“Right,” she said slowly, willing herself back to sanity. “I’d best see to the drinks. It cannot be a Christmas in Cornwall without Mahogany.” Before he could contradict or agree with her or remind her that the footman was already doing so, she turned on her heel and hurried toward the door, praying the heat she was feeling was due to the energy of playing for the gathering or from the fire in the room.

Certainly not from the man she had said was fortunate to have married her.

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Eighteen

“Been a momen’ since ee’ve been below, milord. I was feared ee might’ve lost yer skills down ‘ere.”

Harrison chuckled easily and looked at the man a few paces down from him, the light from the lanterns enough to see his features, now that his eyes had adjusted. “I’ve been sneaking down to the mines since I was eleven, Martin. Even if I were away from here for a decade, I could never forget how to work in one.”

“On’y ee were naw taugh’ well enow,” another man boasted from farther down the line. “Come on naw, milor’, giv’ ‘er a whackin’.”

“Don’t listen a wor’ Breton says, milord, this tunnel is too weak fer ‘ard whackin’.” Martin turned to glare at the other man. “Cap’n Drake was on’y telling us this day afore last.”

A grumbling could be heard from several people in the closest vicinity, and Harrison wondered at that. If safety had been in question, why would they not wish to take greater care in their daily work?

Why hadn’t Drake said anything to Harrison about it this morning when they had met? Why were any of them in this tunnel to begin with?

Should they be here?

“How weak is it, Martin?” Harrison asked in a very low voice, well aware how his voice might carry in such surroundings.

Martin was a seasoned miner more than capable of being a captain should he wish to be. Yet he was down here working, day in and day out, for the same pay as all the rest and apparently content to be doing so.

Wheal Drennick was not as profitable as Wheal Lidden, but it was the oldest mine in the area, and tradition was nearly as important as productivity. So long as Drennick could still provide enough ore to sell, he would keep it open.

So long as it did not break in pieces.

“Strong ‘nuff to ‘old us, milord,” Martin assured him, his eyes serious. “An’ weak ‘nuff to take care.” He sniffed noisily and slid his gaze along the line of men. “Some of us know ‘ow ta do that.”