She was aware of his gaze shifting between the two large men beside her, Cris dishevelled in shirtsleeves, Mr Stone managing to look piratical despite his sober, conventional clothing. ‘My aunt, Miss Holt, is the householder. And you are?’
‘Lieutenant Ritchie, newly appointed Riding Officer for this beat of the coast. And I was told it is Mrs Perowne that I need to speak to.’
Was it her imagination or had Cris growled, low in his throat.
‘I am Tamsyn Perowne.’ She tried to sound calm and welcoming, but the man’s hard, unfriendly gaze was setting her hackles up. ‘And Mr Defoe and Mr Stone are our house guests.’ She should invite him in, she knew. The Riding Officer had about the same status as the doctor or the curate and would expect to be received in gentry houses, but she did not want this man, who seemed to radiate hostility, over their threshold. ‘What can I do for you, Lieutenant Ritchie?’
‘The Revenue service has been informed of a new smuggling gang in these parts. What can you tell me of it, Mrs Perowne?’
‘Nothing whatsoever. There is no gang here, not since—’
‘Not since your late husband’s death?’ he enquired.
‘Precisely.’ She took a hold on her temper, sensing that her supporters would react violently at any sign of distress from her. A fight on the front lawn was the last thing they needed. ‘I imagine smuggling still goes on, here and there, in a minor way, but I defy you to find any stretch of coastline in England where it does not.’
‘And so it will remain while the local gentry take such a casual attitude to law-breaking. Ma’am.’ The last word sounded like an afterthought. ‘I came to give fair warning that we will be on the alert hereabouts now.’
‘There is no gang, Lieutenant Ritchie. And I can only assume you mean you wish to advise us to take care and lock our doors. Any other warning would be nothing short of insulting.’
‘Take it as you will, ma’am,’ he snapped.
‘Mrs Perowne is too much of a lady to respond to an insult in kind.’ Cris took one step forward. He sounded perfectly calm and yet his tone held a threat that sent a shiver down her spine.
‘And you are, sir?’ The Riding Officer’s square chin set even harder.
‘As Mrs Perowne said just now, Crispin Defoe, a visitor.’ Now he sounded as haughty as a duke.
‘Gabriel Stone. Another visitor,’ the mocking voice on her other side echoed, equally arrogant in its own way.
Ritchie’s gaze rested on the faces in front of him, then shifted as though to study the chairmen. Tamsyn could almost feel them glowering behind her. ‘Good day to you, gentlemen. Ma’am. You appear to have quite a private army here, Mrs Perowne.’ He touched his whip to his hat, turned the horse and clattered back up the lane.
Chapter Ten
Tamsyn turned to find that the two Irishmen had taken Aunt Rosie inside by the simple method of picking up the armchair she was sitting in and carrying it into the house.
Aunt Izzy remained, her face creased with puzzlement. ‘What an unpleasant man. I couldn’t hear all of what he was saying, but he seemed almost aggressive.’
‘Merely a jack-in-office,’ Cris said. ‘Newly appointed and officious. Nothing for you to worry about.’ He turned and looked at Tamsyn. ‘If he tries to cause any trouble, I will deal with him.’
It was necessary to take in a breath right down to her diaphragm. Somehow she was going to have to deal with this crisis and the aunts’ willingness to live without men suddenly became very understandable. Her life was far too full of them—Riding Officers trying to scare her, the mysterious Mr Stone arriving without warning and securing an invitation to stay without the slightest effort, large Irish chairmen who were carrying Aunt Rosie about as though they had been in her service for years and now Cris calmly announcing that he would deal with a government official.
‘And just how will you do that?’ she demanded. ‘Forgive me, Mr Defoe, but you are hardly the Duke of Devonshire, are you?’ He stood there, competent hands on admirably slim hips, the breeze from the sea stirring the thin white linen of his shirtsleeves, a glimpse of skin at his throat, a long green stain that looked remarkably like lichen up the length of one buckskin-clad thigh. ‘But of course, dukes do not go scrambling out of windows, do they?’
Behind him Mr Stone gave a snort of laughter. ‘Cris, a duke? He certainly acts like one on occasion, I will give you that.’ He appeared to find the idea inordinately amusing.
‘Mr Stone, perhaps you would excuse us for a moment? No doubt you would like to freshen up after your journey. If you cannot see either of my aunts when you go inside, then our housekeeper, Mrs Tape, will take care of you.’
‘Very crisp,’ Cris remarked as his friend, still chuckling, strolled off towards the front door.
‘I feel very crisp. In fact, I feel positively brittle. Just what, exactly, is going on, Mr Defoe? Why are you climbing out of windows and threatening Revenue officers and why does the idea that you are a duke convulse your exceedingly relaxed friend with amusement?’
‘You are allowing yourself to become agitated, Tamsyn.’ He touched her cheek with the back of his hand. ‘You are quite flushed. Come and sit in the summer house and compose yourself.’
Grinding one’s teeth was not ladylike, but then she did not feel so very ladylike, just at the moment. ‘By all means, let us go to the summer house.’ She waited until he had stepped into the shadowy interior behind her, then swung round and jabbed an angry finger into the middle of his chest. He caught her hand and held it, pressing the palm against the warm linen. Somehow she managed not to let her fingers curl, gathering the fabric up, pulling him closer.
‘Being married to Jory Perowne was not all joy, but at least he never patronised me, never treated me as though I was incapable of looking after myself and never, ever, told me I was becoming agitated when I was rightfully annoyed!’
‘But you aren’t married to me, Tamsyn.’ If she had not been flushed already, the suggestive growl in his voice would have turned her cheeks crimson. ‘Was I being patronising? I apologise if I was.’ He did not let her go and his fingers curled around hers as he took a step forward, trapping their joined hands between their bodies.