Unquestionably, it was his duty to see to the safety of Percy’s mother, but he had no idea where he was going to stash such a foul-mouthed harridan. Obviously, he couldn’t take her back to Blackmore. Agnes would have an apoplexy, and goodness knows what Nicholas would have to say about the matter. And that was without considering the danger he could be putting them all in if thisJackgot wind of her hiding place.
And to top it all, he’d involved his daughter in the whole smoky business.
The Reverend felt like crying. He had no idea what to do and couldn’t remember the last time he'd been so bereft of ideas.
He took another sip of his ale. Mayhap he was in need of some sustenance. He nodded his head in satisfaction. That was it. He was certain some cold meats and cheeses would help with the thinking process. Along with another tankard of ale naturally…
∞∞∞
Charity lay on her bed trying to sleep. But try as she might, she could not seem to stop the thoughts from chasing around her head.
Mary Noon was in terrible trouble. That much was abundantly clear. Clearly, the Customs Officers had no interest in what happened to her unless she gave them something useful, and Charity suspected that while her confession might see the arrest of several members of the smuggling ring, their leader wouldwalk away scot-free. And of course Mary herself would be unlikely to live long enough to celebrate her freedom.
Sighing, she turned over and cuddled Freddy who was snoring loudly next to her. He’d been scrubbed with water and sand on their return to their accommodation, then rubbed down with strewing herbs. The whole procedure another cost her father had been none too happy about. But now, though still damp, the foxhound was smelling much sweeter.
Mary did not know what Jack looked like. But Charity did. Would it help if she informed the authorities that she’d seen the face of the notorious leader of the Hope Cove gang? Or would she simply be consigning herself to the same watery grave Percy’s mother feared?
Her thoughts turned to Jago Cardell. Mayhap hewouldbe able to help them as her father had hinted. But then, he could be one of the smugglers himself. Charity frowned. Somehow, she didn’t think so. While she didn’t know him at all, she felt deep inside that there was something honest about him. His clothes, though old and worn, were decent and relatively clean. Not something most workhands cared about in her experience. She thought back to his large hands. Despite their callouses, they were not ingrained with dirt. Unaccountably, she wondered what it would feel like to have them touch her body, then her face flamed at the thought.
Turning onto her back, she wondered at the restless feeling that her imaginings brought on. Her clothes felt too tight, despite the fact that she wasn’t wearing stays. Bewilderingly her breasts tingled, and she felt a strange throb in between her legs. Was this what Tempy meant when she used to wax lyrically about her husband Adam? Naturally, both Charity and Chastity were not supposed to be privy to such private conversations between theirolder sisters, but neither twin had ever paid much attention to such strictures, and eavesdropping had always been only one of their many dubious talents.
Sighing, Charity determinedly shut her eyes. She was being entirely foolish, mooning over a man she’d just met and knew nothing about. That was the kind of thing Chastity did, not her. She was the practical twin. The one that called a spade a spade and had no qualms about offering her opinion, whether wanted or no.
In truth, Charity was certain that should Jago Cardell ever get to know her, he wouldn’t actually like her very much.
∞∞∞
Jago was late finishing his shift, which gave him the perfect reason to excuse himself from joining the Shacklefords for dinner. But for some unholy reason, he didn’t cry off, and neither did he question his haste in washing himself down back at his lodgings. A pair of forthright brown eyes and softly curling chestnut hair felt as though they were indelibly engraved on his brain. Why Charity Shackleford should have such an effect on him, he had no idea. His head wasn’t usually turned so easily.
He'd known his fair share of women, though admittedly most of them had been light skirts sought out on rare visits to Truro. In truth, before his sister’s death, Jago had seldom left Tredennick and the tin mine that had provided his family with their wealth for so many years.
While the mine itself was run by Richard Tregear, his father’s manager, Jago had always been involved, ever since he was oldenough to dip the mineworkers’ hats in resin to make them hard. Richard had taught Jago everything he knew.
Morgan Carlyon had never had any interest in the running of the mine, but Jago had lived and breathed it since he was a lad, and his life would be forever linked to the lives of the people who worked there.
Jago squeezed his eyes shut, the longing to be back in Tredennick an almost physical pain. Although he’d revealed his reason for leaving to Richard before he’d left, and had gone with the manager’s blessing, Jago feared the mining families he’d abandoned would not be so forgiving when he finally returned home.
Shoving his arms into a clean shirt, Jago forced his thoughts back to the present. Thinking about Wheal Tredennick did no good at all. The sooner he saw Jack swing, the sooner he would be able to return home.
Shrugging on his coat, he ignored the small voice saying if that was the case, why the devil was he wasting his time with a chit clearly only just out of the school room.
∞∞∞
As eight p.m. approached, Charity smoothed down her best gown attempting to get at least some of the creases out. A cast off from … well, one of her older sisters, the dress was plain, without the acres of frothy lace that seemed attached to nearly all of the evening dresses favoured by her older, married siblings. The colour was pleasing, however. A soft apricot which Charity felt emphasised her eyes and made them look less cow like. Whileshe usually managed to disregard Anthony’s regular taunts ofDaisy, she couldn’t deny that deep inside, his insults struck a nerve. To Charity’s annoyance, her twin’s eyes were a deep vivid blue.
‘Stay here, Freddy,’ she murmured, stroking the foxhound’s head. ‘I’ll bring you back something tasty, I promise.’ Then she handed the dog a few pieces of dried mutton and tipped a little of the washing water into his bowl in case he got thirsty.
At the sound of her father’s knock, she picked up her gloves and blew out the candle. Not wanting Freddy to be left alone in complete darkness, she’d left the curtains open to allow the bedchamber to benefit from the light cast by the lanterns in the courtyard below so the loss of the only candle in the room did not entirely leave her blind as she made her way to the door.
‘Come along, girl, we’ll be going down for deuced breakfast if you take much longer,’ the Reverend grouched from the landing. Ignoring his impatient tones, Charity took the time to pull on her gloves, finishing her ensemble before opening the door. Why it should matter so, she didn’t wish to contemplate.
Her father couldn’t quite hide his surprise when she finally appeared. He didn’t say anything however, though she couldn’t prevent the sudden flush of colour rushing to her cheeks at his knowing look.
The dubious light cast by the sconces on the wall distorted the landing and stairs, forcing them both to take their time negotiating the steep uneven steps. ‘Where has Percy been placed?’ Charity questioned as she descended carefully, all the while gripping the banister and staring determinedly at the floor. A broken leg she was persuaded would not help matters at all.
‘He’s at the back near John’s room,’ Reverend Shackleford muttered, entirely focused on putting one foot in front of another. ‘Tare an’ hounds I’ll be breaking me neck on these deuced stairs if we stay here much longer.’
‘Be careful, Father,’ Charity admonished, her heart in her mouth as she watched him stumble.
