That took significant effort, but she prevailed well enough that she wasn’t caught out again. She avoided meeting Gervase’s eye; whether he’d guessed the source of her abstraction was a point she didn’t need to know.
Finally all the arrangements had been approved, the schedule decided. Everyone rose and filed out into the hall, chatting and swapping the latest local news. Her mind elsewhere, she hung back, politely letting her elders go before her—only to recall, too late, that that would leave her with Gervase at the rear.
He touched her arm before she could sweep ahead. “I went fishing with your brothers this morning.”
She glanced up to see him considering those before them.
Then he looked at her. “Stay a moment—I’ll fill you in on what I learned.”
She could detect not the faintest hint of predatory intent in his tiger eyes. “All right.” She walked into the hall by his side, and hung back by the central table while he farewelled the others. Sybil went out onto the front porch to wave; Gervase turned to her.
By then she’d had time to think. She gestured to the courtyard, to where the ramparts rose. “It’s such a lovely day, why don’t we stroll outside?”
He glanced back through the doors. “The wind’s coming up on that side. The east battlements will be more sheltered.” He gestured to a door down the hall.
Inclining her head—ramparts or battlements, both were outside, and thus during the day subject to public gaze—she acquiesced and strolled beside him. Opening the door, he waved her up a narrow spiral stair. Lifting her skirts, she started up; he followed, closing the door behind him.
“Did the boys tell you what they’re searching for?”
With difficulty Gervase drew his gaze from her hips, swaying provocatively before him, and forced himself to look at her heels. “In a manner of speaking. They assured me they haven’t had any dealings this summer with the smugglers—a fact verified by the smugglers themselves—and then grilled me on all the wrecks I knew of, specifically where debris got washed ashore.”
“I trust you led them astray?”
He grinned. “That wasn’t necessary. From their questions, they’re concentrating on the reefs to the west, off Mullion and Gunwalloe. According to Abel Griggs—he’s the leader of the Helston gang—there hasn’t been a wreck there since last October, and if anyone would know, Abel would.”
She climbed for a minute before saying, “So there’s nothing for them to find, but they’ll hunt through the coves and caves anyway.”
They’d reached the landing before the door to the battlements. He came up beside her; studiously ignoring the perfume that rose from her skin and hair—and its effect as it wreathed through his senses—he reached past her, turned the knob, and pushed the door wide.
She went through, immediately lifting her hands to hold back whipping tendrils of her hair. Below and before them, stretching all the way to Black Head on the other side of the bay, the sea was pale, corrugated and frothed by the strafing wind. Although much less strong than on the exposed ramparts to the west, the capricious gusts that snaked their way around to the battlements were still strong enough to plaster her light gown to her body, to her legs.
Gervase considered them, then remembered what he’d intended to say just as she swung to face him.
“I suppose searching for treasure, even if they find nothing, will still keep them happy as grigs.”
“Actually, I’m not sure about that—at least not in Harry’s case.” Shutting the door, he leaned back against it.
Still holding her hair, she came closer, the better to hear him. Frowning. “What do you mean?”
“I got the distinct impression that the search is mostly Ben’s idea. Edmond’s caught up in it, too, but Ben is the primary enthusiast. Harry, unless I’m much mistaken, is going along because of the others, not because he has any real interest in the endeavor.”
Her frown remained. “He’s usually the instigator—he used to be forever on about joining the smugglers and doing runs.”
“Undoubtedly. But that was before.” Gervase paused, then asked, “He’s fifteen, correct?” She nodded. He grimaced wryly. “I remember being fifteen. I remember Christopher being fifteen.” He hesitated, then said, “A word of advice, if you’ll take it. The very last thing you want is for a fifteen-year-old youth to grow bored. And unless I read matters entirely wrongly, underneath it all, Harry is bored. There’s no challenge in his life.”
Her lips tightened; her gaze grew unfocused. For a moment she was completely still, then she blinked and looked at him. Studied his eyes for an instant, then raised her brows. “You have a suggestion.”
Statement, no question. “A suggestion, nothing more. He’s Viscount Gascoigne, and fifteen is old enough to start learning the ropes.”
Her frown remained etched in her eyes. “He never asks about the estate, things like that. I usually have to push to make him play the viscount, even socially.”
He couldn’t help a snort. “Madeline, the social aspects are the ones he’ll like least. Try him with some of the real work. Take him with you when you ride out, when you visit the farms. Start asking for his opinion—that’ll give him an opening to ask you to explain things.”
Again he hesitated, searching her eyes, pale, green, today remarkably clear. “Don’t wait for him to ask, because he won’t—he’ll see that as encroaching on your territory. If you’re ever going to hand the estate on to him—and yes, I know that’s your intention—you’ll have to make the first overtures. Always, with each aspect, he’ll wait for you to suggest he gets involved. Out of loyalty to you, he won’t push for involvement himself.”
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nbsp; Her frown had evaporated, initially superseded by puzzlement that now dissolved into revelation. “Oh, I see.” After a moment, she added, “Yes, of course.” She refocused on him. And smiled—a glorious smile full of happiness and content.