The mountainous smithy blinked at her. “Did I, now?” he said, glancing curiously at the assortment of animals tethered around the yard. “Ah! Ye be meanin’ that gray gelding over yonder.” He waved a huge paw in the general direction of Greyboy, who opened one eye at the sound of Sylvia’s voice.
“Yes, indeed,” she responded sharply, sensing that all was not going as planned. “Have you replaced his shoe?”
“His shoe?” the blacksmith repeated, as though he had never heard of one before. “He lost a shoe, did he, now? Well, let me see.” He rubbed his bearded chin with one hairy paw and seemed to ponder the matter.
Sylvia felt her patience evaporating. Worse still, she distinctly heard the earl repress a chuckle. The wretch was laughing at her again.
“Ah, well, now,” Gordon exclaimed, his florid face smiling amiably. “I may be the best horse shoer between here and Plymouth, milady, but I ain’t that Greek feller Hercales or whatever his blessed name was. Ye brung that gray in less than a half hour ago, milady, and—”
“A full hour ago, sir. And you promised to have him ready for me—
“In a jiffy,” the earl interrupted, with a crack of laughter to which the smithy was not slow to add his bellow.
Realizing she was outnumbered and not wishing to waste her breath arguing with two males obviously intent on thwarting her, Sylvia stared stonily at an outrageously ugly bonnet in puce velvet embellished with yellow pansies in a milliner’s shop across the street.
“Tom,” the earl commanded finally, turning to his grinning groom, “you had better stay here to make sure Gordon takes no more than his promised jiffy. Then bring the horse to Whitecliffs and deliver it to her ladyship with my compliments.”
“There is absolutely no need to inconvenience yourself, my lord,” Sylvia protested, knowing she was fighting a losing battle.
“You are not inconveniencing me in the slightest, my dear,” he replied truthfully. And before Sylvia could think of a rebuttal, Tom had jumped down and the curricle rattled away at a spanking pace as the earl’s team sprang forward smartly.
Stunned by the suddenness of events, Sylvia again found herself wondering why she had not jumped from the vehicle herself, even at the risk of breaking a limb. The answer was not difficult to find. The unpleasant truth was that she had—either consciously or unconsciously, she could not be sure—allowed herself to be bullied by a man whose intentions she knew could not be honorable. Through the sheer weight of his authority, the earl had not only separated her from her horse and the dubious protection of a groom, but was about to subject her to a five-mile drive along deserted country lanes.
Just the two of them alone together.
Sylvia wondered if it was still too late to fling herself from the racing vehicle. At least her battered body, if she survived, would be evidence that she had taken drastic measures to protect her innocence.
What innocence? a little voice inside her whispered insidiously. She could no longer plead innocence to avert unwelcome advances. She had left innocence behind her, back in faraway Dover, in that poky little inn with a man who had broken her heart.
The man beside her, his shoulder brushing hers companionably, must be well aware of this shady chapter in her past. Indeed, he was—if that complaisant little smile that played around his mouth was any indication—counting on her lost innocence to smooth the way for him.
Sylvia clasped her hands tightly in her lap to still their trembling, and bitterness welled up in her throat at the unfairness of life. If the earl thought she would be willing to play that game again, he was in for a nasty surprise, she thought, hoping that her resolution was equal to the challenge.
* * *
After a dashing departure from the village, the earl drew his team down to a more leisurely pace as soon as they had passed the last thatched cottage.
Sylvia glanced at him askance, wondering which seductive ploy he was about to practice on her.
“Have you given further thought to selling Longueville Castle at Twilight?” he said finally, surprising her.
“I thought we had already concluded that subject, my lord,” she replied coolly, her lips flickering into a half smile.
“Not at all, my dear,” he drawled. “I have set my heart on it, you see. And I am accustomed to getting what I want,” he added softly.
Was she dreaming, Sylvia wondered, or was that a thinly veiled threat that referred to much more than a painting?
She laughed shortly, angry that this man could be so sure of her capitulation. “Then your heart has misled you, my lord, and you had best prepare yourself for disappointment That painting is not for sale.” Nor is anything else you may have set your heart on, she added to herself. “At any price,” she could not resist emphasizing to conclude the matter.
“Two thousand pounds,” he reminded her, ignoring her last statement entirely. “My offer still stands. Or perhaps you are fishing for more, my lady.”
Sylvia repressed the caustic remark that rose to her lips and turned to gaze at the farmland that swept away towards the horizon on her left, shutting out the earl’s voice. All this was Longueville land, she knew, as was the village itself, and the desolate moors that lay between the lane and the cliffs, where the enigmatic stone hut clung tenaciously to the stones above the sea.
Thoughts of that desolate hut and the dangerous secrets it harbored reminded Sylvia of the painting she had been working on when she first encountered an irate earl. She had thought the seascape complete, but now it dawned upon her that an important element was missing. The scene was lifeless, she realized with sudden insight. A mediocre composition of rocks and sea and gray sky. In her mind’s eye she abruptly saw it, like a glimpse of a scene perceived through a break in a thick fog, as it should be. As perhaps it had been on that glorious summer evening when the countess had died.
There should be a dark figure standing on the edge of the cliff gazing down at the hut.
How could she have missed it? True, the figure would be dwarfed by the arching sky, by the towering rocks, indistinct in the thickening twilight. But Sylvia should have sensed his presence, as she felt it now. She should have known the figure would be there. He had to have been there, she told herself firmly. Someone had witnessed the last moments of the unhappy bride.
Her artist’s imagination would never betray her in such a vital detail. She had failed to visualize the complete scene as it must have happened ten years ago. How had she hoped to capture the mysterious essence of the place if the most important character was missing?
And then, as vividly as the presence of that dark figure had burst upon her consciousness, Sylvia saw the sequel to that scene unfold in her imagination. The dark figure moved towards the edge of the cliff. Unhurriedly, yet with sinister purpose, he descended the stone stairs leading to the open door of the hut.
There was someone waiting inside; she knew instinctively. Was it the countess? Local rumors had linked her to various gentlemen gathered at the Castle that summer. But which one had gone down to the stone hut that evening? What had been his purpose? Amorous dalliance? Dastardly murder? Or had there really been an accident that the dark figure dared not reveal for obvious reasons?
A disturbing thought nagged at her; the figure on the cliffs had seemed oddly familiar. But that was patently ridiculous. Sylvia had known none of these gentlemen ten years ago. Certainly not the earl, who was commonly cast in the role of jealous husband extracting a dreadful revenge on his wanton wife.
“Now I have offended you, my dear,” that faintly amused voice remarked from close beside her.
Sylvia jumped and turned to stare at him, eyes blank as she tried to rally her thoughts. Here was the man who must know the truth, she thought. Had he not read the so-called suicide note Mrs. Raw- son, the vicar’s wife, set such store by? No one seemed to know for certain that it had been a suicide note. Or even that the countess had written it. Although the earl had supposedly identified his wife’s writing.
Was it possible, S
ylvia thought in sudden panic, that she was riding over the Cornish moors with a murderer who had cleverly covered his tracks? Had the earl been that dark figure on the cliff?
She shook her head to dispel the ugly thought.
“You have been wool-gathering, my lady, have you not?” he chided her. “Have you heard a single word of my latest proposition? I am crushed,” he added, sounding amused rather than annoyed.
Sylvia assayed a faint smile. She wished she could ask this arrogant man if he had been on the cliffs the night the countess died, but something told her the dark figure had not been the earl. Or was she unconsciously rejecting the possibility of his guilt?
Uncomfortable with this question, Sylvia opted to stick to the truth, at least as far as possible.
“Actually, I was thinking of a recent painting of mine,” she admitted. “I had considered it complete, but now I realize that there is an important piece of the story missing. I cannot wait to get back to my studio and rectify that omission.”
“Can you tell me what that missing piece is?” he demanded in a voice suddenly devoid of all humor.
She laughed uneasily. “I cannot do that, my lord,” she prevaricated. “I am not sure myself if the addition I have in mind fits into the picture or not. You see, I do not know the whole story; I merely follow my imagination. You are welcome to see for yourself when I finish the painting.”
He glanced at her briefly, and Sylvia had a premonition that the earl had guessed the story she had referred to. “I shall hold you to that invitation,” he said dryly. “In the meantime, what do you say to my other proposition?”
For a sickening moment Sylvia’s heart pounded uncomfortably. Had the rogue offered her a carte blanche while she had been thinking of his late countess? she wondered. The incongruity of it amused her, and she was able to reply with some composure. “And what proposition is that, my lord?”
He grinned at her, a devilish, cat-like grin that reminded again of Jonas playing his macabre games with the defenseless mouse. Had he read her thoughts?
“I offered you the chance to contribute to the art collection in the Long Gallery at Longueville, my dear. A singular honor, I might add. My mother is anxious to add my likeness to the family heirlooms.”
“And the dowager suggested that I be chosen for this singular honor, my lord?” She could not keep the skepticism from her voice, and her question brought an answering smile from her companion.
“Actually, you are my choice, Lady Sylvia.” The softly spoken words seemed innocent enough, but as Sylvia stared into the warm glow of his dark eyes, they took on quite another meaning.
She blushed and glanced towards the cliffs. The prospect of hours of intimacy with this man, alone in her studio, unnerved her. He was right, of course—this was indeed an honor. Her reputation in the art world would benefit immeasurably; she knew several major portrait artists who would kill to receive such a commission from the Earl of Longueville. But. . . her thoughts trailed off as she came face to face with the disturbing truth.
But what of her heart?
Chapter Nine
Jason
The remainder of the drive back to Whitecliffs passed so quickly that Nicholas found no opportunity to broach the subject that was uppermost in his mind. He suspected that Lady Sylvia had divined his intentions and deliberately kept her flood of amusing anecdotes about the art world flowing to thwart him.
But she would not escape him so easily, he told himself cynically as the curricle swept through the stone gates of the Sutherland estates. If not today, then tomorrow or the next he would make her an offer she could not refuse. He already owned a house in Falmouth where he could install her, but he would willingly purchase another in Penzance or anywhere else she chose to name. Within easy riding distance, of course. What was the use of keeping a mistress in London or Bath when he spent most of his time in Cornwall?
Nicholas glanced at his companion and was charmed afresh by the elegant profile under the floppy brim of the gray straw bonnet. He found the delicate shape of her mouth enchanting as she suddenly turned to smile at him. Her gray eyes sparkled with intelligence and a hint of mischief that delighted him. Nicholas enjoyed educated females who used their brains instead of their petticoats to attract a man.
He found himself grinning at her, something he had not done with a female for a very long time. Suddenly the summer stretched ahead of him, offering a delightful alternative to the tedious revision of estate accounts and the necessary shipping business he must attend to in Falmouth.
The anticipation made his blood sing.
But first there was the small matter of convincing the lady. It would not happen today, as he had hoped, but Nicholas could wait. The sweetness of the chase was half the fun, he thought, lifting Lady Sylvia down from the curricle, relishing the feel of her trim waist beneath his fingers. He had little hopes of receiving an invitation to linger at Whitecliffs that afternoon, but tomorrow he would invent some excuse to call.
“Thank you, my lord,” Lady Sylvia said, a trifle breathlessly, he thought. “You are very kind.”
“Nothing of the sort,” he answered lightly. “It was all a bribe to seduce you, my dear,” he added daringly.
“Seduce me?” she echoed, the flush he had deliberately provoked flooding her cheeks.
“Yes,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “Seduce you into painting my portrait.” He paused and gazed down at her from beneath hooded lids. ‘Tell me I have succeeded, Sylvia.”
Lady Sylvia gasped at his daring use of her name and opened her mouth, doubtless to protest the impertinence. A voice from the front door interrupted them, and they turned to see Lady Marguerite hurrying down the stone steps, her face wreathed in smiles.
“My dear Nicholas,” she cried, grasping his arm and urging him towards the house. “You will never guess who is here, my dear boy. Oh, what a lovely surprise. I am so glad you stopped in at Whitecliffs.” She paused, glancing at her niece, whom she appeared to notice for the first time. “Sylvia? What happened, dear? Where is Greyboy? I do hope you did not have an accident.” She glanced apprehensively from the earl to her niece.
“Calm yourself, my dear lady,” Nicholas said soothingly, patting the hand that clutched his sleeve. “Lady Sylvia’s horse cast a shoe, and you know how lackadaisical Gordon is about his work. I happened to be in Helston on a errand for my mother, and we ran into each other at Connan’s.”
“Oh, how kind you are, Nicholas,” her ladyship said distractedly. “But do come inside, both of you. There is someone I want you to meet, Sylvia. And as for you, my lord”—she slanted her eyes at him provocatively, then paused again—“I shall say no more. Come in and see for yourself.”
As they approached the Italian Saloon, Nicholas heard a crack of male laughter that he recognized instantly. “Jason!” he exclaimed delightedly. “I was not expecting that scurvy rogue for another month.” He strode unceremoniously into the drawing room, leaving the ladies to trail behind him.
“Jason,” he drawled, “you never cease to amaze me, old man. I imagined you still out on the high seas somewhere between Corunna and St.-Pol-de-Leon. Not lost another of my ships, have you, lad?”
A tall, rangy gentleman, dressed informally in buff breeches and a coat of no particular style, unfolded himself from a deep chair and strode across the room to clasp Nicholas in a bear hug.
“If memory serves me, Nick, it was not I who lost the Intrepid last year, but Rogers, who could no more tell the poop from the prow if his life depended upon it. And to think I warned you how it would be, lad, but did you listen, you pig-headed—”
“Hush, lad,” Nicholas cut in, interrupting an argument they had had before. “You are right, of course. ’Tis true I misjudged Rogers, but how was I to know he would take to the bottle when things got rough?”
“Had you listened to me ...”
“I promise to do so next time, old man, never fear. And it so happens you may get your chance sooner than you think
. Old Barker tells me that the Horton brothers are selling off their fleet. The Voyageur will be the first to go, Ned assures me, and if we can pay cash, he guarantees—”
“The Voyageur?” Ransome repeated excitedly. “One of the finest ships in the trade, Nick. Worth every penny you pay for it, too. Are you going to purchase her?”
“1 want you to see her first, Jason. Perhaps we can ride over to Falmouth tomorrow.”
Nicholas suddenly became aware that his friend’s attention had strayed. Jason was staring over the earl’s shoulder, an admiring look in his startling blue eyes. He turned slowly, a rueful grin on
his face.
“My apologies, ladies,” he began, cursing himself for his appalling breach of etiquette. “I am behaving quite abominably.”
“Think nothing of it, my boy.” Lady Marguerite chuckled and moved forward, her niece in tow.
“This is Lord Jason Ransome, Sylvia,” she said, indicating the captain with one slender hand. “Quite one of my favorite gentlemen, I should add. A confirmed rogue and philanderer, of course, but quite charming.”
Nicholas grimaced. Her ladyship’s assessment of his friend was undoubtedly true. Jason Ransome, youngest son of the Marquess of Milford, came from an impeccable lineage and possessed everything but rank and fortune to make him the catch of every Season he had graced London’s saloons over the years. While his dry stick of a brother stood to inherit their father’s title and fortune, Jason had more than enough charm to delight every hostess in Town. He might have wed any number of heiresses who had thrown their handkerchiefs at him, and settled into the easy life of a wealthy landowner. But Jason’s love of adventure precluded anything so mundane. Fascination for the sea had brought them together at Oxford, and that bond had only strengthened throughout the years.
In his heart of hearts, Nicholas envied his friend for being a younger son, free to venture forth on madcap adventures at the drop of a hat. Jason had gained his sea legs with an old captain in Portsmouth, long since passed on. But the old man’s love of the sea lived on in Jason, and when Nicholas had bought his first trading vessel, it was a foregone conclusion that Jason would captain her.
The Lady in Gray Page 9
