes?” He looked at Gerald Ridley.

“Oh, indeed! We-my stablelads and I-will take care of that. The area by the stable arch, you said?” Brows knit, Gerald scribbled on his own list.