The Wicked Marquis

by Mary Lancaster

  “At least you weren’t locked in your chamber.”

  “Yet,” she said wryly.

  He touched her cheek. “Thank you for giving me this morning.”

  She smiled. “Did you think I wouldn’t?” Even as the words left her lips, she saw that was exactly what he’d thought. Or at least feared. She drove her fingers through his hair. “How could you?”

  “They are your family and I know you love them.”

  “I love you, too. That doesn’t mean I shall always give in to you when we’re married. Especially not when you’re wrong.”

  He let out a breath of laughter and kissed her again.

  She pressed her cheek to his, loving its rough warmth. “I haven’t given up,” she assured him. “I’m still working on them. Already Gervaise is impressed by your feats against the spies. I believe he will write to you expressing his gratitude and appreciation. And then, you know, once they speak to Blackhaven people and see how you are liked and accepted everywhere, they will soften further.”

  “I could wish Alban hadn’t set his man on me with his damned treasure,” Tamar said. “Especially not at that precise moment. Your brother thinks me a thief and a pirate.”

  “I know.” Laughter caught in her throat. “Though it was funny.”

  He grinned. “And not very useful. I’ll be afraid to sell the stuff, in case people think it’s stolen. Still, I did find this.” He fished something from his pocket and opened his fingers to reveal a pretty sapphire and diamond ring. “I thought it was the color of your eyes,”

  Swallowing a lump in her throat, she held out her hand and watched him slide the ring over her finger. “Thank you,” she whispered. She didn’t need such trinkets, but she understood how much it meant to him that he could make her such a gift, even from Alban’s joke.

  They talked a little longer, and he told her about an idea he had to take his seat in the House and become active in the political scene. “Perhaps not this year or next, but soon, depending on how things turn out.”

  “Instead of painting?” She would be sorry for that.

  “Oh no,” he said. “As well as that. I spend a lot of time painting dross, you know. If I only painted what truly inspired me—or what made me money—I would have plenty of time left over for other purposes.”

  “Hmm. I think your idea of dross and mine might be different. But it is an excellent notion and one that might impress Gervaise, who has also begun a political career.” She glanced up at the sky. “I had better go in,” she said reluctantly. “Or my mother will send someone to look for me.”

  He kissed her one last time and let her go. There was pain in leaving him, for she didn’t know how long she would get away with these assignations.

  Hurrying indoors, she left her cloak in her chamber and went down to breakfast where she discovered her mother had just joined the girls and Miss Grey. It was a custom Serena had begun, for she saw no reason why her sisters should be banished to the schoolroom for family meals. She herself had hated such banishment. And so far, at least, the countess had not objected.

  “Good morning,” Serena said brightly, kissing her mother’s cheek before going to fill her plate from the sideboard. “I thought you might sleep longer after your journey.”

  “I barely slept at all,” her mother returned. “Not with all this nonsense about spies and moonlit revels, and painting marquises!”

  “Lord Tamar?” Helen said at once. “He’s very good. You should ask him to show you our picture.”

  “Which I suppose I’m paying for,” Gervaise said sardonically, coming into the room in time to hear.

  “Not if you don’t want to,” Serena retorted. “I will buy it with my pin money.”

  Sleep had clearly not improved her brother’s sympathies or his temper. “Oh, for the love of God, Serena, can’t you see that whatever he might have done for you on the spur of the moment, he is a charlatan?”

  “Because his clothes are a little threadbare?” she shot back, throwing herself into the chair beside Maria. “Because what little money he gets from his remaining estate goes back into it, or simply feeds his family?”

  Braithwaite snatched up a plate and glowered at her. “No. Because there is no proof he even is Tamar. Because he receives plunder from notorious pirates like Alban—”

  “Captain Alban is in fact a hero who’s given the French many a bloody nose,” Serena retorted. “Besides which, Alban is his Christian name, and he is in fact a Lamont of Roseley, a neighbor of ours, and is married, moreover to Lady Arabella Niven!”

  The countess sniffed. “If you ask me, it’s suspicious he changed his name. The Lamont boy was always trouble, but he is not our concern here.”

  “Well, I shall not listen to your traducing Lord Tamar either. I love him.”

  Her voice caught on the last words, and Braithwaite’s face softened as he sat opposite her and set down his loaded plate. “Serena, have you really considered this? Even if he is who says he is, and no matter how charming you find him—I will allow him to be personable in his own way—there is bad blood in the Tamars. How would he support you? Where would you live? He has nothing.”

  “I have money.”

  “The world knows that, Serena,” her mother said tartly. “You may be assured he does, too.”

  “Oh, we’re beyond all that,” Serena exclaimed. “Just spend some time with him and you will see—”

  The countess sniffed again. “I hardly think that will be necessary.”

  Maria pressed her foot over Serena’s, warning her to be silent, not to provoke them further. So, she took a deep breath and ate her breakfast.

  “I thought I would call on Mr. Winslow this morning,” Braithwaite said at last. “Perhaps, Mama, you and Serena would care to accompany me?”

  “I think my first business is with Kate Grant,” the countess said ominously. “Serena may come with me. In fact, she had better, so I may keep my eye on her!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Lord Braithwaite rode away from the Winslows feeling appalled by the danger Serena had faced with the French spies, and inevitably proud of her spirited reaction, however much greater a risk she’d taken. And although he was more grateful than ever for what Tamar had contributed to her rescue, he couldn’t help being further appalled by Winslow’s opinion of him.

  “Oh, there’s no doubt he’s the marquis,” the squire had told him. “Sir Henry Horsham knew old Tamar well, and even recognized the son. And Lord Daxton, among others, knew him as a child. Likeable chap. Accepted everywhere, and a damned fine painter, to boot. Sadly, he doesn’t have two pennies to rub together, but that must be laid at his father’s door.”

  “Then Mrs. Winslow receives him?”

  “Oh yes.” He glanced shrewdly at Braithwaite. “Though I wouldn’t want him for Catherine.”

  In many ways, it would have been so much easier if the man had simply been an imposter, a flim-flam man after Serena’s fortune. Of course, the real Tamar was after her fortune, too, but it wasn’t so easy to dismiss a marquis as a cheat and a liar. Especially not after he’d saved her life.

  In some dismay, he rode into Blackhaven to call on Major Doverton and get the military perspective on what had occurred. That didn’t help either, for Doverton had nothing but praise for Tamar’s courage.

  “Clever chap, too,” he added. “He’d have made a fine officer—sound tactician and strategist.”

  “I wonder why he didn’t join up,” Brathwaite said. It would surely have been a reliable source of income if nothing else.

  “I asked him that. He told me he couldn’t afford the commission, and besides, didn’t have the discipline.”

  “Well,” Braithwaite said, offering his hand. “I know he couldn’t have rescued my sister without you. You have my eternal gratitude, and my mother’s. And if there’s ever any way in which I can be of service to you, you need only ask.”

  Churning him up as he left Doverton, was the growing knowledge that he was
going to have to call on Tamar, too, and offer proper thanks. He thought it might choke him. But the man had almost died to save Doverton, and had risked himself again while still wounded to save Serena.

  Fortunately, he had no idea where Tamar was staying. Until he ran into the vicar, who had stopped to chat to Bernard Muir and his stepmother outside the coffee house. They all greeted him in friendly spirit, and he bowed to Mrs. Muir, asking civilly after her health and her infant son.

  As the conversation moved swiftly on, Braithwaite dropped in the fact that his sisters wished him to buy a painting from Lord Tamar. He thought it quite a subtle way to discover the marquis’s dirty linen, for Bernard and the vicar would know everyone, and Mrs. Muir was even stricter about the proprieties than his mother.

  “You could do worse,” Bernard assured him cheerfully. “Everyone wants one of Tamar’s daubs on their wall.”

  “I’m not sure I want a daub of my sisters,” Braithwaite objected.

  “The gallery has some of his work,” the vicar observed. “Or you could step round to his studio—one of the fishermen’s cottages along from the harbor.”

  Damnation. Now he had no excuse. Grant caught his eye and gave a quick, sympathetic smile, almost as if he knew what was in Braithwaite’s head. The living of Blackhaven was within Braithwaite’s gift, and he’d been happy to approve Grant for the position. He was gentlemanly, clever, and compassionate, and everyone seemed to like him. Including wicked Kate Crowmore who’d married him. Braithwaite began to wonder if he’d made a mistake.

  “I must go,” the vicar said now. “But I shall be free for luncheon if you’d care to call at the vicarage.”

  “I believe my mother and sister are already descending upon your wife,” Braithwaite said.

  “Excellent. I’ll hope to see your lordship, too. Good morning.”

  Left with no excuse, Braithwaite dragged his feet to the end of High Street and walked through the market to the harbor. Surely, he had grace enough to thank a stranger—a fellow nobleman who had not been born with quite so much luck as himself—for saving the life of his sister? He could even explain further why the match was impossible. Without being quite so insulting to his rank as he had been last night when he hadn’t believed the man was really the Marquis of Tamar.

  Braithwaite turned along the row of fishermen’s cottages, wondering which Tamar used. In fact, he hoped Tamar wasn’t there, when without warning, the door he was passing flew open and two vaguely familiar gentlemen were all but pushed out.

  “Shove off, there’s good fellows,” came Tamar’s voice. “I’m working.”

  “Dash it, Tamar!” said one of them indignantly, waving a brandy flask before his friend dragged him off and Braithwaite had a clear view of the marquis, tousled and disreputable in his shirt sleeves, spattered with paint of various hues.

  He was in the midst of calling some amusing insult after his friends when his gaze caught Braithwaite and the words died on his lips.

  “My lord,” Braithwaite said, bowing stiffly.

  “My lord,” Tamar returned, just a shade sardonically. He stepped back from the door. “Please step inside if you don’t mind the mess. I’m afraid tidiness is not one of my virtues.”

  That was an understatement. The tiny one-roomed cottage was stuffed full of boxes and easels and abandoned clothing, the walls lined with hung paintings while more were piled against them on the floor. Only the window appeared to be clear and clean, and Braithwaite could see why. The view over the sea was spectacular.

  Braithwaite stepped over a box of paints, and Tamar brushed past him to shove a blanket and coat off the couch onto the floor.

  “Sit, if you wish,” he offered casually. “Glass of ale? I’ve had to fob those fellows off with the last of the brandy.”

  “No, I thank you,” Braithwaite said. He found a small space beside two covered easels opposite the couch. “I shan’t keep you. I only wished to convey to you my thanks. I have heard the part you played in thwarting the French attack on the fort, and more particularly, in rescuing my sister.”

  “No thanks are necessary. My reasons were largely selfish, with care for my country a rather poor second.”

  “Whatever your reasons,” Braithwaite said with difficulty, “I am in your debt. And you should know I value what you did.”

  Tamar smiled, throwing himself on to the couch. “But only up to a point. Not enough to permit me to address your sister.”

  “You’re not a stupid man, by all accounts,” Braithwaite said. “You must know my reasons. Nor can they come as any surprise to you.”

  “No,” Tamar admitted. His lips twisted. “Believe it or not, I once had the same scruples, until I saw how unhappy Serena was when I acted upon them. I want her to be happy, and for some reason that is beyond both of us, that has to include me.”

  “I have no doubt of her genuine attachment,” Braithwaite said stiffly. “But it is not lasting. Your acquaintance is too short.”

  “I understand you, but you’re wrong,” Tamar said in tones of certainty.

  “For God’s sake man, this is not just your studio, you sleep here!” Braithwaite burst out. “Do you truly expect my sister to live in such squalor?”

  “No, though she’s welcome to if she wishes. My hope is that within a month or two I shall be able to afford a decent set of rooms, or perhaps a cottage outside Blackhaven.”

  “How?” Braithwaite demanded rudely, his eyes straying to the paintings on the wall beside him. Eye-catching seascapes, full of motion and atmosphere, not vulgar but not, to his eyes, outstanding either.

  Tamar shrugged. “I can sell a few more paintings at a higher price.”

  “And add that to your treasure from Alban?”

  Tamar laughed. “Captain Alban is a gentleman and a wealthy shipowner. If there were truly acts of piracy in his past—and I know nothing about that—he has no need to resort to such now. I’ll wager you this roof over my head that none of these items were stolen.”

  Braithwaite turned aside impatiently, and his coat brushed against the easel beside him, catching the cloth which covered it.

  To his surprise, Tamar made an instinctive dive off the couch to catch the falling cloth. Instead, he upset the balance of both easels and both cloths slipped to the floor. Tamar only just managed to steady one easel while Braithwaite seized the other…and found himself gazing into Serena’s eyes.

  At first glance, the painting was a stunningly perfect likeness, so much so that he immediately looked at the other to see if it was even half so good.

  It was the back of Serena’s head, apparently the reverse of the first picture. Sunlight seemed to glow from every individual strand of her hair and the simple knot in which it was tied, revealing the delicate curve of her neck and shoulders beneath. Although there was nothing as obvious or as blasphemous as a halo, that was one of Braithwaite’s overall impressions, swiftly followed by an appealing mixture of innocence and sensuality. And mystery, because even the sun seemed to love her. And yet, although you were desperate to, you could not see her face.

  Until you looked at the other painting. In the same autumnal, leafy setting—which seemed vaguely familiar to Braithwaite, although he didn’t even try to place it at that moment—Serena’s full beauty dazzled him. It wasn’t just that the artist had caught her humor, cleverness, and sweetness in one characteristic expression, it was that every delicate line of her face and gown and posture shouted her sheer vitality, her love of life and the world. The painter had known Serena well, and more than that…

  “I don’t know if they’re finished,” Tamar said with unexpected nervousness. “I always cover them up for at least a day, so I can see afresh if something needs to change.”

  More than that…

  “Don’t,” Braithwaite blurted. “Don’t change anything.” Slowly, he raised his gaze from the painting to the painter. More than that… “You love her.”

  “Yes.”

  Braithwaite drew in his breath
, trying to deal with what this meant, with turning everything on its head and looking at it afresh. “Perhaps I will have that ale.”

  Tamar went and poured it and placed it in his hands. He drank it down, then set the cup back on the cluttered table and picked up his hat. “Come with me,” he instructed, then paused. “If you please.”

  “I please,” Tamar replied, apparently amused. He shook out the coat he’d abandoned on the floor and shrugged himself into it before grabbing a necktie that dangled from one of the pictures on the wall. He wound it carelessly around his throat while heading for the door.

  “That’s my orchard,” Braithwaite said suddenly. “In your pictures.”

  “Yes, it is,” Tamar agreed, locking the door behind them. “I’m afraid I’ve been in the habit of trespassing in your grounds to paint. Serena caught me there. That was how I first met her.”

  *

  Her mother took so long to prepare for the expedition to Blackhaven that Serena almost gave up on it. In the end, she only persevered because she felt obliged to give Kate what protection she could.

  And then, when they finally arrived before the vicarage and dismounted from the carriage, the maid told them her mistress was not at home.

  The countess stared. “I am not accustomed to being kept waiting.”

  Clearly, she suspected Kate of deliberately denying herself. The maid looked distinctly flustered, her gaze flying to Serena for help.

  “Of course,” Serena said, remembering. “This is one of Mrs. Grant’s soup-kitchen days. I believe I promised to help her, too, so I hope she’ll forgive me! Might we wait for her to come home?”

  “Of course, m’lady,” the maid said in some relief. “Go into the parlor and I’ll bring tea.”

  Mollified, the countess condescended to enter the house and wait. Which would at least give poor Kate warning of who had descended upon her. In fact, they didn’t have long to wait before Kate and Mr. Grant both came into the house, laughing together at something.