Temptation and Surrender (26 page)

M
y dear, I couldn’t be more
delighted
!” Lady Fortemain sat back, eyes wide. “To think you, and your dear sisters and brother, too, are Colytons. Well!”

“Yes, well…” Em glanced at Jonas, who was smiling an I-told-you-so smile. They’d let Sweetie loose in the common room all the previous evening; that morning Jonas had called with his curricle, offering to take Em around the neighborhood to speak with the older folk. Lady Fortemain at Ballyclose Manor had been first on Em’s list, and, of course, she’d heard their news.

“As I mentioned,” Em persevered, hoping to avoid any lengthy recounting of the family’s recent history, “we’re trying to identify which house in the neighborhood used to be referred to as ‘the house of the highest’ many years ago. Centuries ago, in fact, so we know it isn’t Ballyclose Manor. Have you ever heard the phrase?”

‘ “The house of the highest?’” Tapping one finger to her lips, Lady Fortemain frowned in concentration. A movement in the hallway caught her eye. “Oh, Jocasta! You must come in and hear this news!”

Jocasta, also Lady Fortemain, wife of her ladyship’s older son, Cedric, appeared in the doorway. A dark-haired, dark-eyed woman with a quiet, pleasant nature, she smiled at Em and Jonas and came in. “Good morning. I heard the news last night. It seems so appropriate to have you and your family back in the village, and specifically resurrecting the Red Bells.”

“Thank you.” Em returned her smile.

Jonas caught Jocasta’s eye. “As another local from a longtime village family, Jocasta, have you ever heard the phrase ‘the house of the highest’?”

Jocasta pursed her lips, but eventually shook her head. “I can’t say I have—although it does sound like the sort of phrase one of the Fortemains might have used about Ballyclose. Why do you want to know?”

Jonas smoothly replied, “Some house that was in the village a long time ago—long before Ballyclose was built—was referred to by one of Miss Colyton’s forebears in a cryptic family rhyme, and we’re trying to locate the place.”

Jocasta gave a silent “Oh,” then added, “I’m certain I’ve never heard the phrase, but you might try Mother. She has all sorts of odd tidbits like that about the village tucked away in her brain.”

Em rose. “Mrs. Smollet is next on our list to see.”

Jonas abandoned his stance before the drawing room hearth and joined her. “We also thought we’d try Muriel Grisby and old Mrs. Thompson.”

Jocasta nodded. “Those are the people I would ask. Miss Hellebore is old—I think she’s the oldest person in the village—but she only arrived a few years before Horatio Welham.” Jocasta smiled at Em. “That makes her a relatively recent addition, and I know her family wasn’t from around here.”

“Thank you,” Em said. “Miss Sweet thought that was the case, but we weren’t sure.” She turned to Lady Fortemain. “Thank you for seeing us, ma’am.”

Her ladyship waved her hands. “Oh, but you will stay for morning tea, won’t you?”

“Thank you, but I’m still wary about leaving the inn—and the twins—to their own devices for long.” Em curtsied.

Lady Fortemain grimaced. “Your devotion can only be commended, my dear. Perhaps next time?”

Em and Jonas made their farewells to both ladies.

Jocasta walked with them to the door. “I’ll ask Cedric if he’s ever heard that phrase. I daresay we’ll see you at the inn tonight.”

“Thank you.” Em let Jonas help her up into his curricle, then waved as he drove them away.

E
m had spoken the truth; she was reluctant to leave the inn’s staff totally unsupervised. “Not that I expect anything to go wrong,” she told Jonas as, later that afternoon, they took advantage of the quiet time between luncheon and afternoon tea to drive out to Highgate, the home of Basil Smollet, Jocasta’s brother. “It’s just that if anything does go wrong, they have to shoulder the responsibility for making whatever decision needs to be made—but that’s my job, and it’s unfair for them to have to do it. It’s one thing if I make a mistake, but it’s worse if they do, and then feel responsible for things going badly.”

Jonas glanced at her; his lips curved appreciatively as he took in the determined cast of her features, then, smile deepening, he gave his attention to his horses. He took the chestnuts up the long hill beyond the rectory at a smart clip, then slowed as Highgate came into view.

Mrs. Smollet was in and receiving, at least in the physical sense. Unfortunately, as they rapidly discovered, that meant little in terms of her mental presence.

“A Colyton.
More
than one Colyton, and you’ve come back—fancy that! I didn’t know any of your family well—I was too young.” Mrs. Smollet nodded her gray head. “Those were the days. I remember…”

She trailed off, plainly caught in her memories.

Basil, her son, had come in to join them and hear Em’s tale firsthand. Shifting forward in his chair, he laid a hand on his mother’s, slack in her lap. “Mama? Can you remember what house people used to call ‘the house of the highest’?”

Mrs. Smollet abruptly focused surprisingly shrewd eyes on his face. ‘ “The house of the highest’?” She frowned, looked away. “That sounds vaguely familiar.”

Em held her breath; so did Jonas.

They waited, Basil patiently still and silent.

Mrs. Smollet shook her head. “No. I can’t remember. But it wasn’t this place, and not Ballyclose, either, no matter what that frippery woman might say.”

There was little love lost between Lady Fortemain and Mrs. Smollet.

Mrs. Smollet’s expression relaxed. “But I do remember the Mitchell boys—they lived in that old house by the cliffs. Dead now, all of them, long gone, but they were rascals. I remember—”

Her voice rising and falling, she rambled softly on about a long ago summer.

Basil sighed and drew back. He threw a sympathetic look at Em and Jonas, then rose.

They did, too.

Mrs. Smollet, her gaze fixed in some distant past, didn’t notice. Basil beckoned and headed for the door.

They followed.

In the front hall, Basil turned to them. “She’s physically quite hale, but her mind isn’t strong. Some days she’s acute, almost bright, on others…” He shrugged. “I’ll ask the maids who sit with her to let me know if she says anything about any ‘house of the highest.’ I’ll send word if she does.”

“Thank you.” Em smiled gratefully.

Jonas nodded. “We’ve spoken with Lady Fortemain, and plan to see Muriel Grisby and old Mrs. Thompson. Is there anyone else you can think of who might know more?”

Basil considered, then shook his head. “I can’t think of anyone living who would have longer memories than those four, not of the village. I can’t even think of anyone who’s moved away.”

“Phyllida and I couldn’t, either.” Jonas held out his hand; Basil gripped and shook it.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Smollet.” Em gave him her hand. “And for your help with your mother.”

Basil smiled, surprisingly charmingly. “Anything for the returning Colytons—especially the one who’s rejuvenated our inn.”

Em laughed as he bowed over her hand.

S
he had to wait until the next morning to visit Dottswood Farm in pursuit of Muriel Grisby. Muriel, who by then had heard the latest village news, was only too happy to grant Em and Jonas an interview.

“So delightful to have Colytons in the village again! Such a blessing that you’ve made the inn usable again, too.” Surprisingly nimble and spry, Muriel waved them to chairs. “I remember your great-grandfather—quite a figure he cut, so impressive with all that wild white hair. I was only a girl then, of course, but I remember as if it were yesterday.”

Em tried not to let her hopes rise. Using Jonas’s version of events—that they were trying to solve a cryptic family rhyme, which was only the truth—she asked if Muriel had any light to shed on their mysterious phrase.

“No.” Muriel shook her head decisively. “Never heard of it.”

And that was that.

A
fter three disappointments, Em didn’t hold out much hope of old Mrs. Thompson, Thompson’s and Oscar’s mother, knowing anything pertinent, but Jonas called for her that afternoon, and chivvied her into at least trying.

In the lull between luncheon and afternoon tea, they walked up the lane to the forge.

The forge fronted the lane; Thompson’s cottage was set well back beyond it. He was working, in full leather apron standing before the furnace pounding horseshoes into shape; he waved as they went past.

“I mentioned last night that we might call on his mother.” Holding open the gate that led into the narrow yard before the cottage, Jonas studied Em’s face, sensed her flagging spirits. “You never know. Mrs. Thompson comes from a completely different social strata than the other three—she might have heard something, learned something none of the others did.”

Em’s answering smile was weak, but when Mrs. Thompson opened the door to his knock, she brightened. “Good afternoon, Mrs. Thompson. I hope we’re not disturbing you?”

“No, no, dearie—come in, do.” Mrs. Thompson waved them into her small front room. “Such a thrill to have Colytons among us again. Just as it ought to be, and you’ve made the inn such a lovely place—who would have imagined it after what Juggs had done to it.”

Jonas hung back in the doorway, letting the women take the two small armchairs in the room. It had always been a mystery to him how a female so tiny and birdlike as Mrs. Thompson could possibly have borne two strapping sons of the likes of Thompson and Oscar. There was another brother, too, and two sisters, yet Mrs. Thompson looked so frail and delicate, as if a good wind would blow her away.

Her mind, however, was like a steel trap.

“I remember your great-grandfather well—an imposing gentleman, he was, but always with a cheery smile. He’d been a sailor—captained his own ship, if memory serves—but I knew him long after that. He lived at the manor—Colyton Manor, that is—until he died. His son—that’d be your grandfather, I expect—was already settled elsewhere, as were the rest of the old man’s children, so the house was sold.”

“Indeed.” Em nodded. “My great-grandfather was the last Colyton to live and die here. We—my sisters, brother, and I—have returned to, among other things, trace the meaning of an old family rhyme. The rhyme describes a house as ‘the house of the highest.’ Have you any idea which house that might be?”

Mrs. Thompson screwed up her face in concentration. After several moments, she shook her head. “No. I don’t…but I have to say the words sound familiar.”

She refocused on Em, then patted her hand. “You let me think on it, dearie. If it’s meant to be, it’ll come.”

Jonas could almost hear Em’s dispirited sigh as she rose and, with a smile that looked a trifle worn, took her leave of Mrs. Thompson.

He did the same, then escorted Em from the small cottage, past the forge and into the lane.

Pacing beside her, he glanced at her face. Had to duck his head to do so; she was, uncharacteristically, trudging along rather glumly, head down. “Don’t feel dejected. You’ve only just started asking around. Those ladies will turn the phrase over in their minds, and mention it to their female friends. And just as Mrs. Thompson said, the answer will come.”

When Em didn’t respond, he jogged her elbow with his. “Give it time.”

She nodded once, then drew in a breath and lifted her head. Looked down the lane at the inn dead ahead. He could almost see levers in her mind shift as she switched focus.

He forestalled any comment. “The inn’s doing well.” A gross understatement; the revitalized Red Bells was doing a roaring trade above and beyond what even the most starry-eyed optimist could have dreamed.

“Hmm. I just hope all’s in train for dinner tonight. We’re fully booked for the first time—did I mention?”

“No, but I’m not surprised.” It was Saturday, and not just the villagers, but all those from the surrounding estates and farms seemed to have taken the new Red Bells to their hearts; the inn was busier than it had ever been.

Hands in his breeches’ pockets, he continued to walk beside her, undemanding and silent, knowing from her expression that she was thinking of inn things—which was better than dwelling on their thus far less than satisfactory results in hunting for her family treasure.

He had no real interest in the treasure himself beyond a distant curiosity; he’d agreed to help search for it because it was important to her. More, while she hadn’t expressly stated it, he’d got the impression that she wanted to find the treasure first, before she turned her mind to making her decision to marry him. Ergo, it was in his best interests to help her retrieve said treasure with all speed.

Yet even more than that, he wanted her happy and content, and, for her, finding the treasure seemed critical.

He’d spent the past two nights in her bed; he had no intention of relinquishing a position he’d already won. In the quieter moments when she’d lain in his arms, she’d told him, explained to him, more about the treasure—revealing how she saw it, why it had grown to be important to her.

It wasn’t the treasure per se that she sought, but what it represented, and that not just for herself, but even more importantly for her brother and sisters.

The treasure would secure Henry’s future, and reestablish the family at the social level to which they’d been born. It would provide dowries for her sisters, and replenish her own that—if he’d read correctly between her lines—she’d severely depleted in funding their escape from Harold.

All of which was well and good, but from his viewpoint immaterial. If she married him, her brother and sisters would come under his protection, and thus would be adequately provided for regardless.

As for her dowry, he didn’t care if she had not a penny. Thanks to his association with the Cynsters and through them the bright world of investing, he was more than merely well-to-do.

Of course, she didn’t know that—and he had to admit it was refreshingly pleasant to have no hint of monetary considerations weighing in either his or her decision to wed. However, regardless of his wealth and the consequent fact that there were no circumstances in which she and her siblings might find themselves destitute—or even condemned to being innkeepers all their lives—he understood, appreciated, and definitely approved of the emotions that drove her.

Family support, family pride. Not a prideful pride, but a respectful one, a sense of what was due to the name one bore, a responsibility to see it protected, to have it respected by others as it should be.

That wasn’t a simple emotion, not in any way, nor was it one everyone felt. But it seemed ingrained in her—and it was something he, too, subscribed to, even more so after his return from the capital and his newfound appreciation of his own roots.

A belief in family, in place and tradition, was something they shared.

Because of that he would help her find her treasure—somehow, some way, regardless of what effort it took. Because that belief was worth the price.

Their feet crunched on the gravel in the inn’s narrow forecourt. The open doorway stood before them, a pleasant buzz of muted conversations wafting out welcomingly.

He followed Em into the common room.

She paused just inside to scan the room—taking in the few customers whiling away the afternoon—then headed for her office. “I must check whether Hilda needs any extra help for tonight.”

Ambling in her wake, Jonas nodded to old Mr. Wright and the Weatherspoons, noted the artist—Hadley—sitting in a dim corner, a sketchbook open on the table before him. Bringing his gaze back to Em, he spoke to the back of her head. “I’ll drop in on Lucifer, check if he’s turned up anything in his reexamination of those books, and then I think I’ll visit Silas Coombe.”

Reaching the end of the bar, Em halted and looked at him, brows rising.

He smiled, all teeth. “His collection isn’t as extensive as the manor’s, but Silas’s tastes are eclectic. He might be able to find some reference to the description we have, and if I ask, I suspect he’ll find it in him to oblige.”

She looked into his eyes; hers narrowed, but then she nodded and turned to her office. “Very well. But just remember that he’s been behaving himself perfectly ever since our misunderstanding.”

He humphed and followed her into the office.

Heard the little sigh she gave as she set her reticule down on the desk.

Smoothly he closed the distance between them, slid his arms around her, and drew her against him, her back to his chest, enclosing her in a protective embrace. Leaning his chin on her sleek head, he simply held her. Rocked her just a fraction, murmured, “Don’t get too disappointed. You may have been searching for a while, but
we’ve
only just begun. And we means not just me, but Lucifer, Phyllida, Filing, Miss Sweet, and everyone we’ve asked. Someone will know, the answer will come, and we’ll find your treasure.” Shifting his head, he pressed a kiss to her temple. “Trust me—you’ll see.”

Em closed her eyes and relaxed back against him. For one finite instant, drank in something she’d couldn’t remember being offered by anyone at any time in her life. Comfort, support—unconditional and steadfast. A simple thing, but so poignantly helpful.

So right.

A footstep, light and quick, sounded in the corridor outside. Jonas’s arms fell reluctantly from her; equally reluctantly she stepped away from his warmth and turned to face whatever crisis was approaching.

In her experience, footsteps tapping in that way generally heralded a crisis.

Issy appeared in the doorway, a slight frown on her face. Other than that, she evinced no sign of panic or distress.

Em was beginning to wonder if her instincts had lied and there was no crisis—merely her dejected mind assuming the worst—when Issy asked, “Have you seen the twins?”

Silence held for a moment, then Em answered, “No.” She kept her tone even. “Where are they? Or rather, where were they?”

Issy stepped into the office. “I said they could play for half an hour after lunch, and then come to the upstairs parlor to help me with the darning. I’ve been trying to teach them the basics.” She glanced at Jonas, then looked back at Em. “I wasn’t exactly surprised when they didn’t arrive. I just kept darning, expecting them to turn up with all sorts of excuses, but they didn’t.”

Em glanced at the little clock on a cabinet. “It’s after three.”

Issy nodded. “I realized and started looking a few minutes ago. I’ve searched upstairs—they’re not up there—then asked Hilda and the girls, but no one’s seen them, not since they went out into the yard after lunch.”

More than two hours ago. “They can’t have gone far.” Em told herself they’d gone blackberrying, or seen something that had distracted them—that they’d turn up shortly full of apologies and excuses. She waved Issy back toward the kitchen. “I’ll come and help look.”

“
We’ll
come and help look.” Jonas followed her from her office. “I’ll see if they’re anywhere on the common—if they’re not, I’ll check the rectory.”

Em nodded and hurried after Issy.

Jonas stepped into the tap and strode for the door.