Jane Feather - Violet

An inconvenient little voice trilled that Julian would say it was still blackmail, however you painted it. But he was safely in London and never going to find out.

Josefa came bustling in as she was putting on her hat, a rather dashing tricorn. The Spanish woman was wreathed in smiles and hadn't stopped smiling since they'd returned with the glorious news that they were going home. She rushed around the room, picking up Tamsyn's discarded afternoon gown, scolding her nurseling for her untidiness, but her smile unwavering.

“Josefa, I'm going for a ride, if anyone wants to know. I'll be back by five o'clock at the latest.” Tamsyn planted a kiss on one shiny round cheek and left the room, running down to the stables.

Five minutes later she was on the road to Lanjerrick.

She and Gabriel had ridden over one afternoon a few weeks before, to get a sense of the extent of the Penhallan estates, but they hadn't entered the grounds. The gray stone house stood on a promontory overlooking St. Austell Bay and was easily seen from the road. It was a house of turrets and gables, with a steeply pitched roof and transomed windows. Tamsyn had taken an instant dislike to it, finding it forbidding after the soft, golden warmth of Tregarthan.

She turned through the stone gate posts and rode up a weed-infested drive. Apprehension and excitement prickled along her spine as she left the road behind her and rode deeper into Penhallan land. This was Cecile's home, the place where she had spent the years of her growing. Had it changed much in the last twenty years? Had she missed it much? Tamsyn realized she'd never given that question any thought. Cecile had always seemed so joyful in her life that it was hard to imagine she had any regrets. But perhaps sometimes she had thought of her childhood home with nostalgia, as Tamsyn thought now with an ache of longing of the mountain villages and the icy peaks of her own childhood.

The drive opened out into a gravel sweep, and the house loomed, ivy covered, the stonework cracked in places, its windows curiously blank, like blind eyes. It struck Tamsyn as strange that a man as rich and powerful as Cedric Penhallan should neglect his property. When

Cecile had talked of Lanjerrick, she'd described its magnificence, the grand parties, the weekend shooting parties, the endless stream of guests. But there had been women in the house then. Now there was only Cedric and the vile twins. Presumably they didn't notice the air of neglect.

She rode boldly up to the front door and dismounted. As she did so, the door opened and a liveried flunkey in an old-fashioned powdered wig stepped out. “'You have business here?”

“Yes, I'm come to call upon Lord Penhallan,” Tamsyn said cheerfully, tethering Cesar to the stone pillar at the base of the steps leading up to the front door.

The flunkey looked momentarily nonplussed. Taking advantage of his uncertainty, Tamsyn swiftly mounted the steps. “Would you announce me to the viscount?” Without waiting for a response she pushed past him and stepped into the hall. An expanse of black and white marble tiles stretched to the staircase, and light came from a series of arched diamond-paned windows along one wall. As she stood looking around, curiosity now superseding her apprehension, a pair of greyhounds leaped out of nowhere and raced past her.

“Walters, what the devil are you doing?” An irascible voice rasped from the rear of the hall. “Close the bloody door, man, before the dogs get out.”

The door banged shut behind her, and the two dogs sloped back into the shadows.

“Who in the name of the good Christ are you?” the same voice demanded. Cedric Penhallan came forward, glaring into the gloom. Then he stopped as he saw his visitor clearly.

Tamsyn raised her head and looked her uncle full in the face as she had done at the party at Tregarthan. She saw, as then, a choleric countenance, flat black eyes, a shock of iron-gray hair, a beaky nose above a fleshy mouth. A massive, powerful frame beginning to run to fat. Her scalp lifted as she felt that aura of menace flowing around him, and for the first time she felt fear.

Cedric stared at her. The minutes passed, and the only sound in the room was the scratch of a dog's claws on the tiles. “Who are you?” His voice was suddenly quiet, a strange light enlivening his hard eyes. He knew the answer but he wanted it spoken.

Tamsyn stepped closer to him on a sudden surge of exultation, banishing her fear. He knew and yet he couldn't believe what he was seeing. “Good afternoon uncle.”

“Good God, it's St. Simon's doxy!” Before Cedric could respond, the slurred voice of Charles Penhallan came from the stairs. He held a wineglass in one hand and his eyes were unfocused. “Look what we've got here, David. The little whore's come back for more.” He laughed and came down the stairs, only then seeing his uncle.

“Beg pardon, sir. But what's St. Simon's harlot doing here?”

“Don't be any more of a fool than you can help,” Cedric said coldly. He jerked his head at Tamsyn. “Come in here.”

She moved to follow him, aware that David had joined his brother on the stairs. It was very fortunate Gabriel was not with her. They were both regarding her with a lascivious, drunken interest. She glanced up at them. “What a pretty pair of cowardly sots, you are, cousins. Have you had fun with any little girls recently?” Then she followed Cedric into a large paneled library.

“Where have you come from?” He spoke from the sideboard, where he was pouring cognac with hands that weren't quite steady.

Tamsyn didn't answer the question, saying instead, “I look very like her, don't I?” She felt rather than heard the twins stepping into the room behind her.

Cedric tossed back the contents of the glass. “Yes,” he said. “The very image of her. Where is she?”

“Dead. But she lived rather longer than you'd intended.” Tamsyn was beginning to enjoy herself; all her fear had gone. She glanced again at her cousins, who were standing by the door, gawping in incomprehension. “Long enough to ensure that you will pay for what you did to her.” A cold smile touched her lips. “Was it really necessary to send her to her death, uncle?”

“Your mother was a very difficult woman.” Cedric refilled his glass. He seemed almost amused. “She intended to ruin me… to bring disgrace on the name of Penhallan. If she'd been just a silly chit, I could have brought her to heel. But Celia had an iron will… hard to believe, really, to look at her. She was such a little thing.”

“What's St. Simon's doxy got to do with us?” David asked, sounding petulant in his drunken confusion.

“Are you?” Cedric asked Tamsyn with the same amusement.

She shook her head. “Certainly not. I'm a Penhallan, sir. Penhallans are not whores, are they?”

His color deepened, and his breath whistled through his teeth, but his voice when he spoke was as neutral as before. “So just where does St. Simon come into all this?”

“He doesn't,” she said. “He knows nothing about it.”

“I see.” Cedric stroked his chin. “I suppose you have proof of your identity?”

“I'm no fool, sir.”

“No… no more was your mother.” He laughed suddenly, sounding genuinely entertained. “Fancy that. Trust Celia to come back and haunt me. Curiously enough, I miss her.”

''I'm sure she would have been touched to hear it,” Tamsyn said dryly.

He laughed again. “Sharp tongue, just like hers.” He turned back to the decanter and again refilled his glass. “So what do you want?”

“Well, I had in mind the Penhallan diamonds,” Tamsyn said pensively. “They were Cecile's and by rights should come to me.”

“What's she talking about?” Charles demanded.