‘Jess! You found us! Do come in.’ Lady Flint was sat holding a teacup on a large sofa, flanked on either side by two pretty blonde women who made no attempt to hide their curiosity. Opposite on another matching sofa were three more. All clutching teacups and all staring at her with smiles on their faces.
Then her step faltered and it took every last ounce of stubborn pride not to run away with her hands over her face. Looking decidedly put upon and sat alone on a huge wingback chair was the only male. He smiled a little sheepishly and rose politely, his hands clamping behind his back in a manner that told her he felt as awkward about what had happened between them as she did. But he was here, in a roomful of inquisitive strangers, and for that she was grateful. ‘I couldn’t leave you to face them all alone, Jess.’ Then his eyes flicked to his sisters and back and he sighed. ‘As you can see, the ravens were dispatched with urgency to summon the coven and they have all flown in on their broomsticks. Lucky us.’
‘Oh, for goodness sake, Peter! What a dreadful impression you are giving Jess of your family. Your sisters are a delight and you know it.’ Lady Flint turned to Jess. ‘My dear girls have always been much more doting than my only son—whom I rarely see enough of and yet is always so sour when he graces us with his presence. I tried to convince him to leave us alone, but he flatly refused and now threatens to spoil our visit. We shall ignore him and still have a lovely visit over luncheon regardless. Just us girls.’ She stood and took Jess’s hand. ‘Allow me to introduce you.’
‘A visit? Is that what you are calling this spontaneous gathering? How charming—when we all know this is a shoddy excuse to poke your noses into government matters that do not concern you.’
All five of his sisters ignored him and smiled at Jess as she was paraded in front of them. ‘My oldest—Ophelia. Then this is Rosalind and Portia. They popped out in that order.’ Jess nodded, more than a little intimidated at so many sisters all in one go and unsettled because he was only a few feet away, and only just remembered to curtsy before being guided firmly to the sofa Lady Flint had just vacated. ‘And finally, this is Hermia and Desdemona, my twins. Although as you can see, they are not identical.’
Perhaps not, but the likeness of all six of the siblings was uncanny. She could see bits of Peter in all of them. The same green eyes. The same golden wheatsheaf hair. The dancing amusement lurking beneath their polite masks. ‘What lovely names. All from Shakespeare, non?’
‘Indeed they are.’ Lady Flint clutched her hands to her bosom. ‘I’ve always adored the theatre!’
‘Theatrics more like,’ Peter muttered from his pew by the fireplace. Only Jess turned her head to acknowledge he had spoken. To the rest he might as well have been invisible.
‘I wanted Pericles or Petruchio, but his father wouldn’t hear of it,’ Lady Flint continued undaunted. ‘He said I could only have a Shakespearean name if he chose it. He went through the complete works, ignored all my suggestions, and found Peter—a minor character at best in A Midsummer Night’s Dream—and then dug his heels in, refusing to budge.’
‘Thank goodness. Ridiculous names, both of them. Lord Pericles Flint! And the least said about blasted Petruchio the better. My father was a very sensible man. I thank my lucky stars daily that at least one of my parents was.’
‘So he became stuck with Peter,’ said Lady Flint with a shrug, obviously choosing selective deafness rather than acknowledgement, ‘which I’ve always thought is one of the dullest Shakespearean names ever. But as the Bard himself remarked, all’s well that ends well because Peter can be very dull and serious when he sets his mind to it. Have you noticed what a horrid spoilsport he is, Jess?’
‘Sensible and level headed, you mean, in a sea of unnecessary, overly theatrical drama. And you don’t have to answer that question, Jess. Or any other. Remember what I told you—gird your loins.’ He looked directly at her and her silly pulse quickened. His family exasperated him and amused him in equal measure. And like a fool, she hoped that speaking look meant that last night had meant something to him, too. ‘I hope you are ready for the Inquisition.’
‘He means luncheon,’ said Ophelia, helpfully standing. ‘It is ready and has been for ten minutes, but he insisted we wait for you here. Apparently, this room is less daunting than the dining room and secretly I believe he hoped we might all suddenly have a change of heart and eat without you.’
‘Which is a positively splendid idea! Why don’t you all go and eat with your horrid families instead and leave us in peace? We have work to do and surely it is obvious that poor Jess is not up to you lot after her ordeal?’
‘You see,’ said Ophelia, threading her arm through Jess’s, ‘so very dull and so very serious. And rude, too. As if we would eat without you after Mother has gone to so much trouble in your honour.’
Mon Dieu! ‘There really was no need to go to any trouble. I am inconveniencing you enough already...’
‘Nonsense. It’s more high tea than a formal luncheon,’ interrupted Lady Flint, taking Jess’s other arm. ‘Lots of delicious finger food so we can concentrate on the conversation. My sourpuss son has another think coming if he believes I would allow you to spend the day working without some proper food in your belly. Do you like salmon? Cook does the loveliest poached salmon glazed in aspic.’
‘Er...yes.’ Although Jess had no clue as to what aspic was.
‘Splendid!’ That appeared to be the cue everyone was waiting for and, as one, the rest also stood and Jess found herself enclosed in a sea of perfume and muslin as she was shepherded next door, hoping that despite being blatantly excluded from the invitation, Peter was trailing behind.
Flint was going to kill his mother. Then he would take great pleasure in strangling each and every one of his sisters. Between the six of them, they made the meal interminable. It had started well enough—if being broadsided and bludgeoned could be described as pleasant—then deteriorated rapidly into the debacle he had fully expected it would become. Despite his insisted presence, his womenfolk were incorrigible.
Was Jess married?
Engaged?
What sort of gentlemen usually took her fancy?
What were her first impressions of Peter?
Had they known each other long?
Spent much time together?
Poor Jess answered with surprising diplomacy considering the onslaught, although her eyes had kept darting to his for support despite the unresolved veil of awkwardness between them, and he rewarded her with a resigned shake of the head, knowing he should have put his foot down and stopped this stupid luncheon before it had started and suffered the petulant and noisy sulking from his meddling womenfolk. He needed to talk to Jess. Desperately, and not just about Saint-Aubin.
After a sleepless night he knew he needed to apologise and then declare their explosive passion a huge mistake. How could he properly do his duty when all his waking thoughts were consumed with her? And, more importantly, how could he protect her to the best of his ability if he was the slightest bit distracted with lust? One heated kiss had already rendered him dumbstruck. Any more would...and that train of thought was definitely best not considered when each time he looked her way his body responded instantly.
She was a delicious distraction and one neither of them could afford. Her safety depended on his sanity. It was that simple and that dreadful.
Flint sensed someone was watching him and quickly tore his gaze from the object of his torment, only to find his eldest sister Ophelia openly staring at him in amusement. ‘We despair of Peter ever settling down. Thus far, he hasn’t shown more than a passing interest in any young lady. Although I am hopeful that will change soon.’ She cast him an innocent smile, then went in for the kill. ‘Perhaps sooner rather than later in view of current events.’
He shot her a withering look and choked down a fork full of salmon. Damn! He needed to keep his inappropriate urges in check, else throw more fuel to the fire. At this rate, they would all decide he was besotted, as his mother had already no doubt erroneously informed them, and then all hell would break loose.
‘We live in hope that one day Cupid’s arrow will spear him.’ This from his mother, who was thankfully unaware he had just been openly yearning for his prisoner.
‘Surely by now you realise I am arrow proof, Mother? Poor Cupid would be foolish to waste them on me.’
His mother smiled and shook her head pityingly. ‘Your dear father was just the same. He was staunchly against it until he was shot and fiercely besotted afterwards. He adored me. It all happened very fast. One minute we were arguing in Berkeley Square because he accused me of daydreaming—which of course I was—and causing him to crash his landau and the next we were skipping up the aisle just a month later. It was all very scandalous at the time and very romantic.’ She smiled wistfully at the memory. ‘As a baron he was expected to marry well, not set his cap at a draper’s daughter, and he did try to fight the attraction, poor thing. But he confessed later that he wanted only me from that first moment in the street.’ A worrying detail she had never shared before, worrying because it resonated. He found his eyes surreptitiously wander to Jess. Felt his blood heat instantly.
‘And it’s true! Opposites do attract. We were devoted to one another.’ His mother sighed, her eyes a little glassy at the bitter sweetness. ‘The Flint men are famously devoted to the women they adore, Peter, and fall in love with lightning speed. It is not something you have a choice in, my darling. One day, love will creep up and catch you unawares. It is as inevitable as summer following spring. It has happened to all of us in exactly the same way.’ Five blonde heads nodded. ‘And we would all like nothing more than to see such a love enrich your life, my darling.’ Her eyes flicked to Jess innocently. ‘But alas, what brave and fearless woman would take on such a sour and pessimistic young man?’
Then the topic properly turned to him, which was marginally better, although Jess was bombarded with the succession of embarrassing stories the harpies wheeled out when they wanted to properly torment him. How he had not been clever enough to walk before he was one, preferring to shuffle everywhere on his bottom instead. That time, during a long, hot summer when he was eighteen and had thought it appropriate to go swimming in the stream, but had been caught stark naked by the parson and his wife—neither of whom had ever been able to look him in the eye since. Or his personal favourite, an anecdote guaranteed to make his toes curl inside his boots, the regaling of his one and only love poem, written at the tender age of fifteen to one of Portia’s friends in which he declared his intention to marry her despite the substantial difference in their ages and the unfortunate existence of her devoted fiancé. A poem Portia had consigned to memory to be wheeled out on special occasions when it was guaranteed to cause the most cringing.
Flint endured every sibling reminiscence stoically, letting his expression show he was heartily unimpressed with the lot of them and flatly refusing to dignify anything with a response. Besides, the horrendous stories were making Jess laugh and he couldn’t bring himself to deny her that. Not now he knew she had whip marks all over her back and her lips tasted of ripe summer strawberries.
Things marginally improved over tea because he purposely directed the conversation back to his mission to remind them all Jess wasn’t visiting and of the grave set of circumstances they found themselves in. During the necessary lecture and subsequent recollection of the horrors of the last few days as they had escaped Saint-Aubin, his meddlesome womenfolk remained blessedly silent, only interrupting with questions about the exact series of events.
They had been genuinely horrified by most of it and were hugely sympathetic towards Jess. Beneath their meddlesome exteriors, his sisters had hearts of pure gold. They asked her many questions, probing in that concerned, open way that females did and inadvertently giving Flint a deeper understanding of the awfulness of her plight and the lead up to her capture. Intrigued at the additional details, no matter how difficult it all was to hear, he simply sat back and allowed the ladies to draw her into their confidence. Too late, Flint realised he had walked into another trap and chaos ensued once more.
Ooh! A whole night alone on the moors unchaperoned! How scandalous?
There had been many smiles and knowing looks after that glorious set of questions from Ophelia, which had finished with a loaded and mortifying sentence. ‘If you weren’t his prisoner, Jess, I would insist my brother do the decent thing and marry you! The scoundrel.’
Fearing everything was about to get out of hand yet again, Flint slapped his palm on the table decisively. ‘Right! You’ve all had quite enough fun at my expense, go reclaim your families and make the most of your short stay here at Penmor.’
He had already outlined his plan to them in the drawing room before Jess had arrived, stipulating in no uncertain terms it was non-negotiable. His sisters, all twelve of their children and their long-suffering and frankly sainted husbands were going to sit out the duration of this mission under the protection for Lord Fennimore in London as soon as his men arrived. An evacuation he was keener than ever to see happen. When the time came, he intended to dispatch his mother, too—although that was still a work in progress. After her stubborn refusal to leave she had dug her heels in. He was simply waiting for the right moment to tell her she, too, was leaving soon.
‘Do you think sending us to Lord Fennimore is entirely necessary, Peter?’ Desdemona, the most reasonable of the gaggle, looked pained. ‘It seems like a lot of disruption and I would rather stay here.’
‘Eighteen men have been murdered in cold blood by the smugglers in less than six months.’ All the colour drained from Jess’s face and she stared at her hands again, making him feel dreadful for frightening her. ‘With Saint-Aubin here in the south searching for Jess, I do not want that number to rise. I would rather it was none of you and I can’t guarantee your safety here. Our resources will be stretched to capacity. Once all the reinforcements arrive, and with my official hat on, I would rather know you were miles away and safe. Penmor must temporarily become a fortress once again, not a home, and my men have an important job to do that is completely separate from my family. If they come—and we have to accept they might—I don’t want to be distracted by having to worry about you all, too.’ Not when he already knew he would be at his wits’ end worrying about Jess. ‘I doubt you will be inconvenienced for more than a week.’
The ensuing silence was audible as they all digested his words. Flint wasn’t trying to scare them, merely alert them to the reality. In a perfect world, once Jess spilled all her secrets the King’s Elite could take decisive action and destroy the rotten, festering smuggling ring once and for all. They would swarm like locusts and leave nothing remaining. Swift, decisive and righteous justice for the men they had murdered and the woman they had beaten. Saint-Aubin and the Boss wouldn’t know what had hit them. But he knew the world wasn’t perfect and these were not your run-of-the-mill smugglers. These were an organised army of mercenaries with everything they held dear at stake. The siege would not be pretty.
It was Ophelia who spoke first. ‘If you believe we need to go, we will go.’ Four blonde heads nodded in agreement.
‘I do. Try to think of it as a little holiday. You’ll all be staying in Berkeley Square.’ Where they could drive Lord Fennimore mad, but where he could also guarantee security would be tightest. His enormous house was necessarily under constant guard and had been for decades. He doubted even the King was as secure as Sixty-Three Berkeley Square. And as his father and Lord Fennimore had worked together for years, his curmudgeonly superior would feel duty bound to have them. Warts and all. He would protect them with the same fervour as Flint would himself. ‘Mother—I really think you should go, too.’
‘Over my dead body.’
Flint glared and her mouth set in a flat, stubborn line as she glared back. ‘It will only be for a week, not for ever.’
‘This is my home and I refuse to leave it.’ Her eyes flicked to Jess, then back, the implication clear. Tomfoolery. He held her glare and sent a message back of his own. There would be no more tomfoolery. He was a professional. An agent of the Crown. A man who was fully capable of rising above his urges. A man who was most definitely not by any definition besotted.
‘Don’t look at me like that, young man! I am staying put!’
From the recesses of his mind he remembered a similar occasion over twenty years ago: his father evacuating the entire family from the castle during a particularly dangerous mission here on the Cornish coast and his mother’s stalwart refusal to leave. Then, his father had dealt with the situation calmly. He had been so commanding. Masterful. So masterful, his mother had bowed down and agreed immediately. Those words came to him now as if his father had gifted them.
‘Need I remind you that I am the head of this family and, if I decree it, you will go.’
His mother blinked. His five sisters blinked. Then the lot of them burst out laughing.