Chapter Two

E ven after Jowan had agreed to go to London, he kept finding reasons to put off the journey. After the shearing finished, he met with all his farmers to discuss the planting, and with the mining engineer to sign off the plans for the new mine. Then he couldn't go until the first sod had been turned, for they were having a ceremony, and he was to give a speech. After that, he insisted that he couldn't leave before Mrs. Dunstone's eightieth birthday party.

Bran sighed but did not openly accuse his brother of procrastination. However, he became an avid reader of the London papers, searching for the little bits of news they published about Miss Lind, the Devon Songbird, and sharing them with Jowan.

One morning, some five weeks after Bran ringed the first article, he double-ringed another.

"Miss Lind, the Devon Songbird, has been taken ill and is to be replaced in the performance of Le Nossi de Figaro by Miss Stephens, who is no stranger to London audiences, and will, we are certain, sing a wonderful Susana. We are sure our readers will join with us in wishing Miss Lind a swift recovery from her illness."

Jowan unfolded the paper so that he could find the date. "This was two weeks ago," he complained. He put down the paper and went to the door, calling for the butler. "Ask my valet to step into the breakfast room and tell the stable master that I'll be leaving for London in two hours. He's to have my horse ready at the door."

"And mine," said Bran. "Jowan, I am coming with you." He set his chin, ready for an argument, but in truth, Jowan felt nothing but relief. One or both had put in motion all the major projects planned for the early summer. The people in charge of each piece of work could carry on without one of the brothers leaning over their shoulders.

Also, they still hadn't had the first payment of capital needed for the mine works. The man in London had come highly recommended, but all Jowan had got from him were excuses.

"I'm glad to have your company, Bran," he said. "I need to send my apologies to the Dunstones, see the land steward and the mines' overseer, and write a note to the engineer letting him know that the overseer will be reporting to me by letter every week. Anything else?"

Bran mentioned a couple of other social engagements and offered to send for the steward and the overseer while Jowan dealt with the correspondence. The valet knocked on the door and was invited to enter.

They left two hours and ten minutes later, heading for Exeter, which was a six or seven hour ride away. The mail coach traveled both day and night and completed the journey from Exeter to London in thirty-two hours. On horseback or in a private or hired coach, Jowan and Bran couldn't expect to cover the same distance in less than two and half days, and possibly more.

"Collect the horses from the Arundel Arms in Lifton after giving them a day to rest," Bran ordered the stable master.

"Send any questions or reports to Bran or me, care of Fladongs Hotel on Oxford Street," Jowan told the butler, the steward, and the mines' overseer.

It was a hard day's ride, up and down hills, skirting the high moorland, and keeping to the coach roads. They didn't try for more than fifteen miles in a post, carefully checking the horses offered for the next stage before they paid the fee and took off again.

The day was fair, and they received few checks. Bran put the toll fees for each stage into a handy coat pocket, so they needed to stop only long enough to hand over the money and wait for the toll gate to open sufficiently for them to ride through in single file.

At Okehampton, they grabbed a pie and a jug of ale. It was half an hour past noon, and they were just over halfway, but the road ahead was more down than up. If they wasted no time, they would easily make today's mail coach, which left Exeter at four in the afternoon, come hell or high water.

They changed for the last time at Crockernwell, at the Golden Lion, the same place used by the man who brought the news of the Battle of Trafalgar from the Mediterranean to the Admiralty in London.

For old times' sake, they stood for a moment to look at the plaque commemorating that historic moment. They had heard the story for the first time when they stopped at the Golden Lion to change horses on their way to their first year in Oxford.

But they had no time to reminisce. It was nearly two o'clock and they had perhaps as much as twenty miles to go. Two good horses and a clear run. They should be able to do it easily.

"If we miss the coach," Jowan said, "We will lose twenty-four hours."

"Then we had better not miss the coach," Bran told him.

Those were the last words they spoke for some time. They stopped only for the toll house at Cheriton Bishop, and they arrived at Exeter with twenty minutes to spare. The inside seats were all sold, but they secured two seats on the top, and Bran went to find food while Jowan secured a couple of bottles of light ale each.

The mail didn't stop for the convenience of its passengers and the inns had changing a team down to a fine art. They'd have to eat and drink whatever was available when the coach took one of its brief pauses, and the same with any other needs of their bodies.

They left Exeter holding on to their seats with one hand while eating meat and potato-filled pasties with the other. It would do. Bran had also brought them an apple each for dessert, which, Jowan told him, elevated the meal to a feast.

They were grateful for their greatcoats to protect them from the bitter wind, but as the hours passed and the sun came out, the trip was not unpleasant. They bought bread from a peddler at one stop, and yet more pies at another. When they reached Bath in the early evening, two of the inside passengers ended their trip. The brothers were able to take those inside seats and sleep the rest of the way to London.

They shouldered the bags that had traveled the distance in the coach's baskets, and, not wanting to search for their hotel in the dark, went inside the Swan with Two Necks Inn, where they were able to secure a room for what remained of the night.

London was no less of an assault on the senses than the last time they visited. A quiet moorlands village in Cornwall was no preparation for the noise, the smell, the sheer number of people. They'd been recommended to try Fladongs Hotel, on Oxford Street, which was almost an hour's walk away, but the vicar, who had stayed there himself, said it was very pleasant, and not at all noisy.

Oxford Street proved to be a major thoroughfare, but they reserved judgment and secured a room, anyway. The place was supposed to be comfortable and was on the outskirts of the upper-class areas of the city, as well as being nicely placed for the theatre district. Until Jowan had done a little research, he had no idea whether Tamsyn was living close to where she worked, perhaps with other performers, in the household of the Earl of Coombe in Mayfair, or somewhere else he had not yet considered.

The hotel was also, apparently, popular with naval officers. They thronged the public rooms and Bran and Jowan saw even more coming down the stairs as they went up.

"Let's just drop our bags and call on Coombe," Bran proposed.

"People like Coombe won't be awake at this time of the morning," Jowan protested. Now that it came to it, he was afraid of what he might find. She had forgotten him, it was clear. In favor of Coombe? It seemed all too likely, though from what he'd read of Coombe, the man was unlikely to be satisfied with just one female at a time, or with any woman for the length of time Tamsyn had been in his clutches.

Bran had an answer for that, too. "All the better if he is asleep. Or still out at some party. We can ask after your Tamsyn."

Jowan told himself to stop prevaricating. He had agreed to this trip, after all. Either Tamsyn needed him, or she didn't. And if she didn't, he had to deal with it. Bran was right. Better to know.

"You're right," he told Bran.

On their way out after freshening up in their room, they asked the doorman how to get to Brackington Street, where Coombe had his townhouse. It was a short walk, but into a different world than the parts of London they had seen so far. Wider streets, more elegant buildings, fewer carts, and less bustle altogether.

At each crossing, a child with a broom hurried to clear their path and said "Thankee" while catching the coppers Bran tossed in reward. Two streets across and five along, the doorman had said, and here they were.

It hadn't changed since the last time they came. In their first year at Oxford, they had taken a leave of absence for a weekend and hitched a ride with a carter to come to London. But when they found the townhouse belonging to the Earl of Coombe, the knocker was off the door. Someone was within, though. Smells of cooking had drifted up the area steps from the kitchen.

They had knocked on the kitchen door and charmed the cook into telling them that Coombe and all his entourage had gone to Europe. "A tour for the Devon Songbird," the cook had explained. "Such a nice girl. I hope she does well."

In five years, Tamsyn had toured the whole of Europe twice, spending months in each of the major capitals. She'd also performed in Russia, Alexandria, and Constantinople. Jowan had followed her through the reports in the newspaper, several times hearing about a lightning trip to England after she had already been and gone.

This time, five years later, the knocker was on the door, but the place was otherwise the same, and delicious smells still wafted up from the basement kitchen.

"Up? Or down?" Bran asked.

"Up," Jowan decided. "We're not dressed for down." Or, rather, they were dressed for up—in the gentlemen's attire they wore to church, or on the rare occasions they accepted an invitation for an afternoon with the neighboring nobility.

Twelve steps took them to the red-painted door. Bran plied the knocker. After a short wait, the door opened. "Lord Coombe is not receiving," the footman who answered the door declared.

"Sir Jowan Trethewey and Mr. Branoc Hughes. I will leave a card," Jowan declared, stepping forward. The footman responded to the note of command and fell back.

Jowan appropriated a corner of a hall table to write a brief note on the back of his card and handed it to the footman. "Please see that Miss Roskilly—Miss Lind, I suppose I should say—receives this. She and I were childhood friends." He handed the footman a second card, "And do let the Earl of Coombe know that Mr. Hughes and I called."

"I will, Sir Jowan," the footman assured him. "When Lord Coombe is awake." He hesitated, with an anxious frown, and added, "Lord Coombe sees all of Miss Lind's mail, of course. To keep her from being bothered by her public. Men, you know, who do not have proper respect. But I am sure he will be happy to pass on a card from an old childhood friend."

"I would be grateful," Jowan replied.

"Sir Jowan and I are in London for a short time," Bran added. "Visiting from Cornwall."

"Ah, yes," said the footman, his anxious expression clearing. "Miss Lind is from Cornwall. I am sure a visit from an old friend would cheer her up."

"We heard she had been ill," Jowan commented.

"Ill. Yes," the footman repeated. "She is better now, but still very low." He bit his lip, frowning. "A childhood friend, you say?"

"Indeed. We met when we were five," Jowan told him. "We used to play together as children—we took our lessons together, in fact. Her mother was my father's housekeeper." And my father's mistress , he did not add.

"Sir," said the footman. He looked over his shoulder before he continued, "I shall try to slip her your card." His brow and mouth shifted, and he shuffled his feet before he added, "His lordship is very protective, sir."

"It is to his credit, no doubt," Bran said.

The footman looked uncertain. "Yes. Of course."

"Thank you," Jowan said. "I would be grateful if you make sure she gets the card on which I wrote a note."

"Would you be on door duty at this time the day after tomorrow?" Bran asked. "We could return to see if the lady has an answer for us."

That fetched a smile from the footman. "Yes, sir. I am always on at this time. The butler serves at my lord's parties, you see. He is not awake before ten o'clock." He glanced at the large clock that graced the hall. "In fact, he shall be here soon, I expect, if you wish to talk to him. His lordship and his guests, they sleep until the afternoon. The ladies, too. Miss Lind and the others."

"In that case, we will be on our way," Jowan said. "If either Miss Lind or Lord Coombe wishes us to call, a message at Fladongs Hotel will reach us." He passed the footman a crown. "Thank you. You have been very helpful."

Out on the street again, Bran commented, "A half-crown might have done well enough."

"A crown makes him feel he owes us something and may be enough to ensure that Tamsyn gets the note I wrote on my card," Jowan replied. "It sounds as if he didn't think Coombe would pass on the message."

"Yes. That was my impression," Bran agreed. He changed the subject. "What do you want to do now?"

Wait outside to see if Tamsyn got his message, but that wouldn't serve. There was no way of knowing when she would wake, or when the footman would get a chance to pass the note. Or even if the man would do so.

"Let's drop into the agent's office," he suggested. "Even if he isn't there, we can make a time."

"Better to surprise him," Bran grumbled. "Less time for him to hide things."

*

Tammie had not spoken to Guy or been close enough to do so since the day of the rehearsal. It had been him who retrieved her from the opium den, or so said the two maids who took turns nursing her. She had only the vaguest memories of the den, and none at all of Guy coming for her.

No doubt he was furious. She had nearly escaped him in the only way left to her. Daisy, one of the maids, told her that a physician had sat with her all through the first night and that Guy had been beside himself with worry.

Tammie believed the first statement, but not the second. Guy was not immune to all human emotions. He felt lust and anger and a sort of fierce joy that had fascinated her before she realized it fed off the subjugation of others. But he had no ability to worry.

Unless he was concerned he might lose her ability to earn for him. She would be worth nothing to him if she was dead. Perhaps that was why he had approved a measured amount of laudanum to be given to her every six hours.

She was much improved. At first, she had been so weak the maids had had to help her even with the basest of needs. Now she could spend much of the day sitting by her window or pacing her room. Yesterday, she had begun her voice exercises again, and by the end of the week, she was sure she could once again take her place on the stage.

But when she sent a note to Guy, telling him that she was better and able to sing again, his valet Marco delivered the response.

" Il Conte will tell Signorina Lind when she is to sing again." He leered at her, leaning against the doorframe as if to show off his lean physique. He was handsome enough, with his dark curly hair and his large brown eyes, but Tammie always saw him through a haze of remembered pain.

She knew better than to show her fear, though. She nodded to indicate she had heard and understood the message. The earl was still angry with her. Angry she had run away. Angry she had tried to escape him permanently into the dreams. Angry she had been too ill for him to punish.

Daisy, whose turn it was to watch her, said, sharply, "You have delivered your message, Mr. Ricci." Tammie managed to keep her shudder until after Marco had sniffed his contempt and left. "Do not annoy Marco Ricci, Daisy," she warned. "He is mean when he is annoyed."

"He should not treat you with such disrespect, Miss," replied the maid, her tone and expression showing her indignation.

Tammie was touched. How long had it been since someone stood up for her? It was futile, though. "I do not mind, Daisy. How Marco treats me tells me where I stand with the earl. At the moment, he is angry with me. When I am back in favor, Marco will be most respectful. You watch."

If she was allowed to find her way back into the earl's favor. He had no other singer of her caliber, which was to her advantage. Guy collected musicians, and kept some of them—those without friends and family to make trouble for him. At the moment, he had a violinist, a virtuoso on the pianoforte, a promising alto, and several lesser voices. But Tammie was a star attraction and opened doors that the scandal surrounding him would otherwise shut in his face.

Sometimes, when he was in a temper, he would forget that fact. She could think of several musicians who had simply disappeared when they offended him or were no longer useful.

But he had had time since her rebellion to calm down, had he not?

Marco had said "when." "When she is to sing again." So, if he had not forgiven her yet, he planned to do so. Come to think of it, the regular and measured doses of laudanum were another sign that he had plans for her. Not enough to completely subdue the cravings, but enough for her to get from one minute to the next, especially when she lost herself in song.

The next sign that Guy still had a use for her was in the afternoon when she was ordered to put on a riding habit and join the weekly ride. When she reached the mews, her usual horse was ready for her, but she was directed to the rear of the group of acolytes, dependents, grooms, and invited guests who would make up the procession of horses and glitteringly dressed riders who would display Guy's wealth and influence to London's fashionable crowd in Hyde Park. His new violinist, Miss Tempest, took the place by his side.

Guy had organized these processions in London, Paris, Rome, Venice, Vienna, and a dozen other cities of Europe and the Middle East over the years Tammie had been with him, and for most of those years, she had ridden at his side or close behind him.

It was a statement about power. The time and place were carefully chosen to impress those who held local power. The position in the procession spoke of the internal politics of the group Guy had gathered around him.

Her position at the back displayed to all and sundry that she was out of favor. It was also a relief, taking her out from under Guy's shrewd eye and allowing her to pay attention to the park and the rich and powerful who gathered there to show off to their peers.

Of course, Guy and his riders drew every eye, as was intended.

Fergie, who had left the door to her room unlocked, was not in the vanguard with Guy. He was nowhere in the procession. In fact, she had not seen him since she recovered enough to move around the house. Had he suffered for his mistake? Of course, he had. She hoped he had merely been sent away. She would not think about the alternative.

It was pleasant to ride again. When she was back in Guy's favor, Tammie would ask permission to take a ride each morning, when one's horse could move at more than a walk. As it was, unused muscles complained bitterly an hour later when she dismounted.

Once more in her room, she asked Daisy to order a bath. "Miss," said Daisy. "One of the footmen gave me a message for you. It arrived this morning, Miss, and I wasn't sure if I should give it to you, for the earl has said we are not to let you be bothered but to give all messages to him, and he will let you have those he approves."

Tammie grimaced. She was not surprised.

"But Hen… the footman said it was a childhood friend, Miss. Oh dear. I hope I am doing the right thing." She pulled a little pasteboard rectangle from the pocket of her apron and brought it to Tammie, where she sat by the fire.

"I will burn it when I have read it, and never tell a soul you gave it to me," Tammie promised, folding her hand around the card. Jowan. It could be no one else. Was that hope she felt? No! Hope was not allowed. Hope would only be squashed and leave her more miserable than ever. She should throw the card into the fire immediately and forget she ever saw it.

But she could not resist opening her fingers. "Sir Jowan Trethewey," she read out loud. "Yes, I knew him when I was a child."

So, the old baronet was dead. Good. He had sent for Guy, knowing the man's predilection for musicians. Guy himself had told her that the baronet and Tamsyn's mother had sold her to the earl, and Tammie believed him. Whether Mother had conspired with Sir Carlyon, or whether he had truly threatened to turn Mother out with Tamsyn, Tammie didn't know. But Sir Carlyon objected to her relationship with Jowan and had wanted her gone. She was certain of that.

The fingers of her free hand crept down the hem of her riding skirt and rubbed across the outline of the ring, safely in its tiny pocket. She had nearly lost it. Guy had ordered her maid to burn the clothes she wore to the opium den, but the girl had found the ring hidden in the hem, retrieved it, kept it a secret, and returned it to Tammie when she recovered her senses.

It was her last connection with Jowan and Tamsyn. She would have hated to have lost it.

Dear Jowan. She wished she could see him, but Guy would never allow it. And perhaps it was for the best, for it was Tamsyn that Jowan remembered, and Tamsyn had died long ago.

"There is a message on the other side, Miss," prompted Daisy.

Almost against her will, Tammie's fingers turned the card over. "In London. When can I see you? Answer via footman."

Dangerous words. She truly had better burn the card before the footman got into trouble—"Henry" Daisy had nearly said. Tammie had always made it her practice to learn the names of the servants in any house where Guy stayed, and her with him. Guy mocked her for it, but she found it brought her better service. Besides, it made her feel as if she was not entirely without allies, even if they were as helpless as she was.

"Daisy, if I give you a message, will you give it to the footman?" Henry. It must be. Daisy was nodding. Tammie crossed the room to her little desk. It had been years since she discovered that the letters she had been faithfully writing to Jowan, despite the silence from his end, had been read and burnt by Guy. Jowan's to her, too.

Guy had told her of his perfidy one night when somewhat more under the influence than usual. She had stopped taking her letters to him for franking after that, but from habit, she continued to write every day, using notebooks in a sort of a diary.

She was certain Guy read it, and she took a childish delight in writing into her diary things she would never say to his face.

Would he notice if she tore out a page? She would have to risk it. She tore the partner page from the other side of the stitching. Unless someone counted the pages, they would never know.

"Daisy," she said, when she had written her message, "tell the footman to be careful. The earl is very possessive. My message is merely to tell Sir Jowan to leave me alone. You can read it if you want to check. But I do not want the earl to cause trouble for my old friend or the footman. Do you understand?"

Daisy nodded, her eyes wide with apprehension. "We will both be careful, Miss." She bit her lip, her frown deepening. "Couldn't this Sir Jowan help you, Miss? Take you away from all of this?"

Poor innocent child, but it was sweet of her to be concerned. "Daisy," Tammie told her sadly, "no one can help me. Lord Coombe is too powerful."

But oh, how sweet and seductive it was to hope.