Chapter 5

 

“Wherein if you can’t say anything nice… hold your damn tongue.”

By the time dinner was ready, Charity had rediscovered her equilibrium. The day to day running of the farm usually soothed her temper, and if perhaps she’d spent a little too long explaining her irritation to the pigs so be it. They were good listeners and it had made her feel better. There was little doubt in her mind that their guest, for lack of a better term, was a rake and a scoundrel. What such a man had been doing in these parts alone, and at such an hour of the morning, she could not imagine. The suspicion he knew Lord Devlin, and had perhaps even been on his way to visit him, was something that inspired no further warmth for him. He was just the kind of rude, hateful person she could imagine carousing with the viscount. Living in the middle of nowhere as they did, little gossip about the outside world reached their ears, but tales of Devlin’s excesses were legend.

The nagging suspicion that his words about John might have had a grain of truth to them did not ease her rage. If she was honest, that fact only made her even angrier. How dare he come in here with his snooty voice and hands that had never seen a day’s work in his life, and criticise her efforts to raise her family as she saw fit?

She took a deep breath, aware that her equilibrium was rather more lost than she’d realised.

Hurrying out of her workaday clothes she washed in cool water, grateful for the shock of the damp cloth against her hot skin. Charity slipped on her only ‘best’ dress, a simple white cotton gown, tidied her hair as best she could, and hurried downstairs. The fragrant scent of roast chicken stuffed with herbs drifted from the kitchen as pushed open the door.

“It’s all done, dearie,” Mrs Baxter said, waving her away. “Go and sit, Baxter’s just taken the potatoes in.”

“You’re a wonder, Batty. Thank you.” Charity smiled, guilt at having abandoned the poor woman in her temper making her feel crosser than ever with the wretched man occupying the guest bedroom. Still, at least she didn’t have to look at him… over dinner.

Charity halted in the doorway, gritting her teeth at the sight before her. John looked up and grinned at her from beside her nemesis.

“Look, Charity, our guest is well enough to join us now. Isn’t it splendid?”

Charity’s jaw tightened further as the despicable man quirked a dark eyebrow at her. She refrained from answering. As her mother had always said, if you can’t say anything nice….

They all sat and endured as Mr Baxter cleared his throat and read a passage from the bible. Charity always wondered how he reconciled his beliefs in supernatural creatures and omens with his love of the good book, but he wasn’t one for philosophical discussions.

“I think Pipkin is a lovely name,” Jane commented once the sermon was over and grace had been said. The little girl reached out to take a slice of bread from the basket beside her. “I had a rabbit called Pipkin.”

“It’s hardly a man’s name, you goosecap,” John replied, giving his younger sister an impatient look. “I think Arthur is a good name.” He turned to their guest, whose pale blue eyes rested on him with amusement.

“Like the king?” he said, lifting his gaze to meet Charity’s eye over the table.

She glared at him and turned her attention to Kit instead. Her twin’s lips quirked as he carved the chicken He’d left the kitchen before her encounter with Satan himself, but no doubt he’d heard of her little outburst by now.

Charity held her tongue as the devil helped himself to their food and the rest of the family joined in the game of naming their nameless guest. Irritation simmered beneath her skin, especially when Mrs Baxter bustled in with a bottle of wine, filling the intruder’s glass for him.

“Why, thank you, Mrs Baxter,” the fiend replied, all charm and insincerity. “This is, without a doubt, the finest roast chicken I’ve ever tasted.”

He flashed the woman a dazzling smile and Charity watched in awe as Batty actually blushed. Blushed!

“How would you know?” she asked tersely as she cut into the admittedly tender flesh of her own dinner. “If you can’t even remember your own name?”

Those pale eyes swivelled to rest upon her and Charity stared across the table at him, refusing to lower her gaze. She wasn’t about to be put off by that stare. Even if it was… unnerving.

“I have discovered over the past days that certain things—” He lifted his wine glass to his lips and closed his eyes, savouring the aroma before taking a sip. “—a taste, a smell, a familiar phrase… a touch… these things can trigger a memory.”

“And Batty’s chicken made you remember what, exactly?” Charity challenged.

“That I was grateful beyond words it wasn’t cheese,” he replied without hesitation.

John snorted, covering his mouth with his hand and even Kit grinned.

The traitor!

“So, shall we call you, Arthur?” John asked, looking up at the wretched man as if he was deserving of his innocent hero worship.

“No,” Charity replied, butting in. “Let’s think of something that suits his character,” she added, giving as sweet a smile as she could muster.

“Charity,” Kit warned, his voice so low that only she could hear.

Charity ignored him, tapping a finger to her lips, apparently lost in thought.

“Let me see. Arthur is too… regal,” she murmured, satisfied by the flash of something dark and angry in those pale eyes. “Archibald… no, Alan….” She shook her head and then grinned, giving a triumphant look. “I have it.” Pausing for dramatic effect she held the dreadful creature’s gaze. “Attila.”

John gaped at her, no doubt wondering about all the lessons in politeness she’d drummed into him over the years. Kit groaned as Jane tugged at her sleeve.

“Who’s Attila?” the little girl asked

Charity watched as the recipient of her insult sat back in his chair and reached for his wine, twisting the stem between long, elegant fingers. He looked amused, outwardly at least, but vengeance shone in his eyes. Charity’s heartbeat picked up.

“Attila was the greatest barbarian ruler to ever live,” Dev said, his tone nonchalant as little Jane gasped, turning big eyes on Charity.

“A barbarian?” she queried as Charity squirmed, wondering if she’d been a little hasty. “That doesn’t sound very nice, Charity.”

Charity cursed as the olive-skinned male across the table raised one eyebrow, the movement so slight as to have been imperceptible if she’d not been staring straight at him.

“I’m sure your sister only meant to imply that I seem like a capable man,” the wretch drawled, never dropping his gaze from her face as her cheeks burned. “Worthy of being followed by millions and ruling an empire.”

“Oh,” Jane said, her sweet face clearing. “Is that what you meant, Charity?”

Charity gritted her teeth before forcing her face into the parody of a smile. “Of course, Jane,” she replied, simmering. “Whatever else could I have meant?”

Jane let out a breath and returned to her dinner. “Oh, good. I thought for a moment you meant to be rude. Attila is a good name though. Shall we use it?”

A choking sound came from the end of the table and Kit held out a hand. “Apologies, went down the wrong way,” he spluttered, covering his mouth as his shoulders shook with mirth.

Charity glowered at her twin and tried desperately to change the subject. “Did you discover anything else of interest, Kit, on your trip into town?” She turned back to Attila, as she was determined to think of him from now on. “My brother has been making enquiries on your behalf, sir. In case there was news of any missing persons.”

He looked at Kit with interest. “I did,” Kit replied, helping himself to peas. “But I’m afraid to no avail. There was no news of anyone lost or missing.”

“No one misses him?” Charity said, her voice mournful and sympathetic as she placed a hand against her heart. “Oh, how strange.”

Those pale eyes narrowed once more, that cruel mouth twitching, and she imagined it was killing him to play the role of polite guest that he had adopted for the evening. More fool him for trying to hide his true nature.

“Well, it doesn’t matter. You can stay as long as you like, can’t he Charity?” John asked, with all the naïve innocence of a boy who didn’t realise he was condemning his big sister to hell on earth. “You always say how much you enjoy visitors.”

“Thank you, Master John,” Attila replied, baring his teeth. It may have been a smile, but it made Charity shiver. “You are a kind and gracious host.”

“I found something though,” Kit hurried on before Charity could reply, apparently only too desperate to move to safer ground. He got to his feet and went to the sideboard where a small parcel lay, wrapped in brown paper. Kit removed the paper and set it on the table, held up by the wine bottle.

“Oh,” Charity exclaimed in surprise as she stared at the small painting. “It’s exquisite.”

Kit beamed at her and nodded. “Knew you’d like it,” he said, approving. “Old Jacob thought I was mad for buying it, but I knew you’d see it.”

“Old Jacob has a point,” Attila replied, staring at Kit’s wonderful discovery with consternation in his eyes.

Charity snorted. Well it was hardly surprising. The man was a barbarian, a Philistine. The painting was not anything that would be deemed fashionable it was true. It was neither pretty nor romantic. Instead it sought reality. The old woman had led a hard a life, every line of it engraved on her haggard face. The painter had captured her with such skill Charity could see her curiosity at being painted as she stared out of the picture with an almost suspicious frown.

“Why would anyone want a picture of that gnarly old woman on their wall?” the barbarian demanded, not getting the point at all. “It’s enough to put one off one’s dinner.”

“I doubt it,” Charity muttered, having noted the vast sums the fellow could eat. To be fair, he was a big man, but still….

“It’s art,” Kit replied, staring at Attila as if he’d crawled out of a cheese wheel.

Ah, at last, her brother saw the barbarous brute for what he was. All it had taken was a discussion about art. She should have known.

“It’s hideous,” Attila replied, frankly as John snorted with amusement.

“It’s honest,” Charity replied, matching his timbre. “It doesn’t hide what it is, nor does it present the sitter in a flattering light purely for their own adulation. It’s not done for the sitter’s self-consequence, nor that of the artist. It reflects truth, real life as it is. Not some prettied up, nauseating representation of the worthy poor and their humble but beautiful simplicity.”

Kit beamed at her and Charity felt a glow of pride at her brother’s pleasure in her words. It seemed she had been listening when he ranted about art, poetry, and literature. Charity turned to regard Attila, who was giving her a curious look she could not read. He drained his glass and gave a shrug, unimpressed by her impassioned speech.

“I bow to your superior knowledge of art,” he replied, though she felt the implication in his mocking undertone that a woman who’d never been very far from the farm she’d been born in couldn’t know anything about anything, let alone art. “However, I still say it’s ugly.”

He smirked, and Charity clasped the knife in her hand a little tighter.

“I dare say, sir,” she replied, conversationally as she made a show of returning to her dinner. She paused then, looking him in the eye. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder, after all. I’m sure there are numerous things in the world that many people would consider handsome, and which I would think grotesque.”

She held her smile as Kit’s foot pressed down on her toes, hard. A kick would be delivered next time, if she didn’t hold her tongue. Charity well knew her twin’s tactics.

Attila was quiet, and for a moment she thought perhaps she’d gotten the better of him.

No such luck.

“I don’t believe you, Miss Kendall.” Those pale blue eyes were glittering intently now. “I believe you would pretend indifference for the sake of being thought an independent woman with an original mind. But you’d know the truth… in your heart. You admire and desire as much as anyone else.” He lowered his voice, leaning towards her a little. “Such thoughts might even keep you awake at night.”

Charity felt the blush as it crawled up her neck. Of all the outrageous, shocking, dreadful things to imply….

Kit cleared his throat and stood up, wielding the carving knife and glaring at Attila in rage as John and Jane looked back and forth between them all, aware of the strange undercurrent but confounded by what was going on. Giving their guest one last look of fury her twin pasted a smile to his face. “More chicken, anyone?”

***

Dev left the dining room aware of the most peculiar sense of contentment. The meal had been tremendous, he’d meant that. Mrs Baxter and Ms Kendall were wonderful cooks and everything from the succulent chicken, to the summer pudding she’d served with thick cream, had been a delight. He couldn’t ever remember eating so much. Well, he couldn’t remember much of anything it was true but still, he felt… replete.

Then there had been the company. What little he sensed was true about his own life, he felt certain he had endured it alone. There had been no warm, annoying, loud and laughing family around him like the Kendalls had here. Something that might have been envy wormed its way into his chest and he squashed it. Such thoughts were pointless.

Miss Kendall, however, had proved herself a worthy adversary. Sparring with her had been rather enjoyable, in a somewhat twisted way, perhaps. Good Lord, but she had a tongue on her that one. Attila, indeed! He gave a grunt of amusement despite himself. He’d gotten his own back, though. The blush that had bloomed over her when he’d implied she admired him, made him wonder. He hadn’t even meant it. The woman had made her animosity clear from the outset. Dev hadn’t believed for a moment she had any feelings of a romantic nature for him.

He wasn’t a fool, however, and neither was he blind. He knew he was a handsome man. Perhaps his name and history escaped him at present, but he didn’t doubt he was a man who knew his way around a woman. That being the case, he still found himself surprised by her interest. Perhaps she despised him so, not only because he was rude and obnoxious—he would not deny it—but because it angered her to find herself drawn to him. The idea was intriguing.

It was something he would need to consider… and investigate.

Dev opened the door to the garden, needing some air before he returned to his room. He breathed in the warm, perfumed air with pleasure. Night scented stock wrapped its fragrance around him and he let out a sigh of content. A muffled curse beside him was the first indication he wasn’t alone.

“Forgive me, Miss Kendall,” he said, as he turned to see the moonlight casting its silver light over her upturned and irritated face. Despite her obvious annoyance he had to admit she looked rather lovely in the moonlight, her skin silvered and ethereal, large eyes glittering. “I did not intend to disturb your evening.”

She snorted, a rather prosaic sound that hardly suited the romance of the situation.

“Really? I thought it was exactly what you had intended.”

The words were tart, and she folded her arms over her chest as she stared daggers at him.

Dev grinned, chuckling at her obvious aggravation. “At the risk of sounding like a five-year-old, you started it.”

“I did not!”

Dev stared at her and she huffed, folding her arms a little tighter.

“Well, all right, I did.” Her lips compressed with the admission. “But you were sitting there looking so damn smug and self-satisfied that a saint would have been hard-pressed to resist, and I’m no saint.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” Dev infused the words with his most seductive tone, curious to see what effect this had on Miss Kendall. To his increasing enjoyment, her eyes widened, and she moved away from him.

“I’ll bid you a good evening then, sir.”

She turned and hurried back inside, but Dev wasn’t ready to let her leave just yet. He followed her in.

“Don’t you mean Attila?” he taunted, though the words softened with his amusement rather than sounding annoyed. They were back in the dining room, now cleared and empty.

Kit had retired as the ugly painting had inspired him to write; something equally grim, no doubt. Charity had ushered the children to bed earlier, and Mr and Mrs Baxter were busy in the kitchens.

They were all alone.

“Or should that be Mr Hun?” he mused, watching her in the moonlit room as she turned to face him. “I haven’t given you leave to use my name, have I? We should need to be better acquainted for that.”

Her eyes narrowed and she gave him a curious look. Had anyone ever flirted with her before? He wondered, stuck here in the back end of beyond as she was.

“I have no desire to become better acquainted, thank you,” she retorted, primly. “I have had a surfeit of your acquaintance, in fact, and can only hope to reduce it as soon as may be.”

Dev chuckled, a low, dark sound that rumbled around the gloomy space. He took a step closer and he heard her intake of breath.

“I don’t believe you,” he said, enjoying the look in her eyes. They were wide now, and a little startled, like a young doe caught unawares. “I saw the blush that stained your skin when I suggested you thought of me at night.” He took another step as she mirrored him by backing away. “Did I hit a nerve, Miss Kendall?”

“Certainly not,” she retorted, though there was a breathless quality to her voice he found less than convincing.

Dev grinned. Oh no, this little hellcat was not immune by any means. Rather more pleased than was good for him, Dev took another step towards her.

The missile came from nowhere, smashing a bare inch to the left of his temple against the wall beside him. Cold, sharp shards of porcelain exploded, prickling against his skin like tiny needles. His heart raced, sweat breaking out over his skin as the smashing china transported him to another time, another place.

Dev caught his breath, backing up as the memories rushed in, tumbling over each other as his identity returned to him alongside a lifetime of bitterness and hurt. He found the wall at his back and leaned into it for support, standing among the debris as the door opened and Kit appeared, holding a candle aloft. He looked between them, seeing his sister’s worried face and Dev huddled against the wall. A mixture of suspicion and concern filled his dark eyes as he stepped into the room and glared at them both.

“What the devil is going on?”

“I lost my temper,” Charity said, staring at Dev with a mixture of frustration and curiosity.

With irritation he noticed something that might have been concern in her expression. He didn’t want her pity, that was for certain. Not the woman he was about to throw from her home by selling it from under her.

His heart thudded: a strange, heavy sensation that echoed in his throat. Blackehart. Miss Kendall’s words rolled back to him.

“Whoever this Blackehart fellow is, I hope he finds him. With luck he’ll challenge the damned rakehell to a duel and bloody well shoot him through his shrivelled-up heart.”

My God.

He’d missed his meeting with Blackehart. He’d missed his opportunity to explain his plans and buy some time, and now the man was looking for him, and none too pleased about it if Dev knew anything.

Damnation.

Wrath blazed beneath his skin as he realised the woman before him was entirely to blame. The insulting, not to mention libellous letter she’d written had brought him here, and this was the result. Well, there was no help for it. He needed to lie low until the sale completed. When the money was in hand, then he’d face Blackehart and hope having the money was enough to avoid finding himself dead in a dark alley. A lifetime of looking over his shoulder did not appeal.

Dev looked up as Kit handed him a glass of brandy. “Are you all right?” he asked, something between suspicion and interest in his inflection. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Something of the sort,” Dev replied, knocking back the drink in one large swallow as he attempted to marshal his thoughts. He needed a plan, and fast. “To be honest….” Dev cringed a little; honesty was the furthest thing from his intentions. They would throw him out on his ear if they knew the truth. “I’m not feeling all that well. If you would excuse me. Goodnight, Mr Kendall, Miss Kendall.”

He suppressed the urge to glower at the woman as he stalked from the room, feeling aggrieved all over again. Blast her to hell. He was in the devil of a tangle, and it was all her fault.