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  "You came to apologize?" He sounded scandalized by the notion.

  Abruptly she became aware of an unusually quiet Flynn watching them both. "Go and feed the hens, please," she said.

  "But I fed 'em already, Ma."

  "Then they're in luck today, aren't they?"

  Wrinkling his nose he slouched off to the task, leaving the adults alone.

  She cleared her throat, took a deep breath and launched into her speech. "First, I wanted to make amends. For earlier today. And for before. I've been quick to judge, and I'm sorry. You see, I—"

  "Make me another pie and share it with me."

  Paused with her lips open, it took her a moment to close them again.

  "If you're really sorry, eat dinner with me, Duchess," he said. "I'll even take a bath for the occasion."

  Kate was silent.

  He added, "That woman at the farm was Sally White, by the way. A friend in need of help. Thought I'd clear that up. Just in case you were curious."

  "I wasn't."

  "Wouldn't want you to get the wrong idea."

  "Why would it matter?"

  "Because I would prefer your good opinion to your bad. It took you this long to lower your pride and apologize to me, so I wouldn't want another misunderstanding coming between us."

  Kate felt her shoulders fall. He cared about her opinion? What on earth for?

  "Will you eat dinner with me, Mrs. Kelly? At my house or here, wherever you prefer."

  The sun was coming out, creeping in through her open door to shine at his feet. A sweet trail of birdsong followed that light inside and lifted her heart on a whimsical, carefree tune.

  "Yes," she said before she could worry about it too long. "Come at seven." And then, since she felt she ought to warn him, she added, "It won't be very grand, so don't expect anything fancy."

  "You already advised me of your shortcomings. Now I'll see for myself, shan't I?" He put his heels together and gave her that funny, stiff bow again. "Until then...Duchess."

  What have you gone and done now, Missy Proud-foot?

  She was mending a foolish rift, that was all. Nothing amiss with that. Better to be at peace with her neighbor. It was dinner. Just dinner. Plain and simple, nothing fancy—as she'd warned him.

  Oh! Kate realized she had not even got to the second point of her purpose with the pie. He had not given her a chance to ask him about the roof, but swept the words out of her mouth as soon as she mentioned an apology.

  She walked to the window just in time to watch him ruffle Flynn's hair and exchange a few words, before he strode off, whistling and swinging his arms.

  Sally White was just "a friend" he'd said. As if that mattered to her. Still, she supposed it was good of him to tell her, when he didn't have to. There was nothing between the two of them.

  Catching her reflection in the glass she saw she was smiling a little and then, even worse, she began to hum.

  Blame it on the Spring air, that was as good a culprit as any.

  Chapter Nine

  He was early by half an hour. She had just put Flynn to bed when she heard Deverell at the door. Scrambling to remove her apron, she let him in. The days were longer now and it was still light out, but she had an oil lamp in the window and lit candles on the table.

  "Please come in." She stood aside, hardly daring to look at him.

  "I brought some of my wine," he said, adding hastily, "a different vintage to the one I gave you before. This one is made with strawberries. I thought you'd like it."

  Now, of course, she must look at him. As she took the bottle he offered, their fingers briefly touched. An alarming shiver fluttered across her skin.

  His hair was tidy, his face shaven, shirt clean. Tonight he seemed even taller somehow, his shoulders wider. Perhaps it was because he fit the outdoors better than that small cottage, which was too confined for him. The roof beams were too low, requiring that he bend his head to walk under them.

  "Before we begin, Mr. Deverell," she blurted nervously, "we must be clear that this relationship is merely platonic." When he looked at her as if he didn't understand the word, she explained, "Companionable. Not romantic in any way."

  He looked askance. "No need to remind me. I know you think I'm all boast and breeches."

  She blanched. "I don't think that's quite what I—"

  "Unless you meant that warning for yourself," he added with a quick wink. "Perhaps you needed the reminder when you got a fresh look at me this evening, with the dirt scrubbed off."

  Since she still stood there with the wine bottle in her hands, temporarily speechless, he took it from her.

  "I'll pour it, shall I?" he said. "If that's how it's done in London?"

  "We are in the west country now," Kate reminded him, recovering her wits. "So do as you would."

  She took two crystal wine glasses down from a shelf — gifts from Mellersh Duquesne, long ago. They looked out of place in these humble surroundings, but she liked the way the candlelight caught on the cut crystal and made it glitter. She may have promised Storm Deverell that this would not be a fancy dinner, but that didn't mean she couldn't make the table pretty. No matter how desperate a situation, or how somber, or how simple, one should always put one's best foot forward.

  After all, he'd made the effort of taking a bath.

  While her guest poured the wine, she served turnip soup and a loaf of bread, saying a silent prayer of thanks to Olivia for bringing the loaves that day. "I'm not a very good cook," she reminded him, feeling hot under her corset. "Here is your proof."

  "Well, there's lots of things I'm not good at either," came the jaunty reply. "And I came here with no expectations, so I can't be disappointed, can I?"

  "I suppose not." But she had seen him do a great many things well. He was just saying that to make her feel better. Why on earth did he have to be so...nice?

  Nice. That was what Flynn had called him earlier that day. It didn't seem quite the right word. She glanced longingly at Dr Johnson's Dictionary.

  "You don't have to try too hard with me," her guest added. "I'm an uncomplicated fellow. We'll just be ourselves together, you and me. Since we already know where we stand, there'll be no need for nonsense. I don't have to hold my stomach in, and you don't have to fret about that pimple."

  Pimple? She knew very well she didn't have any. Wretched man. But she slyly checked her face in the back of a serving spoon, just to be sure.

  Bravely he set to devouring the bowl of soup and she watched in some bemusement as he attempted to keep his face from any expression whatsoever. Must be a great trial, she thought, for a man with such expressive eyes to keep them blank. "What's in the soup?" he asked, with as much sangfroid as he could apparently muster.

  "Bumble Trout," she retorted swiftly.

  He eyed her with a gleam of amusement. "I knew they ought to be afraid of you."

  She took a sip of the strawberry wine and gasped as flames travelled speedily down her throat. "Gracious!" Veins popping, she set the glass down again. "I don't think I've ever tasted anything like this."

  "I'm told it's an acquired taste. Like me."

  Kate felt another slow flush warm her cheeks, not sure if it was caused by his comment, or his wine.

  "Have I done it again and spoken amiss?"

  "No."

  "I've been advised that you won't be used to men like me. Although I'm not entirely sure what that means."

  "Ah." He had no idea how very different he was to the men she'd known, but that was not a subject she cared to embark upon.

  "We ought to introduce ourselves from the beginning again, don't you think?" he said.

  "Is that necessary?"

  Apparently so. "I'll ask you only three questions and you can ask the same of me. How's that?

  She scooped her spoon through the bowl of soup and raised it to her lips. "If you insist. If we must."

  "Well, we can't just sit here and eat, can we? If we do that, we may as well eat in our own houses and not
have the company." His eyes smiled at her across the table, sweeping over her skin like a warm sea breeze. "So, I'll begin, Mrs. Kelly. Flynn said you used to work. Where?"

  Her spoon hit the side of her bowl with a clatter. "In a factory."

  "At night?"

  Oh, that chattering boy! "It seemed that way to him, no doubt. It was a late shift of odd hours, but I needed the money." This was the story she'd always given her landladies— whether they believed it or not.

  Storm was looking at her very intently.

  "It was a hat factory," she added.

  "A hat factory?" Finally he looked down again, cleaning his bowl with a hunk of bread. "And Flynn's father. Tell me about him."

  Despite its fiery taste, she reached for her wine and took another sip. She might need it to get through this interrogation. "He was a soldier on leave when we met. We were only married a few weeks before he was sent away. By the time Flynn was born he was gone." Again it was the story she always told. It was well practiced. Perhaps a little too much so as it rolled off her tongue with a weary, mechanical trundle.

  "Must have been very hard for you, raising the boy alone. Did you have no relatives to help?"

  Kate blinked and looked down at her soup. "No."

  "Your husband's family took no interest?"

  "No."

  He thought for a moment and then shrugged. "So that's why you looked to Reverend Coles for help."

  "Yes."

  He said he wanted her good opinion, but would he still want that if he knew the truth about Kate Kelly? How she was a stupid girl, seduced and ruined, disowned by her father. How, alone and friendless, with no references, she'd been reduced to singing in that tawdry supper room, being indebted to the likes of Albert Soames for a roof over her son's head.

  What would he think of her ability to empty a man's pockets without him feeling a thing? Of her talent for distracting a fellow with her shoulders and— hopefully— her singing, while she relieved his person of any valuable trinkets? Of Soames arranging private dinners in his grimy back room, where she was made to flutter her lashes and trick his prey into believing they might one day seduce her, just so they'd keep coming back?

  "You keep 'em danglin', Kitty," Bert Soames would say with a leer. "Keep 'em danglin' on that 'ook and let ol' Bert bring the big fish in."

  Part of their success, of course, was that Kitty never succumbed to her ardent admirers. She was always just out of reach, but never too far. They competed with one another for her attention, but Bert always took the gifts they sent. In return he provided Kate and her son with the necessities of life— a roof over their heads, clothes on their backs, and food in their bellies.

  How could she tell this soft-spoken, candid, hard-working man about all that? She was deeply ashamed and yet angry too, because the men involved in her fall — from Mellersh to Bert Soames, and all the drunkenly optimistic gropers in between—would never feel guilt or shame. She, in their eyes, was the sinner. They were merely tempted.

  She had taken it all out on Storm Deverell from the moment they met. The rage and frustration she felt at being trapped in this world of men had to be directed somewhere. But he had only been kind and generous in return. Duchess he called her teasingly, because he thought her a lady of good society, respectable and chaste. He would not call her that if he knew.

  His face was unusually grim now, as if he read all this on her mind. "I hear Joss Restarick's been helping you out," he said abruptly, reaching for his glass.

  Startled, but grateful for a new subject, she replied, "I wouldn't refer to it in those terms, but he comes by occasionally to see what I'm up to."

  He took a long swig of wine without flinching, apparently accustomed to the strength.

  "I believe you have used up your three questions, Mr. Deverell. More than three. Isn't it my turn now?" Her heart was pounding hard, almost lifting her out of her chair.

  Another loose shrug was his only response, but she saw a glimmer of annoyance had come into his eyes at the mention of their other neighbor. It was quelled again now, as he refilled his glass.

  Kate cleared her throat and sat primly, determined to make the most of her three questions. "I met Olivia Monday, your father's fiancée. She spoke very well of you. So well of you that I'm shocked you haven't found a wife. But Joss Restarick said you have no fancy to get one. Why is that?"

  He emptied his glass easily again with one swig. "You applying for the post, Duchess?"

  "Certainly not. I am merely curious to know why a man who apparently has everything in his favor chooses not to marry? I hear you have many... acquaintances from which to choose."

  "Did Olivia put you up to this?"

  "No!"

  Storm drummed his fingers on the table, his eyes considering her face, searching for something. "Perhaps I avoid marriage because I've never had a good example. My mother married a man who resented my presence and punished me for it. Then I watched my real father's hellish attempt at matrimony and that made me further disinclined to the idea."

  "Your father was not married to your mother?"

  "I'm the eldest bastard in the family. I thought you'd know that. His wife, Lady Charlotte, was a cruel, mercenary bitch, an unfaithful wife and a heartless, selfish mother. She still is all those things, of course, except for the wife part, since they finally went through with a divorce."

  It was the first time she'd heard such a sharp edge of anger in his voice. "Then why did he marry her in the first place?"

  "If you want to know about my father you'll have to ask him. Don't you have any other questions for me?" He laughed curtly and slung one arm over the back of the chair. "Or are you, like every other woman, more interested in my enigmatic father?"

  Stunned by this accusation, which seemed to have come entirely out of the blue, Kate tried another question. "Why did you want this farm and land so badly?"

  His eyes widened. The arm over the chair back ceased its swinging motion. "To extend my holdings, of course."

  She looked at him for a long moment. "That's not true, is it?"

  Victory! She'd caught Mr. "Nice" in a fib at last. He couldn't hide it. Not with those eyes.

  "What makes you think that?"

  "Because, unlike most men I've ever met, I don't believe you're driven by money and profit, Mr. Deverell."

  * * * *

  She sat with her spine very straight, hands in her lap, her wine glass only half empty. Her lips were pressed firmly together, but her eyes glittered with a passionate curiosity.

  "You hadn't heard the rumors about Steadfast Putnam's ill-spent youth, before you came here?" he said.

  "How would I? I'd never heard the name before."

  "Not even on your travels through the countryside on your way here?" There was something she was hiding. He knew that. "Not even in a letter from your good friend the Reverend?"

  She looked amused. "It may surprise you to hear this, Mr. Deverell, but the goings-on in this part of the world are not reported far and wide as you seem to suppose. An old farmer living on ten acres of Cornish moor is hardly likely to become newsworthy beyond the span of his own acquaintance."

  "Aye, but he was more than an old farmer. In his younger days he worked with a gang of wreckers."

  "Wreckers?"

  "During storms they deliberately guided ships onto rocks along the coast, murdered any crew that survived the waves, then made off with whatever bounty they carried."

  "How dreadful. Are you sure it's true? His wife seemed such a sweet lady."

  "She probably never knew about his past." He gave a snort of derision. "Another reason not to marry. Never know what you're going to find out about the other person when it's too late. Or what dark secrets they might keep from you forever."

  Her eyes dulled suddenly. "Perhaps she did know, but found forgiveness in her heart. Perhaps he was repentant and trying to make up for his past."

  Storm chuckled. "Old Steadfast? Never. Timid little Mary married a murderer an
d never knew it. While she slept in their marriage bed, he could have crushed her skull with a rock one night, just like he did to those luckless folk down in the bay so many years ago."

  She said softly, "But he didn't harm her, did he?"

  "As long as she lived in ignorance he didn't need to."

  Kate picked up her spoon again but let it drift aimlessly through the soup. "You don't believe a sinner can repent then? In your eyes they will always be guilty."

  "There's a lot o' things I could forgive. Can't get a much bigger sinner than my own father and I forgave him long ago, but then he never deceived about what he was or what he'd done. As long as there's deception, how can there be repentance or forgiveness?"

  A puzzled look had come over her face, so he explained further, "Nothing is ever beyond fixing, but the root of the trouble has to be found and mended first. Like that damp patch over there on the wall for instance. If you simply cover it over, it will always show through again eventually. A man has to find what's causing it and put that right. It might be a lot of work, inconvenient and costly, but its false economy to use a quick and temporary fix. It might deceive the eye, but not for long."

  She grew impatient, her eyes sparking anew. "That's all very interesting, but will you answer my question? You're not playing fair, Mr. Deverell. I'm surprised at you. Don't you pride yourself on being honest? Why did you want this house so very badly?"

  He considered his empty glass and then reached for the wine bottle again, but stopped. "Very well. I'll take a chance," he muttered, sitting back in the chair again. "Mayhap it'll help you learn to trust me with your secrets, if I trust you with mine. Something I've not told anybody else."

  She waited, watching his face keenly. "Go on then."

  The woman was even lovelier when listening to him so attentively, he thought with a considerable measure of irritation. Clearly he'd had enough wine, because he was suffering jealous thoughts about Restarick hanging around her. He'd never been jealous in his life and he didn't like it.

  "A few weeks before you came, Duchess, Reverend Coles told me a story about old Steadfast Putnam hiding some of that stolen treasure— loot from a shipwreck— on his land."