The Secret Kiss of Darkness

by Christina Courtenay

  Copyright © 2014 Christina Courtenay

  Published 2014 by Choc Lit Limited

  Penrose House, Crawley Drive, Camberley, Surrey GU15 2AB, UK

  www.choc-lit.com

  The right of Christina Courtenay to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publisher or a licence permitting restricted copying. In the UK such licences are issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency, 90 Tottenham Court Road, London, W1P 9HE

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  ISBN 978-1-78189-070-7

  To my three lovely aunts –

  Görel Larsson, Christina Jelmhag and Barbara Andrews.

  With lots of love.

  Contents

  Title page

  Copyright information

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  About the Author

  More Choc Lit

  Introducing Choc Lit

  More from Choc Lit

  Acknowledgements

  An early version of this story went through the Romantic Novelists’ Association’s New Writers’ Scheme and the encouraging words I received from the anonymous reader made me carry on writing. I can’t thank the reader and the organiser at the time, Margaret James, enough for making me believe that one day I would be published – without them I would have given up.

  As always, huge thanks are due to the wonderful Choc Lit team, especially the Tasting Panel members – I’m always grateful to receive their seal of approval – and my fellow ChocLiteers. You’re all awesome and a more supportive bunch would be hard to find!

  Thanks also to my family – Richard, Josceline and Jessamy – for holding the fort at home and supporting me. And to my writing buddies and friends in the RNA, thank you for being there!

  Author’s Note

  The characters in this novel are all fictitious, except for the artists Thomas Gainsborough and his nephew Gainsborough Dupont. They really did tour the West Country on at least two occasions, although obviously they never painted any portraits such as the ones in my book.

  I have tried to keep the character of Thomas Gainsborough the same as the way he is described in biographies of him, and some of the things he says are apparently more or less his exact sentiments. While reading about him, I got the feeling he would have relished stumbling upon an intrigue and secret such as Jago and Eliza’s, and he seemed a very likeable man. I hope I have done him justice.

  Prologue

  He’d sworn he would wait an eternity for her if he had to, on the assumption that the waiting would eventually be rewarded. But years, centuries passed with no end in sight and he was beginning to despair. To doubt. Would they ever be reunited?

  He drifted in and out of the darkness that held him captive, sometimes conscious of things going on around him, sometimes just listening. He learned how the world was changing, evolving into a more tolerant society than the one he’d lived in. It gave him hope, but also made him sad. If only things had been like that in his day.

  The scent of honeysuckle and roses unexpectedly jolted him out of the shadows and he looked at the woman standing before him, staring with rapt attention. It wasn’t her, his lost love, but there were similarities and that perfume teased at his nostrils, bringing bittersweet memories. He felt hope well up inside him once more, stronger this time. Perhaps it was a sign? Yes. It had to be.

  She walked away, but she would be back, he was sure of it. He smiled as he returned to the secret kiss of darkness.

  Chapter One

  London 2013

  What on earth am I doing here? I must have been out of my mind to come …

  Kayla Sinclair fidgeted in her seat, a prey to conflicting emotions. A part of her wanted desperately to stay in the auction room at Sotheby’s in New Bond Street, but the rational half knew it was wrong. She really shouldn’t be here.

  It was surprisingly noisy. Prospective buyers murmured amongst themselves and staff spoke quietly to telephone bidders, creating a constant background buzz. Kayla barely registered this, however, as the sound of her own heart hammering in her ears blocked out everything else. She took a deep breath and tried to concentrate on the auctioneer’s next words. He had a loud voice, deep and carrying, which penetrated even Kayla’s temporarily deficient hearing.

  ‘And now we come to Lot number three hundred and four,’ he announced, but the rest of his sentence was drowned by the sudden rush of blood inside Kayla’s head. Two men wearing dark blue aprons brought in a large painting and, with some manoeuvring, managed to hold it upright between them, standing to the right of the podium.

  Kayla looked down at her lap where the numbered paddle for bidding rested on top of the sale catalogue. Why had she bothered to obtain one? ‘I’m not buying anything. I am definitely not buying anything,’ she chanted silently to herself and took another deep breath. The noise inside her head subsided and she registered the fact that the auctioneer had begun to take bids.

  ‘Starting now at five thousand pounds. Do I have five thousand?’ He scanned the crowd for signs of raised paddles.

  Kayla felt her body grow cold.

  ‘I have five thousand five hundred on my right, six thousand the lady near the aisle …’

  She began to shake, but almost as if it had a will of its own, her right hand raised itself and her bid was acknowledged.

  ‘Seven thousand, the blonde lady at the back.’

  Oh hell, that’s me. Kayla closed her eyes, not wanting to believe what she’d just done.

  ‘Ah, seven thousand five hundred, do I have eight thousand?’

  Kayla grabbed her right hand with the left and held on to it in a childish effort to restrain it. She mustn’t buy this painting. It would be sheer madness. For one thing, it was too large and for another … no, it just wouldn’t do. Perhaps if she tried to concentrate on something else it would take her mind off the proceedings? She turned to study the people around her, looking everywhere except directly at the painting. That way lay danger.

  She had never been to an auction before and had had a vague idea that only very rich people went to such events, but the audience was an unexpected mixture. There were ladies in Chanel outfits, dripping with jewellery, and men in expensive tailor
ed suits, but Kayla could also see quite a few rather scruffy individuals. One man in particular looked as if he couldn’t afford his next meal, never mind thousands of pounds worth of art, but just then he raised his hand to make a bid.

  ‘Ten thousand the gentleman to my left, ten thousand five hundred, anyone?’

  Resolutely ignoring the auctioneer, Kayla continued to look around the room. As she wasn’t very tall she had to crane her neck to see the gleaming mahogany podium at the front. To her right a row of desks, manned by staff taking telephone bids, were equally shiny, and she found the whole set-up intimidating. Its occupants looked down on the bidders and Kayla felt like a lesser mortal. She shouldn’t have come. She really didn’t belong here. But she’d had no choice. Had she?

  ‘Do I have twelve thousand?’

  Twelve thousand! That was a huge amount of money. But it was worth every penny. She glanced at the painting, then made another effort to look around the room instead. An enormous skylight let in the pale spring sunshine, aiding the artificial lighting which illuminated the artwork that was hung around the walls. She wondered why none of them appealed to her. The only one she wanted was the one being sold at the moment. Her right hand came up, with the left one still holding on to it, as if someone was pulling an invisible string.

  No, this was ridiculous. But she couldn’t stop it.

  ‘Ah, twelve thousand the blonde lady at the back, twelve thousand five hundred? Do I have twelve thousand five hundred?’ The voice droned on, and Kayla concentrated desperately on the huge board near the ceiling, which showed the present bid in pounds sterling as well as in several other currencies. The amounts changed and the conversions followed automatically. She saw that the bidding was now up to sixteen thousand pounds, but seemed to have slowed down. Sixteen thousand pounds. That was definitely more than she could afford, which was just as well, she told herself, and tried to suppress the disappointment welling up inside her.

  ‘I have sixteen thousand pounds,’ the auctioneer informed them, and lifted his gavel.

  The mounting excitement in the audience was almost tangible as a hush fell on the room. Was this to be the final price? Everyone seemed to hold their collective breath, including Kayla.

  She quickly raised her hand again. Surely she could afford an extra thousand pounds somehow? I’ll buy a cheaper wedding dress.

  ‘Right, sixteen thousand five hundred, with the blonde lady at the back.’ The man lowered the gavel and scanned the room for any further bids. ‘And seventeen thousand, the gentleman on my right. Seventeen thousand five hundred anyone? Yes, I have seventeen thousand five hundred, ladies and gentlemen.’ He paused once more.

  The heavy catalogue fell out of Kayla’s suddenly numb fingers, but with a supreme effort she managed to raise her hand yet again. As the auctioneer nodded, a lead weight sank into her stomach.

  ‘Eighteen thousand. I have eighteen thousand, lady at the back.’ No one moved and Kayla continued to hold her breath. Would anyone make a last minute bid? The tension was unbearable. She wanted to scream, ‘Please, somebody, outbid me! I promise I’ll leave straight away. Someone, do something!’

  No one moved so much as a finger.

  ‘All done then at eighteen thousand. Selling at …’ the man waited a few moments more, ‘… eighteen thousand pounds.’ The gavel descended with a crack, which made Kayla jump even though she saw it coming. Her heart was beating so hard she thought it might leave her ribcage any minute. Feeling very self-conscious she held up her paddle. ‘To bidder number five hundred and sixteen.’

  Kayla closed her eyes and breathed rapidly, panic assailing her from all directions. Oh God, what have I done? How was she going to explain this? How was she going to pay for it?

  Eighteen thousand pounds. That was at least three thousand more than she could afford. There was no going back, however, her bid had been acknowledged. In a daze she stood up and made her way to the desk in the next room to make her payment. She wondered if she’d be arrested or something if she suddenly changed her mind and said she didn’t want the painting after all? The thought made her want to giggle hysterically and she made a heroic effort to pull herself together.

  ‘Number five hundred and sixteen, is it? Right, that’ll be eighteen thousand pounds then, please.’ The woman’s brisk and businesslike tone kick-started Kayla’s frozen brain. She recovered sufficiently to haul out her cheque book from her handbag and write out the amount with trembling fingers.

  ‘Your cheque will take approximately three days to clear and we’ll keep the painting at our warehouse until then before delivering it to you. Thank you very much. I hope you enjoy your purchase.’

  The hysterical laughter bubbled up inside Kayla once more and she swallowed hard to keep it down. Enjoy her purchase? Yes, the way some people enjoyed drugs perhaps – illicitly, guiltily. But it was done and the time for regrets had passed. With an outward calm she was far from feeling, she discussed delivery times and terms before leaving the building.

  Chapter Two

  Devon 1781

  The path leading up to Marcombe Hall from the coast was steep but Jago Kerswell took it in his stride. Two casks of brandy roped together were slung over his powerful shoulders, bumping his chest and back at every step, but even with this extra load he carried on as if he was out for a Sunday stroll. The darkness was almost absolute, as the sliver of a moon had disappeared behind thick clouds, and he could see only vague outlines of trees and bushes along the path. The deep shadows had cloaked the nefarious activity he and his fellow smugglers had been engaged upon this night and all had gone well. Jago was pleased.

  With the surefootedness of an animal with night vision, he continued up the steep incline. He knew these paths like the back of his hand and had no need to see where he was going. He could have done it blindfolded. As he neared the edge of the gardens of the Hall, he calculated rapidly how much profit would be made from tonight’s run. A grin of satisfaction tugged at the corners of his mouth. Even after Sir John had received his cut for turning a blind eye – the two casks Jago was carrying – Jago’s men and their families would live well for a while, once the contraband had been sold in London. Some of the goods were even now making their way towards Lambeth, while the rest would await their turn in various hiding places. He almost chuckled out loud. If the good Reverend Mountford knew what the bottom of his pulpit contained he would have an apoplexy.

  Still lost in thought, Jago turned the corner of a hedge and was almost knocked off balance as a small white shape hurtled into him with tremendous speed. He gasped and came to an abrupt halt.

  ‘Oh, ow!’ From the sound of the voice he deduced it was a female, and her forehead had connected violently with the cask hanging in front of him. She ricocheted back to land on her backside with a thud. Jago heard her moan softly.

  ‘Damnation woman! What are you doing out in the middle of the night? Have you no sense?’ Jago hissed. Anger warred with compassion as he hefted the casks over his head and set them down onto the ground next to her. He stretched out a hand, encountered an arm and pulled her upright. ‘Are you badly hurt? Let me see, please.’ Since he couldn’t actually see anything, he reached out and found her forehead. Gently, belying his angry words, he pried loose her hands, and his questing fingers felt a large protrusion. She sucked in her breath and jerked her head away.

  ‘It … it’s nothing, sir,’ she stammered, trying to back away from him. He gripped her right shoulder with one hand to prevent her from leaving.

  ‘My lady,’ he began, for indeed it could be none other than the lady of Marcombe Hall herself, as she was the only woman in the neighbourhood who spoke with such cultured accents. ‘I don’t know what possessed you to go wandering about the gardens in the middle of the night, but I would suggest you return to the house immediately. And find something to put on that egg you’re now sporting on your forehead. A piece of raw meat might do the trick. Even so, I fear you’ll have some explaining to do tomorrow.’

>   She shook his hand off impatiently and succeeded only because he let her. ‘Thank you for your advice, sir, but I am going for a walk along the cliffs.’ Her voice was trembling, but sounded haughty and defiant, with an almost desperate undertone.

  ‘A walk? Now? In nothing but your shift? Really, my lady, I don’t think—’

  ‘I’m not concerned with what you think, my good man, and besides I am wearing a perfectly respectable gown. Well, I’ve brought my shawl anyway, and who’s to tell in the dark? Now, why don’t you return to your own business before you are caught and leave me to get on with mine.’ She turned away from him, but stopped as he spoke again.

  ‘You know what I’m doing?’

  ‘Certainly I do. You’re a smuggler. Why else would you be carrying brandy kegs about your person in the middle of the night?’

  ‘We prefer to think of ourselves as free-traders, my lady.’ He chuckled briefly, amused by her bravado. ‘Be that as it may, have you given any thought to the fact that I might not be the only one about this night? Free-traders operate in groups and most of them are a rough lot. There’s no saying what they might do if they catch sight of a lone female wandering about the cliffs in her night clothes.’

  She let out a mirthless little laugh. ‘I am past caring,’ she replied airily. ‘I can’t stay in that house another minute. Anyway,’ she muttered, ‘they can do no worse than John, I suppose.’ She started to walk away once more, passing him with a swish of soft material that brushed against his breeches, but he caught up with her within seconds, and turned her around abruptly by means of a vice-like grip on her arm.

  ‘What exactly has my sainted brother done now?’ he growled. ‘Is he beating you?’

  ‘Your brother? What has he to do with anything?’ She struggled to free herself again, but her puny efforts went unheeded as this time he held fast.

  ‘Your husband, my lady, is my half-brother. Perhaps he forgot to mention that?’

  She stilled instantly. ‘Half-brother? But … but what … how? I don’t understand. You are a smuggler and John is … well, he is …’