his lascivious attentions… would be drawn to the temptation he offered as to a light in the window on a stormy night.
The light, she mused, like the ones wreckers used to lure hapless ships onto the rocks.
However, as much as Mad Jack Tremont might have been a devilish foe once, she was no longer six and ten, and he wasn't the showy, glittering Corinthian he'd once been.
Perhaps his tarnish was to her advantage…
They walked for another few minutes and then rounded a bend along the cliff until a magnificent structure came into view. The stone tower stood on the edge of the cliff, as craggy and rough-hewn as the landscape around them. A solitary sentinel standing above the Channel.
Below, the hiss and crash of the waves lulled at the senses, while overhead gulls rose and fell with the sturdy breezes or their own fickle whims.
There was something solid and commanding about it, and at the same time wild and ancient, as if it held the very secrets of the capricious wind, could reach up into the stars.
Enchanted by the sight of it, they quickened their pace until they came to stand beneath it.
Felicity walked around the base, then eyed the distant horizon. "I would wager you could see the shores of France from up there."
"Let's find out," Tally said and went to the door before Miss Porter could stop her. The last thing she needed was one of them tumbling from one of the open windows above.
But it was of no matter, for the door was locked.
"Whoever locks a folly?" Tally complained. "Why it is… it's… inhospitable."
Miranda suppressed a grin. Surely they should have gathered that much from Lord John's ill-mannered reception this morning.
"Come along, ladies," she said to them. "Shall we get to work?"
With a minimum of grumbling, the three girls found a resting place that suited them best, and they began to add and subtract the costs of their journey to date. From her own carrying bag, Miranda plucked out the pair of socks she was making and took out her frustrations in the soothing rhythm of knitting.
The morning passed quickly, and eventually each girl was released from her dreaded accounts. Felicity reached for her
Chronicles
and busily scribbled new notations—most likely about Lord John, Miranda suspected. Tally pulled out her sketchbook and began a drawing of the tower, while Pippin pulled out her beloved copy of Billingsworth and began to read aloud the rest of the entries on Thistleton Park. It turned out the house had held a lively place in history, from its origins after the Battle of Hastings to Elizabethan times to Cromwell, ending with the historian's lavish praise of the previous mistress, Lady Josephine Tremont.
"I wonder what happened to her?" Pippin said.
"You want to know what happened to Lady Josephine?" came a reply. "Well, I'll tell you. The old gal was murdered."
All four of them sprang up and turned around. There on the path along the cliff stood a short, portly gentlemen of an indeterminate years. He wore an unfashionable jacket, brilliant red waistcoat and scuffed-up boots. In his hand he carried a walking stick.
"Pardon, sir?" Miranda asked, rising and nodding at the girls to do the same.
"The gel asked what happened to Lady Josephine, and I told her. She was murdered." He stomped along until he got to the bench where Miss Porter had been sitting, then sat down. "Lady Josephine was murdered in cold blood right over there," he said, waving his stick at some low bushes clinging to the edge of the cliff.
Tally gasped. At the sound of his mistress in distress, Brutus, who had been snoring happily since they arrived, awoke. Upon sniffing the air, he must not have liked what he smelled, because he immediately bounded to his feet. Spying the stranger in their midst, the dog let out a low growl and rushed toward the man.
The gentleman let out a bellow of a laugh, even as Brutus circled him, barking and growling.
"What the devil is that?" he managed to sputter, waving his stout stick at
The light, she mused, like the ones wreckers used to lure hapless ships onto the rocks.
However, as much as Mad Jack Tremont might have been a devilish foe once, she was no longer six and ten, and he wasn't the showy, glittering Corinthian he'd once been.
Perhaps his tarnish was to her advantage…
They walked for another few minutes and then rounded a bend along the cliff until a magnificent structure came into view. The stone tower stood on the edge of the cliff, as craggy and rough-hewn as the landscape around them. A solitary sentinel standing above the Channel.
Below, the hiss and crash of the waves lulled at the senses, while overhead gulls rose and fell with the sturdy breezes or their own fickle whims.
There was something solid and commanding about it, and at the same time wild and ancient, as if it held the very secrets of the capricious wind, could reach up into the stars.
Enchanted by the sight of it, they quickened their pace until they came to stand beneath it.
Felicity walked around the base, then eyed the distant horizon. "I would wager you could see the shores of France from up there."
"Let's find out," Tally said and went to the door before Miss Porter could stop her. The last thing she needed was one of them tumbling from one of the open windows above.
But it was of no matter, for the door was locked.
"Whoever locks a folly?" Tally complained. "Why it is… it's… inhospitable."
Miranda suppressed a grin. Surely they should have gathered that much from Lord John's ill-mannered reception this morning.
"Come along, ladies," she said to them. "Shall we get to work?"
With a minimum of grumbling, the three girls found a resting place that suited them best, and they began to add and subtract the costs of their journey to date. From her own carrying bag, Miranda plucked out the pair of socks she was making and took out her frustrations in the soothing rhythm of knitting.
The morning passed quickly, and eventually each girl was released from her dreaded accounts. Felicity reached for her
Chronicles
and busily scribbled new notations—most likely about Lord John, Miranda suspected. Tally pulled out her sketchbook and began a drawing of the tower, while Pippin pulled out her beloved copy of Billingsworth and began to read aloud the rest of the entries on Thistleton Park. It turned out the house had held a lively place in history, from its origins after the Battle of Hastings to Elizabethan times to Cromwell, ending with the historian's lavish praise of the previous mistress, Lady Josephine Tremont.
"I wonder what happened to her?" Pippin said.
"You want to know what happened to Lady Josephine?" came a reply. "Well, I'll tell you. The old gal was murdered."
All four of them sprang up and turned around. There on the path along the cliff stood a short, portly gentlemen of an indeterminate years. He wore an unfashionable jacket, brilliant red waistcoat and scuffed-up boots. In his hand he carried a walking stick.
"Pardon, sir?" Miranda asked, rising and nodding at the girls to do the same.
"The gel asked what happened to Lady Josephine, and I told her. She was murdered." He stomped along until he got to the bench where Miss Porter had been sitting, then sat down. "Lady Josephine was murdered in cold blood right over there," he said, waving his stick at some low bushes clinging to the edge of the cliff.
Tally gasped. At the sound of his mistress in distress, Brutus, who had been snoring happily since they arrived, awoke. Upon sniffing the air, he must not have liked what he smelled, because he immediately bounded to his feet. Spying the stranger in their midst, the dog let out a low growl and rushed toward the man.
The gentleman let out a bellow of a laugh, even as Brutus circled him, barking and growling.
"What the devil is that?" he managed to sputter, waving his stout stick at
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