The Wicked Marquis

by Mary Lancaster

  “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 le
ap 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.

  Chapter Ten

  Communication between members of the castle patrol was clearly the problem. The next soldier Doverton and Tamar encountered had no idea of the attack on his fellow, and since he’d been watching the cliff path to the beach, he’d seen no sign of intruders coming the other way.

  Leaving the injured Cobbler with him, Tamar and Doverton moved as swiftly and quietly as they could toward the other side of the castle. Suddenly, Doverton halted and flung out his arm to flatten himself and Tamar against the wall. A man walked out of the courtyard and straight past them. His elbow, crooked to steady the cask on his shoulder, almost brushed against Tamar’s chest.

  Unmoving, they watched him lurch along the path, past the orchard and beyond, into the wood.

  Doverton began to follow at once. Tamar, torn by the desire to stay and guard the castle in general, and Serena in particular, hesitated before a faint light coming from the wood told him there were other men there, too. He loped after Doverton.

  It seemed that things were finally moving. On the forest track, a cart stood in the moonlight with two casks already on it. Two men also crouched on the cart, rubbing their shoulders while the man Tamar and Doverton had been following, approached them.

  Their man paused, jerking his head back toward the castle, presumably in silent instruction to bestir themselves once more and bring the rest.

  Amid indistinguishable mutterings, they’d started to
obey when someone leapt out of the bushes—a red-uniformed soldier, his rifle aimed somewhat shakily at the cart. “Halt in the name of the king!”

  Doverton groaned. “In the name of… What in hell is he doing?”

  One of these men had already pursued Serena with a knife and struck down another soldier from behind. They wouldn’t hesitate to kill this one. When Doverton leapt out of the shadows, crashing through the undergrowth to join his man, Tamar was right beside him.

  “Everyone halt and nobody fire!” Doverton yelled.

  All heads jerked toward them. The man they were following hurled his cask onto the cart, where one man caught and steadied it. The other man on the cart leapt forward, seizing the reins and lashing the horse who lunged forward with a cry of protest, directly at the soldier who promptly dropped his rifle and bolted.

  Meanwhile, the man they’d been following whipped round to face Tamar and Doverton once more. And he held a pistol. “Stop,” he commanded.

  By the time they skidded to a halt, there wasn’t much distance between them. It might have been the lantern light, but the man’s eyes seemed to glint with venomous fury, perhaps because his task had been interrupted, even in such a farcically inefficient manner.

  The cart halted once more. Their man backed up to it, still holding the pistol aimed alternately at Doverton and Tamar. He eased his hip onto the cart, which was now slowly turning until the horse returned to the track. There was nothing to stop it leaving. And very little Tamar and Doverton could do to follow it on foot.

  But the man with the pistol took careful aim at Doverton, and with horror, Tamar saw that he would shoot him anyway. There was nothing to lose.

  Tamar hurled himself forward three paces and threw himself at the gunman. The gun seemed to explode just as he landed against the villain’s body, dragging him off the cart. Doverton cried out, his words indistinguishable.

  Something—a boot—struck Tamar in the chest, knocking him away, and the cart rattled off. To his annoyance, the gunman jumped back onto the cart at the last moment.