The Wicked Gypsy (Blackhaven Brides Book 8)

by Mary Lancaster

  “Of course,” Dawn managed. “How do you do, Lady Braithwaite? If you would excuse me, I believe I shall retire early. Good night.”

  As she walked away, her head held high, she wondered where on earth she had found the dignity. It was small comfort. Gervaise had defied his formidable mother for her, but one way or another, she was no longer welcome at the castle.

  “Cousin, don’t forget your picture,” Lord Tamar called after her.

  Dawn turned back, bewildered, and Tamar thrust the forgotten canvas into her arms. The painting which quite clearly showed her as a fortune-telling gypsy. He closed one eye and civilly opened the door for her. She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

  *

  For the first time since the night she had first met Gervaise and slept at the castle, she woke on the rug before the fire. She had lain there with the comfort of her own blanket around her, a reminder of where she came from and where she could always return. And for the first time ever, she dreaded going down to breakfast.

  Hastily she rose, shivering, and dragged herself into bed before the servants came to lay the fire. But she could not fall asleep again. Instead, she recalled repeatedly the countess’s arrival, Miss Farnborough’s helpless sweetness, and the faint sounds of chatter and laughter that had reached her from the rooms below. After her departure, clearly, a light supper had been prepared for the countess and her guest, and the company, it seemed, had been a pleasant one without her.

  Eventually, Clarry came with her morning chocolate and stayed to help her dress for the day. So at least the servants had not been instructed to ignore her. She tried to hide her heavy heart as Clarry chattered away about the countess’s unexpected return and the prettiness of that Miss Farnborough—although her maid was a very haughty woman, called herself a “dresser” and even tried to lord it over Lady Serena’s maid, all of which were crimes of the first order in Clarry’s books.

  Eventually glad to escape, Dawn went down to the breakfast room, where she was rather pathetically relieved to find only the girls.

  “Were you sent to bed, too?” Maria asked with sympathetic humor.

  “No, I avoided such indignity by cravenly retiring,” she replied, helping herself to ham and toast which she had no desire to eat.

  “Never mind, she’ll come around,” Helen said. “She always does.”

  “Though it can be quite unpleasant getting there,” Alice added. “Ask Mrs. Benedict!”

  Maria glared at her. “Alice!”

  “I’m not speaking out of turn!” Alice protested. “We all know how Mama is.”

  “Do you suppose she came home early because she’d heard something about Miss Conway?” Helen asked.

  “No,” Alice said brutally. “I expect she drove Frances to distraction until Alastair showed her the door.”

  Maria opened her mouth to scold again and ended by giggling. Alice grinned at her encouragingly.

  “Then why,” Helen pursued, “did she bring Miss Farnborough here?”

  “To throw her at Gervaise’s head, of course,” Maria said.

  “Exactly,” Helen said darkly.

  Dawn regarded her, baffled, though Helen’s sisters seemed to understand perfectly.

  “It wouldn’t be the first time she’s brought him potential brides,” Maria pointed out. “And yet, they all leave unengaged.”

  “Well, if she imagines Miss Farnborough can compete with—”

  “Alice!” Maria and Helen exclaimed together.

  “Compete with who?” Dawn asked bluntly. She even smiled to hide the twisting of her heart. “Does your brother carry a torch for some other lady?”

  “Oh, Cousin,” Helen exclaimed, just as the door opened and Miss Farnborough glided in, once more arrayed in white muslin, only draped with several shawls to keep out the draughts.

  “Good morning,” she said brightly, and everyone returned the greeting. “I wondered if I was too late for breakfast.”

  “Oh no, Serena and Braithwaite are frequently much later,” Maria informed her. “And Tamar is a law unto himself. Mama usually breakfasts in bed.”

  Miss Farnborough hovered around the sideboard, as though incapable of either choosing or serving herself. Alice and Helen exchanged speaking glances, though neither offered to help.

  Maria said kindly, “Please, just help yourself to as little or as much as you want. Would you like a cup of tea or coffee?”

  Miss Farnborough shuddered delicately. “Oh no, thank you, not at this hour.” She sat down at the table, her plate piled surprisingly high with ham, eggs, and toast. “And what will you do today, children?”

  Maria’s nostrils flared with all a fifteen-year-old’s indignation at being so addressed.

  “We’re going up to Haven Hall,” Dawn said hastily. “Where Mrs. Benedict kindly acts as governess.”

  “To all of you?” Miss Farnborough asked, amused.

  “Our cousin takes us there and back,” Alice said dangerously.

  “Of course she does,” Miss Farnborough soothed. “I was only funning. What a kind cousin you are.”

  “No, I enjoy it,” Dawn said, making an effort not to mutter resentfully like an unfairly told-off child. She took a last mouthful of coffee. “In fact, I must hurry, or I shan’t be ready in time.”

  She fled ignominiously.

  *

  “Mama is home,” Helen told Mrs. Benedict, almost as soon as they entered the house.

  Mrs. Benedict swept her gaze over them all. “That must put the cat among the pigeons rather earlier than his lordship had hoped,” she observed, shooing the girls upstairs in front of her. She held Dawn back for a moment, letting the girls get further ahead. Then she said in a low voice, “Was she awful to you?”

  “She didn’t really get the chance to be,” Dawn said lightly. “I went to bed early.”

  “Braithwaite will look after you, you know. And he will bring his mother round, in such a way that does not ruin your relationship with her either. I daresay you know she dismissed me for supposedly setting my cap at Braithwaite. A month later, she wrote me a most handsome letter of apology and asked me to come back. She is now very kind to me. Because I am loyal to her daughters.”

  “Well, she didn’t forbid me accompanying them here today, so perhaps there is hope for me,” Dawn said. She glanced wryly at Mrs. Benedict. “Or perhaps she simply doesn’t know I’m in the habit of it.”

  No doubt Dawn’s distraction that day was due to the agitation of her mind. Certainly, she paid less attention than usual when, while she was supposed to be reading the travel book, she practiced writing her name, striving to make the letters less round and childish. She neither saw nor heard Mrs. Benedict finish her instructions to the girls, nor her subsequent approach to Dawn’s desk. She only knew these things had happened when the governess’s mortified voice said in her ear, “Why didn’t you tell me you couldn’t read or write?”

  Dawn set her pen in the stand and stared unseeingly at the paper in front of her.

  “No, I shouldn’t ask you that,” Mrs. Benedict answered herself. “Rather, I should ask myself why I didn’t notice, why it didn’t enter my head. What use is reading or writing to your old lifestyle?”

  Dawn swallowed. “I was ashamed. It is something you all take for granted.”

  “And I left you with that silly book every morning for weeks.”

  Dawn cast her a quick smile. “The pictures are pretty.”

  “Come, bring your writing in here, as though we were having an elocution lesson.”

  Obediently, Dawn followed Mrs. Benedict into her one-time bedchamber and sat down at the desk there.

  “Who has been teaching you instead?” Mrs. Benedict asked.

  “Lord Braithwaite,” Dawn admitted. “He taught me the alphabet. I practice on my own.”

  “Well, you must practice here, too, and we’ll go over such matters as spelling.”

  “I’m not sure there’s any point,” Dawn said flatly. “Not if I’m
going to be thrown out.”

  “You’re not,” Mrs. Benedict said. “Braithwaite would never allow it.”

  Dawn shrugged. “I doubt he’ll have a choice.”

  “Oh, he always has a choice. He may never shout or scream at her, but I suspect in a battle of wills, he always gets his own way.”

  Dawn looked away, staring at the blurred paper. Her throat hurt with keeping back tears. “I have grown too comfortable, too quickly,” she said shakily. “This is not my life.”

  Mrs. Benedict crouched beside her chair and took both her hands. Stunned by this sign of friendship—or even just pity—Dawn met her gaze.

  “If you want it to be,” Mrs. Benedict said, “then it is. You can do whatever you like.”

  *

  They returned to the castle in the afternoon to the unwelcome sight of Gervaise strolling around the snow-covered formal gardens with Miss Farnborough. The gardeners had cleared the snow from the paths so she wouldn’t stain her shoes or her fine white gown. On the other side of the French window, lurked the shadowy outline of the dowager countess, watching them.

  The girls didn’t see their mother, but from the front steps, they called to Gervaise and waved to him. Miss Farnborough touched his arm and gestured with apparent delight toward the house, as though eager to see his young sisters. She had discovered his affection for them and was pretending an interest Dawn didn’t believe was real. The girls were right. It wasn’t just the countess who was eager for a marriage between her son and Miss Farnborough.

  Entering the house, Dawn would have fled immediately to her own chamber, but Helen hung onto her arm and all but dragged her with them into the reception room, where the portrait of the young Gervaise hung, where he had kissed her only yesterday. He was ushering Miss Farnborough through the French window as Dawn and the girls came in.

  Again, Dawn was surprised by the affection with which they all greeted their mother. They had few illusions about her and were clearly used to being without her for long periods of time, but they were genuinely happy she was there. Dawn wished she shared that happiness, although what she chiefly disliked about the woman was that she had brought Miss Farnborough there.

  No one could have called the countess conciliatory, but though her eyes were icy with disapproval, she spoke civilly to Dawn. “And how did you find Mrs. Benedict, Cousin?”

  Cousin. Somehow, Gervaise had persuaded her to go along with the charade.

  “Very well,” Dawn managed in her best accent. “She was glad to hear of your ladyship’s return and wished to be remembered to you kindly. I believe she means to write to you or call, perhaps, about a possible governess.”

  “Ah, dear creature and so helpful. I don’t know what we would have done without her.”

  Dawn intercepted a lightning but wicked grin between Maria and Gervaise.

  “Sit down and we’ll have tea,” the countess instructed everyone.

  A footman came and took the outer garments from the earl and Miss Farnborough, then silently withdrew. By accident or design, Gervaise and Miss Farnborough sat together on the sofa.

  Miss Farnborough smiled fondly at the girls. “And what did you learn today?” she asked them.

  “Music and watercolor painting,” Maria said.

  Helen wrinkled her nose. “Numbers and poetry.”

  “Botany and Latin,” Alice said.

  “Latin?” Miss Farnborough turned her wide-eyed gaze on the countess. “Oh my. Are you not afraid, my lady, that she might grow up to be bookish?”

  “I am bookish,” Alice said mulishly.

  “I see no shame in learning of any description,” Gervaise said, apparently amused. “Quite the contrary. Alice has a sharp and retentive mind.”

  Miss Farnborough gave a tinkling little laugh. Unkindly, Dawn wondered if that was what she had learned from her governess. “You must be much cleverer than I.”

  “Much,” Alice muttered under her breath.

  “What have you been doing today?” Maria asked hastily.

  “Oh, her ladyship and I have enjoyed a comfortable talk, and your brother has kindly been showing me the grounds. What a delightful setting you have here. Wonderful scenes for painting.”

  “Tamar thinks so.”

  “Lord Tamar paints?” Miss Farnborough said in astonishment.

  “Constantly,” Gervaise said.

  “He is a gifted artist,” Lady Braithwaite pronounced.

  “How wonderful.” Miss Farnborough, clearly, struggled for any other comment to make upon such an oddity. “Do you paint, Miss Conway?”

  “I sketch a little. I tend to just make a mess with water colors.”

  Miss Farnborough smiled. “How funny you are.”

  After a somewhat excruciating half hour, during which she barely looked at, let alone conversed with, Gervaise, Dawn escaped, retrieved her cloak, and went for a brisk walk just to feel human again. She hated the tangle of jealousy and hopelessness wrapping around her heart and struggled to get back her usual pleasure in the present.

  Nothing important had changed. She was still Dawn the gypsy, though very probably also Eleanor Gardyn. She still loved the earl, but since she had always known that to be a hopeless love, there was no point in worrying about any alteration in his feelings. She did not believe him to be fickle, but men of his class rarely married for love.

  Her spirits somewhat restored by the exercise, she was about to turn for home when a man came striding along the forest path toward her, a bag slung over his shoulder and something large clutched under his arm. It was Lord Tamar.

  “Well met, Cousin,” he greeted her cheerfully. “Aren’t you cold walking this far from the castle?”

  “Not really. I like to walk. I’m afraid a ladylike turn in the garden is too constricting for me.”

  “For most of us. Is there a dust-up?”

  She turned to walk beside him. “Oh no, I don’t believe so. Her ladyship is polite to me, if that is what you mean. I shall either prove to be Eleanor Gardyn or I won’t. I believe she will hold her fire until then.”

  Tamar grinned. “A good description.” He hesitated, then, “Braithwaite is an amiable man, but there is steel in him, too, which many people don’t see.”

  “Meaning he defended me from his mother?”

  Tamar shrugged and adjusted the easel under his arm. “And will do. He wasn’t very keen on my marrying Serena, you know. Took me for a scoundrel and a fortune hunter—for which I couldn’t really blame him, although in this case he was wrong. And when he saw he was wrong, he just set about arranging our wedding, quite against his mother’s wishes. But she has never said a word against it since.”

  He looked down at her. “I’ve come to have a great deal of respect for Braithwaite in the few months I’ve known him. He is no fool and despite his ingrained civility, he will not be taken in by a pretty face and vapid ambition.”

  Dawn smiled unhappily. “Is my anxiety so obvious?”

  “No. But I’m not a fool either.”

  “I didn’t think I was Eleanor. I didn’t want to be, until now. She’s the only hope I have.”

  “Actually,” Tamar said, “I’m not sure Eleanor ever had anything to do with this.”

  “What do you mean?” Dawn asked.

  “Oh, nothing. Nothing at all.”

  She frowned at his handsome, tranquil face. “You haven’t warned me off,” she observed.

  “Well, I am a selfish man. Although I think highly of Braithwaite, I like him better when he’s with you. He’s less…serious.”

  A blink of sun winked through the trees and she walked on, a faint smile lingering on her lips.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Her walk and her talk with Tamar gave her enough courage to go to the library before dinner for her usual reading assignation with the earl. She wasn’t entirely sure he would be there, since there were more distractions now, and considerably less privacy. When she entered and found him behind the desk, relief flooded her.


  He glanced up and rose to his feet. A smile lit his eyes. “Dawn. Thank God. I thought you weren’t speaking to me.”

  “I have had no chance to speak to you.”

  “Or look at me?”

  She shrugged, since she had no idea how to reply.

  “It might be harder to keep your secret,” he warned.

  Was he trying to get out of the responsibility he had taken on? She would have rather died than hold him to it. “I came to say there is no need any more,” she blurted. “Mrs. Benedict has discovered my secret and is teaching me herself.”

  A faint frown tugged at his brow and vanished. “Then I am superfluous?”

  She swallowed. “You know you are not.”

  His smile was tender as he walked toward her. But she could not be accused of inveigling him, so she sat down hastily at the smaller desk and made a fuss about taking out her book and paper. He halted, his gaze hot on her face. She wanted to cast caution to the wind and throw herself into his arms.

  Instead, she merely opened the book, picked up her pen, and dipped it in ink.

  “You are quite right,” Gervaise said, sprawling in the armchair closest to her, from where he could see through the open door to the gallery and the drawing room beyond. “Read it to me.”

  Fifteen minutes later, she jumped as his hand reached across the desk and closed on her wrist. She stopped midsentence, staring at him. Then she heard what he had, Serena and Tamar laughing together as they approached the gallery. For the space of only one heartbeat, she let herself wallow in his touch, and then she drew her hand free and shoved the book in a drawer.

  Hastily, she dragged a newspaper toward her instead.

  “Come through in a minute or two,” Gervaise murmured, and strolled out of the room.

  She swallowed back a surge of hysterical laughter. Could anyone but Dawn make clandestine assignations with a man like Lord Braithwaite solely for reading lessons?

  *

  “The children dine, too?” Miss Farnborough said in wonder. “I thought they would eat in the schoolroom. How kind you are to them.”

  “It is never too early for them to learn table manners,” the countess declared, although it crossed Dawn’s mind that she simply wished to spend time with her younger children whom she had not seen for three weeks. “Of course, we would not have them at a formal dinner party, but I count you quite one of the family.”