George
George Madoc had no time to prepare himself for the visit of his employer. Lord Michael Kenyon simply strode into the office without allowing the clerk to announce him.
Madoc would not have recognized the gaunt, hard-eyed newcomer as the fashionable young lord who had hired him four years earlier. Yet when the stranger spoke, the deep voice was unmistakable. "Sorry to walk in on you without warning, Madoc, but I decided to come to Penreith on impulse."
Madoc scrambled to his feet and shook the offered hand. "Lord Michael, what a surprise," he stammered. "I didn't know you were in Britain."
"I was sent back on convalescent leave a couple of months ago. With the war over, I'm selling my commission, so I'll be taking a more active role in managing my business interests." Not waiting to be asked, Lord Michael took a seat. "To begin with, I want to see the account books for the last four years."
"Have you complaints about my management?" Madoc said stiffly, trying to sound indignant rather than worried.
"Not at all—you've produced very respectable profits. I merely want to familiarize myself with the operation again." His lordship gave a faint, humorless smile. "After years in the army, I need to relearn the ways of civilian life."
"Of course." Madoc thought rapidly. "The earlier ledgers are at my house. I'll collect them and send everything to you at once. Are you staying at the inn?"
"No, I'll be at Bryn Manor. I'm on my way there now, but thought I'd stop and see you first."
"You've come back to stay?"
Kenyon shrugged. "I don't know how long I'll be here. I'm in no hurry to leave— Wales is pleasant in the spring."
"Would you like a cup of tea, or maybe something stronger?"
"No need." Lord Michael got to his feet again and began pacing restlessly around the spacious office. "Has Lord Westgate caused you any trouble?"
"A bit," Madoc said, startled. "How did you know that?"
"I saw him in London and he gave me a lecture on mine safety," Kenyon said dryly. "We disagreed—with some violence."
Madoc snorted. "The Earl doesn't seem to realize that mining has always been a dangerous business."
"Exactly what I told him." His lordship turned, his expression harsh. "Has he trespassed on my property?"
"Once. I ordered him to leave and put guards on to watch the mine at night. He hasn't been back."
"Excellent. If Westgate comes here again, I expect you to take all necessary measures to keep him out."
A faint idea glimmering, Madoc said, "To be honest, even though he was making a nuisance of himself, I had some misgivings about denying the Earl entrance because he's a friend of yours."
"Was. That is no longer the case," Lord Michael said in a voice as chilling as the winter wind. "Westgate has done enough damage. I will not allow him to disrupt my business as well. Inform me immediately if he tries to make trouble again."
"Very good, sir. I'll send the ledgers tomorrow morning."
With a curt nod of his head, Lord Michael left the office, closing the door behind him.
Madoc sank into his chair, then took a flask of whiskey from a desk drawer and poured himself a generous measure with shaking hands. Lord Michael Kenyon had always been disconcertingly shrewd, but now he was downright menacing. Why couldn't the bastard have gotten himself killed on the peninsula?
Madoc congratulated himself on having the good sense to keep the false ledgers up to date.
He'd go over them tonight to make sure, but there shouldn't be anything to alert his bloody lordship. After all, the mine was making a decent profit. Not as much as it should, but there was nothing in the account books to reveal the amount of money Madoc had skimmed off.
Nonetheless, Lord Michael's return was a disaster. When he first bought the mine and had been enthusiastically involved, the man had had a nasty habit of turning up where least expected, and he had been regrettably observant. He might notice a discrepancy between the amount of money allegedly spent on timbers and the actual condition of the mine tunnels. He might also stumble across signs of Madoc's profitable little side venture. That would have to be halted for the time being.
As the whiskey steadied his hands, he leaned back in his chair with a scowl. The son of a Swansea shopkeeper, he'd worked hard for everything he had. For four years he'd managed the mine with as much care as if it were his own, and he'd be damned if he would meekly take orders from an overbred aristocrat.
Unfortunately that overbred aristocrat did own the company. Madoc would have to play the obedient servant for the time being. With luck, Kenyon would soon become bored and leave the valley, and things would return to normal. But if he didn't ...
Madoc didn't bother to complete the thought, but as he refilled his whiskey glass, he began considering what he might do to improve his position. His first idea had the virtue of simplicity, though only a middling chance of success. If it failed, he would try a more complicated scheme that would require him to enlist other men. That was always a risk; however, if it became necessary, he knew where to find ruffians who would do whatever he ordered and hold their tongues afterward.
As he finished his whiskey, an unpleasant smile spread across his face. Though his first reaction to Lord Michael's return had been anger, the more he thought, the more clearly he saw that this was the chance to get what he deserved. He was cleverer than Westgate or Michael Kenyon, and he had worked harder. Because those two were weak fools, the time had come for George Madoc to make himself the most powerful man in the valley.
Josephine
Seeing the very small Olwen Lloyd in pursuit of a nervous penguin, Josephine put a restraining hand on the child's arm. "Don't frighten the poor fellow, Olwen. Think how upsetting it must be to have so many strangers visiting him and his friends."
Actually, the penguins were bearing up to the invasion very well. When the bird in question saw that the child wasn't following, it stopped waddling away and began pecking unconcernedly in the grass. Olwen bent over and picked up a white feather that had fallen out, then eyed the penguin with calculation. "I won't hurt him, Miss Langford," she promised.
Noticing that Olwen was already clutching a fistful of black and white feathers, Josephine asked, "Are you taking those home to show your little brother?"
The child said solemnly, "If I get enough feathers, maybe I can make my own penguin."
Josephine smiled. "Perhaps a penguin doll, but only a mama and papa penguin can make a real penguin baby."
Olwen sniffed. "We'll see."
As she went off to collect more feathers, Josephine laughed, then surveyed the crowd of energetic children with satisfaction. The penguin picnic was a great success.
The day after her class meeting, she had talked to Marged about taking the children to see the creatures. Her friend had pointed out that it was almost May Day, and what better way to celebrate spring than with a picnic?
Organizing the outing had not been difficult, which was fortunate since they only had two days in which to do it. Three Westgate wagons had been filled with straw and driven to the school. There they had taken on loads of giggling children, along with several mothers whose job it was to prevent overexcited youngsters from tumbling off. Then the wagons had lumbered back to Westgate, across the estate, and up the track to the penguin pond.
Even the notoriously unreliable weather had cooperated and the day was sunny and warm. Not that rain would have caused a postponement; the Welsh are a hardy race, even the children. Still, blue skies and mild breezes were preferable.
Rather than ride in a wagon, Josephine was on Rhonda, the gentle Welsh pony. Hero was also on horseback. She had been surprised when he volunteered to come on the expedition, but he had said, a twinkle in his eyes, that he wanted to protect the penguins from being loved to death.
Whatever his reasons, he was enjoying himself as much as the youngsters. As Josephine watched him, she realized that he had the ability to live in the moment that was characteristic of the very young. Rarely did that trait survive into adulthood. She envied him, for she could not remember ever feeling the kind of uncomplicated pleasure she saw in his face as he fed the ecstatic penguins from a barrel of fish that he had brought.
She had known a different kind of joy, in his arms...
As he expertly hauled a sodden child from the pond, she turned away, her face burning. Though they were living together like brother and sister, her unruly memory would not let her forget how they had been earlier.
It was better this way, she told herself forcefully. Before her mind could offer rude disagreement, she joined the other women, who were starting to dispense the mutton pies and currant cakes that had been provided by the Westgate cook. Luckily the food baskets had been well-filled, for the penguins received more than their share of crumbs and cakes.
The sky was clouding over, so when everyone had eaten it was time to go home. Hero lifted the smallest children onto the wagons, where most of them curled up in the straw and napped like well-fed puppies. When everyone was accounted for, he signaled the drivers to start and the wagons rumbled from the clearing.
Hero and Josephine were the last to leave. Because his black stallion was too high-spirited to be safe around curious children, he was riding a placid chestnut hunter. "That was great fun. We'll have to do it again."
She smiled as she started Rhonda after the wagons. "I'm glad you feel that way, because you don't really have a choice. When the children go home and tell their families about this, social pressure will force you to schedule a fete that the whole village can attend. A Saturday afternoon would be best."
He laughed. "Very well. How about Midsummer Day? If the whole village is coming, it would probably be best to have the picnic in a lower clearing and restrict the penguin viewing to smaller groups. I don't want the greedy creatures to decide to give up fish in favor of currant cakes."
They rode in companionable silence. Ahead, Marged's voice lifted in a song, and soon the air filled with the fluting voices of those children who were still awake. For Josephine, it was one of those perfect moments when the cup of life was full to the brim.
They were a third of the way down the mountain when Hero said casually, "Perhaps you haven't heard, but yesterday Michael Kenyon returned to the valley. They say he's staying at Bryn Manor and looking into matters at the mine."
Josephine's head whipped around. "He's here?"
"So they say." He smlled a little. "Don't look so horrified, Josette. Bryn Manor is the only house Michael owns, and it's perfectly natural that he live in it."
"It's not natural if he's decided to pursue his quarrel with you here." Uneasily she scanned the hills around them. "He's a dangerous man, Hero."
"Yes, but also an intelligent one. He's hardly likely to murder me when he's the first person who would be suspected," Hero said reasonably. "My guess is that when he cooled down after our duel, he remembered what I said about the mine and decided to investigate."
Unconvinced, Josephine murmured, "I hope you're right."
Ahead of them, there were several seconds of silence as one song ended and another one was chosen. The sky was now thoroughly gray and a rumble of distant thunder sounded. An instant later, thunder cracked again, much closer. Josephine's pony shied and Hero's hunter reared into the air with a squeal.
Hero swore furiously as he fought to retain his seat. After wrestling his mount under control, he leaned over and slapped Rhonda on the flank. "Get around that bend ahead," he barked. "Now!"
The pony bolted, the hunter right behind. Josephine almost fell off, but after a few heart-stopping moments, she managed to regain her balance. They flew down the hill until the track curved around an upthrust of rocks.
Hero called, "You can slow down now. We should be safe here."
Josephine reined in her mount and glanced over at Hero. Before she could ask what had prompted their flight, she saw blood flowing down the hunter's neck. "Merciful heaven, that was a rifle shot, not thunder!" she gasped. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. Caesar was creased, but the bullet missed me." He bent his head and examined the chestnut's wound. "Only a graze. There will be a scar, but no real harm was done."
"No harm done?" Josephine cried. "You could have been killed!"
"It wouldn't be the first time a poacher accidentally shot someone. We were lucky." He stroked the chestnut's sweat-streaked neck, murmuring unintelligible words of comfort.
Josephine felt like hitting him for his obtuseness. "Do you seriously think it's a coincidence that Lord Michael returns to Penreith and a day later someone tries to shoot you?"
Hero regarded her calmly. "This is a coincidence, Jo. How would Michael know where to find me today?"
"Everyone in the valley knew about today's expeditions," she said with exasperation.
Tacitly conceding the point, Hero said, "If Michael wanted to shoot me, he wouldn't do it where a stray bullet might hit a woman or a wagonful of children." He pressed his handkerchief to the chestnut's neck to stop the bleeding. As in London, he added, "Nor would he miss."
Knowing that hysteria would not further her case, Josephine said carefully, "Wouldn't it be safer to assume that the rifleman was Lord Michael? Taking a few precautions could save your life."
"What would you have me do?" Hero signaled his horse forward in an easy walk. "I could make a good guess about where that shot came from, but whoever fired it is long gone by now. If I went to a magistrate and accused Michael of attempted murder, I'd be thrown out because I haven't a shred of evidence. Even if that bullet was intended for me, I'm not going to spend the rest of my life cowering indoors and avoiding windows for fear of being shot—I'd rather be dead."
He slanted a glance at her. "I'm not saying this to keep you from worrying, Josephine—I honestly believe that was an accidental shot by a poacher. If Michael comes after me, it will be face to face, not like this."
"How long are you going to make excuses for him?" she said helplessly. "Though I admire your loyalty, I don't understand how you can be so sure about what Michael will or will not do. You haven't seen him for years, and he has changed greatly in that time."
Hero rode silently for a time. Finally he said, "No human is entirely predictable, but it's possible to know a person well enough to understand the range and limits of what they might do. Michael is one of the handful of people I know that well. It doesn't surprise me that he is angry, bitter, and destructive—the seeds of that have always been in him. Yet at the same time, honor is as much a part of him as his blood and bone. Yes, he is dangerous. But I will never believe that he is vicious."
"Yesterday you visited the hut on the Kenyon estate and found evidence that silver has been processed there," she said. "Tomorrow you and Owen are going down pit to look for proof of illegal mining. If and when you find it, do you think Lord Michael will stand idly by while you destroy his company?"
He regarded her coolly. "I don't particularly want to destroy his business. All he has to do is improve the safety and he can keep it. But if he chooses to be difficult ..." Hero shrugged. "So be it."
Recognizing her own words on his lips, she said dourly, "I'm not asking you to spend the rest of your life cowering indoors, but could you at least keep a watchful eye?"
"Don't worry—while in London, I revised my will. If something happens to me, you'll become administrator of a trust fund with enough money to do what is necessary to keep Penreith prosperous. A nice stipend for you is included, to compensate for your time and effort." He gave her an ironic smile. "You really ought to be praying that Michael does kill me, because you and the village will both benefit by my death."
This time she did hit him, or at least tried, swinging at his face with a wild, open-palmed slap.
He caught her hand easily and held it immobile in the air as he reined in his horse. As her pony obediently halted, he asked, "What was that for?"
"How dare you tell me to pray for your death." Tears were sliding down her cheeks. "Some things shouldn't be joked about."
"Life is a joke, Josette." He touched his lips to her fingertips, then released her hand. "And laughter is the only way to survive it. Don't waste your time worrying about me."
"I have no choice," she whispered. "And you know it."
His face tightened and he turned away, setting the chestnut into motion again.
As they rode silently down the track, she knew that he understood what he saw in her eyes. But he was no more capable of acknowledging it than she was.