Chapter Four

T he following morning, Guy sent for Tammie to attend him in his study. Tammie hid her relief at the venue. It might, in any case, be premature. A meeting in the study might yet involve duties Tammie did not like to perform. Even so, Guy's bedchamber would have been worse. And the room he referred to as his "playroom" would have been much worse.

"Sing for me," he demanded as soon as she stepped into the room. She took a couple of deep breaths and began the aria from Figaro that Susanna sings, purportedly to another man, to tease her husband Figaro.

He listened in silence, then said, "You shall be singing at a private gathering tomorrow evening. Prepare three songs, one a duet with Evan Davies. No. Five. You shall need two encores. Write me a list of the songs you have chosen and bring it to me before dinner. We have guests for dinner, Tammie. Are you well enough to be my hostess?"

Only one answer would be acceptable. "Yes, Guy."

"Good. We shall discuss your rebellion, but not at this time."

Thank goodness for that. And thank you, too, to the hostess who had decided she must have Miss Lind to entertain her guests. Usually, one of Guy's "discussions" would leave Tammie unable to perform for several days. The lady must be important, or he would not have put off Tammie's discipline.

"Yes, Guy. Thank you." That was the required response. Now to distract him. "What can you tell me about the gathering? The more I know, the better I can choose a program to delight the hostess." Pleasing the gathering would reflect well on Guy as the person who had discovered Tammie and promoted her to those who appreciated music.

Guy frowned, as if he suspected her of some nefarious scheme. "The Duchess of Winshire is holding another of her infernal fundraising events. This one is a musicale but with professional musicians rather than half-trained and untalented members of the ton."

"What is the event to benefit?" Tammie asked. "If I can pick songs that fit the theme, and play on people's heart strings…"

That pleased her capricious master. He smiled. "Yes. Good. More money for the duchess's charity." His mood changed again. "Kneel," he ordered.

Tammie dropped to her knees in front of his chair. He took her chin in one hand and forced her to meet his eyes, his grip tight enough to bruise. "You are mine, Tammie Lind. Say it."

"I am yours," she parroted, obediently.

"You are mine and everything you do, everything you say, especially everything you eat or drink or breathe in, is at my pleasure." He shook her again. "Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Guy. I am yours."

"You are mine." This time, it was a snarl. "Whether you live or whether you die, I choose. I do!" He pushed her away with the hand that held her chin, and she fell backward onto the floor.

Another lightning change of mood. His tone turned mournful and his voice lyrical. "I could have lost you in that den. I nearly did lose you, Tammie Lind. How could you do that to me? Haven't I loved you? Haven't I made you famous? Haven't I kept you as my prima soprano for seven years? My mistress for much of that time? Don't you love me anymore?"

Trick question. Tammie was beginning to lose the brief lucidity that she enjoyed between when her dose of laudanum began to wear off and when the cravings for another dominated her mind, but she was still alert enough to return a duplicitous answer to a trick question.

"I love you just as much as I ever have, Guy."

He narrowed his eyes at her, but her tone must have satisfied him she was sincere, for his suspicion faded into lust. "You are still beautiful. It is because of me you are still beautiful. Left to yourself, you would have shriveled into ugly old age, like those other miserable creatures at the den. I have looked after you, Tammie. I give you what you need but stop you from taking too much of it. You should be grateful."

"Thank you, Guy," Tammie said. Thank you for introducing me to a poison that has gripped my soul and will not let me go. Thank you for using that poison to put me on a leash—to force me to be your whore, and to go with whomever you order whenever you order. Thank you for ruining me and dragging me down into hell.

Perhaps she failed to keep her thoughts hidden, for anger rode in his voice as much as lust when he pointed to his groin and ordered, "Pleasure me." Then, letting his voice turn persuasive, he said the words she could never refuse. "Pleasure me, and I shall let you have the pipe."

Tammie crept forward on her knees and reached for the buttons of his fall. She didn't know who disgusted her most. Guy, for his pleasure in her degradation, or herself for being all too willing to be degraded if the reward was the seductive pleasure of the dreams.

*

The smoke, when she had earned it, wiped away the memories and carried her into dreams. But the dreams turned sour, as they sometimes did. At first, everything was wonderful. She was back in St Tetha, walking the moor with Jowan. They stopped to kiss—a tender, innocent touching of lips that had once seemed so daring and still felt more meaningful than any of the far more carnal kisses she had learned since they were parted.

Even as the thought came to her, the kiss changed, becoming consuming, forceful, a declaration of dominance demanding her submission. She tore herself away to confirm what she had already deduced: Jowan had become Guy.

Tamsyn ran—in this dream, she was Tamsyn again—but Guy pursued her on a ghost horse, a fearsome creature, all black with red, burning eyes and clashing teeth. Tamsyn knew Bodmin Moor as well as anybody and fled down paths Guy could not have known, but the ghost horse stayed on her trail, avoiding the mine shafts and pits, mires, and bogs, never quite catching up but never losing her, either.

In a sudden shift, like a scene change at the opera, she was on the shore, running on the sand, the pursuit still on her heels. Jowan called out to her from a rowboat. He was a few feet from the tide mark, using his oars to stay in place on the waves. "Quickly, Tamsyn. It is a witch horse and won't follow you into the water!"

Did the sea count as running water? Tamsyn could not remember, but she dashed into the waves and waded out to the boat. The horse pulled up short of the foam, gnashing its teeth, and Tamsyn laughed even as the waves splashed up, soaking her to the waist. She caught the gunwale of the boat, smiling up at Jowan.

"You came for me," she said.

"Of course," Jowan replied, even as his eyes turned red, his teeth grew longer, and his legs fused into a tail. It was not Jowan at all, but a bucca —a Cornish water spirit. He leaped for Tamsyn with a flick of his powerful tail, wrapping his arms around her and sweeping her out to sea.

Just before they plunged into the water, she smelled the cologne that Guy always wore. She could not escape the devil, even in her nightmares.

They lingered, the nightmares. At dinner, she was called to stand with Guy and welcome his guests, a sign that she was back in his favor. The guests were all followers of his, most of them nobles and all of them as dangerous as snakes, including the smattering of ladies. Some of them were accompanied by members of the demi-monde. One of the noble ladies brought with her the actor she currently had in her keeping.

To Tammie's eyes, they seemed otherworldly, eldritch. Perhaps it was just the whiff of nightmares still drifting through her mind or the small dose of laudanum that kept her jitters under control. But as the evening progressed and the diners' behavior regressed, she looked at Guy slouched in his chair, watching the bawdy behavior around him with amused contempt, and thought again, He is a devil. No. He is the elf king, and this is his court.

*

The visit to Coombe's house gave Jowan food for thought. The footman handed over a note—a single sheet of lined paper torn on one side, neatly folded, and held together by a dab of wax. It had his name written on it in an untutored hand, but when he opened it, the paper that fell out was of a far higher quality, and the writing was also very different, precise and elegant in an understated sort of a way.

He unfolded the paper and looked at the foot of the page. "Tamsyn!"

Now to read from the beginning. His eyes did not want to obey. He was afraid, he realized. Afraid of what he might read. Afraid she would reject him, that she no longer cared for the country boy she had left behind. Why would she, when she had spent the last seven years surrounded by the handsomest and most sophisticated men in Europe?

"What does she say?" Bran asked.

Jowan forced his gaze to the top of the page.

"Dear Sir Jowan," he read.

"First, let me offer my condolences. Your father was an ass, but he was still your father. And I daresay you didn't want to be baronet. Or not so soon, in any case. I am sorry, Jowan. I hope it has not been too difficult.

"You ask to see me. My answer is ‘no'. Let us leave the past in the past, my dear. You are my sweetest memory, but I am no longer the girl you once knew. Please remember me as I was. It will give me comfort to know that someone still thinks of me as "Tamsyn."

He handed the missive to Bran, watching his hand extend the piece of paper to his brother. How could his hand still grasp, his arm extend, when his heart had ceased at Tamsyn's rejection? The pain hadn't hit him yet.

He'd been trapped in a mine, once, halfway under a rockfall. This was like that. He didn't feel a thing, but just as he'd known the bloody great rock on his leg must have crushed flesh and broken bones, he knew Tamsyn's words had killed his heart, and how could a man live without his heart?

"Sir?" said the friendly footman. "Sir, the maid, Daisy, who took the note to Miss Lind? She says that Miss Lind said she didn't want the earl causing any trouble for you. Daisy says that Miss Lind cried when she wrote the note, sir."

"She didn't want to write it?" Jowan asked.

The footman shrugged. "I only know what Daisy said. But his lordship is mean, sir, I can tell you that. And Daisy worries about Miss Lind."

"Will you take her another note?" Jowan asked, but the footman stepped away, shaking his head. "It's as much as my job is worth if I'm caught, sir. And the lady did say to leave her alone."

It hit him then, shutting down his throat and squeezing his chest so he could not breathe. He'd been wrong before. This was real pain. Pain like he'd never known. Had it not been for Bran, he'd not have been able to leave the house, but his brother took his arm, gave the footman a half-crown, and escorted Jowan to the pavement.

"She says no," he managed to croak.

"She didn't want to," Bran pointed out. "She cried."

Jowan thought about that as they walked back to the hotel. "I don't know whether to be hopeful or not."

"We need to know more," Bran agreed. "That letter was all about you, and she cried. The girl still loves you, Jowan."

Jowan shook his head. "Then why won't she see me?"

"She thinks you won't love her anymore. Not as she is now," Bran said. "Read it again."

Jowan wanted to run all the way back to Cornwall, but he stopped on the street and forced himself to take the paper that Bran thrust at him.

"First paragraph, she is worried about you. She still cares. Second paragraph. She wants you to remember her as she was. She is ashamed of who she is now, from the sound of it."

Bran stabbed at the page. "There's nothing there about not wanting you, about having outgrown you. ‘You are my sweetest memory.' ‘Please remember me.' Up to you to change her ‘no' to a ‘yes', I would say. If you want to. Maybe she is right, and she has changed too much for you to swallow."

"Never," Jowan replied, fervently.

"We need to find out what has happened to her," Bran mused. "Treat it like the rest. We've solved the problem of Thatcher and the investors, or nearly. We'll look for your father's solicitor tomorrow and figure out whether we can recover anything there. This is just one more problem to solve. What has become of Tamsyn Roskilly, and does she need a knight in shining armor, or to be left alone?"

Jowan took a breath and then another. Perhaps the letter hadn't killed him, after all. And Bran had made a good point. Several in fact. "We don't have enough information," he said. "I wonder what Drew knows about the Earl of Coombe?"

"Or his friends," Bran commented. "If you don't mind involving them."

"A barrister and a viscount," Jowan mused. "They could be useful, but I have no claim on them, Bran." Drew had taken them to his meeting with Mr. Fullerton and Lord Snowden after they left Thatcher's rooms. Drew's men had found nothing incriminating, but Beckleston had been less careful. Both Fullerton, who had overseen the search of the office, and Snowden, whose group had searched Beckleston's home, arrived at the meeting very pleased with what they had found.

"I'd be better pleased," Snowden had complained, "if we had also found our miscreants."

Drew had introduced Jowan and Bran as former students and possibly future partners. "Trethewey owns the mine Thatcher sucked us into, and he and his brother are in London to find out why the money Thatcher was collecting has not yet arrived."

"I let them think we were only in London to investigate Thatcher," Jowan said to Bran now, referring to Drew's friends.

"Drew told them that," Bran pointed out. "Or implied it, at least. And we are here for that purpose, at least in part. It can't hurt to raise the topic of Miss Lind and Coombe."

"When? When we are presenting our credentials and the progress on the mine to persuade their investment group to give us their money despite my poor judgment in agents?"

"Perhaps not," Bran acknowledged, but I daresay we can find an opportunity."

Shortly after the brothers arrived back at their rooms in the hotel, the manager brought Jowan a small pile of mail.

"We have been invited to a musicale tomorrow night," Jowan told Bran. "Invitation only. For the benefit of a hospital apparently. The hostess is the Duchess of Winshire. Isn't the Duke of Winshire Drew's father? I thought he was a widower."

Bran, who had a far greater interest in the London news than Jowan, knew the answer. "He married again several years ago—to the widow of the Duke of Haverford. According to the papers, the pair were sweethearts before they both married elsewhere. I imagine we have Drew to thank for the invitation."

Jowan nodded. "We had better go, then." He could not find any enthusiasm for the evening. The last thing he wanted to do was meet a lot of aristocrats at a fancy party when all his heart wanted was to storm Coombe's house or alternately flee back to Cornwall and hide himself away.

Bran shrugged. "Perhaps the subject of your lady will come up tomorrow since music is the entertainment for the evening."

*

The next day was frustrating. The solicitor their father had been dealing with was no longer at the address Jowan had for him. Their father's papers had been in such a mess that it had taken Jowan and Bran three months after they took over the office to realize certain irregular receipts were probably profits from investments handled by someone in London, and possibly connected to a couple of large payments that had left a substantial hole in the accounts a couple of years before the payments started to arrive.

Another three months had passed before they tracked down the name of the man, by which time the receipts had stopped and none of Jowan's letters received a reply. And now, they discovered, he was not where he was supposed to be anymore.

No one in the building knew where he had gone, either. They went from office to office seeking someone who might have been in the place for more than four years, but without success. "I suppose your letters finished up in somebody's bin," Bran said. They proceeded to visit the buildings on either side of the address, but no one they interviewed claimed any knowledge of the man.

They also called on the Earl of Coombe and were denied at the door.

"Let's go back to the hotel, and I shall buy you a drink before dinner," Bran said.

Jowan would prefer the drink without the dinner. He was doing his best to remain positive, but the word "no" kept echoing in his mind and, somehow, in his gut, too.

Still, Bran wasn't about to let him stew in his own misery. Besides, Jowan knew he could not turn up drunk to the musicale. He owed it to his people to make a good impression on these Londoners, especially those who were going to decide whether the new mine went ahead.

They had brought evening wear with them—Jowan had Bran to thank for that, too. He had insisted they should be prepared for all eventualities. They had both been outfitted by a Plymouth tailor and were—or so the man had assured them—elegant enough for London Society.

Certainly, Bran looked good in his, and Jowan could have been his twin but for one inch more in height and hair that was a lighter shade of brown. They had both chosen black for breeches and coats. Jowan had a green waistcoat embroidered in copper and Bran's was blue with silver embroidery. The clocking on their stockings matched the embroidery, as did the buckles on their black shoes. A pin on their white cravats added another spot of color—green for Jowan and blue for Bran.

From what he'd seen on his way around London, Jowan wondered if many of the gentlemen would fill their garments to as much advantage. He and Bran both lived active lives, turning their hands to anything needed on the estate's farms, in the mines, or on the fishing fleet.

Perhaps London ladies preferred the weedy creatures he'd passed on Oxford Street. What did Tamsyn prefer now? And there he was again, thinking of her.

"Shall we take a hackney, Bran?"

"Will we get dirtier catching one of those flea and stink traps, or walking?" Bran wondered.

They walked.