Silver Lady

Book 1: Dangerous Gifts

by Mary Jo Putney

Genres: Historical Fiction; Action & Adventure Romance

Synopsis

From the renowned bestselling author comes a thrilling new historical romance series set in the remote English county of Cornwall, featuring a rugged hero and heroine who share a unique legacy, a powerful passion—and a common enemy. Perfect for fans of Bridgerton.

Together they faced the past . . .
 
A sense of duty sends Bran Tremayne to Cornwall to confront his heritage of British nobility. Abandoned at birth, Bran wants nothing to do with the embittered remains of his family. But as a special agent for the Home Office, he senses trouble brewing along the coast. And he can’t turn away from the vulnerable woman he encounters in the Cornish countryside. Merryn’s amnesia makes her past a mystery to them both, but with her life in danger, the only thing Bran knows for sure is that the beautiful stranger needs his protection . . .
 
But would they share a future?
 
Leaning into Bran is difficult enough, but can Merryn trust the strong bond—and the powerful passion—she feels for her rugged rescuer? She has no choice once Bran uncovers that she is at the center of a plot between French agents and Cornish smugglers. From misty woodlands to stormy shores, the two join forces with a band of loyal Cornishmen to bring down a common enemy. Yet will their growing love survive the coming peril?

Release date: November 28, 2023

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 272

Sample

London, 1780

The play had been good, but an icy wind bit to the bone as Rhys and Gwyn Tremayne emerged from the Theatre Royal. “Our carriage should be down to the left,” Rhys said. “And the sooner we get into it and head for home, the better! Shall we end the evening by sipping brandy in front of a roaring fire?”

“That sounds most appealing,” Gwyn said as she took his arm. Then she halted, feeling a powerful intuition. “But not yet. Let’s take a bit of a walk first.”

“You sense something that needs to be found, Lady Tremayne?” Rhys asked mildly. Since his wife was one of the best finders in Britain, he knew better than to argue. He merely raised an arm and gestured for their coach to follow them.

“Something, or someone.” Gwyn drew her cloak more closely around her as she purposefully started threading her way through the mass of waiting carriages and playgoers who were happily discussing the show they’d just seen.

Two turns took them from Covent Garden into a narrow lane. Halfway down, Gwyn paused, then turned left into a dark alley barely lit by capricious moonlight. It dead-ended at a wall, where a pile of rubble had accumulated against the dingy brick. Heedless of her expensive cloak, she knelt on the frozen ground and said softly, “You can come out now, my lad. You’re safe.”

There was a rustling sound, but no one appeared. “How does warm food and a fire and a bath sound?” she said in her most persuasive voice.

A child’s voice snarled, “Don’t want no bath!”

“Then we’ll start with the food and the fire,” she said peaceably. “Will you show yourself? We won’t hurt you.”

Rhys stood silently behind her, knowing a frightened child would fear a rather large grown man more than a soft-voiced woman. The rubble shifted and a small, filthy face became visible. A boy child, perhaps five or six years old.

Gwyn brushed back a lock of fair hair, then peeled the kidskin glove from her right hand and offered it to the little boy. He hesitantly took it. As she clasped his freezing fingers with her warm hand, his eyes widened and he sighed with relief.

“You can tell I’m safe, can’t you?” Gwyn said.

The boy frowned up at Rhys. “You may be, but not sure about him!”

“I’m safe, too,” Rhys said in his most reassuring voice. “I’m very good at protecting others.”

Unconvinced, the boy narrowed his eyes warily. As Rhys stood very still, Gwyn said soothingly, “I’m Gwyn Tremayne. What’s your name?”

The boy hesitated, as if his name was too precious to share. After a long moment he said, “Caden.”

“Caden. That’s a good Cornish or Welsh name. My husband and I come from Cornish families.” Knowing there was more to find, she moved her gaze back to the rubble pile. “Your friend can come out, too.”

Caden gasped and jerked away from her. For a moment she feared he’d try to bolt, but a thin, childish voice emerged from the rubble. “It’s all right, Cade. These are the people we came to find.”

An even smaller boy emerged from the rubble, his ragged garments almost indistinguishable from the trash around him. His gaze on Gwyn, he said, “I’m Bran.”

“For Branok?” Again Gwyn offered her hand and Bran took it without hesitation. His small fingers felt as if they were carved from ice. In the darkness it was hard to see the boys clearly. Though both were dark-haired, there was little other resemblance. Bran’s eyes were light, Caden’s were dark, but the color wasn’t visible in the shadows. “Are you brothers?”

The boys exchanged a glance. “We are now!” Caden said fiercely, challenging anyone who might deny that.

They both had soft West Country accents, and she wondered what their story was. How had they made their way to London? Bran seemed to have the ability to read people’s nature and to decide what must be done. Caden surely was gifted as well, perhaps in other ways.

Learning more about them could wait. What mattered now was getting the boys out of this vicious cold. “Come with us now and we’ll take you to our home, where you’ll be warm and well fed.”

Bran stood shakily and almost fell over from weakness and cold. Her heart hurting at the sight, Gwyn said, “I’ll start warming you now.” She leaned forward and scooped Bran into her arms, then rose to her feet. The child weighed almost nothing, and his torn shirt revealed something on his right shoulder blade. If she had to guess, Gwyn would have said it looked like a tattoo of a dragon.

It was a question for another day. She pulled him inside her cloak, covering everything but his head. His thin body was cold against her. “Is that better?”

He peered out of the folds of her cloak with a smile of great sweetness. “Much better, ma’am.”

“No! You won’t take him away!” Caden exclaimed as he lurched to his feet.

“Don’t worry, Caden, we won’t separate you,” Rhys said as he lifted the larger boy in his arms and tucked his own cloak around him as Gwyn had done with Bran. Caden struggled some, but the warmth seemed to soften him.

They carried the children back to the wider street, where the carriage waited. Their driver, Jones, gave them an expressive glance, but didn’t speak. This was not the first time he’d seen them rescue children.

Rhys opened the carriage door. Knowing Caden wasn’t comfortable with being carried, he set the boy in the vehicle. “There are carriage robes on the seats to warm you.” The child scrambled inside and there was a rustle of fabric as he pulled a robe around himself.

Rhys then helped Gwyn into the carriage. She continued holding Bran as she settled on the forward-facing seat. Before climbing in and closing the door, Rhys called up to the driver, “Home now, Jones.”

As the carriage rattled westward over the cobblestones, Gwyn asked, “How did you boys come to be here in London?”

The silence stretched so long that she wondered if either of them would answer. Then Caden said warily, “What’s it mean to be ‘gifted’? My da called me that before he threw me out of the house.”

Gwyn’s heart constricted at the thought of such a young boy being treated in such a beastly manner, but his question confirmed what she already knew. “Gifted people are just better at some things than most others are. Better at sensing emotions, perhaps. Better at persuasion, or maybe better at finding lost objects. Perhaps good at telling if someone is lying or telling the truth. Small gifts, but often useful.”

Bran asked, his small voice hard, “Why do people hate us?”

As Gwyn wondered how to explain bigotry, Rhys said in his deep, calming voice, “Sometimes it’s from fear. Sometimes from envy. Some people just need to hate anyone who is different.”

It was a good explanation. Gwyn said softly as she cuddled Bran against her, “Some people hate, but there are also those who love you exactly as you are.”

London, Early Spring 1803

The British Home Office had broad responsibilities for protecting the public in general, but also for safeguarding the rights of the individual. It was not only concerned with all issues of law and order, but also very quietly operated a secret service to investigate potential threats to the nation and its people.

Bran Tremayne worked for the Home Office, which suited his more unusual talents, and he took his responsibilities to protect all Britons very seriously. It was vital, worthy work. The only part he didn’t like was writing reports.

He was halfway through a report about a problem he’d unearthed when he investigated a dishonest magistrate in Berkshire, and what he’d done to solve the issue, when a twinge of intuition made him pause, his pen in the air. His instincts usually manifested themselves in silver sparks and threads. The brighter the silver, the more urgent the situation.

This time he sensed a faint silver line to his parents’ house. He’d been planning to go there for dinner in an hour or so, but he realized he should leave now. He didn’t have a sense of danger, but it was definitely time to go.

He rose from his desk, happy to quit work on the report. After donning his coat and hat, he left the rooms he shared with Caden. His brother Cade was away, also on Home Office business, so Bran was in the mood for company.

The late afternoon was mild, and the fresh air was invigorating as he walked the ten minutes to Tremayne House. He was pulling out his key to unlock the door when it swung open to reveal his mother, her lovely face welcoming, her fair hair barely touched with silver.

He smiled. “In a family where everyone is gifted, there aren’t many surprise visitors, even one who is early for dinner.”

“Sometime there are surprises, but you aren’t one of them.” Gwyn Tremayne pulled him into a warm hug. Whenever he felt her arms around him, Bran remembered that magical moment, on a bitter cold winter night, when she’d embraced him and become his mother.

He hugged her back, then closed the door quickly before one of the household cats could escape into the wilds of Mayfair. “Are you implying that you’ve had a real surprise visitor?”

“Yes, you just missed him.”

“Should I be sorry?” he asked as she slipped her hand onto his arm and guided him toward the small sitting room. He caught a glimpse of himself in the tall mirror at the end of the corridor and felt his usual surprise at the image of a polished young gentleman. He never forgot his first view of the mirror, when he’d been a pale, scruffy child cuddled in Gwyn’s arms. The house’s spacious rooms and elegant furnishings had made him think he was in a palace. It wasn’t long before he realized that Tremayne House was even better than a palace. It was a home.

“I suspect you’ll be meeting our visitor soon.”

They entered the sitting room together. Tall and authoritative, Rhys was there, and he poured drinks for them all.

“Brandy?” Bran arched his brows when his father handed him the glass. “Is the news that dire?”

“You might find it so.” Gwyn accepted a sherry from her husband, and they settled next to each other on the sofa. They always liked to be within touching distance.

Bran took a chair opposite. “So tell me about this visitor.”

“Mr. Davey is a solicitor from Plymouth working on behalf of Lord Penhaligon,” Rhys replied. “He’s seeking a Cornishman around thirty years of age who has a dragon tattoo on his right shoulder blade.”

Bran’s hand jerked and brandy splashed on his fingers. “The devil you say! Why?”

“The young man he’s looking for is Branok Penhaligon, third and youngest son of Lord Penhaligon of Plymouth,” Gwyn replied. “Mr. Davey said that the boy had shown early signs of being gifted, so he was fostered out to avoid disrupting the household.”

Bran was known in Tremayne House for his calm and control, but Gwyn’s words caused his temper to flare. “Damnation!”

He drew a deep breath, then said apologetically, “I’m sorry for my language. But I wasn’t ‘fostered.’ I was sent to the worst kind of baby farm, where people dump children when they don’t care if they live or die! No heat, barely any food, larger bullies beating smaller children. I would have died if Cade hadn’t managed to get both of us out of there. Why would people who treated me as rubbish want me back?”

“Apparently, the two older sons have died, and you’re now the last direct male heir,” Rhys explained. “Lord Penhaligon’s desire for an heir of his blood must have overcome his distaste for those who are gifted.”

“He may rot in hell,” Bran said through gritted teeth. He lifted his brandy glass and tossed the contents down in one burning swallow. “You didn’t tell this lawyer about me, did you?”

“Of course not,” Gwyn said. “He called on us because we’re known to have helped gifted children in need. We said we’d make inquiries.”

“We understand how furious you feel,” Rhys said gravely. “But perhaps you should think about this before rejecting the possibility out of hand.”

“You’re right, of course.” Bran drew a deep breath and closed his eyes, centering himself so he could think clearly about the Penhaligons’ search for their despised and discarded son. A lawyer named Davey . . .

After he’d released his anger and considered what he’d just learned, he sensed a pulsing silver line that led southwest to Cornwall. Exhaling, he opened his eyes and said, “I think I have to talk to Davey and likely go to Cornwall as well. I’ve been feeling that there was something in Cornwall that requires further investigation.”

“Something personal, or something that relates to your work?” Rhys asked.

Bran thought a moment. “Both. I suppose that the first step is calling on this Mr. Davey.”

“The first step,” Gwyn said firmly, “is to have dinner!”

The next morning Bran called at Davey’s hotel at the earliest time that could be considered civil. The clerk confirmed that Mr. Davey was in his room, so on the back of one of his cards, Bran scribbled, I believe I’m the man you’re looking for, and asked that it be sent up to the lawyer.

Then he moved to a private parlor to wait. It was a plain room with only a small table and several chairs. He considered ordering tea to be served, but decided against it. This was not a social occasion.

Davey appeared in the parlor in record time, holding Bran’s card in one hand. He was a lean, shrewd-eyed man about Bran’s age. His gaze moved from the card to his visitor’s face. “Your card says your name is Branok Tremayne. Are you a connection of Lord and Lady Tremayne?”

“They are my parents in every way that matters.” Bran stood and gestured toward a chair. “They told me of your visit, but left it to me to decide if I wished to respond.”

Davey took a seat. “You have the look of the Penhaligons.”

“What a depressing thought.” Bran seated himself again. “I’m not ready to take my shirt off to confirm the tattoo, but assuming I am indeed the man you’re seeking, can you explain why I should want to claim a Penhaligon heritage?”

“The property and fortune are substantial, and there’s the title, of course,” Davey replied.

“I’ve never craved a title and my finances are comfortable, so those aren’t particularly compelling reasons,” Bran said. “Why should I bother responding?”

“Curiosity?” Davey suggested, amusement in his eyes.

Bran almost laughed. He could learn to like Davey. “I’m mildly curious, but what kind of family condemns unwanted children to starvation and an early death?” He was unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

“A foolish family,” Davey said, surprisingly. “All children are a gift, but Lord Penhaligon is . . .” He hesitated, then stated, “Very old-fashioned.”

“Is that the polite term for a ‘pigheaded bully’?” Bran asked.

“Lawyerly decorum forbids my answering that.”

He could definitely like Davey. “Tell me about the family. Do they all share Lord Penhaligon’s prejudices? What is the rest of the family like? How did the older sons die?” The words struck Bran with unexpected force. He’d had two older brothers, blood kin, who were now dead and beyond knowing. It was a strange feeling.

The lawyer’s brow furrowed. “The eldest son, Arthur, was rather wild. While living in London, he engaged in a duel and died of his wounds. The second son, George, loved sailing. He drowned in a storm at sea two months ago. There is a daughter, Glynis, the youngest child, but of course she can’t inherit. Lady Penhaligon is very reserved, but well thought of by those who know her.”

Bran suspected that Lord Penhaligon—his father, God help him!—was a bully and the females of the family were beaten down by him. He’d probably despise the man, if and when they met.

Strange. He’d always felt that his Tremayne family was all a man could want or need, yet he was curious about these blood relatives. Moreover, there was that nagging sense of some trouble in Cornwall that he should investigate. “Were you ordered to find the Penhaligon heir and drag him down to Plymouth?”

“In essence, yes. Lord Penhaligon would like me to find his missing son and immediately escort him to Penhaligon Castle,” Davey replied. “He was sure that Branok would be surprised and grateful and would happily move into the castle to start learning how to run the estate. Ideally, Branok would be unmarried and willing to take a bride acceptable to his lordship.”

“Is Penhaligon naïve enough to believe that will happen?” Bran asked incredulously.

“He is not naïve, but he is used to being obeyed.”

“I hope he handles disappointment well,” Bran said dryly. “Who would be heir if you don’t succeed in your quest to find the missing Branok?”

Davey paused before answering. “Lord Penhaligon had a second cousin, whom he despised. I’ve heard that the cousin had a son, who would be the next closest heir, but obviously his lordship would much prefer a son of his own to inherit.”

“Even one who is gifted?”

“I believe he would consider you the lesser of two evils,” Davey said blandly.

Bran definitely liked this man’s sense of humor. “So he’s desperate.”

More soberly, Davey said, “Lord Penhaligon’s health is not good. He hopes to find the son he always wanted rather than the sons he actually had.”

“He might have fared better if he’d treated his children better,” Bran observed. “Out of curiosity alone, I am willing to visit the Penhaligons and come to my own conclusions about them. I will not stay long, and I will not reside under the parental roof. Is there a decent inn nearby?”

Davey thought for a moment. “Lord Penhaligon will not be pleased if you refuse to stay at the castle, but that is an issue for you to deal with. There are no nearby inns worthy of the name, but the castle has a dower house. It’s a pleasant property, convenient without being too close. It might suit you, but Lord Penhaligon will do his best to persuade you to his will.”

“I have no doubt,” Bran agreed. “But he can bellow all he wishes, and I won’t change my mind because he has nothing that I want.”

“That will be a great advantage.” The lawyer cocked his head. “If you are indeed Branok Penhaligon and have decided that you will come to Plymouth, I will need to see the dragon tattoo.”

Bran had known that was inevitable. He hesitated for a long moment. If he refused to show the tattoo, he could deny being Branok Penhaligon and walk away from all the complications that would arise from his birthright.

But he realized that this was something he must do, no matter what the cost. He stood and peeled off his coat, cravat, and shirt, then turned his back to Davey. He heard the lawyer move to investigate more closely. Standing in front of a stranger half undressed was not comfortable. Luckily, the other man didn’t touch him.

“The tattoo is faded and distorted because it was done when you were only an infant, but it appears to be the Penhaligon dragon,” Davey said quietly. “I believe that you are indeed the Honorable Branok Penhaligon.”

“I will never be the obedient son Lord Penhaligon wants.” Bran pulled on his shirt and coat and restored himself to respectability. “But I suppose I must go to Cornwall and acquaint myself with the family.”

“This will be interesting to observe,” Davey commented. “You seem to be as stubborn as your father.”

Bran loathed the idea that he had anything in common with Penhaligon. “My father is Rhys Tremayne, who is the finest gentleman in England. I wager that within a fortnight of meeting me, your bad-tempered employer will call on you to draw up papers formally disinheriting me.”

“He may want to, but legally you are his heir, and you will be the next Lord Penhaligon.” There was amusement in Davey’s face. “Will you travel to Cornwall with me when I leave, day after tomorrow?”

Bran considered, then shook his head. He had work that needed to be finished, and besides, he did not wish . . .