Chapter Seventeen
Lord Braithwaite rode away from the Winslows feeling appalled by the danger Serena had faced with the French spies, and inevitably proud of her spirited reaction, however much greater a risk she’d taken. And although he was more grateful than ever for what Tamar had contributed to her rescue, he couldn’t help being further appalled by Winslow’s opinion of him.
“Oh, there’s no doubt he’s the marquis,” the squire had told him. “Sir Henry Horsham knew old Tamar well, and even recognized the son. And Lord Daxton, among others, knew him as a child. Likeable chap. Accepted everywhere, and a damned fine painter, to boot. Sadly, he doesn’t have two pennies to rub together, but that must be laid at his father’s door.”
“Then Mrs. Winslow receives him?”
“Oh yes.” He glanced shrewdly at Braithwaite. “Though I wouldn’t want him for Catherine.”
In many ways, it would have been so much easier if the man had simply been an imposter, a flim-flam man after Serena’s fortune. Of course, the real Tamar was after her fortune, too, but it wasn’t so easy to dismiss a marquis as a cheat and a liar. Especially not after he’d saved her life.
In some dismay, he rode into Blackhaven to call on Major Doverton and get the military perspective on what had occurred. That didn’t help either, for Doverton had nothing but praise for Tamar’s courage.
“Clever chap, too,” he added. “He’d have made a fine officer—sound tactician and strategist.”
“I wonder why he didn’t join up,” Brathwaite said. It would surely have been a reliable source of income if nothing else.
“I asked him that. He told me he couldn’t afford the commission, and besides, didn’t have the discipline.”
“Well,” Braithwaite said, offering his hand. “I know he couldn’t have rescued my sister without you. You have my eternal gratitude, and my mother’s. And if there’s ever any way in which I can be of service to you, you need only ask.”
Churning him up as he left Doverton, was the growing knowledge that he was going to have to call on Tamar, too, and offer proper thanks. He thought it might choke him. But the man had almost died to save Doverton, and had risked himself again while still wounded to save Serena.
Fortunately, he had no idea where Tamar was staying. Until he ran into the vicar, who had stopped to chat to Bernard Muir and his stepmother outside the coffee house. They all greeted him in friendly spirit, and he bowed to Mrs. Muir, asking civilly after her health and her infant son.
As the conversation moved swiftly on, Braithwaite dropped in the fact that his sisters wished him to buy a painting from Lord Tamar. He thought it quite a subtle way to discover the marquis’s dirty linen, for Bernard and the vicar would know everyone, and Mrs. Muir was even stricter about the proprieties than his mother.
“You could do worse,” Bernard assured him cheerfully. “Everyone wants one of Tamar’s daubs on their wall.”
“I’m not sure I want a daub of my sisters,” Braithwaite objected.
“The gallery has some of his work,” the vicar observed. “Or you could step round to his studio—one of the fishermen’s cottages along from the harbor.”
Damnation. Now he had no excuse. Grant caught his eye and gave a quick, sympathetic smile, almost as if he knew what was in Braithwaite’s head. The living of Blackhaven was within Braithwaite’s gift, and he’d been happy to approve Grant for the position. He was gentlemanly, clever, and compassionate, and everyone seemed to like him. Including wicked Kate Crowmore who’d married him. Braithwaite began to wonder if he’d made a mistake.
“I must go,” the vicar said now. “But I shall be free for luncheon if you’d care to call at the vicarage.”
“I believe my mother and sister are already descending upon your wife,” Braithwaite said.
“Excellent. I’ll hope to see your lordship, too. Good morning.”
Left with no excuse, Braithwaite dragged his feet to the end of High Street and walked through the market to the harbor. Surely, he had grace enough to thank a stranger—a fellow nobleman who had not been born with quite so much luck as himself—for saving the life of his sister? He could even explain further why the match was impossible. Without being quite so insulting to his rank as he had been last night when he hadn’t believed the man was really the Marquis of Tamar.
Braithwaite turned along the row of fishermen’s cottages, wondering which Tamar used. In fact, he hoped Tamar wasn’t there, when without warning, the door he was passing flew open and two vaguely familiar gentlemen were all but pushed out.
“Shove off, there’s good fellows,” came Tamar’s voice. “I’m working.”
“Dash it, Tamar!” said one of them indignantly, waving a brandy flask before his friend dragged him off and Braithwaite had a clear view of the marquis, tousled and disreputable in his shirt sleeves, spattered with paint of various hues.
He was in the midst of calling some amusing insult after his friends when his gaze caught Braithwaite and the words died on his lips.
“My lord,” Braithwaite said, bowing stiffly.
“My lord,” Tamar returned, just a shade sardonically. He stepped back from the door. “Please step inside if you don’t mind the mess. I’m afraid tidiness is not one of my virtues.”
That was an understatement. The tiny one-roomed cottage was stuffed full of boxes and easels and abandoned clothing, the walls lined with hung paintings while more were piled against them on the floor. Only the window appeared to be clear and clean, and Braithwaite could see why. The view over the sea was spectacular.
Braithwaite stepped over a box of paints, and Tamar brushed past him to shove a blanket and coat off the couch onto the floor.
“Sit, if you wish,” he offered casually. “Glass of ale? I’ve had to fob those fellows off with the last of the brandy.”
“No, I thank you,” Braithwaite said. He found a small space beside two covered easels opposite the couch. “I shan’t keep you. I only wished to convey to you my thanks. I have heard the part you played in thwarting the French attack on the fort, and more particularly, in rescuing my sister.”
“No thanks are necessary. My reasons were largely selfish, with care for my country a rather poor second.”
“Whatever your reasons,” Braithwaite said with difficulty, “I am in your debt. And you should know I value what you did.”
Tamar smiled, throwing himself on to the couch. “But only up to a point. Not enough to permit me to address your sister.”
“You’re not a stupid man, by all accounts,” Braithwaite said. “You must know my reasons. Nor can they come as any surprise to you.”
“No,” Tamar admitted. His lips twisted. “Believe it or not, I once had the same scruples, until I saw how unhappy Serena was when I acted upon them. I want her to be happy, and for some reason that is beyond both of us, that has to include me.”
“I have no doubt of her genuine attachment,” Braithwaite said stiffly. “But it is not lasting. Your acquaintance is too short.”
“I understand you, but you’re wrong,” Tamar said in tones of certainty.
“For God’s sake man, this is not just your studio, you sleep here!” Braithwaite burst out. “Do you truly expect my sister to live in such squalor?”
“No, though she’s welcome to if she wishes. My hope is that within a month or two I shall be able to afford a decent set of rooms, or perhaps a cottage outside Blackhaven.”
“How?” Braithwaite demanded rudely, his eyes straying to the paintings on the wall beside him. Eye-catching seascapes, full of motion and atmosphere, not vulgar but not, to his eyes, outstanding either.
Tamar shrugged. “I can sell a few more paintings at a higher price.”
“And add that to your treasure from Alban?”
Tamar laughed. “Captain Alban is a gentleman and a wealthy shipowner. If there were truly acts of piracy in his past—and I know nothing about that—he has no need to resort to such now. I’ll wager you this roof over my head that none of these items were stolen.”
Braithwaite turned aside impatiently, and his coat brushed against the easel beside him, catching the cloth which covered it.
To his surprise, Tamar made an instinctive dive off the couch to catch the falling cloth. Instead, he upset the balance of both easels and both cloths slipped to the floor. Tamar only just managed to steady one easel while Braithwaite seized the other…and found himself gazing into Serena’s eyes.
At first glance, the painting was a stunningly perfect likeness, so much so that he immediately looked at the other to see if it was even half so good.
It was the back of Serena’s head, apparently the reverse of the first picture. Sunlight seemed to glow from every individual strand of her hair and the simple knot in which it was tied, revealing the delicate curve of her neck and shoulders beneath. Although there was nothing as obvious or as blasphemous as a halo, that was one of Braithwaite’s overall impressions, swiftly followed by an appealing mixture of innocence and sensuality. And mystery, because even the sun seemed to love her. And yet, although you were desperate to, you could not see her face.
Until you looked at the other painting. In the same autumnal, leafy setting—which seemed vaguely familiar to Braithwaite, although he didn’t even try to place it at that moment—Serena’s full beauty dazzled him. It wasn’t just that the artist had caught her humor, cleverness, and sweetness in one characteristic expression, it was that every delicate line of her face and gown and posture shouted her sheer vitality, her love of life and the world. The painter had known Serena well, and more than that…
“I don’t know if they’re finished,” Tamar said with unexpected nervousness. “I always cover them up for at least a day, so I can see afresh if something needs to change.”
More than that…
“Don’t,” Braithwaite blurted. “Don’t change anything.” Slowly, he raised his gaze from the painting to the painter. More than that… “You love her.”
“Yes.”
Braithwaite drew in his breath, trying to deal with what this meant, with turning everything on its head and looking at it afresh. “Perhaps I will have that ale.”
Tamar went and poured it and placed it in his hands. He drank it down, then set the cup back on the cluttered table and picked up his hat. “Come with me,” he instructed, then paused. “If you please.”
“I please,” Tamar replied, apparently amused. He shook out the coat he’d abandoned on the floor and shrugged himself into it before grabbing a necktie that dangled from one of the pictures on the wall. He wound it carelessly around his throat while heading for the door.
“That’s my orchard,” Braithwaite said suddenly. “In your pictures.”
“Yes, it is,” Tamar agreed, locking the door behind them. “I’m afraid I’ve been in the habit of trespassing in your grounds to paint. Serena caught me there. That was how I first met her.”
*
Her mother took so long to prepare for the expedition to Blackhaven that Serena almost gave up on it. In the end, she only persevered because she felt obliged to give Kate what protection she could.
And then, when they finally arrived before the vicarage and dismounted from the carriage, the maid told them her mistress was not at home.
The countess stared. “I am not accustomed to being kept waiting.”
Clearly, she suspected Kate of deliberately denying herself. The maid looked distinctly flustered, her gaze flying to Serena for help.
“Of course,” Serena said, remembering. “This is one of Mrs. Grant’s soup-kitchen days. I believe I promised to help her, too, so I hope she’ll forgive me! Might we wait for her to come home?”
“Of course, m’lady,” the maid said in some relief. “Go into the parlor and I’ll bring tea.”
Mollified, the countess condescended to enter the house and wait. Which would at least give poor Kate warning of who had descended upon her. In fact, they didn’t have long to wait before Kate and Mr. Grant both came into the house, laughing together at something.
Serena’s mother sniffed with disapproval. Voices could be heard in the hall as the maid, no doubt, explained the presence of guests. Without delay, Kate entered the parlor, and came straight to the countess with her hand held out.
“Lady Braithwaite, how wonderful! I glimpsed you last night, so I knew you were back. May I present my husband, Tristram Grant.”
Kate’s natural manner probably did more than anything else to convince the countess that no crime had been committed. However, she wouldn’t have been Serena’s mother if she hadn’t launched into a criticism of Kate taking upon herself the role of chaperone to Serena before she had been given permission.
“Be fair, Mama,” Serena argued. “You know I would have been driven mad, or got into quite horrendous trouble through boredom if I hadn’t been allowed to go anywhere!”
“It seems to me you still did!” her mother snapped.
“On the contrary,” Mr. Grant said gently. “I believe Lady Serena behaves at all times like the lady you wish her to be. My wife merely lent her company for the benefit of a critical world—even when that meant travelling up to the fort in the pouring rain to face armed enemy spies.”
It was quite masterly, Serena allowed, absolving both herself and Kate from any blame whatsoever, and reminding Lady Braithwaite that she owed Kate not criticism but gratitude.
Serena’s mother stared at him.
“Ah, look,” Kate said brightly. “Here is Lord Braithwaite arriving, too…with Lord Tamar.”
The blood drained from Serena’s face so fast she was glad to be sitting down. “Together?” she asked anxiously.
“Apparently so.” Kate met her gaze with a resigned quirk of the eyebrows.
“You will not go near him,” Serena’s mother hissed in her ear. “You will stay by my side at all times.”
Serena didn’t answer. She was too alarmed by what the two men might have said to each other that they were coming to the Grants at the same time. Were they coming to ask Mr. Grant to mediate? Or, more likely, to try and force Tamar to renounce her face to face. He wouldn’t, of course, but his refusal would lead to such unpleasantness.
Well, they could still escape to Scotland.
She was afraid to breathe.
The parlor door opened in unusual silence, and both gentleman, the one so exquisitely dressed and the other so shabby, bowed to the room in general. Tamar sought her eyes. He didn’t seem terribly worried, but then he rarely did. It all went on beneath the surface with him.
Both Kate and her husband shook hands with both lords.
“Very glad to see you both,” Mr. Grant pronounced. “Have you come for luncheon, or did you want to speak to me about something else?”
“I want you to call the banns,” Braithwaite said, stunning the room. “For Serena and Tamar here.”
Serena’s mouth fell open.
“What?” her mother exclaimed. “Braithwaite, have you taken leave of your senses?”
Tamar was staring at him, pulling his ear as if he was afraid he’d heard wrongly.
“Of course not,” Braithwaite said. “Quite the opposite in fact.”
“Hold on,” Tamar said. “Are you actually giving us permission to marry?”
Braithwaite’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Yes. Didn’t I say?”
Serena’s paralysis broke. An instant before her reacted, she flew out of her chair and into Tamar’s waiting arms. Before them all, his mouth crushed hers in an exuberant, enthusiastic kiss that had her mother moaning for her smelling salts.
Emerging breathless and slightly tousled, she caught her brother’s arm, smiling. “Thank you, Gervaise.”
He inclined his head ironically.
“What changed your mind?” she asked curiously.
“He loves you.” Braithwaite flushed slightly as everyone stared at him. “More than that, he knows you and still loves you.”
Serena punched his arm without anger. “Yes, but how do you know?”
“I saw his painting,” Braithwaite said. “Both his paintings of you.”
Tamar loosened his grip on Serena though he still held her with one arm around her waist. “You got all of that from the paintings?”
Braithwaite nodded curtly.
Tamar let out a breath of laughter. “By God, I am good!”