backward onto sand, skirts flying. Morgan caught a glimpse of beautifully shaped leg before she sat up, laughing, and subdued the unruly garment.
“My lord! What a wicked prank! You will be teaching Jeremy bad tricks.”
Tossing the crab back into the puddle, he held out his hand and grinned. “No one needs to teach boys that sort of mischief. They come by it quite naturally.” He pulled her to her feet. “Forgive me. I forgot the dignity of my years.”
“Humph.” She straightened her clothes and brushed at the sand clinging to them, twinkling eyes denying her stern tone. “I do not see one particle of penitence in your countenance, my lord.”
“I’m hopelessly corrupt.” He favored her with his most winning smile. “Here, let me help you.” He limited his assistance to whisking the dirt off her shoulders, regretfully restraining himself from more interesting areas. Bethinking himself of his nephew, Morgan looked around for the whereabouts of that fearless young man. He was discovered to be tugging vigorously at something jammed between two rocks a few yards away.
Morgan sauntered in his direction. “What do you have there, lad?”
“I think it’s part of a boat. Maybe the one that got wrecked.” A final wrench freed the object and Jeremy sprawled backward, following Lalia’s undignified example. “Ow!” He got up sucking his finger.
“Oh, dear. Let me see.” Lalia took his hand in hers. “Yes. It’s a splinter.” She grasped the sliver and pulled before Jeremy could object and withdraw his hand.
“Ouch! Don’t!” He stuck his finger back in his mouth, mumbling, “Did you get it out?”
“I think so. Let me see. Stay still a minute. How can I…?”
Ignoring the tussle with the splinter, Morgan stood, brow furrowed, studying the battered lettering on the length of wood Jeremy had retrieved. He turned to Lalia. “What did you call Hayne’s vessel?”
“The Seahawk. Why?” She glanced at what he held, then froze. “Oh, my.”
Chapter Five
M organ knew that the wreck of the day before had not been the Seahawk. That had been a much bigger vessel than Hayne’s private yacht. A ride along the cliff tops revealed several more pieces of flotsam the color of Hayne’s boat lodged against the rocks, but no sign of Hayne. Inquiries in the village brought no further enlightenment. All declared that no one had seen him since he sailed away several days before. Nor did anyone seem very interested in searching for him.
Possibly because they already knew where he was. A man of Hayne’s caliber must surely have friends among the rogues who plied the smuggling trade in the district. It defied belief that the Seahawk had never carried a cargo of run brandy. Hayne always needed money. But if his yacht had come to grief, and no body was to be found, where was Hayne? He returned home with the question unanswered to find his library occupied.
He studied the man sitting across from the desk with a carefully neutral expression. Morgan did not like Roger Poleven. He surveyed his guest with as much courtesy as he could muster. The family resemblance between Lalia Hayne and her half brother did not extend beyond the blue-green eyes. His did not even show the brilliant clarity of hers, but looked bloodshot and murky. Neither did the dark brown hair shine as her black braid did. He certainly did not demonstrate any of her gentle nature.
Poleven lounged carelessly in the chair, brandy in hand. “I found it expedient to rusticate for a time, so I thought I would call and greet my sister. How long have you been in Cornwall?”
Morgan took his time in pouring his own brandy and seating himself behind the desk. From what Lalia said, the man had not troubled himself to greet her in years. What, then, was this show of brotherly affection? “I’m afraid you have missed Mrs. Hayne. She has driven out with my nephew. I don’t expect them back for another hour.”
“Ah, well. Another time.” Poleven waved a disinterested hand. “Your nephew, eh?” A knowing smirk appeared on his face, but he quickly removed it as Morgan directed a cold look at him. Poleven hastily changed the subject. “The talk is that you have bought up Hayne’s mortgages?”
Morgan nodded silently.
“And my sister is still in residence? I would have thought you would have remedied that by now.”
Morgan’s continued silence slowed Poleven a bit, but didn’t daunt him.
The man’s face took on a sly expression. “Well, I can’t blame you. She’s a pretty enough chit. In any case, that’s Hayne’s problem, not mine. Can you imagine? My father left not one shilling for her maintenance.”
Morgan raised one eyebrow. “No doubt he expected that you would provide a home for her.”
“Me? Keep a thieving Gypsy in my house? No thank you. He was touched in his upper works. At least I found a suitable match for her. Cost me a pretty penny and so I’ll tell you.”
Good God! The man was every bit as despicable as Hayne. “Perhaps you know where your sister’s husband is to be found?”
“Not I. No one’s seen him this age. Probably with someone else’s wife somewhere.” Poleven tossed off the rest of his brandy and looked hopefully toward the decanter.
Morgan stood. “I’ll tell your sister you called.”
“Oh. Yes, of course.” Poleven got reluctantly to his feet, one eye still on the decanter. “I say, Carrick, I was just wondering as I rode up…I’m a bit embarrassed at the moment. Perhaps you might help me out with a few pounds until I come about?”
So that was it. The rascal wanted money. Obviously he already knew he would find Morgan at Merdinn. Perhaps he fancied that he had some leverage. Morgan gave him a flint-hard look. “I’m afraid it will not be possible for me to oblige you.”
Poleven shrugged. “No matter. I’ll stop in again sometime.” He collected his hat and gloves and ambled out the door.
When Watford arrived, Morgan’s first instruction to his butler would be that Roger Poleven should never again set foot within the walls of Merdinn. The man’s attitude toward his sister was vile—unpardonable. One did not abandon one’s relatives because of some irregularity of birth. If he ever heard Roger Poleven call Eulalia Hayne a “thieving Gypsy” again, he would probably plant him a facer.
“Beg pardon, ma’am.” Gwennap, the foreman of the renovation crew, stuck his head through the door. “Where might I find his lordship?”
Lalia looked up from trying to find a place for more vegetables in the cool of the cellar. His lordship’s chef had arrived the day after their discovery in the cove, along with the rest of the staff, but while she had become unwelcome in the kitchen, no one had yet driven her out of the garden. “He is not here. He took his nephew down to the village. May I help you?”
Gwennap looked perplexed. “Well, I can’t rightly say. We’ve finished cleaning the great hall, and I don’t know what he wants done next.”
“Have you asked Mrs. Carthew?”
“The new housekeeper? She’s gone to the market, ma’am.”
“Very well, I’ll go with you to look. I’m sure the large dining room needs a great deal of work.” She led the workman up the stairs to the ground floor.
At the door of the room formerly used for large dinners, she paused and waved a hand. She had long wanted to turn it out for a good cleaning. “Everything needs work—the floor stones need scrubbing, the paneling must be cleaned and polished… And the furniture…well, it is probably still usable if scrubbed and the chairs recovered, but… You will have to ask Lord Carrick if he wants the draperies cleaned or discarded. In any case, they must be taken down. Here…”
Within a few minutes the work force had invaded the room, and Lalia dived into supervising, lending a hand here and there.