by Edith Layton
“Well, it’s a crime and a shame that you don’t trust females,” she said, her nose going up in the air as though she smelled something foul. “You can come with me now. No one will say a thing. This isn’t London. I don’t want you and wouldn’t have you on a silver platter. But if it would make you feel more comfortable, we can wait until morning, and have grandfather come with us so there’s no danger of my ensnaring you. And then,” she said forcefully, “you can go. Home.”
“Please forgive me,” he said stiffly.
“Forgiven,” she snapped. “What do you want to do?”
“I’ve traveled all the way from London, in the fog and the damp. I didn’t know you had a portrait of my father. And so I’d like very much to meet him, if you please.”
She relented. “Come along, then. The lamps are still lit in Grandy’s study. He knew you’d want to see your father tonight.”
Constantine walked behind Lisabeth, a bit warily, even though she had said there was no trap waiting. When she didn’t speak and infuriate him, he realized again that she was a round little armful, and he was a long way from home. He wondered what she wanted of him, and suddenly found himself hoping for the best. For himself, at least.
She went into the hall, crooked a finger at a young footman who looked as though he were dozing with his eyes open, and said, “Come along with us, Rodney. And stay awake so you can protect Lord Wylde, if he needs you.” She shot a murderously amused glance at Constantine, and went on down the hall to her grandfather’s study.
Constantine winced, but followed.
The study was dimly lit, so Lisabeth had the footman turn up all the lamps. Her grandfather had a virtual museum in this room, of oddments and whatnots and things picked up on his travels. The walls were filled with portraits, revered because they were his history or the history of those he had admired. These paintings were just as much a personal jumbled treasure trove as his collections of shells and sextants, spyglasses, coins, dried fishes, and exotic carvings on wood or jade, from the South Seas, India, Africa, and the far east, or on ivory, from whales of every sea.
She held the lantern high as she paced along the perimeters of the wall. Constantine saw a handsome blond youth standing by the sea, in a picture of fairly recent vintage.
“My father,” she said with simple pride.
“A handsome fellow,” Constantine commented.
“And here is my mama,” she said, pausing before a miniature portrait of a charming young woman. “It was her engagement portrait, sent to my father. She was to sit for a better picture after I was born.” Her shrug was sad. “But she didn’t live long enough.”
Lisabeth walked on and stopped by a portrait that hung by a window.
Constantine looked up, and halted. The man he saw in the portrait was young, and smiling. The flickering lamplight gave it the semblance of life, and animation. And the face was one Constantine saw in the mirror every day. Only happier. The young man had the same dark hair and tilted arched brows, the same eyes, but with more light and humor in them. The portrait showed a young blade from the last generation, an athletic fellow who looked as though he could laugh as well as wink, as the inconstant light seemed to be making him do. “Mischievous,” was the word that came to Constantine’s mind. He felt suddenly sad and deprived. This was a man he’d like to have known.
“He is … he looks like—he’s the image of me,” he said.
“He was your father,” she said. She gazed at him and then at the portrait, and her expression grew grave. “But though the features are similar, look closer and you’ll see he’s really not so very like.” She fell still and waited, letting Constantine look his fill. All the while, she watched his face as intently as he studied the portrait before him.
Constantine was strangely touched and excited; it felt as though a part of his life had been restored to him. Here was a man he’d never known, but one, for all his faults, that he thought he’d have loved, even so. There was such warmth and humanity in that young face. His father must have been his own age when the portrait had been painted. After he’d stared a long while, he slowly became aware of the hour and his surroundings. But he didn’t want to leave the portrait. He opened his lips to ask for it, to take it home with him, so this happy young man could make up for all their lost years, and spend the rest of his life near him.
But then he remembered who his father had been, what he’d done, and what people would think if they knew. He understood that though the years had passed, if knowledge of the man’s crimes and ignominious end became known, his own reputation would be forever tarnished. Charming, his father may well have been. But he’d also been a criminal.
He closed his lips. “Thank you,” he said softly after a moment. “I’m glad I could see him. Perhaps, before I leave tomorrow, I’ll come back and see him by daylight.”
Lisabeth nodded. “We’ve grown used to him, and I know I’d miss him. But I’m sure Grandy will let you take him with you. He is your heritage. We would understand.”
Constantine turned from the portrait. She was standing closer to him than he’d known; he could actually feel the warmth emanating from her as the room grew chillier with the hour. He backed away a step. “Thank you,” he said. “But no. This is his place now. I can rest assured that he’ll be safe here.”
She tilted her head to the side. “You mean to leave him?” Her eyes widened. “You’re ashamed of him?”
“Well, but my dear,” he said. “He was a criminal. That’s why my uncle kept his life, or rather, his death, a secret.”
She stiffened. “Indeed,” she said. “I suppose he was. And I suppose there isn’t a family tree in England that doesn’t have some gallows-ripe fellows dangling from it? Only as the centuries roll on do those villains become quaint, rather than embarrassing, is that it? Especially if they brought fortune to the family. I understand. Your father hasn’t been dead long enough for legend to gild his name. Well, if you feel that way, sir, I’m mighty glad I found out about it now. I was just going to introduce you to your great-grandfather, and he’s a fellow I’ve been half in love with all my life. But now I see that that would be entirely too much for you.”
Constantine turned slowly, and looked at her. “My great-grandfather?”
“Aye,” she said. “He looks even more like you. But he was nothing like you. He’s the one who made your family rich, my grandfather says, and he should know. Your grandfather was a quiet law-abiding gentleman, but my grandfather knew his father, and admired him, as did all hereabouts. You, however, obviously would not. Shall we go?”
“My great-grandfather?” Constantine asked again, incredulously.
“Yes,” she said happily. “Captain Elijah the Cunning, the celebrated pirate, scourge of several seas and clever as he could hold together. Three nations offered gold for his head, two bid rubies and diamonds, and one, four elephants. But the captain kept his head on his shoulders and took their treasure galleons anyway, until he died at a ripe old age in a storm at sea, or from laughing at his victims, as some said.”
“My great-grandfather?” Constantine asked weakly.
“Oh, yes!” she said with malicious glee.
Chapter Four
“Lord Wylde,” Lisabeth said with sweet mendaciousness, as she looked up at the wall. “May I present your great-grandfather Elijah Wylde, the famous Captain Cunning?”
She held her lamp high, swept an arm out to indicate a portrait on the wall on the other side of the window from where the picture of Constantine’s father hung. She ducked a curtsy that made the flame in the lamp sway and sputter.
A corresponding light seemed to flicker in the dark and dangerous eyes of the startling young man in the dark portrait above her.
Constantine stared. It was an old portrait; the years, and decades of wood smoke, had added darkness to a shadowy palette, but the forceful personality of the young man it portrayed shone through.
If Constantine’s father had seemed to him to look lik
e a mischievous boy, this man, his father’s grandfather, was something altogether different. He seemed steeped in sin, as well as humor. The glint in his eyes, the tilt of his chin, the dark slashing eyebrows and the surprisingly sensitive mouth, even the invisible breeze that tugged at his flowing cape, hinted at a man of many parts. Most of them wicked.
The artist had not been a master. His choice of color was murky; his portrayal of the horse standing nearby his subject was amateurish. But he had perfectly captured a mood and a personality. The man in the painting was all fury and dash, and splendor. A strong breeze in the painting was blowing; a ship was waiting, wallowing in the swells of the dark sea beyond. Constantine’s great-grandfather looked eager and restless, wild as the rising wind, as though he couldn’t wait to dash off to another adventure.
Constantine now understood what Lisabeth had meant. He could certainly see how an impressionable girl could fall half in love with just the image of this reckless gentleman. She was also right about the resemblance to him. It was remarkable, and yet, even so, Constantine could never be mistaken for the man in the portrait. No, his great-grandfather was everything and nothing like himself. And for a wonder, for a moment, that made him sad.
He finally tore his gaze from the man in the portrait and looked at his hostess. She was still staring up, almost worshipfully, looking at the long-dead man who seemed so alive.
“And is there a portrait of my grandfather?” he asked.
That seemed to break the spell that had bound her. She turned to look at him. “No,” she said calmly. “My grandfather said yours felt portraits were a vanity. Small loss. People without souls don’t make for good portraits.”
“He was an evil fellow, then?” Constantine asked, with dread. What other rotten fruit hung from his family tree?
She laughed. “Oh, no. Grandy said he was a dull dog, a conservative man without any romance in his soul. Poor fellow. And his wife was chosen for her bidability, as well as her dowry. Poor lady. My grandfather only kept up a connection with him for the sake of the memory of his father, who helped him get started in his business, you see. And then, because of the friendship between his son and your father.”
“How did they meet?” Constantine asked, fascinated. “I mean, my father and yours. Their upbringings were so different.”
“Aye, chalk and cheese,” she said promptly. “Day and night. But they met at school, and then years later one night at a tavern, and like called to like. Your father said he felt as if he’d been in chains all his life. My father said yours was a fine fellow, smart as a whip and not afraid to try anything once, twice, if it paid enough. They were kindred souls.”
Constantine winced. “But your father didn’t need money. Mine did.”
“Defending him already?” she asked, smiling. “Good, good. My father was in it for the fun and adventure, and no excuses. And for all your father said it was for the money, he could have bowed to his father and kept his allowance until he’d saved enough to break free of domination. As heir to a title, he also could have found a nice dreary job of work, clerking or secretarying, or some such, couldn’t he? No, they were a matched pair of bold bad boys, out for amusement and danger, and the devil take them, if he could.”
Constantine swallowed hard. “Did my great grandfather have a home here? I don’t understand how he could have hidden that from the world.”
“He didn’t,” she said simply. “He was far too clever. He lived on his ship most of the time, and sent his booty to his man at law in London. That fellow sold the treasure, invested the coin, and then sent all the proceeds to your great-grandfather’s estate. This village was his secret port. No one in London or Society ever knew he was the great Captain Cunning. Only those who worked with him did, and they were entirely loyal. And not just out of fear, mind. Fear fades when the man you’re afraid of dies. But respect never does.”
Constantine nodded. “I can understand why my uncle wouldn’t want any reminder of that. Is that why your grandfather has the portraits?”
“No, your uncle wouldn’t want any part of us. Your father brought his to us. As for your great-grandfather’s, your grandfather only kept it because it cost money to create, and he never wasted a penny piece. That, and as a reminder to him of what he could become if he wasn’t careful. But he was careful. He toed the line and never cast his net far. He never made money but neither did he lose any. He handled his father’s estate wisely. The money may have been acquired by nefarious means, but your grandfather respected money, whatever its heritage.
“I’m afraid your father was a terrible disappointment to him. But not a shock, never that. Your grandfather always spoke of the bad blood in the family. Yet he respected the bounty that blood had brought him. Isn’t that curious? Your uncle didn’t warn you about this taint in your family? It consumed your grandfather. He threw away both portraits as soon as your father scandalized the name. My grandfather was happy to take them. You didn’t know any of this?”
“As I said,” Constantine said, “they kept it from me. I knew nothing of it.” He paced away a step, and then looked back up at his great-grandfather. “And,” he murmured, as though to himself, “if anyone else finds out about this, I’ll be ruined.”
“Ruined?”
He saw her confusion. “I’m known as a moderate man, I try to be a gentleman,” he explained. “It’s more than a title or what school one attends. It’s a way of life. I belong to many clubs that I value, I have worthy friends and acquaintances and …” He closed his lips before he mentioned his fiancée. If her grandfather had told Lisabeth the whole story, then she already knew. If not, the less she knew about him, the better. He’d have to discover what she knew before he left this place. This wasn’t the time for it, though.
“The point is,” he went on, “they all think they know me. As did I, myself. But now this! Pirates? Highwaymen? Criminals lurking in my family tree? My fortune comes from crime and mayhem? It’s outrageous. In some circles, I’d be immediately ostracized. At the very least, mocked.” He shuddered. “I can picture the caricatures now, in every window in town. If it were to become widely known I might never be trusted again. Many people believe blood will tell.”
“And you’re one of them?” she asked curiously.
He shrugged. “I was. But now I think about it, I doubt it. Why, just look at my ancestors and me. I never felt the urge to command a pirate ship, I assure you. Nor would I ever hold up a coach on the public road, or a private one. I’m law-abiding and enjoy life lived moderately. No matter the financial need, those are just not things I would do, believe me.”
She did. Then she sighed. “But look at the royals,” she said. “If one goes back to the day they first sat on the throne, there isn’t a royal line that wasn’t forever cheating and killing, murdering and stealing, and no one thinks less of them for that.”
He shook his head. “I’m not a royal, thank God. I suppose a Viking ancestor could be excused. Even a murderous Norman. But anything closer in time to me—and you’ll admit a father and a great-grandfather aren’t exactly antiquity—would reflect upon me. Upon my character and my position. I’d rather these facts never left this room.”
She laughed. It was an unexpectedly merry sound in the deep velvet quiet of the house. “But everyone here knows about your ancestors! They look up to your great-grandfather, and I don’t just mean his portrait. He was generous to the villagers and to the men who worked for him, and that was fully half the men who lived here. He brought prosperity to a poor little fishing village. That prosperity lasted. Our men don’t have to risk their necks bringing in perfumes and brandy from France if they don’t choose to, because Captain Cunning had brought in jewels and gold long before the wars with France started. Why, when your poor father was shot, the whole district turned out for his funeral, and wept buckets, I’m told. The news got beyond this room ages ago.”
Her expression grew serious. “Is it someone you care for whose opinion you worry about?”
>
He nodded, because if he didn’t, and she knew about his plans for marriage he’d look like a fool, or a liar.
“Ah,” she said. “Well, I can’t understand that. We don’t practice ancestor worship here, nor do we spend time blaming a man for what his father did. Or even for what he did. Most of the people here at Sea Mews have the most extravagant histories! Bloody awful, but a man can change and a woman must, as Grandy always says.”
Constantine blinked. Ladies never said “bloody.” Neither did gentlemen, unless there were no ladies about, and they were inebriated. But she said it casually and didn’t seem to think a thing wrong with it.
“Take young Platt there,” she said in a lower voice, tipping a shoulder toward the footman who stood near the hearth, still sleeping with his eyes open. “He’s quiet and respectful, and his idea of a day off well spent is sitting by the river with his feet in the water, hoping he doesn’t catch a fish because that would be a bother. His father was a drunk and a villain. Went through the family money, earned more seafaring …” A little smile appeared on her lips. “We prefer to call making a living from the sea that’s not from shipping or fishing ‘seafaring,’ you see. ‘Piracy’ is not a happy word. I suppose because you’re hanged for acts of piracy even just for being a pirate. At any rate, then the fool came home and drank the roof off from over his head. Grandy gave his son, young Platt, a position here for the sake of his father and his grandfather, who were, though a bit hasty, and maybe a trifle flawed, still loyal men.
“Most of the people who work here have family histories. Many have interesting ones of their own,” she said with a secretive smile. “One day you must ask Miss Lovelace about her past. During the day, literally, I mean. She’s sober as a mouse until evening falls.” She cocked her head to the side. “Does everyone in London care so much for what a man’s family was? Rather than what a man is?”
