Chapter Eight
Since the next day was Saturday, when the girls did not have formal lessons, Serena agreed they should walk into Blackhaven and enjoy an ice at the parlor which had sprung up at the bottom end of the high street.
“Would you like to come with us, Miss Grey?” she asked the governess. “Or would you rather enjoy the time alone?”
The governess appeared to hesitate.
“Either is fine,” Serena assured her. “Your company is always welcome, but you are more than entitled to a day away from us.”
She’d never said such a thing to a governess before, let alone meant it. But she genuinely liked Miss Grey and so did the girls. They were lucky to have her.
“To be honest, what I would really like is a long walk in the country,” Miss Grey confessed. “It’s such a beautiful autumn day.”
“By all means,” Serena said. “I’ll have Cook pack you up some luncheon if you wish. Only please don’t get lost! And be sure to return before dark as we’ve all been warned.”
Last night had been quiet, with no sounds of intrusion or pursuit, and when Paton had checked the cellar that morning, there was no change in the number of foreign barrels stored there. Which was a bit of an anti-climax, although the danger was hardly over.
“Of course,” Miss Grey assured her.
Serena smiled and walked away, but as if plucking up her courage, the governess detained her. “Lady Serena?”
“Yes?” She turned back, expectantly in time to see Miss Grey taking a hesitant step toward her.
“My lady, I know it is not my place to speak, and I really do trust your judgment, only—”
Serena frowned. “Only what?”
“It’s about Lord Tamar,” Miss Grey said in a rush. She came closer, meeting Serena’s surprised gaze. “Have you considered that he might be part of this gunpowder plot of ours?”
Serena blinked. “No,” she said baldly.
“Well, as a I say, I trust your judgment. It’s just that…it came to me last night when I was trying to go back to sleep. You were chased by a man with a knife and ran into Lord Tamar. You waited in the cellar for the smugglers to appear—and Lord Tamar did.”
Something nasty clawed at Serena’s stomach. Her instinct was simply to dismiss Miss Grey’s suspicions out of hand, for she knew Tamar had nothing to do with those incidents, except in so far as he’d helped her. And yet Miss Grey’s words were perfectly true. And Miss Grey was both clever and perceptive.
“No,” Serena said at last. “If he’d been involved, why would he have shown me the barrels contained gunpowder? Why would he have bothered to be kind to me if he’d just tried to kill me?”
“I don’t know,” Miss Grey said miserably. “I know he is a likeable man, and I can see no motive for his kindness if he is our villain. Only…only, he is a poor man, and might well be induced to act against his conscience for money. People do.”
Serena thought, frowning. To some extent, the governess’s suspicions made sense. Just not when she considered the man she was coming to know.
“No,” she said firmly. “You’re wrong. But I appreciate your looking out for us.”
*
Despite an initial tendency of Alice and Helen to quarrel during their walk, Serena had coaxed everyone into good humor well before they reached the town.
“We could call on Lord Tamar,” Helen suggested.
Serena, who, despite Miss Grey’s warnings, had every desire to see both the artist and his studio, murmured that that would not be quite proper. She had a horror of imposing, of reading too much into the bold flirtation of an unconventional man. She did not want to see annoyance in his eyes if she disturbed him in his lair. And after their last encounter, she was very much afraid she would.
“But after we’ve had an ice, we should probably call at the vicarage,” she said brightly.
The vicarage was clearly considered to be a poor substitute for the artist’s studio, but since ices were the first order of the day, no one complained. Yet.
Their little group caused quite a stir in Blackhaven. Most of the long-time residents knew who they were and greeted them in friendly spirit, usually bowing. The visitors, who seemed to grow in number every time Serena came home, regarded them with curiosity and whispers, although one or two whom Serena recognized from London, did come and speak a few courteous words.
Serena joined her sisters in a dish of delicious ices. “This is as good as anything at Gunthers, don’t you think?” she enthused.
The girls agreed readily, comparing favorite flavors with the palates of connoisseurs. They were so engaged when a gentleman came in and bowed to them.
“Why, Monsieur de Valère,” Serena greeted him in surprise. “I did not imagine you to be much of an ice man.”
“I’m not,” he confessed. “I merely saw you through the window and came in to pay my respects.”
“How civil of you. Allow me to present my sisters, Lady Maria, Alice, and Helen. Girls, M. le Comte de Valère, who is a friend of the Winslows.”
“And of yours, I trust,” Valère protested.
The comte only stayed to exchange a few words and then politely took his leave.
“Is he another admirer of yours?” Maria asked.
“Why, no, though he may be of Catherine Winslow.” She frowned. “What do you mean, another admirer?”
“As well as Lord Tamar. And it seems to me the comte admires you, too.”
“You’re being silly,” Serena said, for some reason uncomfortable about both gentlemen.
“No, she isn’t.” Alice argued. “But I like Lord Tamar better.”
“Because he’s English?” Serena teased.
“No, because—”
“In any case, you’re talking nonsense,” Serena interrupted. “Come, let’s look in the shops, then see if Mrs. Grant is at home. We can walk home by way of the harbor and the beach, if the tide is far enough out.”
After spending some time in the book shop and buying some new ribbon for Maria’s hair, they walked round to the vicarage. Kate appeared delighted to see them, and Mr. Grant even emerged from his study—where he claimed to have been writing tomorrow’s sermon—to join them for tea and cake.
“So what is next?” he asked. “More wicked dissipation in Blackhaven? Or the long walk home?”
“We thought we’d walk along the beach and up the cliff paths,” Serena said.
“Though we’d quite like to call on Lord Tamar first,” Helen said defiantly. “We’d like to see his paintings, but Serena says it wouldn’t be proper to call.”
“It probably would, if we came with you,” Kate said unexpectedly, and in spite of her best intentions, Serena’s heart began to beat with hope.
“Or just you,” Mr. Grant said to his wife, “for I have to call in on Lampton. But you could take Tamar a message from me…”
“How do they know Tamar?” Kate asked with deceptive casualness as they walked together round to the harbor. “Did he call on you at the castle?”
“Not exactly,” Serena said cautiously. “It seems he’s in the habit of trespassing there to paint.”
“And we’re having an adventure with him,” Helen said happily. Maria glared at her. “What?”
“Indeed?” Kate said pleasantly. “What kind of adventure?”
“One involving gunpowder,” Serena said, giving in to the inevitable. The whole story then came out in hushed tones.
“Goodness,” Kate said faintly. “For such a small town, there is rarely a dull moment in Blackhaven.”
Arriving at the harbor, they turned left along the shore road where a row of fishermen’s cottages stood. A man in an ill-made coat sat on the steps of one, one leg stretched out in front of him as he contemplated the sea. Neither gentleman nor fisherman, by his dress, he looked quite out of place in this neighborhood.
“Goodness,” Kate said in startled tones. “He does have a bailiff.”
“This is Lord Tamar’s studio?” Serena wasn’t quite sure what she’d expected.
“It is.” Without any more warning, Kate stopped at the front step, regarding the bailiff, who looked back with insolent curiosity. She had suddenly assumed a manner much more reminiscent of the superior, intimidating Kate Serena remembered.
“My good man,” she drawled. “You must be aware you have no business with a peer of the realm. Be off with you before I call the watch.”
The bailiff jumped to his feet, looking as if he wished to say something rude or defiant. And then he simply effaced himself.
“Good,” Kate said with satisfaction and sailed up to the front door. She rapped it with the handle of her umbrella. Receiving no response, she called, “Tamar, I know you’re in there. I have a message from the vicar!”
Even from the step, Serena heard Tamar’s muffled snort of laughter. An instant later, the key turned in the lock and the door was thrown open to reveal Lord Tamar in his shirt sleeves, with his hair even more tousled than usual. He wore no necktie and his shirt front hung half-open to reveal the strong column of his throat and a tantalizing glimpse of manly chest and shoulder.
Serena felt a blush begin somewhere near her toes and rise upward with alarming speed, but it seemed Tamar was even more stunned by the deputation at his door.
“Good God,” he uttered.
“Alas, not even the vicar,” Kate said flippantly. “The young ladies would very much like to see your paintings. Lady Serena and I are here to chaperone them.”
Tamar’s gaze skimmed past Serena, as if he couldn’t bear to look at her, and her heart sank. She should never have pushed him yesterday. Whatever his secrets, he didn’t want them prodded, certainly not by her. She wished she hadn’t come.
Tamar, peering beyond the step, said, “What have you done with my bailiff?”
“Kate sent him about his business,” Serena said lightly.
“Clearly, I should have sent for you weeks ago.”
“You’re more than capable of getting rid of him yourself, if you wish to,” Kate retorted. “Particularly since he can’t legally arrest you.”
“Ah, but he is useful to me,” Tamar said, apparently not in the least put-out. “He fends off other vermin.”
“Oh goodness,” Helen said, looking around in awe.
“You mean the mess or the pictures?” he asked carelessly. “You have my permission to kick aside anything that is not a painting. It’s what I do. I can’t offer you refreshment ladies, unless your tastes run to brandy?”
“No, I thank you,” Kate said. “You should have someone to clean for you.”
“Are you offering?” Tamar asked outrageously.
“What other vermin?” Serena blurted.
Tamar’s unreadable gaze focused on her. One eyebrow lifted quizzically.
“What other vermin does your supposed bailiff fend off?” she asked more clearly.
She expected an evasion at best, but again he surprised her. “Ah, there’s another mystery. Some of my paintings have vanished and it strikes me it might be his fault that more haven’t been taken.”
Serena frowned. “Because no one can get past him without being seen? Perhaps he’s in league with the thief.”
“I wouldn’t put it past the thief,” he allowed, “but perhaps the bailiff has standards. Did anything happen last night at the castle?”
“No, it was quite dull,” Serena replied. “Have you lost many paintings?”
“A few landscapes and the portrait of Dax and his lady.” He moved away from her, throwing a large, paint-covered cloth over the canvas currently on the easel by the window, the one Kate was walking toward. The vicar’s wife stuck her tongue out at him.
“What is he doing with them?” Serena asked, gazing at a rather beautiful picture of Brathwaite Castle at sunset.
“Selling them. Certainly, he sold one at the local gallery, pretending to be acting for me.” Tamar grimaced. “Negotiated a better price, too, damn him. I expect that’s what is paying to send the other paintings elsewhere by some means or another.” In one movement, he swept a newspaper, two books, and a small pile of indistinguishable clothing off the sofa, then kicked it all forcefully to one side. “Please, sit down,” he invited.
“That’s outrageous,” Kate observed, sitting gracefully. “Set the watch on him. Mr. Winslow would be happy to organize that for you.”
“No point, really, I know who it is. I just don’t know what he’s done with them. I need him to lead me to Daxton’s portrait at the very least. It’s meant to be a wedding gift. What is Grant’s message, by the way?”
“Not in Carlisle,” Kate quoted wryly. “Does that refer to your paintings? My husband does play his cards very close to his chest at times.”
“I asked him to,” Tamar apologized.
“Maybe York then,” Kate suggested. “Or London. Though who but Daxton’s family would want a portrait of Dax? I’m fairly sure Willa’s family wouldn’t!”
“He won’t know it’s anyone as famous—or infamous—as Dax. He probably just thinks it’s a pretty picture he can sell.”
Serena, after watching her sisters rummage through the paintings piled along the walls with a modicum of care, sat down beside Kate. “Is it?”
His gaze landed on her face. So did Kate’s.
She flushed. “I mean, here, you are known and your paintings have come to be valued. And while I know there is some coming and going between Blackhaven and London, I am wondering if your thief will find the pictures as easy to sell there. You say you know who the thief is. Does he have knowledge of the London art world? Acquaintances there?”
“I would doubt it,” Tamar said thoughtfully, his gaze remaining on her face. “Although one can never tell.”
She drew in her breath. “Perhaps you should go to London,” she said in a rush.
His lips twisted. “Perhaps I should. Only then, who would prevent him plundering my studio at his leisure? Even my bailiff would follow me.”
“You mean the thief is still here in Blackhaven?” Kate asked in surprise.
“He arrived on the stagecoach and he hasn’t left again. Nor has he hired a horse, so yes, I think he’s still here.”
“You need to have him arrested,” Serena said with decision. “Then, even if he won’t tell what he’s done with the paintings, at least he won’t take any more.”
“It would give me a certain amount of satisfaction,” Tamar admitted. “But I find I’m loathe to drag his name through the mud.”
“Why?”
He laughed. “Because it’s the same as mine. The thief is my brother.”
Serena stared at him in horror. Beside her, she was sure Kate’s face bore much the same expression. From nowhere, she remembered the man she’d seen in the gallery who at first glance had looked so much like Tamar. Could that have been his brother? The thief? Surely no one would steal from his own brother! Certainly not one as good-natured as Tamar. Or was he too good-natured? Did this betrayal hurt him?
“How do you know?” Serena demanded. “How do you know it was your brother? Do you have proof?”
“He gave his name to Davidson at the gallery. Davidson described him. And the tavern staff know him by the same name.”
“It could be a trick to deceive you into leaving him alone,” Kate said hopefully. “Perhaps he gave a false name.”
“Oh, he did. He gave the name of my youngest brother, to send me on a false trail after Sylvester.”
Serena frowned in bewilderment. “How do you know it isn’t Sylvester?”
He threw up one impatient hand. “Because Sylvester isn’t that devious. He’d clear the paintings out in one swoop and probably leave me a note. Julian prefers to entertain himself.”
“But he must know there’s a risk of your discovering him,” Serena objected. “Especially if he’s still staying at the tavern.”
“Well, there’s the thing. He isn’t. I went to his room and there’s no sign of him. His bed hadn’t been slept in. There are no clothes there and certainly no paintings.
“Then he must be at the hotel.” Kate said. “There’s nowhere else to stay in Blackhaven.”
“He isn’t. I doubt he can afford the hotel,” Tamar said impatiently. “Not with the sale of one painting.” He blinked suddenly, then began to laugh. He threw himself on to the stool near the covered easel “What am I saying? He is still here, and I think I know why. Don’t worry. If I’m right, I’ll get all the paintings back.” His eyes refocused on Serena, then shifted to Kate. “Sorry. Now you know more than you ever wanted to about my family. Feel free to cut me at any time.”
“I think I’ll just have a look at your paintings, first,” Serena said, jumping to her feet. For some reason, his squalid little story had only increased her curiosity in his work. While she wandered around, gazing at the paintings hanging on the cluttered walls, crouching down to examine those propped up on the floor, the girls bombarded him with questions. Who were the people in the portraits or depicted in landscapes? Which ship was that in the harbor, whose was the house? Tamar answered them all with a mixture of honesty and wild, stories that had them in stitches.
“Why, this is Haven House,” Maria said once. “Is it really so overgrown, now? Is there not a new tenant there?”
“Yes, but he seems to like it this way,” Tamar said. “It can’t be very comfortable, of course, but I thought it made an interesting painting.” He lowered his voice, contorting his body. “A haunted house.”
The girls giggled.
For Serena, the more she looked at his work, the more impressed she became by his talent. It was far more than technical competence, which in itself would have been impressive enough considering his lack of formal training. He had the knack of capturing an atmosphere, complicated expressions, the beauty in everyday objects as well as in people the world regarded as nobodies, even ugly nobodies.
There was one painting hanging up, of an old woman collecting wood in the forest at the edge of a lake. The loveliness of the lush, local countryside was staggering. In such a piece, Serena would have expected the poor old woman to be part of the background, but she wasn’t. She was the focus of his painting, bent and wrinkled and ragged. And yet, there was charm in her eyes, in the exquisite structure of her bones, in the very character of her face, old in experience, both tragic and happy. He’d seen beneath the ugliness of age to the beauty of her life, her person, and more than that, he’d shown it to whoever looked.
It made her want to cry, that picture. Tamar was more, far more, than the amiable, careless young man he appeared. His perception, his understanding, staggered her, set her wondering afresh what experience had forged it.
And somewhere, too, it saddened her. No wonder he rejected her tentative overtures. What was there in her silly, shallow life of privilege, parties, and husband-hunting to capture the genuine interest of such a man? She was well aware she could inspire attention, even lust, although she was not meant to know about such things. She’d had a taste of Tamar’s. But that was not enough to keep him.
The pain turned her away from the painting, but she hadn’t taken a step before her eyes strayed back to it.
“My lord, what would you charge for this?” she blurted.
“Take it,” he said at once. Leaving the girls clustered with Kate over some local scenes, he strolled across to see, presumably, which picture she meant.
“You’ll never make any money if you give away all your masterpieces,” she said severely.
He stood behind her, a little to one side, and every nerve tingled with awareness. His warmth, his clean yet earthy scent filled her.
“You like that one?” he said in surprise.
“It makes me sad and happy at once. Who is she?”
“Her name is Martha. I met her on my way up here, not so far from Blackhaven. Formidable woman.” His breath stirred the hairs on her neck.
She swallowed. “Will you sell it to me?”
“Of course.” He reached over her head to take the picture down.
She wanted to whisk herself under his arm to get away. She longed to stay this way forever, to keep this intimacy, this promise that there could be more between them. His chest brushed against her shoulder, her hair. There seemed to be some difficulty with the hanging wire being caught around the nail in the wall, which caused a delay. Imagining this would be absorbing all his attention, she risked a surreptitious glance at his face… and met his steady gaze.
Her heart seemed to dive. She couldn’t breathe. The moment stretched. Because she couldn’t help it, she dropped her gaze to his slightly parted lips, became fascinated with every tiny crease in their texture. It would take so little to reach up and touch them with her own, to step back fully against him and feel his arms close around her.
He moved, freeing the picture from its nail at last, but though he straightened behind her once more, he didn’t step back, merely held the picture out to her.
Swallowing, she took it. “Thank you.” It came out as a whisper, appalling her. Pride decreed she should hide his effect upon her.
His lips quirked, but he said nothing. He stepped back at last, giving space to Helen and Kate who had come to see what she’d chosen. Mutely, she held out the painting, to let them see for themselves. She couldn’t trust herself to speak, for the tiny incident had shaken her to her core.
*
They left with two paintings, having also taken the one of Braithwaite Castle at sunset as a gift for Gervaise. Although the girls had made a wish list as long as their own arms, they didn’t have the funds to buy, and Serena refused to countenance any presents from the marquis.
To her surprise, as they took their leave, Tamar slung on his coat to accompany them and carry the roughly wrapped paintings—which was kind, for although the castle one was fairly small and light, the old lady was large and framed.
They parted from Kate at the harbor, though only after the vicar’s wife had promised the children to think about playing chaperone at the castle so that Tamar could paint their portraits.
“You don’t need to do such a thing,” Serena assured him as they walked down the steps to the beach. “I’m not even sure Braithwaite will fork out for it.”
“Oh well, it will be more fun than my mill owner, in any case. I would like to paint them.”
“I think you want to paint everyone and everything.”
“Sometimes, I do,” he admitted. “Other times, nothing inspires me. It’s already there, so why paint it? Why make it less than it already is?”
“I don’t think you ever do that.”
He glanced at her. “You’re being kind.”
“No.”
After the odd moment in his studio and the manner of their previous parting, she thought there might be some awkwardness between them. But his mood seemed to change like quicksilver—from the brooding cynic he’d portrayed when they first arrived at the studio, to the fun, surrogate brother he’d been to the girls, to the intense man who’d stared at her like a lover. And now this carefree friend who told them to take off their shoes and run in the sand, for no one would see them.
When he sat down on the beach, the pictures balanced on his thighs while he kicked off his boots and stockings, Serena and the girls sat behind him to remove their own. With delicacy, he stood and walked on, waiting until the girls ran up to him. Then, he tapped Helen on the shoulder.
“Tag!” he said, and darted away at high speed, the pictures still under his arm along with his boots. All the girls ran after him, including Serena, and there ensued a fast and spirited game of tag that took them breathless and laughing, all the way round to Braithwaite Cove.
“The tide’s coming in,” Maria observed. “You won’t be able to go back along the beach. He can have tea with us at the castle, can’t he, Serena? Since he’ll have to come up with us anyway to get to the road.”
“Does your cook make chocolate cake every day?” he asked with every appearance of hope.
“No, sometimes she makes a lemon cake which is almost as good,” Helen said. “And a cherry cake…”
“Well, you must have made him so hungry by now that he won’t survive without tea,” Serena said lightly. He’d been in the kitchen the other night, after all. He seemed to have a knack of eroding society’s boundaries. But surely, if Miss Grey was home, there was no real harm.