His brows rose, but he said nothing more as he strolled beside her down the corridor and ushered her into his library.
She walked to the armchair angled before the desk. Pausing beside it, she glanced back—and discovered him by her shoulder. Felt one hard hand grasp her waist while with his other he tipped up her chin.
So he could kiss her.
A swift, not undemanding yet unforceful kiss, a reminder, a promise.
A complete and utter distraction. When he lifted his head, she blinked at him, dazed, mentally lost.
He smiled and nudged her into the armchair. “Sit. And tell me what brought you here.”
She sank down, struggling to marshal her wits. She’d lost them in the instant his lips had touched hers—no, before, when she’d realized he was close.
He rounded the desk and sat in the admiral’s chair behind it; the smugness he tried to hide as he looked inquiringly at her broke the spell. She dragged in a breath. “This business of the mining leases.”
Once she’d started, it wasn’t so hard. Briefly she explained what her brothers had heard, then outlined the information she’d received from London. “Then yesterday when Harry returned to Helford and spoke with Sam’s father, he thought to ask who had spread the rumor. It was a peddler in the tap—Sam’s father thought the man was most likely heading for the festival. So the boys decided to follow him and see what they could learn—they caught up with the peddler in the tavern at St. Keverne.”
She glanced at Gervase. All hint of private emotion had vanished from his demeanor; he was as intent on her tale as she might wish. “The peddler said he’d picked up the rumor in a tavern in Falmouth. He said it was general, a tale doing the rounds. He didn’t know of any specific source.”
Gervase grimaced. “Falmouth, and the fleet’s in. If one wanted to start an anonymous rumor, a few whispers in drunken sailors’ ears would do it.”
“So I thought. Assuming, of course, that these rumors have no basis in fact but are being spread by this London gentleman or his agent to encourage locals to sell their leases.”
He tapped a pile of letters stacked to one side of the blotter. “Like yours, my London contacts confirmed no suggestion of any diminution in the tin trade, but rather an expectation of improved returns. They were puzzled that I should have heard anything to the contrary. Beyond that, I also wrote to St. Austell, the Earl of Lostwithiel, and Viscount Torrington—his estates are near Bideford.” He glanced at Madeline. “Both hold tin mining leases and are members of the Bastion Club.”
“Your private club?”
He nodded and lifted two letters. “Both replied in much the same vein as all else we’ve heard. No hint of any problem with tin mining, but rather an expectation of increased profits.” His lips curved ruefully. “They, of course, now want to know why I asked.” He dropped the letters back on the pile.
Glancing up, he found Madeline’s gaze fixed on a point beyond his shoulder.
“It occurred to me,” she murmured, “that while most of us—the gentry and aristocracy—are unlikely to sell on the basis of rumor, not without checking if not with London then at least with each other, there are many others who hold leases who are not as well connected, not as well informed.”
She met his gaze. “Should this rumor become widespread, if an offer is made to them, small farmers will likely sell.”
He nodded.
Looking down, chin firming, she started pulling on her gloves. “I’m going to ride to Helston and see if I can locate this agent, and ask him to explain these rumors. If I can’t find him, I intend putting it about that I would like to speak with him concerning selling some leases.” She looked up and smiled—icily. “That should bring him to my door.” Gloves on, she rose.
Forcibly reminded of his Valkyrie analogy, Gervase rose, too. “I’ll ride with you.”
She might be her brother’s surrogate, but he was the local earl, the senior nobleman in the district. A fact she acknowledged with an inclination of her head, and no argument.
Ten minutes later, they were galloping side by side—riding hard, wild, unrestrained. She had her chestnut again, and he was on Crusader; they pounded north across the golden-grassed downs, an exhilarating run, shared and carefree, before, in wordless concert, they mentally sighed, remembered who they were, and eased back and swung northwest for Helston.
They approached the town from the south, trotting along a newly macadamized stretch of road. “Let’s start our search in the northwest quadrant.” He glanced at Madeline. “More taverns there.”
She nodded. Entering the town, they walked their mounts on.
The next hour saw them, side by side, talk to seven ta
vern and inn keepers. All recognized the man Squire Ridley had described; all had seen him about town, or in their taps, but none knew who he was or where he was staying.
“Nope.” John Quiller shook his head in answer to Madeline’s final query. “Ain’t seen him with no one else either. Keeps to himself but polite with it. He talks readily enough, will join in a discussion if asked, but o’ course no one’s been so bold as to ask him outright what he’s here for.”
Inwardly sighing, Madeline nodded.
“If you see him again, John, tell him I’d like a word.” Gervase took her arm. “Tell him it might be worth his while. Send him to the castle.”