Safe in the Earl's Arms

by Liz Tyner

  *

  In the morning, Broomer woke Warrington and barely gave him time to get his eyes open before the servant said, ‘My sis brought the first dress and I’m asking her to stay until you take a look ’fore she leaves. I’m thinking you might want her to keep the garment.’

  War raised a brow and left his bed.

  ‘It’s the colour of mud or boot scrapings,’ Broomer continued. ‘I asked my sister what she was thinking. She reminded me of you asking for something governess-like… She’s in a fierce mood now.’ Broomer shrugged. ‘They’re dressing Melina because my sister did bring some of those underneath trappings and you know how those take an age for a woman to knot up.’

  *

  When War saw the garment on Melina, he understood Broomer’s statement. The gown was suitable for a stern governess, but it didn’t hide her enough.

  He turned to Broomer’s sister, a woman close to Warrington’s own height. Her eyes had the same friendliness of her brother’s, but the dark blue dress she wore, and the long line of her neck, gave her a gently bred appearance—the exact opposite of her sibling.

  ‘A pleasant gown,’ Warrington stated. Those were the best words he could say about it.

  ‘We will need a chaperon.’ He spoke to the seamstress. ‘To protect Melina’s reputation.’ Broomer’s face jerked around. Obviously he’d noticed Melina was living in the house with no chaperonage. Mrs Fountain and Broomer were not talebearers, though. And for the day servants, they would not make note of a woman staying with him, thinking her a mistress of no consequence.

  But to be in public with Melina was another thing. She would be noticed and that should have the appearance of propriety.

  ‘I could certainly go about with you. If that’s what you wish.’ The sister looked taken aback, but agreeable.

  He nodded. ‘But some of the conversations Melina and I will have with other people—you’ll need to make yourself scarce for those moments. I’ll nod to you and then you can absent yourself for a bit.’

  ‘Whatever is needed.’ Her chin went up, sending out a message of complete agreement and perfect servitude. A woman who considered it a show of her loyalty to help accomplish a task and would consider it no challenge at all to do Warrington’s bidding.

  *

  Warrington first had to give his report to the Foreign Office and then he took Melina to Somerset House. He stood in the centre of the room, looking up at the paintings lining the walls. Above eye level, he could see about three more rows of large paintings, under the windows at ceiling height. The paintings, all ornately framed, weren’t arranged in a neat line, but more like a pleasing array of mismatched sizes of tiles covering a wall.

  This wasn’t the annual display of Somerset House, but he’d arranged for a meeting with the man who’d forwarded Melina’s letters to her father.

  He started at one side of the room and checked each painting, looking for Cherroll’s name. Melina started at the other. Broomer’s sister stood close to Melina and he realised, based on the women’s dress, an onlooker might think Melina the chaperon.

  After a few minutes, Melina called him over, pointing to a painting. The chaperon walked discreetly to other artwork.

  ‘My father did this one,’ she said.

  At that moment, a man, with a precise cravat and a pace just as measured, walked up to them. Warrington turned. ‘Mr Bridewater?’

  The man nodded. ‘Yes. I received your message. Please follow me.’

  After they entered a small room with an ornately carved desk, Bridewater spoke. ‘My lord. I believe you went to university with my son, Marcus.’

  ‘Yes.’ Warrington nodded. ‘The fellow could outrun a horse. Never saw anyone who could move as fast as he.’

  Bridewater laughed, pointing them to chairs carved in the same manner of the desk. ‘My boy never sat still. Could hardly keep a tutor for him. Never thought I’d see the day he finished his education. Soon as he did, he put his nose in an accounting book and now to get him running, you have to kick the legs from his chair.’

  Warrington sat and noticed this room boasted a selection of paintings that would be hard to equal. ‘I want to find the artist who painted a portrait my brother saw and also one that you have displayed. The man’s name is Cherroll.’

  Bridewater stared a moment and fiddled with a chain hanging from his waistcoat pocket. ‘I suppose it couldn’t hurt for me to tell you his true name.’ He shrugged, stretching his arms out in front of himself, fingers interlaced. ‘He paints under a false name and does not show himself in public as the artist. When he was young his family wanted it kept secret he painted and for some reason he still fancies the old name. Always, I handle any transactions for him. Any enquiries or post in the Cherroll name always come to me and I see that he gets it.’

  Bridewater leaned back in the chair. ‘He paints all the time. Chases art like some men chase skirts or spirits.’ He pushed his chair back a bit. ‘Lived on some Greek island off and on for years. That helped his painting—because he’s not a terribly creative artist and he lacks something. Painting a different culture helped get his work shown, but didn’t increase his skill. He repeats himself—never stretches or grows. Never studies others.’

  Warrington stood. ‘How old is this man?’

  Bridewater squinted. ‘About my age, I’d suppose. But don’t plan on meeting him, even though he’s in London now. If he’s painting, he won’t accept a visitor.’ He shook his head. ‘Man thinks he’ll be more famous than Rembrandt, so he wants to give the world all the art he can.’ At that, Bridewater leaned his head back a bit and grimaced at the ceiling. ‘Just wish he would push himself to paint better, not more.’ He lowered his chin and looked at Warrington. ‘You may know him. Lord Hawkins.’

  Warrington paused for a moment. ‘One of the Duke of Beaumont’s brothers?’

  ‘Youngest, or next, I believe. Never was any chance of him becoming duke. He’s the old duke’s third wife’s second son, or some such. Married well.’ Bridewater smiled and chuckled to himself. ‘Though his father-in-law rather did know how to remind him who the funds truly belonged to. The father-in-law—not a man you’d cross. He loved his daughter and his coins. Tolerated Hawkins.’

  Warrington and Melina stood, and Bridewater gave them directions.

  Melina spoke as she stepped to the carriage. ‘He’s married again. Now I know why he did not return to us.’

  Warrington sat in the carriage beside Melina, pleased at the feel of her so close beside him. The soft scent of new fabric of the dress clinging to it. He sat back against the squabs, which caused their bodies to brush again, and knew he’d only moved because he liked the feel of her beside him. He looked at her fingers clasped in her lap, and moved his eyes to her face.

  Her brows were puckered, and his chest tightened in response. He knew what she was about to discover.

  ‘We’ll call on him tomorrow.’ This man who forgot about his daughters. As soon as the thought formed, his own blackness slogged into his veins. He tensed. Jacob. The rest of it. Once he arranged the next days of his life, he could put everything behind him. Everything but Jacob, and start fresh. He would close away every unpleasant memory and go forward. His life would begin again.

  But now he needed to prepare Melina for what she was to find when she met her father, and he didn’t think there was an easy way.

  Chapter Twelve

  Melina rose from the table, uncomfortable with the amount of food left in front of her. The platter held more boiled carrots and parsnips than had been taken. Parts of three different meats remained—one dark and spiced, small game of some kind and her favourite, one with the lightness of chicken resting in a pool of herbed juices.

  Warrington ate, hardly looking at anything other than his food, his movements slow, as if he didn’t taste the meal in front of him.

  He wore a dark coat and a gold-hued waistcoat under. The cravat at his neck drooped so it hardly stood out from the shirt. But when he moved his arm
, the sleeve fell back at his hand. She could see the broadness of his wrist and the shape of the bone resting under the darkened skin. Hair spattered the back of his hand, hardly showing. Even the leanness of his fingers gave him a look of strength.

  And if she doubted his power, she had only to let herself gaze at his shoulders or across his chest. He was born with command.

  He’d not spoken during the whole meal. She’d not felt ignored because she had her own thoughts to consider. When she stood, he immediately put down his fork and rose. Grim eyes met hers.

  ‘We should go to the sitting room.’ Warrington stepped beside her, not touching, but close enough she could see a darkness of his jaw, hinting of stubble.

  She paused, studying his face. He smiled—one he might have given a convict headed for the gallows.

  She didn’t move. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I was just thinking of…’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. My wife. It’s too late to ask her questions now, and even if it weren’t, her answers… Why would anyone ask a question of someone who has repeatedly told lies—unless to see if the answer is so preposterous as to be laughable?’

  He put a hand to Melina’s back and shepherded her towards the sitting room. Two candles were lit to dispel the gloom from the drizzling rain outside. ‘A man might ask a question of his wife and in his heart he knows the answer, but he wants to hear something to convince him he’s wrong.’ His voice was low, laced with ruefulness as if he couldn’t believe he spoke. ‘I suppose Shakespeare has written a play about it, or he should have. Doesn’t matter. I wouldn’t have liked it.’

  When he entered the sitting room, he stopped, frowning. ‘If you ever can’t sleep, make use of the books we have. Dane’s tomes on gardening are quite useful for nodding off.’ Warrington stood in front of the large, chintz-covered chair, but he didn’t sit. ‘I know you can read English because you wrote letters to send to your father, and I believe I even have several volumes in Greek.’

  Melina walked in front of the books. She ran her finger over the titles. ‘I can’t read Greek. Neither of my sisters can. I would not know how to read English if my father hadn’t had trouble painting for a while and found it amusing to teach words. A new game and I was good at it. I even taught my sisters later—and when Bellona realised she could read English, she was enraged. Bellona then took the two books my father had left behind and found a French sailor who would buy them.’

  Warrington didn’t speak and he looked at his hands.

  She wondered why he didn’t face her—and why he didn’t say what he thought. ‘Continue.’ She shrugged. ‘I know you have more to say.’

  ‘Your father has a large home, very old, very well kept—from his wife’s family. When you see it, understand he…’

  Melina let out a breath and turned from the books, keeping herself calm by force. ‘You are telling me he is both wealthy and married. But since it is his wife’s funds, I could understand him not sending much to us, but forgetting about us completely was wrong.’

  Warrington stepped closer and took her hand. He led her to the sofa and pulled her beside him. He didn’t release her fingers, but held them. ‘I am trying to prepare you for the luxurious life he lives and I wanted you to know the money isn’t his. And I don’t think he is able to control it as husbands do with their wife’s funds. The father-in-law was quite shrewd. The man profited greatly from the war with the colonies, and then the one with the little Corsicans—ensuring that England had the weapons they needed. And he only had the one daughter to pass his wealth to.’

  ‘So my father had two families. He surely had enough funds to feed us. We did not need much, by English standards.’

  Now he held her hand in both his, the warmth touching her, but not driving away the aloneness. She pulled back, feeling the anger towards her father that he deserved, but Warrington raised his grip to hold her wrists.

  His eyes fixed on hers, and his voice softened even more. ‘Your father hasn’t recently married. He had two families, Melina.’

  Melina couldn’t speak. Her words burned in her throat.

  Warrington continued, ‘You have a half-brother near my age. And your father has daughters here. If we are to go to his house tomorrow, I know you will probably see them, his wife or their portraits. You’d find out. It’s better to know before.’

  She jerked free from Warrington. ‘Yes. It’s best you told me. I will have the whole night to hate him more.’

  He stood silently, watching.

  ‘How many children—here—does my father have?’ she asked.

  ‘Four, I believe. Maybe only three.’ He paused. ‘I believe one may have taken ill and died. I’m not sure.’

  She heard her voice and the bitterness she couldn’t conceal. ‘Do they have the birthmark, as well? The one like we have.’ She touched the mud-coloured bodice where the mark hid beneath.

  ‘Not that I am aware of. Well, perhaps the son has a small spot near his ear.’ He squinted, thinking. ‘I’m not sure.’

  On Melos, she’d never considered her father could be married to someone else. Maybe a mistress, but not a marriage. She’d seen the seamen dock. Many of them had sweethearts or family somewhere else, but her father had seemed different. He stayed for long stretches of time and he loved his painting. He hardly had time for anything else.

  ‘He had to take his paintings to England to sell.’ She held her hand out, palm up. ‘I should have known.’

  ‘Not everyone has a wondrous family. Even kings.’

  ‘I will tell him what I really think of him and the daubs of paint he calls techni. But you heard the man at Somerset House. They are not true art.’

  He pulled her back into his grasp, and although his arm was around her, she felt no comfort. The coldness inside her blended with a hot anger boiling into her chest and arms and forehead, causing spikes of pain behind her eyes.

  He didn’t speak at first. ‘The wife’s father supported the family while he lived, but when he died, he left all his funds to a favourite nephew. Not a pound to his only child. The father trusted the nephew to allow the daughter to control the funds. The nephew inherited the wealth and made a great show of letting Hawkins’s wife have freedom with her father’s funds. I suppose the men made an agreement before the old man died.’

  Melina shuddered. ‘But my father would not care about who has the purse. As long as he has pigment and canvas, he is happy.’

  Warrington turned sideways and pulled her chin so she had to look at him. ‘Perhaps not. A man expects to control the purse strings since a woman’s property becomes the husband’s on marriage. When your father found out his wife didn’t inherit, it’s said he had to be restrained. His father-in-law had given Hawkins a grand slap.’

  She stared at the harpoon and thought of the man she knew on the island. ‘I would not be surprised if Melos was his revenge. If he stayed with us to punish the woman in England. Just enough to annoy but not enough to enrage.’ She shook her head.

  ‘I understand it better than you might think—parts of it, anyway. My wife, Cassandra… I think, even our son, Jacob, the heir she’d had for me, and perhaps even the little girl, were merely tools for her to use.’

  ‘If you are saying you know what it is like when someone doesn’t care for their children—still, it doesn’t make me feel better. My sisters. My mother. He forgot about us.’

  ‘My wife—forgot about me.’ He dropped Melina’s hand. His voice hardened. ‘No, she didn’t forget. She didn’t care. She left when I was ill and came home carrying another man’s child. And she begged my forgiveness—because it was going to be impossible for me to think the child was mine. I was sick, grieving for my father, angry at her for leaving me when I was about to die. I hated her, and yet I could not stop myself from wanting her. She was silken, soft, alluring—when she wanted something—and she wanted to be back in my home, as I had not heard a word from her in months and I severely curtailed her funds. Besides, how powerful she must have
felt, knowing I hated what she had done, knew the child was not mine and yet I still desired her. But I had conditions on her return and I insisted she meet them.’

  He stood and his words became soft. ‘And I hurt the night she died… That was the worst part of all. How could I feel sadness when I was free from such a person? I should have gone out and celebrated. I mourned and was disgusted with myself for it.’

  He turned back to her, letting his arm rest on the back of the sofa. His knee touched hers. With his arm still aligned on the back of the furniture, he reached out his other hand. ‘Yet sometimes I think I miss her. That is the oddest part and makes me the most angry.’

  He ran his forefinger along her arm. ‘I tell you about my wife so you will know you are not the only one betrayed. That I have experienced disloyalty, too, and I don’t want you alone in this.’

  She crossed her arms around herself. ‘My father is alive and he has no care of his treatment of us.’ She shuddered. ‘Not even a letter to see if we lived or died. Perhaps that is part of the reason I had to travel to England. If I’d merely wanted to escape Stephanos, I could possibly have found a French sailor from one of the vessels in the harbour. And I could have used them to send a message to the museum in France.’

  ‘I would hope you are pleased you chose Ascalon.’

  ‘Malista. Yes.’ She looked to the rain-splattered window.

  He stared at her, his mouth straight. He took her hand, his grasp overpowering her. He pulled her to stand in front of him and the room was silent. He touched her cheek and held her arms. ‘I am better than the French sailors.’

  Even though she felt no true joy, her lips did curl up. ‘I said you were better.’

  ‘Not with conviction.’

  ‘You’re an earl.’

  His voice was petal soft. ‘And, sweet, you’re a goddess. You outrank me.’