Chapter Seventeen

T hey arrived in Plymouth in the middle of the afternoon and checked into the inn. The rooms they had reserved by letter were spacious and comfortable and included a private parlor where they could take their meals.

After refreshing themselves with a cup of tea and a wash, they sallied forth to tick off the first item on their list—a visit to the jeweler who Jowan thought would be the best to appraise Tammie's jewelry. "You will come with me, will you not, Jowan?" Tammie asked. "I trust you to help me decide whether to accept the man's offer."

Bran and Evangeline declared their wish to join the expedition. "We are going to choose Evie's wedding ring," Bran explained.

The shop was larger inside than it appeared from the street and looked prosperous—all polished wood and plush furnishings, with the hushed air of a temple. The jeweler's appearance and demeanor were reassuring. He was a man in his middle years and of average height and build, but he had kind eyes and a warm smile.

Tammie's cynical side, the one fed by years of exposure to Guy and his cohorts, suggested that such an impression would be helpful in cheating his customers. When he heard what they wanted, he introduced Bran and Evangeline to his assistant, who took the couple to another counter.

He asked Tammie to show him the jewelry she wanted to sell, and she emptied the contents of her cloth bag onto the counter. He examined the items, one set at a time.

They were items that had been gifted to her by Guy, by other lovers, by theatre managers for particularly memorable successes in ticket sales, and even by theatre followers who hoped for a closer relationship. They were part of the history she would prefer to forget, or at least move past.

The jeweler was putting them into three piles, and once he finished, he explained why.

Of the first pile, he said. "These are not particularly valuable pieces. The workmanship is not outstanding, and the items themselves have little intrinsic value, being of inferior materials."

The second pile, he said, was, "aesthetically pleasing and well made, though unlikely to command the highest of prices because the jewels are paste." Both piles, he thought, could appeal to some buyers. He would take them on commission and sell them.

That left the third and smallest pile—a diamond and pearl necklace, a ruby and diamond parure, several lesser necklaces, bracelets, and rings, a tiara, and a handful of jeweled hair ornaments. The value he placed on each had Tammie's eyes popping. Over one hundred pounds for the diamond and pearl, nearly as much again for the parure, and five pounds apiece for the pins.

"That, you understand, are the values you would insure them for, Miss Roskilly. If you wish to sell them on commission, I shall set the price at that level, but take thirty percent of the sale price as my fee. If you wish to sell them immediately, I hope you shall give me the right of refusal. My price will be the stated value less twenty percent."

They left the shop with the jeweler's promissory note for three hundred pounds and another eighty pounds in bank notes—more than sufficient to cover the cost of fabric for new gowns and to make a start on the repairs and alterations at the cottage. And Bran and Evangeline had chosen and purchased a wedding ring.

Very pleased with the outcome of the errand, they walked together back to the inn, Evangeline on Bran's arm and Tammie and Jowan a few paces behind the other couple. Suddenly, Tammie felt sure that someone was watching her. She wanted to discount it as her feelings and emotions had been unpredictably divorced from reality in recent years. Rather, she thought, make that in the past seven years, ever since Guy pretended to befriend her and then took her away from everything and everyone she knew.

She looked around, and no one was there. Of course. But the feeling persisted. Wait, wasn't that Guy's valet Marco, just twenty paces away on the other side of the street? He appeared out of nowhere as if the thought of Guy had conjured him up. No. He must have stepped out of a building, for when he saw her watching him, he stepped backward and disappeared again.

Her heart began to pound, and she wanted to run away, as fast and far as she could. But she forced herself to remain calm, or at least appear so. "Marco is here. Guy's valet," she told Jowan.

Jowan stopped, his arm tensing under her hand. "Where?"

"Just up ahead. I saw him, but just for a moment, then he moved backward. Into a building, I think. No, look!" They had walked another dozen paces, and Tammie was now close enough to see a narrow alleyway opening into the street just where Marco had been standing.

"He must have used that alley to get away," she said.

Jowan and Bran exchanged glances. "You escort the ladies to the inn," Jowan told his brother. "I'll see where this goes."

But when he joined them at the inn fifteen minutes later, he'd seen no trace of Marco, Guy, or anyone associated with them.

*

They had been planning to split up on the second day—Bran and Jowan to meet with Mrs. Mayhew and Tamsyn and Evangeline to shop for fabrics. Jowan decided they should keep together. "If there's a possibility that Coombe is about and knows Tammie is here, I do not want you two ladies to be facing him on your own."

Evangeline was inclined to scoff, but Tamsyn shuddered and agreed. "He is unpredictable, Evangeline, and no one has ever said ‘no' to him and made it stick. He thinks he is above the law… or if not that, precisely, that the law is only relevant to other people."

Bran agreed they should stick together, and Evangeline declared herself outvoted, so they all arrived at the address Mrs. Mayhew had given them. The house showed clear signs of the proposed move—light shapes on the darker walls that indicated where paintings had recently been removed, an empty tea chest in the parlor to which the maid showed them, and a flour bag alongside filled with wood shavings ready to protect whatever fragile objects were to be stowed in the chest.

The lady, when she arrived, proved to be a vigorous little woman in her middle years. She was removing a voluminous apron as she entered the room. "Sir Jowan Trethewey?" she asked, addressing her question to the space between Jowan and Bran.

"I am Trethewey," Jowan told her. "And I assume you are Mrs. Mayhew. May I make known to you Miss Roskilly and Mrs. Parkerdale? Also, my brother and steward, Branoc Hughes. Bran and I escorted the ladies to Plymouth for shopping. I hope you do not mind us all descending on you like this. We have a number of errands today and thought it better to stay together."

Mrs. Mayhew nodded politely to the others. "You will be wanting the papers regarding the work my cousin handled for your father," she said to Jowan. "I have them here."

She indicated a stack tied with string, sitting on a table in the window embrasure. "If you do not mind, I would like you to check them to make sure that they are as you expect. My cousin's files were in disarray when they reached me. He had apparently been ill for some time, and his filing had suffered. Also, whoever packed up his files took no care regarding what went where. While I have done my best to sort everything in order, there may still be elements missing. I have two boxes of papers for which I have not been able to discover logical places."

Jowan thanked her, and he and Bran took a seat at the table and began looking through what was there. Jowan was not sure he'd be able to recognize whether something was missing, since he did not know what to expect, but all that he and Bran could do was their best.

As he and Bran went through the papers, he heard Mrs. Mayhew offer Tamsyn and Evangeline refreshments, and lead them from the room. A short while later, a maid brought a cup of tea and a slice of lardy cake, and put them by his elbow, and he glanced up to see that Bran had been given the same.

He gave the maid a smile and his thanks and turned back to what he was reading. It was soon clear that the relationship between Trantor and Sir Carlyon lasted for more than a decade before the two men died within a couple of months of one another.

Sir Carlyon had started with a few small investments in cargoes and had reinvested his earnings and principal. Jowan began sorting the pile by investment and date. Bran pulled out a notepad and a graphite pencil and began calculating the investments and returns.

"We have the information we need to assert ownership of each stock," Jowan concluded after a while. "I'd venture to suggest some correspondence might be filed elsewhere or might have gone missing altogether."

"If we can recover the sums owed, you'll be a rich man," Bran responded, turning the pad around to show Jowan the total he had underlined and then circled.

"Three thousand, five hundred, and twenty-one pounds," Jowan read, awed.

"Don't forget the three shillings and nine pence," Bran commented. "Mind you, I don't swear to any of those. If the money has been reinvested, or even just put in a bank on deposit, there could be more. And, of course, some or all of it might have disappeared since the baronet lost track of it."

It might have been true, but Wakefield had reported that Trantor had a reputation as a trustworthy solicitor, at least until he fell ill. So, there was at least a chance that some or all the money was waiting for them somewhere. Waiting for the Trethewey estate, which meant Jowan. But he would at least be able to give his steward an increase in salary.

"Three thousand, five hundred pounds," he repeated slowly. Trethewey 1 and 2 combined gave him one hundred and fifty pounds a year. Wheal St Tetha was expected to do better, but only after it ate money for the first year or two. All the tenancies on the estate together didn't gross more than three hundred pounds, and he had to take repairs out of that.

The first step would be to track down what had happened to the stocks and shares. "How do you and Evangeline feel about taking a honeymoon in London?" he asked Bran.

*

The ladies had spent the hour helping Mrs. Mayhew. She was in a difficult situation. The house that she had shared with her husband had been left to her husband's son by an earlier marriage. The son was an officer with the East India Company and had been happy for his stepmother to remain in the property while he was in the Far East, but he had resigned his commission and was on his way home.

"It is natural for Nigel to want the house for his wife and children," Mrs. Mayhew explained. "It is certainly not large enough for an unwanted dependent. Not that Mr. Mayhew left me penniless. My widow's portion will afford me an adequate income, particularly if I can find an inexpensive cottage to rent. I have been saving, too, so all shall be well, I am certain."

The worry in her eyes told another story, and when Evangeline asked when she had to be out of the house, Mrs. Mayhew admitted that it could be as soon as two weeks, depending on when her stepson's ship docked. "If I have not found a place to stay, I will put my boxes into storage and rent a room somewhere."

An idea popped into Tammie's mind, but it would be rash to say anything. After all, she did not know the lady. Certainly not well enough to propose living together. On the other hand, Mrs. Mayhew seemed pleasant enough. She had a clean bright aura in which greens and pinks predominated, which meant she was probably nurturing and kind. She had shown herself to be honest in contacting Jowan about her cousin's files. She had nice manners and her servants appeared to treat her with respect and affection.

Tammie was going to need a respectable woman to live with her in her mother's cottage. A respectable lady, furthermore. A companion, not a servant. She had asked in the village. No one could think of someone suitable who wanted the work.

Perhaps asking Mrs. Mayhew was not so outrageous after all.

By the time Jowan and Bran were finished, the ladies had packed two tea chests with china, carefully wrapping each item in paper and nesting it in wood shavings. And Tammie had made up her mind to discuss her idea with her friends.

They may have good reasons why having Mrs. Mayhew as her companion would not be appropriate. Or they might agree with her own assessment. Either way, she now had friends she could trust, and talking to them would help her make up her own mind.

Accordingly, when they had said their farewells to the lady and were waiting for a hackney, she introduced the topic.

"I am considering making Mrs. Mayhew an offer," she said. "She needs a place to live, and I need a respectable lady to live with me."

Evangeline thought it an excellent idea. Bran and Jowan were more cautious but acknowledged they had not spent much time with the lady. "Why not offer to have her on a trial basis for two months?" Evangeline suggested. "She can use that time to search elsewhere if she finds the situation not to her liking."

"How much will you tell her about you?" Bran wanted to know.

"Branoc Hughes, Tammie does not need to put all of her linen out on display," Evangeline scolded. "Mrs. Mayhew needs only to know that Tammie has inherited her mother's cottage and needs a companion so that she can live there after you and I are married and have moved into our own house."

Tammie was not so certain. For one thing, the village gossips would certainly fill Mrs. Mayhew's ears with their interpretation of Tammie's history. For another, it would be unfair not to let anyone who lived with Tammie know about the possible danger from Guy and his minions. And then there was the point that Tammie did not drink nor use laudanum, which was unusual enough to require an explanation.

"If she is to live with me, she needs to have a picture of my history in at least broad brush strokes," Tammie decided. "If, after that, she decides she does not want to take up my offer, then so be it. I certainly do not want to live in close quarters with a companion I must deceive to have her respect."

A hackney approached, and running alongside was the boy they had sent to fetch it. Bran assisted Tammie and Evangeline aboard while Jowan paid the boy for the errand and gave the address of their inn to the coachman.

It was a drive of only a few minutes. Tammie was soon walking into the inn with Bran and Evangeline arm-in-arm behind her while Jowan settled with the hackney driver. She came to a stop two paces into the entrance foyer.

The Earl of Coombe turned from his conversation with the innkeeper and strode towards her. "Tammie. That fool denied you were here," he said. "I have come for you." Tammie stared at him. Had he changed drastically in the few weeks she had been gone, or was it just that distance—and sobriety—meant she was seeing him as he was? Surely those wrinkles were not new? Nor the jowls under his chin, and all the other signs of dissipation and age?

His aura was duller than ever. It was as if smog or mud obscured the light.

"Well, Tammie?" he demanded. "Send for your bags and come along."

It was the harsh tone that presaged punishment, and Tammie quailed. But Evangeline stepped up beside her and took her hand. On her other side, Bran stood so close his arm touched her shoulder.

Tammie took strength from their presence and from the knowledge that Jowan was only moments from joining them. "I am not coming with you, Guy."

"Now, now, Tammie. You have had your little rebellion. But you have caused me trouble enough. Get your things or leave without them. I do not care, but we will leave together."

"No," Tammie said, the habit of obedience so ingrained in her that the single word was all she could manage.

"The lady has refused you, Lord Coombe," said Jowan's voice, calm and strong. "She wishes nothing further to do with you."

"Impudent puppy," Guy scoffed. "Let her look me in the eyes and say that."

Tammie summoned all her determination and stood straight and firm. She met Guy's eyes with her own. His were bloodshot. "I wish to have nothing to do with you, Lord Coombe."

For a moment, indecision and surprise showed on his face, but he rallied, taking a step closer and putting out a hand. With his most charming smile on his face, he said, "If Daphne Tempest bothers you, she need not. She cannot replace you, Tammie. You will always be my princess."

The name he had given her, said in that wheedling tone of voice, suddenly disgusted her. "My name is not Tammie. Tammie Lind is no more. Leave me alone, Lord Coombe. Tammie Lind is gone. She is free of you and all your manipulations and deceits."

As she was speaking, Jowan changed places with Bran and took her hand to place it on his arm. Guy reddened, either at Jowan's action or what Tammie—no, Tamsyn—had said. "You don't belong in some lowly pigpen with this gape seed, this country bumpkin," Guy insisted. "You deserve to be courted, admired. To dazzle with your voice and your beauty. You know what I can give you, Tammie."

"Goodbye, Lord Coombe," Tamsyn replied. "Sir Jowan, I wish to retire to our suite."

Jowan nodded and began to lead her to the stairs, making a wide circuit around Guy.

"You don't want her, Trethewey," Guy jeered. "Or you will not, once you know what she is. A whore. My whore, who has spread her legs for anyone I chose." Jowan's stride hitched and his arm under Tamsyn's stiffened. "You speak of Tammie Lind, the celebrated singer. You subjected her to opium and worse. You abused her. And now you have lost her. I am not surprised you cannot show your face in London and have been repudiated by the king."

"Tammie, I can give you whatever drugs you want," Coombe pleaded.

Tamsyn refused to look at him. Jowan snarled, and—to Tamsyn's surprise—Coombe quailed.

"Sir Jowan?" said the innkeeper, stepping between them and the stairs. "I do not want any trouble." He waved a hand at Tamsyn. "If this—ah—person is—er…" He trailed off as he took in Jowan's expression.

Bran took a hand. "Innkeeper, the Earl of Coombe has been driven out of London in disgrace for attempting to debauch and disgrace young men. I would not take his word for directions to a privy. I suggest you move out of our way and let us return to our rooms. Or do you wish us to take our custom elsewhere?"

The innkeeper stepped aside, and Jowan and Tamsyn led the way upstairs.