Chapter 9

There was no daylight to spare. Muriel and James found themselves completely occupied in the fishing quarter, where illness and injury were rampant. James's first visit, to the maid's sister, concluded with the grateful mother, Mrs. Grenfell, leading them to another cottage, up a steep flight of stone stairs into her cousin's sickroom, and from there, to another cottage, and another. As night fell, they wound their way back up to the hotel through lanes that reeked of fish oil and brine. Muriel's head still ached. She'd failed to approach a single artist, although she'd seen half a dozen painting in the boatyard, and more ducking into ale houses with their paint boxes and folded tripod easels. Thoughts of James's blackmailer assailed her constantly, so that her stomach churned. But James himself seemed invigorated by the day's work, and she let his improved mood improve hers.

The next morning, they returned to the harbor and parted ways. James went to look in on the Grenfell girl, and she went to canvass the artists of St. Ives. Most of them leased studios in crumbling buildings near the water. Not many of the artists were in their studios, but those who were toured her through repurposed sail lofts and netmaking factories. One overly inspired photographer had even established himself in an outhouse. Again and again, Muriel found herself stepping around heaps of netting and cracked spars to peer at oil paintings of girls peeling potatoes or ships on the harbor by moonlight. None of the paintings stirred her. So what, though? She should have learned by now to doubt the wisdom of relying on her own compass when it came to hiring an artist. She'd believed it would point her toward the sublime, and instead, it had pointed her toward a caddish, pretty-faced brute.

She attempted to commission a Bostonian in a long black cape, but he scoffed at her through his pipe smoke, speechifying on his dislike for the dainty and the tender. The following person to whom she applied—the wife of a man who took up the superior portion of their shared loft with his inferior pictures—said she hadn't the time. The most promising candidate actually painted floral subjects, lovely watercolors that brightened the tarry walls. Alas, he was to depart St. Ives on Thursday, for the Forest of Fontainebleau. He recommended a painter called Podge, but after spending a short, shocked interval in Podge's studio—rat and ferret infested—Muriel decided to give up, at least until tomorrow.

The afternoon was warm and calm, the thin scrim of clouds as radiant as pearl. She veered onto the beach—this one busy with working fishermen—and gazed out over the water.

"Muriel Pendrake!"

She jerked her head in the other direction. The man who'd hailed her was sitting in a battered old rowboat, an easel set up in front of him, practically between his knees due to the space constraints imposed by the thwarts.

She'd never seen him before. Doubtless he'd seen her at that blasted joust.

"Thomas Ponsonby!" He hollered the introduction, beaming. He had hair like a rooster's comb—in both color and direction of growth—and his green-checkered sack coat was buttoned only at the top button, revealing a blue-checkered waistcoat.

"Where's Raleigh?" he demanded, somewhat grandly, pointing at her with his paintbrush. "Off saving lives?"

"You know James?" Muriel approached. "From London?"

"From here. From the tiltyard. We repaired the fence together. He didn't mention it?"

"He did." Muriel's brow creased as she tried to remember.

"Did he?" Mr. Ponsonby grinned more widely. "Not surprised. It was legendary."

"Erm, yes." Muriel hesitated as details returned to her. All thumbs was the phrase James had applied to his fellow fence-mender. And something along the lines of held the railing like it was a live eel.

"We made a crack team." Mr. Ponsonby adjusted his straw boater, leaving a smear of blue paint on the brim.

"He's looking for a tennis partner." Muriel wasn't sure that James would thank her for this overture. All thumbs didn't recommend a man to racket sports. But Mr. Ponsonby lit up.

"Now?" He cast down his brush. "Serves you right," he told his easel, and vaulted from the rowboat. He was taller than Muriel had guessed, and immediately pulled one long leg up to his chest, gripping it just below the knee and balancing like a stork.

"Do you play?" he asked Muriel, switching legs. "Why don't we make a four? There's Griffith." He dropped his leg and waved.

Muriel tensed.

St. Ives was far too small a place. As was Cornwall. England. The Earth.

She turned by slow degrees.

Griffith was strolling toward them, in a top hat and a smoke-gray suit with a mulberry-colored waistcoat. He should have looked laughably out of place—the London bon vivant picking his way around piles of mackerel guts—but he carried himself with such easy assurance that she felt suddenly like an anxious caller, waiting to be received by the lord of the manor.

Idiotic reversal. She had ventured first onto this beach. And she cared not a whit that he'd declined to illustrate her lecture. That he'd declined to paint her nude.

Paint her nude.

Whatever had possessed her to suggest it? Her molars grated together in a half-swallowed cringe.

"He told me you're not riding with him." Mr. Ponsonby gave her a confidential glance. "But there's no hard feelings."

"I expect he replaced me within the hour." A pause ensued during which she tried and failed to hold herself back. "Who is riding with him?"

Mr. Ponsonby didn't have time to answer. Griffith was upon them.

"Don't look!" Mr. Ponsonby grabbed Griffith around the shoulders, facing him away from the rowboat, toward Muriel. "It's an atrocity. The picture is so horrifying I'm finally convinced I need a new occupation."

"What occupation?" Griffith's eyes met Muriel's. Smoke gray, like the superfine wool of his suit.

"Lamplighter?" Mr. Ponsonby released Griffith.

"I can picture you on stilts."

"Can you? I can't. Forget everything I just said. I was born to paint, and I will paint until I die." Ponsonby climbed back into the rowboat and sat, staring morosely at his easel. "Paint badly, that is."

Griffith's gaze had found Muriel's again. He leaned closer, a near imperceptible movement.

She perceived it. God, she perceived it from her tightening scalp down to her tingling toes.

"Hello, Penny," he greeted her softly.

"Hello, Mr. Griffith." Her reply was stiff with dislike.

He perceived that. His long lashes lowered as he studied her. "Exploring Downalong?"

That was what the locals called this lower part of town.

The question didn't require a direct answer, and courtesy failed to provide her with a ready alternative.

She looked at him, feeling overheated, and trapped, and wronged—and so, Lord, probably like a lobster in a pot.

A painful second ticked past.

He continued, "I could direct you to the studios of a few friends of mine. They're not flower painters either, but—"

"I've already visited several studios," she cut him off. He couldn't really imagine she wanted his guidance?

"You've found someone, then," he said.

"I have," she lied. She clenched her hands into sticky fists. "I couldn't be more pleased."

"Nor I, to hear it." His smile was sent by the devil. Its slightly crooked curve emphasized the symmetry of his chiseled features. It seemed to demand she kiss it into place.

Her throat went dry.

"Who is it?" he asked. "The painter?"

"You don't know him."

"How can you be sure?" The smile was in his voice now. "Were you talking about me?"

Bother. She rarely lied, and it never went well.

"He hasn't been here long." She tried not to blink. "He doesn't know anybody."

"I saw a great tangle of seaweed just over there." Griffith indicated the spot with a lazy tilt of his head. "Perhaps you should fetch him. And introduce us."

There was mockery in Griffith's voice. He could tell she was lying. A gentleman would play along, allow her to salvage her dignity.

He wasn't a gentleman. He was a fiend.

Irritation swept away her restraint.

"That's kelp," she snapped. "And it's as rotten as your heart."

For a satisfying second, Griffith looked shocked.

Mr. Ponsonby coughed. Her gaze flew to him. He was looking up at them from the rowboat, but at her glance, he bent abruptly and began to fuss with his paint box.

"You don't want it, then."

She turned back to Griffith. No trace of surprise on his face now. His eyes had a dangerous glint.

"The kelp?" She felt a hot itch climbing the back of her neck. Of course, the kelp. He didn't mean his heart. "It's useless to me."

He was studying her more closely still.

"I have fallen in your esteem." He sounded regretful. "Because I'm unable to illustrate your lecture myself."

"Unable?" When he put it like so, her anger seemed even more out of proportion. She wouldn't let him twist things around.

"You are unwilling," she said. "There's a difference. But that's not why I suspect a lump of diseased matter beats in your chest."

"Allow me to allay your suspicions," he drawled. His hand closed around her wrist, and the next thing she knew, her fingers were pressed to the side of his throat, sliding under the silk of his cravat. His skin was smooth and hot, and his pulse drummed steadily.

Her own pulse exploded into flutters.

"Everything seems in order with my heart." He tightened his grip on her wrist, thumb pressing the tender flesh between bone and tendon. "Your heart is beating rather fast."

She caught her breath and yanked her hand away. No one had observed them. The fishermen were concerned with fish, and the street above was all buyers and sellers, their attention trained on baskets and carts. Mr. Ponsonby had buried himself in that paint box.

Enduring Griffith's smug look alone was bad enough. His amusement enraged her.

She drew herself to her full height.

"What is your history with cats?" she demanded.

"I beg your pardon." His brows edged up. "Cats? I am universally beloved by feline kind. Cats trust me implicitly."

"That makes it worse."

"Makes what worse?"

Something clattered. Mr. Ponsonby had knocked over his easel.

"Clumsy," he said brightly. "Time for tennis?"

She couldn't break Griffith's gaze. This roiling tension—it wasn't normal, not for her. She had a quick temper, but she didn't usually feel as though a summer storm had been trapped under her skin.

"Not for me," she said. "I will never have time for tennis with a…a…double-dyed villain!"

After that, she'd no choice but to storm away. She couldn't bear to witness the moment Griffith's smile slid into a smirk. Double-dyed villain? It must have lodged in her head years ago, a phrase from a Drury Lane melodrama. If only a curtain could fall behind her, guaranteeing that this was the end. No further encounters. No further opportunities for foolishness. Her nerves had been stretched too thin. And Griffith knew how to strum on women's nerves like a lyre. Never again.

Were he and Mr. Ponsonby laughing as they watched her go?

She thought she did hear laughter as she reached the street and hesitated, spine rigid. But it was only the squawking of the gulls.