Chapter Nine
Tamar knew he shouldn’t go in. Quite aside from whatever trouble she’d get into with her brother and the countess for receiving visitors of his reputation, he knew that he was getting in far too deep. Every moment spent in her company would make the inevitable parting harder, possibly for them both. He could tell himself it was making them familiar and therefore boring to each other, extinguishing this fascination by a hearty dose of the mundane and civilized. But in his heart, he knew he was beguiled by the innocent fun of the family, perhaps because it was something like his own might have been, if only things had been different.
And he was more than beguiled by Serena. He wanted her, of course. He always had. Her beauty, her wit, and sheer vitality had charmed him from the outset. But he’d never imagined she’d weep for old Martha of the Lakes, as he called the woman of the painting Serena had bought. She makes me sad and happy at once. He’d seen the tears standing in her eyes. She felt what he had. His painting had made her feel it, and he treasured that.
You’re attributing affinity where there is none, he told himself severely. Because you want it to be there.
It didn’t matter. He found himself walking into the castle through the front door, following the young ladies past the Friday-faced butler.
“Thank you, Paton,” Serena said. “We’ll all have tea in the small drawing room. Is Miss Grey back yet?”
“Just ten minutes ago, my lady.”
“Ask her to join us, if you please.” Tossing her pelisse over the butler’s waiting arm with a smile that must have endeared her to all her servants, she led the way up the grand staircase to a long gallery, lined with portraits of past earls. At least, he assumed that’s who they were, for he followed her into the drawing room before he’d glimpsed more than a few stern faces.
A fire had been lit in the grate. To his surprise, Serena knelt on the rug before it and raised her arms to receive the pictures. It was such a natural gesture, he could imagine her holding her arms up like this to ask for his embrace.
Mentally squashing the vision, he laid the pictures before her on the rug instead and unwrapped them.
The younger ladies were debating where they should be hung when the governess walked into the room. Called upon, she duly admired the paintings, though she seemed distracted by more than Tamar’s somewhat unconventional presence at tea.
Since the maids almost immediately brought in tea, newly baked bread and butter, scones and a cake that made the girls’ eyes sparkle, no one questioned Miss Grey until the servants had retired. Serena, from a more traditional position in an arm chair, poured the tea for Alice to take to everyone, while Helen and Maria offered plates of bread and scones.
From long habit in never being sure where his next meal would come from, Tamar took two slices of bread and a scone.
“Are you quite well, Miss Grey?” Serena asked. “Did you not have a pleasant walk?”
“Yes, of course I am,” Miss Grey replied in surprise, “and my walk was most pleasant indeed. For most of the day, I did not see a soul, except a few farmers in the distance. Only then I did encounter a strange man and have been debating with myself ever since whether or not I should tell you.”
“Why?” Serena asked blankly.
“Because of our current…problems,” Miss Grey said with delicacy. “With gunpowder and so on. And I’m very aware Mr. Winslow said to be wary of strangers.”
“Did he threaten you?” Maria demanded.
“No, no, not in the slightest. He was merely…grumpy. But he clearly didn’t want anyone on that land, whether it was his own or his employer’s. He sent me the other way. And I wondered if perhaps our villains were hiding up there. Only he didn’t appear terribly villainous.”
“Where was this?” Serena demanded.
From Miss Grey’s slightly erratic description of her path, Tamar surmised she’d been near Haven Hall. “What did he look like?” he asked.
“Tall, with hair as black as yours, sir. And a scar running all the way down his right cheek.”
“Oh, he sounds most villainous,” Alice enthused.
“He sounds most like the tenant of Haven Hall,” Tamar said wryly. “I met him walking up there, too.”
“Then you don’t think he has anything to do with our gunpowder?” Serena asked, as though disappointed.
Tamar scratched his head. “I would doubt it, though I suppose it isn’t impossible. No one seems to know where he’s come from and he has no obvious connection to the area. He certainly doesn’t mingle with the community.”
“Perhaps we should call on him,” Serena mused.
“I will,” Tamar said hastily. “He’d think it dashed odd if a parcel of young ladies and their governess just turned up on his doorstep!” Having finished his scone, he reached for another.
“Perhaps he means to blow up Haven Hall,” Helen said hopefully.
“Why would he do that?” Alice scoffed.
“I don’t know. Why would anyone have gunpowder here? Unless they were soldiers, and we know it doesn’t belong to the 44th.”
Tamar had his own theory about that, though he chose to keep it to himself. He knew he’d feel much easier when the owners of the powder were safely locked up.
From somewhere in his childhood, he dredged up enough idea of etiquette not to linger too long at the castle, tempting as it was. After a second cup of tea and a slice of the lightest, tastiest fruit cake he’d ever eaten, he rose and civilly took his leave.
“You will come back tomorrow to paint us?” Helen said anxiously.
“If Mrs. Grant can spare the time,” he promised. “I will.”
“What about your time,” Serena asked as she accompanied him downstairs. In spite of everything, he was glad she did. “Don’t you want to pursue your missing paintings?”
“I think I know what Julian’s waiting for,” he said. “I’ll check in Blackhaven, but I think I have a few days’ grace.”
She nodded. She hadn’t rung for a servant and there were none in sight as they walked across the hall. It didn’t matter, he still had his coat and he rarely wore his one, battered hat.
She smiled and offered him her hand. “Thank you for the paintings.”
“Thank you for buying them.” He took her hand and bowed over it.
“They’re worth more,” she said.
The words didn’t really matter. Though he should have released it long since, he still held her hand. It was another of those moments, like the one in the studio, when he’d reached above her head for the picture, when he could have pulled her back against him and ravished her. Her bare, elegant neck had tempted him to do just that, if only they had been alone. He’d burned for her, then. He still did, God help him.
He needed to end this.
Why then, was he raising her hand to his lips, turning it so that he could kiss the inside of her wrist? He made it a lingering kiss that drank in the hammering of her pulse under his mouth.
She wanted him.
Her breasts rose and fell with such alluring rapidity that he barely kept from crushing her in his arms, from thrusting his hand over her heart to feel its thunder, to cup a sweet, soft breast…
He swallowed. If he didn’t say it now, he never would. “Goodbye, Serena.”
And then, it seemed, he could drop her hand, though afterward, he’d no recollection of how he’d got out of the house. He was just grateful for the cold on his face and for the long coat and the gathering darkness to hide his raging arousal.
Avoiding the busiest parts of town, he strode along side streets toward the harbor, wondering if he should blow his last few pennies on ale at the tavern.
“My lord, have I offended you somehow?” The teasing voice interrupted his determinedly narrow thoughts. Since the voice was familiar, he paused, refocusing on the young woman who’d addressed him.
“Linnet,” he said, initially more pleased by his ability to recall her name than by her actual presence. Which was hardly kind of him considering the intimacy they’d shared on more than one occasion. She was an actress and dancer at the theatre.
She laughed. “You were miles away. A penny for your thoughts!”
“Alas, you’d waste your money, for they’re worthless. Merely the great debate of the evening—tavern or not.”
“You could give up on the tavern and take me for supper at the hotel instead,” she suggested boldly.
He gave a lopsided smile. “Nothing would give me greater pleasure. However, sadly, my pockets are to let.” He frowned. “Talking of the hotel, though… you wouldn’t happen to know when the next gaming club night is happening there?”
“I believe it’s tomorrow night. But you can’t play there without a considerable amount of money! The stakes are high.”
“Oh, I know. But there’s free wine and supper, is there not?”
She took his arm in a familiar manner. “There, you are always hungry! Come, step round to my rooms and I’ll cook you some supper tonight.”
Tamar was touched. She seemed to genuinely like him, since the world knew he hadn’t two pennies to rub together. And it wasn’t pity that stood out in her pretty, eager eyes. She was offering more than supper, and he already knew she was a pleasing and adventurous lover.
Temptation screamed through his body. It had been on fire all afternoon, ever since Serena Conway had walked into his studio, and here before him was a pretty, willing woman in whom he could happily sate himself.
Shame forced its way into his heart. He didn’t want Linnet. She deserved more, far more for her kindness and affection than a man who used her.
Besides, some strange, unknown part of him was insisting he be true to Serena. Why, he had no idea, since there were certainly no promises between them, nor likely to be. He was obsessed, God help him.
And yet, his body screamed at him to accept the offered oblivion of lust.
“I can’t,” he said ruefully. “But you’ve no idea how grateful I am for the kindness.”
The light in her eyes died away to disappointment.
“Linnet,” he said low. “I have nothing to offer any woman, but friendship.”
Her smile was brave. “I’ll take it.”
He considered. “Then… if you’d care to help me out, you could accompany me to the club tomorrow evening?”
She frowned. “I thought you’d nothing to play with?”
“Oh, I’m not going to play. And given my notorious poverty, I need a reason to be there.”
“Me?” she said cynically, her frown deepening. “I’ve no idea why I like you, Tamar, unless it’s your brutal honesty. I’ll come.”
He smiled, tipped his imaginary hat to her, and bowed.
The man he thought of so disparagingly as the bum-bailiff, sat once more on his doorstep. But Tamar was in no mood to avoid him. He’d had enough of Rivers. One way or another, his siblings could all look after themselves. Even Anna. Especially Anna.
But more than either of those, he began to see desperation in the bailiff’s continued presence here in the dark, even after Kate Grant had sent him away with a flea in his ear. The balance of power between them had shifted subtly.
“Got something for me?” Rivers inquired, without getting up as Tamar approached the step.
“No. Nor will I have. Go away.”
“You want to face the consequences of not paying your debt?”
“I owe you no debt.” Tamar walked up the side of the steps as if he wasn’t there. “Go away.”
“Lot of good people here will be shocked,” Rivers said.
Tamar laughed and inserted his key in the lock. “Go away, Rivers. Those good people really will call the Watch on you.”
*
It was during the evening that another truth began to dawn on him.
By candlelight, he was gazing at the portraits of Serena, lost in the work he ached to be doing on them if only he had enough light. Wrapped in the warmth she always brought him, his thoughts all centered on her until they began to include her worries. Gunpowder.
It was a bizarre thing to smuggle into the country at Blackhaven, but if one wasn’t buying it from legal sources, there had to be a reason. An illegal reason. Robbery, perhaps, although gunpowder was a somewhat drastic—and loud—means of entry. Sabotage? There was no shortage of discontent in the country, but Blackhaven and its environs were hardly a seat of political power. Or industrial wealth. It was some considerable distance to the major mill towns of Manchester and the rest, and no one seemed to be in a great hurry to move the stuff.
Blackhaven, of course, was not as well guarded as the southern coasts. And the smugglers weren’t only English. He’d heard about the spy discovered at the barracks that spring, who’d been working to escape to France via a French smuggling vessel.
But what else could the French want from here? For what purpose could they possibly want several barrels of hidden gunpowder?
The prison.
The idea hit him in a flash, with such force that he lowered his brush. French prisoners-of-war were kept in a fort ten miles or so outside Blackhaven. The gunpowder could well be intended to break in to the fort and free the prisoners. If that were true, then it better explained the attack on Serena. They were desperate, had no interest in her exalted identity, were possibly even French soldiers.
Tamar rocked back on his stool and threw down his brush. Jumping up, he seized his coat and rushed outside, barely remembering to lock the door behind him. About to leap down the front steps, he nearly tripped over a solid figure sitting there.
“God damn you,” he cursed. “Will you go away?”
“Not without my money,” Rivers said stubbornly.
“Do I look like a man with any money? Do yourself a favor—go and work for it. At least you’ll have control of that, and trust me, Rivers, you have none over me.”
With that, he hurried up the road, aiming for the barracks and Major Doverton.
*
Tamar, having tripped over the body, risked uncovering one side of the lantern to see who it was.
A uniformed soldier fluttered his eyelids in the sudden brightness and groaned.
“He’s not dead,” Tamar said in relief. “But there’s blood coming from his head.”
“Cobbler, sit up and talk to me,” Major Doverton snapped without notable sympathy. “Or there will be more blood! What happened to you?”
Tamar had seized upon the major just as he was about to leave to check on his castle patrol. Accompanying him, Tamar had told him his theory about the French and the prison, and Doverton certainly hadn’t dismissed it. In fact, he’d appeared to have been mulling it over when they encountered the body at the foot of the hill.
Cobbler sat up groggily, clutching his head, and groaned again. “Christ, my head.” Mouth open, he blinked from Doverton to Tamar and then took in his surroundings as illuminated by the lantern. His frown deepened. “Damn it, what am I doing here? I was at the top of the hill…Someone hit me!”
“Never,” Doverton said sarcastically. “Cobbler, who hit you? And how?”
Cobbler dropped his gaze. “Sneaked up on me,” he muttered. “Never heard a thing, then I got this feeling—you know, when all the hairs stand up on the back of your neck? I looked over my shoulder, there was this shadow and then—whack!” Gingerly, he felt the back of his head and his scowl deepened. “Bastard kicked me down the hill. I remember falling and couldn’t stop myself.”
“Where did he go?” Doverton demanded. “How many of them were there?”
“I don’t know!” Cobbler exclaimed.
“Well, we know where they went,” Tamar said grimly, already striding up the hill. He just hoped he wasn’t too late, that the castle doors remained locked and its occupants safe.
*
Serena, her head full of Lord Tamar, couldn’t sleep.
She’d hung his painting of the old woman on the wall to her left, beside the window, and for a while she lay with her bed curtains open on that side, gazing at the painting in the candlelight. She drank in all the sadness and joy it inspired in her. Like Tamar himself. She’d never felt so alive as she did in his company, so churned up and wonderful and frightened, so glad and yet so in need. He was life to her.
Oh goodness, she thought, suddenly breathless. Is that it? Is that why I feel as I do? Do I love him?
The huge, terrifying thought filled her, overwhelmed her, until she realized that the very idea made her happy. She barely knew him, and she was honest enough to acknowledge that tomorrow or the next day, the feeling might not be there. But even this glimpse, this possibility, gave her something to aim for in life.
Frances had been lucky in her husband. Had Serena married Sir Arthur Maynard, she wouldn’t have been. They would have made each other miserable, and Serena knew as well as she knew anything, that unhappiness would have made her behave badly. It had already begun the night she’d danced with Lord Daxton.
Marriage. Marriage to Tamar would be fun. They understood each other, shared their sense of the ridiculous. And he set her senses alight. Her body, her whole being sang when she was near him. Money didn’t matter. She would find a way, if only he cared for her in the same way.
But she was rushing again. She needed to be calm and wait and see if the feeling stayed, if it grew or if it faded and died. Even if it did die, even if they could never be together for whatever reason, she couldn’t regret feeling as she did. She couldn’t regret loving him whether for this night, this week, or forever.
Smiling with sheer happiness, she blew out the candle and lay down to sleep. She hoped she would dream of him.
But her heart and mind were too full to let her settle. She tossed and turned and waited restlessly for sleep to take her. And so, she was awake to hear the whispering in the courtyard. For a moment, she thought she’d misheard some rustling, but no, it came again, followed by a very faint scrape. Like a key in a lock.
Hastily, she jumped out of bed, dragging a blanket with her to throw around her shoulders. Finding the curtain by feel, she swished it aside and sat in the window seat, pressing her nose to the glass and peering downward.
“Vite!” came a hoarsely whispered instruction. “Allez!”
A couple of shadowy figures moved at the edge of her vision, and then there was silence.
French. They were speaking in French!
The combination of gunpowder and her country’s enemies was truly frightening. She actually stood up, meaning to rush down and lock them in the cellar if she could, though fortunately, she remembered the plan. The authorities had to find the rest of the gunpowder in case there were others free to use it.
She sank back onto the window seat, scanning the ground above the yard for any signs of the soldiers Major Doverton had promised. He’d said they would be hidden, and certainly she couldn’t make anybody out.
The idea of the enemy in the cellar below, chilled her blood.
But she did not have long to wait. Before long, a man emerged from the cellar with a large cask on his shoulder, lurching under the weight of it. It was too dark, even with the passing of the thickest cloud from the moon, to make out his features, or anything of his dress, but she could see his shape, and that of the man who followed him out of the top gate toward the forest.
A third man emerged from the cellar. Straining to hear, Serena was sure she heard the soft thud of the door closing, but not the scrape of the key. Then they meant to come back and take the rest of the gunpowder tonight?
She watched the man adjust the heavy cask on his shoulder and then walk swiftly after his fellows. There was a decent track through the wood that led to the road. A cart could easily be driven down it.
Were the soldiers observing? Ready to follow? Or were they on foot and likely to be left behind? Her heart quickening, she wondered if she dare dress and rush out to discover…if only she could avoid being seen herself.
She stood, feeling her way to the bed side table to light the candle. And then, from outside, the unmistakable crack of a gunshot rent the air.