chair is yours to keep. Seamus and Patrick will stay until they’ve found you a pair of local men to train in their stead.’ He looked down at her, his face austere again. ‘They are very reliable men, I can vouch for them. Very strong, honest. No harm will come to your aunts with them around.’
The chair was returning and Aunt Izzy ran out to join it. Tamsyn hardly noticed her going. ‘You sent for bodyguards,’ she said as the realisation struck.
‘That is a side benefit. I thought of the sedan chair when your aunt was saying how difficult it was to get around, then I remembered these two. Will it be a problem feeding them? They probably eat like bullocks.’
‘No, not at all, and there is space in the living quarters over the stables. But, Cris, you don’t truly believe we are in danger, do you?’
Mr Stone, who had strolled over to the wall to watch the progress of the chair, remarked, ‘Rider coming. Looks military.’
Cris joined him, leaving her question unanswered. The horseman reined in, his way blocked by the sedan chair, and even at that distance Tamsyn could see the colour in his face and the angry set of his mouth. He did not like being held up and neither did he seem to enjoy being stared at.
The chairmen came back into the garden, took the chair right up to the seat and began to help Aunt Rosie out. She and Izzy immediately broke into animated conversation, then fell silent as the stranger dismounted at the gate and strode in.
Around her Tamsyn was conscious of the men closing up. The two chairmen were standing in front of her aunts like a solid wall of muscle. Cris and Mr Stone flanked her. This was ridiculous. It was only one man, apparently on official business judging from his dark-blue tailcoat with insignia on the high collar and the naval sword at his side.
‘Sir?’
He halted in front of her and made a sketchy bow, lifting his tall hat as he did so. ‘Ma’am. I am looking for the householder.’
She was aware of his gaze shifting between the two large men beside her, Cris dishevelled in shirtsleeves, Mr Stone managing to look piratical despite his sober, conventional clothing. ‘My aunt, Miss Holt, is the householder. And you are?’
‘Lieutenant Ritchie, newly appointed Riding Officer for this beat of the coast. And I was told it is Mrs Perowne that I need to speak to.’
Was it her imagination or had Cris growled, low in his throat.
‘I am Tamsyn Perowne.’ She tried to sound calm and welcoming, but the man’s hard, unfriendly gaze was setting her hackles up. ‘And Mr Defoe and Mr Stone are our house guests.’ She should invite him in, she knew. The Riding Officer had about the same status as the doctor or the curate and would expect to be received in gentry houses, but she did not want this man, who seemed to radiate hostility, over their threshold. ‘What can I do for you, Lieutenant Ritchie?’
‘The Revenue service has been informed of a new smuggling gang in these parts. What can you tell me of it, Mrs Perowne?’
‘Nothing whatsoever. There is no gang here, not since—’
‘Not since your late husband’s death?’ he enquired.
‘Precisely.’ She took a hold on her temper, sensing that her supporters would react violently at any sign of distress from her. A fight on the front lawn was the last thing they needed. ‘I imagine smuggling still goes on, here and there, in a minor way, but I defy you to find any stretch of coastline in England where it does not.’
‘And so it will remain while the local gentry take such a casual attitude to law-breaking. Ma’am.’ The last word sounded like an afterthought. ‘I came to give fair warning that we will be on the alert hereabouts now.’
‘There is no gang, Lieutenant Ritchie. And I can only assume you mean you wish to advise us to take care and lock our doors. Any other warning would be nothing short of insulting.’
‘Take it as you will, ma’am,’ he snapped.
‘Mrs Perowne is too much of a lady to respond to an insult in kind.’ Cris took one step forward. He sounded perfectly calm and yet his tone held a threat that sent a shiver down her spine.
‘And you are, sir?’ The Riding Officer’s square chin set even harder.
‘As Mrs Perowne said just now, Crispin Defoe, a visitor.’ Now he sounded as haughty as a duke.
‘Gabriel Stone. Another visitor,’ the mocking voice on her other side echoed, equally arrogant in its own way.
Ritchie’s gaze rested on the faces in front of him, then shifted as though to study the chairmen. Tamsyn could almost feel them glowering behind her. ‘Good day to you, gentlemen. Ma’am. You appear to have quite a private army here, Mrs Perowne.’ He touched his whip to his hat, turned the horse and clattered back up the lane.
Tamsyn turned to find that the two Irishmen had taken Aunt Rosie inside by the simple method of picking up the armchair she was sitting in and carrying it into the house.
Aunt Izzy remained, her face creased with puzzlement. ‘What an unpleasant man. I couldn’t hear all of what he was saying, but he seemed almost aggressive.’
‘Merely a jack-in-office,’ Cris said. ‘Newly appointed and officious. Nothing for you to worry about.’ He turned and looked at Tamsyn. ‘If he tries to cause any trouble, I will deal with him.’
It was necessary to take in a breath right down to her diaphragm. Somehow she was going to have to deal with this crisis and the aunts’ willingness to live without men suddenly became very understandable. Her life was far too full of them—Riding Officers trying to scare her, the mysterious Mr Stone arriving without warning and securing an invitation to stay without the slightest effort, large Irish chairmen who were carrying Aunt Rosie about as though they had been in her service for years and now Cris calmly announcing that he would deal with a government official.
‘And just how will you do that?’ she demanded. ‘Forgive me, Mr Defoe, but you are hardly the Duke of Devonshire, are you?’ He stood there, competent hands on admirably slim hips, the breeze from the sea stirring the thin white linen of his shirtsleeves, a glimpse of skin at his throat, a long green stain that looked remarkably like lichen up the length of one buckskin-clad thigh. ‘But of course, dukes do not go scrambling out of windows, do they?’
Behind him Mr Stone gave a snort of laughter. ‘Cris, a duke? He certainly acts like one on occasion, I will give you that.’ He appeared to find the idea inordinately amusing.
‘Mr Stone, perhaps you would excuse us for a moment? No doubt you would like to freshen up after your journey. If you cannot see either of my aunts when you go inside, then our housekeeper, Mrs Tape, will take care of you.’
‘Very crisp,’ Cris remarked as his friend, still chuckling, strolled off towards the front door.
‘I feel very crisp. In fact, I feel positively brittle. Just what, exactly, is going on, Mr Defoe? Why are you climbing out of windows and threatening Revenue officers and why does the idea that you are a duke convulse your exceedingly relaxed friend with amusement?’
