fill the space in the same way. Nor did she desire them.
The sight of Cris as he came into the room affected her as though he had touched her, instead of immediately going to Aunt Rosie’s side to offer his arm. Tamsyn tried to ignore the hollow feeling low down in her belly and the sensation that she was altogether too warm.
Whatever Cris Defoe had been doing had left him with colour on his cheeks and a sparkle in those blue eyes and he looked exactly what she had thought all along—a splendid male animal in his prime. And a more cunning one than I have been giving him credit for. But was he using his intelligence to help them or had he some other motives? Surely he could not be in league with Franklin? No one would risk drowning like that. Yes, he had been interested in Jory’s legendary hoard...but the same objection held. All he’d have needed to do if he had wanted to be ‘rescued’ and taken in was to sink a boat in their bay or stage a fall from a horse outside the house.
‘You came from the direction of the beach, Mr Defoe,’ she observed when they were all seated. ‘A remarkable feat, considering where we parted.’ He looked at her with a faint smile. ‘Do have a nice pilchard.’
‘Thank you, but I feel sufficiently fishy for one day.’ He sliced some ham and offered it to Aunt Rosie. ‘I begged a ride back from one of the fishermen at Stib’s Landing and his craft is liberally encrusted with fish scales. Dan Cardross, I think? He was going to lift his crab pots and said this was on his way.’
Dan had been Jory’s right-hand man. Tamsyn tried not to read any significance into that. ‘You had a long walk.’
‘I went up to Stibworthy, had a pint of ale in the inn, encountered Dr Tregarth and walked with him down to the harbour. I will admit to being glad of the boat ride back,’ he added to Aunt Izzy, who was making anxious noises about overdoing it and recklessness.
Tamsyn believed none of it. If he had needed to walk back, then Cris Defoe was quite capable of doing so. ‘You must rest this afternoon,’ she said, sweetly solicitous. ‘Perhaps your manservant can give you one of his massages.’
‘You are all consideration, Mrs Perowne, and I must admit, the thought of bed is a temptation.’ His lids lowered over the sinful blue eyes, the only acknowledgement that he was teasing her with a double entendre that went right past the two older ladies. ‘But I have correspondence to attend to, which will be restful enough. How does one get a letter to the post from here?’
‘Jason will take it up to the Ship Inn, which is our receiving office. The post boy comes in every day except Sunday at about eleven, delivers the mail, picks up our letters and takes them to Barnstaple. Post going out of the county is taken to Bristol by one of the daily steam ships and from there by mail coach. A letter you send up tomorrow morning will be in London in three days.’ Tamsyn delivered the information in a matter-of-fact tone, refusing to allow him to see the image that the conjunction of Cris Defoe and bed and temptation conjured up reflected in her expression.
‘Steam ships?’
‘They have been a boon for this coast because our roads are so bad. That is how the visitors to Ilfracombe and Instow arrive. We have quite a little sea-bathing industry in North Devon these days.’
‘That is what gave us the idea for the bathing room,’ Aunt Izzy explained. ‘I read how beneficial for rheumatic complaints the new hot-seawater baths are, but of course, Rosie could not tolerate the rough roads to reach Ilfracombe from here. So we decided to build our own.’
‘Ingenious. Would you object if I made sketches of the plumbing? I am tempted by the thought of hot baths in my own houses.’
‘Houses?’ He had more than one? Aunt Izzy shook her head at Tamsyn’s abrupt question but Cris showed no offence at her curiosity.
‘The house in the country and a pied-à-terre in London,’ he said vaguely. ‘Would you pass the butter?’
Tamsyn handed him the dish. ‘How lovely, to be able to go to London whenever you please.’
‘Shops?’ Cris enquired. He was teasing her, she could tell. The infuriating man did not so much as smile, but she was learning to watch for the slight dimple that appeared at the corner of his mouth when he was hiding amusement and the crinkle of laughter lines at his eyes.
‘Of course.’ She would not be drawn into a defence of shopping. ‘And bookshops and theatres and the sights—St James’s Palace and Carlton House and the parks.’
‘You enjoyed your season, then?’
‘I never had one. But as for the social round and the Marriage Mart, I am not sorry to have missed those.’
‘Your absence was society’s loss, Mrs Perowne. Think of all the bachelors deprived of the opportunity to court you, all the balls and assemblies ungraced by your presence.’
‘I am sure those bachelors survived heart-whole. After all, they had no idea what they were missing.’
Aunt Izzy laughed and turned to Rosie. ‘Do you remember at that assembly in Exeter, the evening before my eighteenth birthday?’ In moments they were lost in reminiscence over some private joke.
‘Yes, the poor souls have been languishing in ignorance,’ Cris said slowly, answering Tamsyn, ignoring the laughter beside him. He raised his glass of ale to his lips and sipped, his eyes on hers as he did so. ‘It is incredible that one can continue for years unaware of a gaping hole in one’s life.’
Surely he did not mean that he recognised her as something missing from his life? No, he must mean that she was existing here, cut off from the world, not realising what she was missing. That was more likely. How very...humiliating to be pitied. ‘And it is incredible how difficult it can be for some people to recognise when others are happy, just because they value different things,’ she retorted.
There was a sudden flare of emotion in Cris’s eyes. ‘I think we may be at cross-purposes, Tamsyn.’
‘Probably because we come from two very different worlds.’ So, he had not meant to insult her, but the exchange had served to remind her how distant from polite society she was, here at the edge of England, cut off by sea on one side and rough tracks on the other. She was country gentry, teetering on the verge of slipping into something else since her marriage. The small resources that she felt gave her everything she needed were pitiful against the wealth that Cris Defoe was obviously used to with his beautiful boots and elegant coats, his valet and his London home. She must seem pathetically provincial and unsophisticated.
And in danger of slipping into self-pity and unjustified feelings of inferiority. I’d like to see him striking a bargain in a cattle auction or setting up a village school or teaching himself French from books ordered from an Exeter bookshop. I would like to see one of the elegant ladies of his acquaintance running a farm and a fishery.
They finished the meal in polite, prickly silence with each other, letting the two older women take the burden of conversation. How complicated men are, Tamsyn thought as she dropped her napkin on the table and nodded her thanks as Cris pulled back her chair for her when, finally, Aunt Izzy stopped chattering and noticed that they had all long since finished eating.
He went to offer his arm to Rosie and Tamsyn followed them out. ‘That is a good walk with wonderful views that you took this morning,’ Rosie was saying as he led her to the drawing room. ‘It must be five or six years since I could manage it. I should not repine, this is a lovely house and I have an ever-changing view of the sea from the garden, but I confess that I miss being able to stride along the clifftops, see the expanse of the ocean and Lundy Island in the distance with the ships sailing by.’
If they could spare the money she would have the track up to the village made into a proper lane, with a surface levelled and graded by Mr McAdam’s new method, but it would cost more than they could spare and Aunt Rosie would no doubt protest at the idea of spending so much on something intended for her pleasure alone.
‘A penny for your thoughts?’ Cris had stopped beside her at the foot of the stairs and was regarding her with