Stephanie Laurens - Beyond Seduction

She refused, of course. At length, in various ways. But he wouldn’t budge. He continued to talk her around in circles, bringing her back again and again to his simple, straightforward, transparently reasonable points.

Until, driven to the limit of her endurance, with a headache pounding in her temples, she threw up her hands in defeat. “All right! I agree!” Whipping her gloves from her pocket, she started pulling them on, ignoring his measuring gaze.

“Just to be specific…?”

She gritted her teeth; she couldn’t clench her jaw more than it already was. “Specifically-I will permit you to try to seduce me. However”-gloves buttoned, she pinned him with a glance every bit as steely as any of his-“I do not guarantee to succumb.”

The damned man had the gall to smile, entirely genuinely. He rose. “Indeed. That wouldn’t be any fun.”

Fun? She nearly choked. Deciding words were not a weapon to use with him, she swung to the door. “I’m leaving.”

“So I see.”

Although she moved quickly, he was beside her when she reached the door. She paused to let him open it.

“Do give my regards to your brothers.”

He opened the door. She stepped forward, then hesitated.

As if he could hear the question in her mind, he said from behind her, “I haven’t heard anything more about their interest in the smugglers, or the wreckers-if I do, I’ll tell you.”

It was the assurance she wanted. She dipped her head in acknowledgment, then stalked down the corridor-away from his lair.

Gervase accompanied her to the forecourt, saw her into her gig, then watched her drive away. When he turned back into the castle, he realized he was smiling; he took a moment to savor the feelings behind the smile.

Life in Cornwall had suddenly become very much more interesting.

Madeline was such a complicated, confusing jumble of female types, just learning them all, every fascinating facet of each of her personas, would keep him occupied for years.

He headed back to the library, replaying the last hour in his mind; it was heartening to know he hadn’t lost his knack for successful negotiations. So now, at last, he had a defined goal, a clear target. Dealing with his intended was very like maneuvering on a battlefield; at least now he knew which hill on the field he next had to take.

The manor house outside Breage was located two miles west of Helston and the Lizard Peninsula, and a mile north of the harbor at Porthleven-not too close yet not too far from the valuable lands between Godolphin Cross and Redruth beneath which ran the rich veins of ore heavily laced with tin from which much of the district’s wealth derived.

The afternoon sun struck through the leaded panes of the small parlor as the door opened and the gentleman who had recently acquired the small property walked in, followed by his agent.

Malcolm Sinclair waved Jennings to one of the pair of armchairs angled before the empty hearth, then elegantly subsided into its mate.

Jennings, his fresh round face drawn in a frown, perched rather nervously on the edge of the seat. “None of the rest want to sell.” He grimaced. “Those first two must have been just luck. Every other place I’ve asked, the gents just smile and say no. I don’t know what to say to persuade them.” He glanced at Malcolm. “Not that I tried-you said just to ask and see.”

Malcolm nodded. “Yes-I wanted to get the lie of the land, as it were. Now we know…” He fell silent. After a moment, he steepled his fingers; he continued to stare unfocused across the room.

Jennings waited with not a hint of impatience. Sinclair was a master who suited him-cool to the point of cold, unemotional yet decisive-and their past association had led him to believe any future in Sinclair’s service would reward him well.

Eventually Malcolm stirred. “I think we should concentrate on the smaller leaseholders-the farmers, the villagers-rather than the gentry. And as for persuasion, direct arguments won’t work. Hard to convince someone it’s time to sell an asset when you’re there, hot to buy.”

“Exactly.” Jennings nodded. “Even farmers and villagers have sense enough to be suspicious of that.”

“Indeed. Which is why I think it might serve us better to consider what news might convince such people, relatively ignorant and uninformed, that selling their leases to anyone silly enough to offer-not knowing said news-would be the act of a prudent man.”

Jennings’s frown returned, this time more pensive.

Malcolm eyed it, and waited, watching as Jennings worked through the possibilities himself.

“Rumors,” Jennings murmured. “But we can’t spread them-not ourselves.”

“No, for who would believe that those bearing the very tidings suggesting their leases will soon be worthless would then want to buy those same leases?”

“Aye.” Jennings glanced at Malcolm. “But it’s rumors we want, isn’t it?”

Malcolm nodded. “Rumors-for instance that the local ores are declining in grade, or that the market for tin itself is declining, or better yet, news of a massive oversupply from another region driving down the price for the foreseeable future. Any rumor that suggests that poorer returns are in the wind will do the trick-and ‘persuade’ those small leaseholders that selling to ignorant and ill-informed Londoners is the clever thing to do.”

Jennings nodded. “But it can’t be us spreading the rumors.”

“No-it’ll be necessary for you to find some ears whose owners don’t know you, and are unlikely later to see and recognize you. I’ve heard there’s a festival in the offing-itinerant peddlers, troupers and the like gathering for that should be perfect for our purpose. Wait here.”

Rising, Malcolm went out into the hall. In its center, he paused, head cocked, listening, but no sound reached his ears. Reassured, he continued to the library at the front of the house.

He’d sent the Gattings, the couple he’d hired to look after him and the house, to spend the day at the markets in Porthleven, a necessary precaution given the Gattings knew him as Thomas Glendower, rather than Malcolm Sinclair. He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d decided to buy the manor as Glendower, but as the money for the purchase had come from Thomas Glendower’s accounts it had seemed simpler at the time. He’d kept his alter ego separate, free of any taint from Malcolm Sinclair’s unfortunate past with his late guardian. That scheme had ended badly; he’d always known it would.

Keeping Thomas Glendower and his steadily accumulating investment accounts unconnected with Malcolm Sinclair simply seemed wise.

Entering the library, Malcolm crossed to the desk set before the windows. Finding the right key on his chain, he unlocked and opened the central drawer, and lifted out a heavy pouch. He’d already counted the coins. Hefting the pouch, he relocked the drawer.

Tucking his chain back into his waistcoat pocket, he paused, his gaze drawn to the view beyond the windows. A pleasant prospect of gently rolling lawn undulated southward, then dropped away; beyond, in the distance, he could see the sea.

To either side, the lawn was bordered by well-established trees; the manor stood on ten lightly wooded acres, with stables at the back. There were no formal gardens, but until now a Londoner, Malcolm felt no lack.

He glanced around the room, comfortable yet gracious with its oak half-paneling, then, lips quirking, headed for the door.

He hadn’t come to Cornwall expecting to buy a house but the manor had been there-just the right size, in just the right place, not far from a village and close enough to the sea, with a view from all the front rooms, including his bedroom on the first floor, that allowed him to appreciate the storms and drama of the weather that swirled past this stretch of coast.

Entirely unexpectedly he’d fallen in love with the place. He hadn’t had a real home, not since he’d been orphaned at age six. Until he’d seen the manor, he hadn’t known he wanted one, but the simple house with its quiet grace had reached out and snared him.

As yet he hadn’t changed anything; the furniture was an eclectic mix of styles that somehow suited both the rooms and him. He’d wait for a few months and see if anything grated.

The pouch in his hand, he headed back to the parlor and Jennings. The man had worked for him in London until, a month or so ago, Malcolm had suggested a sojourn in the country might be wise. Jennings had taken the hint and gone to visit his aunt in Exeter. On leaving London, Malcolm had decided to investigate Cornwall, not least because of the mines; he’d found Jennings in Exeter and had beckoned, and his erstwhile henchman had followed.

He’d left London not just to escape the heat but to leave behind the cloying stench of his guardian’s suicide and the slavery scheme Lowther, a law lord, had run. Malcolm, through Jennings, had been instrumental in arranging the details, but he hadn’t been sorry to see the scheme undone. He’d never understood the rationale of acting illegally in order to amass wealth, not when there were so many ways to accumulate funds while remaining entirely on the right side of the law.

Tin mining being one.

Opening the parlor door, he crossed to Jennings and dropped the pouch into his hand. “Try the alehouses and taverns in Falmouth. Any itinerant heading for the Lizard Peninsula is most likely to come through there.”

She was never going to try reasoning with Gervase Tregarth again.

The day after she’d been goaded into allowing him to try to seduce her, Madeline climbed the castle steps, sternly quelling an unsettling notion that she was walking into a tiger’s hunting ground.

The front doors stood wide; she continued into the hall beyond. Gervase was standing by the central table speaking with Mrs. Entwhistle; lit by slanting rays from the afternoon sun, he turned his head and watched as she approached.