Susanna patted the accounts book and sighed. She loved working in this quiet room with its burgundy walls and coffered ceiling, even though the hearth was too narrow to heat the room much above freezing on the coldest winter days. She gazed out the window toward the moor. The undulating ground offered perfect grazing for both cattle and sheep. Like most of the windows in the great house Cothaire, it offered no view of the sea. A beautiful vista would be lovely, but cold winds blasted the seaside of the house, pitting any window glass and chilling rooms. Any room in Cothaire that faced the sea had thick exterior shutters that could be closed and locked from the outside in advance of a strong storm.
The sea was an integral part of their lives. Many of the villagers provided for their families by fishing and trading upon its waters. Her sister Caroline’s husband had been one of them until he was killed far out at sea less than a week after Mama’s sudden death. It had been a terrible time, and if she could have spared her sister—or her two brothers and her father—a moment of that sorrow, she gladly would have.
“Lady Susanna?” came a familiar voice from the doorway.
“What is it, Venton?”
The footman, wearing the family’s simple gray livery, dipped his head in her direction. She and Venton had grown up together at Cothaire because his mother had been the nursery maid when Susanna was the last one living within the two-story nursery. Knowing Susanna was lonesome because she was more than a decade younger than her brother Raymond, Mrs. Venton had brought her son to the nursery with her until Susanna was almost six.
Since then, their lives had gone on separate but parallel paths. Venton had worked hard to rise to the rank of footman, and Susanna had learned to handle a household and be a proper wife to the man chosen for her by her father, the Earl of Launceston. Then her future had changed when her mother died five years ago and Susanna took over the management of her father’s house while her older brother Arthur, who was the heir, assisted in running the estate.
“Lady Susanna, his lordship requests your presence,” Venton answered, and she again pushed aside uncomfortable thoughts about the past. Lingering on them was silly.
“Of course. Where is he?”
“The smoking room.”
Her brows shot skyward before she could compose herself. As she stood, she affixed a calm expression on her face, though curiosity roiled inside her. The smoking room was the domain of her father, her brothers and their male guests. She could not remember the last time she—or any other female—had been invited into it.
What a surprise! And she had hated surprises ever since she got such a public one when Franklin failed to appear for the first reading of their wedding banns.
As if she had given voice to her astonishment, Venton said quietly, “His lordship has been reading there all afternoon, and he had planned to take his tea there.”
“Thank you, Venton,” she replied as she walked past him. She understood what he had not said. Papa’s gout must be plaguing him again. The painful condition was the primary reason that he had turned over so many of the duties of Cothaire to her and her brother Arthur as well as her sister, Caroline, the oldest sibling, who acted as Papa’s hostess.
The smoking room lay beyond the main dining room. Like the drawing room, where the ladies could withdraw from the table, the smoking room allowed the men to converse more easily and blow a cloud of tobacco smoke if they pleased.
That strong odor greeted Susanna when she knocked on the door and her father called for her to enter. Chairs were arranged for the ease of conversation in front of a huge hearth. On every wall hung either swords and pistols or pictures of foxhounds and horses. Some of the portraits of horses were life-size and dominated the room.
“Ah, my dear,” said her father with a wide smile. “Do come in.”
Harold Trelawney, the Earl of Launceston, still had the tautly sculptured face that he had passed on to his sons. His hair, once as ebony as his children’s, was laced with silver that matched the color of his eyes. Only Susanna had inherited his silver-gray eyes; her siblings’ eyes were crystal blue like their late mother’s.
Papa did not rise. She did not expect him to when he suffered from another acute episode of gout.
However, another man stood from a chair that had its back to the door. Her eyes followed, astonished by the height of the dark-haired stranger. Strong muscles moved lithely beneath his navy blue coat, and her heartbeat faltered, then raced like a runaway horse. As he turned to face her, she found herself captured by the brownest eyes she had ever seen, and breathing suddenly seemed a chore. A deep tan told her that he was a man accustomed to working outside.
As his gaze swept over her, she forced herself to breathe normally so he would not guess the unsettling effect he had on her. She could not chide him because she had been staring at him boldly. She lowered her eyes demurely and continued to appraise him from beneath her lashes.
The lines at the corners of his eyes suggested that he smiled often and easily. Perhaps so, but he was not smiling now. His mouth was drawn into a straight line, and his ebony brows lowered in a scowl. By his sides, his hands opened and closed with what looked like impatience. Was he in a hurry to be done with whatever business had brought him to Cothaire? Or was some emotion stronger than restlessness gripping him?
Into the silence that had settled on the room, Papa said, “This is my youngest, Lady Susanna. My dear, may I introduce you to Drake Nesbitt?”
“How do you do, Mr. Nesbitt?” She noticed the line of dried salt on the knees of his pale brown breeches and sodden black boots. Had he been wading in the harbor without taking off his boots?
“Captain Nesbitt,” he corrected so coolly that the temperature in the room seemed to drop a dozen degrees.
Captain Drake Nesbitt? That explained, at least, why his clothing was stained with salt. But why was he here? Ships often sailed into Porthlowen Harbor without their captains coming to Cothaire.
Fighting to keep her voice even, she asked, “Papa, what do you wish of me?”
“I want you to...” He shifted, and a groan slipped past his tight lips. He motioned her to remain where she was when she started to step forward.
Susanna complied because his left leg was already wrapped in wool cloths. She knew they had been soaked in boiled goutweed in the hope of easing his pain. There was nothing more she could do.
“My lord,” Captain Nesbitt said, “time is of the essence.”
She frowned at his lack of compassion.
Before she could say anything, her father replied, “That is true. Please listen closely, Susanna, while I explain what has brought Captain Nesbitt here.” He quickly outlined an astounding tale of a small boat drifting into Porthlowen Harbor carrying a cargo of six small children.
More than once, she swallowed a question as she glanced from Captain Nesbitt to her father and back. Captain Nesbitt nodded each time to confirm what Papa said. Not that she did not believe her father, but the tale was unbelievable.
“Where are the children now?” she asked when her father paused.
“Still on the shore,” Captain Nesbitt answered. “I thought to obtain some guidance before I did anything further.”
“But
