1
FREDERICK
Never had Frederick Yorke looked upon the prospect of death with such anticipation.
Not his own death.Thatwas an event he trusted lay far in the future.
It was a stranger’s death he awaited.
It was wrong to await a man’s demise, of course, be he stranger or no. Frederick harbored Lord Westvale no ill-will. It was merely that Westvale was all that stood between him and the goal he had been pursuing for the last six years: becoming a Member of Parliament.
When Frederick had left London, everyone said Westvale had only weeks—perhaps days—left in this world, which meant that Westvale’s nephew would inherit his title and vacate his seat in the House of Commons. A seat Frederick planned to win.
He craned his neck in an attempt to see ahead. The tree boughs, heavy with vibrant green summer foliage, obscured everything but the top of a squared church tower—a most welcome sight after days on end in the saddle.
He had known the journey to Cornwall would be long and difficult, but he had severely underestimated just how remote it was—and the abysmal state of the roads.
His horse, Flint, tripped, and Frederick leaned forward to rub the beast’s damp neck. “Almost there, old boy. Plenty of water and food ahead.” At least, he assumed Cornwall was civilized enough to have places to feed his horse.
As the pocked road sloped downward, the full stone church came into view, but it was not that which pulled Frederick’s gaze as the trees thinned on either side of him. His eyes fixed on a dazzling blue. No—a dozen different blues. Azure, teal, sapphire, midnight. All sparkling, even under a clouded sky.
He had seen the sea, of course, but this sight was nothing like bustling Brighton. It was vivid. Verdant. Captivating.
People had warned him about Cornwall.
Provincial. Rustic. Backward. Rugged. Vulgar—all words that had been bandied about when he had stated his intent to come to the borough of Trelowen. He had brushed off such descriptors, for what did it matter so long as he attained his goal of becoming an MP?
Trelowen was a means to an end. A seat in Parliament was a seat in Parliament, so he cared little for howtonishit was.
Not in all the talk of Cornwall, however, had anyone mentioned its beauty.
Flint stumbled again, and Frederick swore under his breath, nearly unseated thanks to his distraction.
He refocused his gaze on the small fishing village rising up before him and noted the dingy, hanging sign on a whitewashed building up ahead: The Silver Pilchard.
It was a world away from the inns he had frequented in the past, both in location and presentation, but after the eternal journey from London, he simply required a place to lay his head and to feed and water his horse.
A small boy hurried out to take charge of Flint, and Frederick swung down from the saddle, his legs and back aching fit to break.
A portly woman with shocks of gray near her temples emerged from the inn door, drying her hands on a well-worn apron. “Good day to ‘ee, sir.” The welcoming words were heavy with Cornish twang, and her gaze ran over him with unapologetic scrutiny—and a bit of wonder. “’ow can I help ‘ee?”
“Good afternoon,” Freddie replied. “I require food and water for both my horse and myself. And a room. For the foreseeable future.”
Her brow went up. “Do ‘ee now?”
“Yes,” Freddie replied, his tone dampening. Apparently, Trelowen was not in the habit of welcoming callers for more than a night or two. “That is, unless you are unable to accommodate me, in which case?—”
“We can accommodate ‘ee perfectly well, sir.” There was a hint of affront in her voice as she turned to the boy who had the reins in hand. “Take the horse back, Jory, then bring the master’s belongings upstairs.” She turned back to Frederick. “Follow me, if ‘ee please, sir.”
The Silver Pilchard was small and its furnishings sturdy but well-worn, the scent of hearth smoke and ale strong in the air. It was certainly not in the same league as The White Hart where he had spent the first night of the journey, but there was a distinct warmth to the place, and it was clean, at least.
The room he was shown to was large enough—the finest at the establishment, he guessed—and the sheets dry. A thick, warped sash window overlooked the small harbor, where a few boats sat on the pebbly beach, a tangle of fishing nets filling their otherwise empty hulls.
With no small effort, Frederick forced the warped sash open, letting in a salty breeze and the sound of gulls.
The innkeeper—one Mrs. Tonkin, as he discovered—informed him she would have a meal ready for him in one and a half hour’s time. Her demeanor toward him was at once wary and curious, as though she mistrusted her guest but had no wish for him to take his patronage elsewhere—if, indeed, therewasanother inn nearby, which he very much doubted.
Frederick took advantage of the time before dinner to lie on the bed and rest his weary, saddle-sore body. To his surprise, he found it more comfortable than his bed in London. He would need the rest, for tomorrow, he would take the first step in his plan and call upon the elderly baron and baroness who had the power to see him elected as MP for Trelowen.
