Blackhaven Brides: Books 5 - 8

by Mary Lancaster

  She opened her mouth to speak, but he dropped her hand as if it burned him.

  “Serena?” Kate said from the street.

  “She caught her shawl,” Tamar said. “She’s just coming.”

  And she was outside in the chill of the autumn night, walking blindly between Mr. and Mrs. Grant. She’d never felt so alone.

  *

  The following morning, Tamar woke with a pounding in his head that wasn’t all on the inside. Raising his head groggily from the sofa where he’d fallen asleep dead drunk in the small hours of the morning, he realized someone was knocking—nay, battering—at the door.

  His friends all knew to call out to him. No one did.

  “Bloody bum-bailiff,” he muttered, and pulled the covers over his ears to go back to sleep. However, thirst drove him to the water jug which he poured directly down his throat before tearing off his shirt and pouring the rest over his head and shoulders.

  He didn’t want to go outside to work as long as Rivers haunted his doorstep, so, keeping the curtains shut, he set up the easel with the portrait of the wealthy mill owner. He even dabbed at it for a little before throwing down his brush in frustration. He couldn’t settle to anything. His head was full of Serena, as he had last seen her, laughing and dancing with him; and Serena as he wanted her to be, making love, her beautiful, lush little body writhing with pleasure beneath him.

  This was ridiculous. He should not be so obsessed. He’d done the right thing and walked away before he hurt her. Now he had to live with the decision, expel her from his mind…or at least concentrate on what the devil was going on at the castle. Without her knowing, he would still look out for her. In fact, he would have gone up this morning if he hadn’t slept for so long that he’d failed to avoid Rivers. Now it would be evening, probably, before he could dodge past the bum.

  Sighing, he looked restlessly around for something to do that wouldn’t require too much attention.

  Send Daxton his wedding present.

  He’d finished the portrait of Dax and Lady Dax last week, but as usual, kept it aside for adjustments. Well, today, it would either be adjusted or sent on its way. If he could find it.

  Fifteen minutes later, he stood back, scratching his head. The portrait was gone. Along with the few other pictures he’d failed to find the other day. This had gone beyond strange. Surely no one would steal his paintings…

  But he began to think that had to be what was actually happening. And he wouldn’t allow it, not Dax’s portrait. That was a wedding gift and it had been promised. He could paint another, of course, but it wouldn’t be the same, it wouldn’t show them in the moment he wanted, the moment that was important to Dax and to Tamar.

  He’d actually shrugged himself into his coat and was reaching for the door latch when he remembered about bloody Rivers. If he let justice take its course, what was left of the house and estate would collapse. Christianne would look after Anna, but her husband was not a wealthy man. She wouldn’t let Julian or Sylvester leech off him. They’d go straight to the devil.

  Besides which, he’d never discover what was happening to his paintings. Serena’s sweet face swam into his mind’s eye, as he’d seen her last night at the ball, her face lighting up with pleasure because she’d seen him. His stomach twisted with pain and a fury he hadn’t known since he was fifteen years old and realized it was futile. His vile, stupid father had spoiled everything for anyone who had depended on him, and left his eldest son without the means to make any of it right. And so, Tamar had learned to live with it, with anything. It should be easy to bear the loss of Serena, someone he’d never even had. In time, it would be easy. He wouldn’t sink with this either.

  Instead, he strode to the back of the cottage. He was too big to wriggle out of the little window, so he opened it and yelled some nonsense. Smuggler Jack’s wife, hanging washing outside her own cottage further along the row, stared over at him in consternation. Tamar waved and grinned, but by then, he’d heard the footsteps scraping along the path at the side of his studio.

  Slamming the window shut and locked, he bolted to the front door, grabbing his satchel on the way. He leapt outside, pulling the door after him and locked it before sprinting along the road to the harbor. A couple of the fishermen along the row had come out of their cottages to cheer him on, so he gave them a quick salute in passing. Before he turned the corner, he heard Rivers yelling after him to stop. He grinned.

  *

  Davidson, the owner of the gallery, seemed pleased to see him. At this hour, the shop was quiet. Only one elderly lady and her small pug dog were perusing the pictures. Davidson, clearly suspecting the pug of malicious intent, kept a weather eye on it in case it lifted its leg. But he spared Tamar a grin and a greeting.

  “Did you bring me another painting?”

  “Not yet. I gave you four the other day.”

  “You should give me more while things are going so well. You must be really pleased with the price you got for the blue harbor scene.”

  Tamar paused in mid-stride. “But I never brought you the blue harbor.”

  “No, your assistant did, told me the price you’d decided on. I must admit I thought it was a mistake and argued against it, but you were right. You got every penny. I was thinking we could charge the same for any new works—”

  “Wait a minute.” Tamar rubbed his head, wishing he hadn’t drunk so much last night. “I don’t have an assistant.”

  Davidson blanched. “Of course you do,” he said weakly. “You must have forgotten.”

  Tamar stared at him. “Is that something I’m likely to forget? I can’t feed myself—how do you imagine I pay an assistant?”

  “But it was definitely your painting, sir, the style was unmistakable. And I gave him the money only yesterday.”

  Tamar sank onto the comfortable chair intended for customers who were buying. “Why didn’t you mention this when I was in before?”

  Davidson shrugged. “When you didn’t mention him, I assumed you’d dismissed him. Then he came in to collect the money and I thought he was still working for you after all. I thought it was a good thing…”

  “Has he brought you anything else?” Tamar scoured the walls, searching for his own works.

  “No,” Davidson said nervously. “But he said he would jolly you along and bring more very soon.”

  Tamar scowled. “Well if you so much as catch sight of him again—anywhere—send me word immediately.”

  “Of course, but—”

  “Did he have a name, this assistant? What did he look like?”

  “Tall, dark-haired, gentlemanly… he said his name was Sylvester. Mr. Sylvester.”

  “What?” Tamar jerked his head around, staring at Davidson. “You’re sure it was Sylvester?”

  “You know it isn’t easy to trick me, my lord,” Davidson said earnestly, “but this Sylvester seemed to know you so well—”

  “I’ll bet he did,” Tamar said under his breath.

  *

  Serena had arranged for the carriage to call for her at three o’clock, but it seemed she might be a little late, for Kate talked her into riding with her over to Henrit to call on the Winslows. Kate, who was relatively wealthy in her own right, kept three horses at the local livery stables.

  “I hear Catherine has an admirer,” Serena said as they slowed their mounts to climb the hill to the Winslows’ estate. “Though I gather he let her down last night.”

  “Ah yes, the Comte de Valère. I’d be interested to know what you think of him.”

  Serena raised her brows. She wasn’t used to her opinion being sought.

  Kate laughed. “Don’t look at me like that, Serena. I know you’re more than a pretty face.”

  “Why thank you.” Serena gave an exaggerated bow. “At the moment, I think very little of him, but then, I’ve never met him. What is your opinion?”

  “Oh, that like so many, he is charming, apparently well-travelled, and well-mannered. But he appeared suddenly in B
lackhaven for his health, and I can see nothing wrong with him. If it wasn’t that he’s picked on Catherine, who is no heiress to speak of, I would suspect him of fortune hunting.”

  “Then he may genuinely care for her? She is, after all, a loveable girl.”

  “She is,” Kate agreed. “Perhaps we should have tea at the hotel when we return and see if he makes an appearance.”

  However, as it happened, they didn’t need to wait so long. The Comte de Valère was discovered already taking tea with the Winslows. Listening with deference to Mr. Winslow, he stood at once when Serena and Kate were announced. He proved to be a distinguished, well-looking man of medium height and impeccable manners, with just a hint of French sophistication. Serena could see the attraction.

  “Lady Serena,” he greeted her upon introduction, bowing over her hand. “Then you are the Earl’s sister and you live in that wonderful castle!”

  “Yes, I am, and I do,” she replied.

  “I have only vague recollections of my own family’s castle in France,” he said. “I was very young when we left. But perhaps it is a good thing. I no longer take castles for granted but have learned to appreciate them.”

  Serena laughed. “Well, one doesn’t appreciate them in the winter when they’re wretchedly draughty and never get truly warm. Which is why we live mostly in the more modern house built on to it in the last century.”

  She moved on to speak to Catherine, who was looking flushed and happy. They sat together on the sofa, and under cover of the general conversation around them, Serena murmured, “Well? What is his excuse?”

  “He was ill,” Catherine said ecstatically. “Vilely. Unable to leave his bedchamber. But as you see, this was his first call this morning.”

  Although Serena thought he looked remarkably well for a man so sick less than twenty-four hours ago, she reserved judgment.

  “What do your parents think of him?” she asked curiously.

  “Oh, they like him well enough, but they would not like a match between us.”

  “Why not?”

  Catherine sighed. “Because he is French, and because his family lost everything in the revolution. Neither of which is his fault.”

  Serena was obliged to agree. In fact, she had more than one reason to be grateful for the comte’s presence, since it prevented their hostess from asking questions about her broken engagement and the reason for her exile to Blackhaven.

  Mrs. Winslow had to content herself with observing, “Serena, you just missed Lord Daxton and his new bride.”

  “Yes, so Kate told me. I am eager to meet the new viscountess. I believe I know her cousin, Miss Shelby.”

  Fortunately, conversation then veered onto gossip about the Shelbys, and not long afterward, Serena suggested to Kate that they should get back in time to meet her carriage in Blackhaven. Rather to her surprise, the Comte de Valère left at the same time. Since he had also ridden, he escorted them back to town.

  At last, Serena began to see what had captivated her friend. Away from the elder Winslows’ formality, he proved to be witty and entertaining company, and she was almost sorry when they parted at the stables.

  “Poor Catherine,” Kate said ruefully.

  “Why poor?” Serena asked in surprise. “I think I actually like him.”

  “Hence, poor Catherine. You eclipse her, you know.”

  Stricken, Serena gazed at her. “Surely not! I did not mean—”

  “You did nothing to be ashamed of,” Kate assured her. “As if he can be swayed away from her by you in an hour, then she is better off without him.”

  “Indubitably!”

  *

  Returning to the castle in time for tea with her sisters and Miss Grey, Serena entertained everyone with descriptions of the ball and the supper, and duly admired Alice’s new bonnet before showing them all the red chip hat with the feathers which she’d been unable to stop herself from buying.

  “Yours is much prettier than mine,” Alice said discontentedly.

  “Oh, no, it’s just different,” Serena assured her. “And this one would be quite unsuitable for you until you’re older. In fact, it’s not terribly suitable for me in the present circumstances, so I have no real excuse for buying it.”

  After tea, they took a walk in the grounds, and to distract herself from thoughts of the artist, who kept popping into her head with annoying regularity, Serena focused her mind on the smugglers. It came to her that in order to be sure when the smugglers came back, she needed to hide in the cellar all night.

  This was a somewhat daunting proposition, for as well as being cold and uncomfortable, she doubted she could stay awake all night. And then these smugglers were dangerous men. One had already pursued her with a knife. She really didn’t want to be caught by him in the cellar, with nowhere to run and nobody to protect her.

  But then, problems were only there to be solved. It would be dark and they would not expect anyone to be there. She was sure she could find a secure hiding place from where she could watch and listen and learn who they were and where they were taking their contraband. As for protecting herself… There was a long and heavy cast iron poker by the fire in her chamber. That would have to suffice.

  All she had to do was obtain the cellar key once more.

  When they returned to the castle and the others ran upstairs to change, Serena casually asked Paton for the key.

  “Mrs. Gaskell keeps it now,” he replied, with a sniff. Clearly, he was not happy with this arrangement, but recognized the fault as his for having lost his own key. It was inconvenient for Serena too, since Mrs. Gaskell was more likely to ask questions. Neither, of course, would allow her to spend the night in the cellar.

  So, with only faint twinges of guilt for lying, Serena approached the housekeeper before dinner, clutching an old letter of her brother’s in her hand.

  “Mrs. Gaskell, may I have the cellar key again? I’ve just reread his lordship’s letter and I got the name of the wine completely wrong. Now, I need to go and count the correct bottles.”

  She was aided by the fact that Mrs. Gaskell was in full flood scolding the kitchen maid at the time, and merely handed over the key with a frown of suppressed irritation. Serena hid it in her chamber for later. If Mrs. Gaskell asked for it tonight, she’d promise to bring it to her later. The housekeeper would not harass her in her bedchamber for such a reason…she hoped.

  *

  The landlord of the tavern was not fond of names. But since Tamar had discovered no Sylvester registered at the hotel, he was fairly sure his picture thief was staying at the seedier establishment frequented by sailors and villains of various sorts. Eventually, he received reluctant confirmation from the landlord when he described his suspect.

  “You won’t mind,” Tamar said easily, “if I step upstairs and pay him a visit?”

  “I will mind, because he isn’t here,” the landlord said bluntly. “He went out.”

  Tamar gazed thoughtfully at the landlord. He could go up and reclaim his money, if the thief was stupid enough to leave it unattended in this establishment. Which he doubted.

  “Where did he go?” Tamar asked.

  The landlord shrugged. “Miss Pinkie’s, probably.”

  The brothel? With my money? He rather liked the idea of going round there and thrashing the little bastard while his pants were down.

  On the other hand, “Sylvester” could wait. It was more important that Serena remained safe. So, he left his hair-of-the-dog only half-finished and returned warily to his studio, where he left his satchel and instead, pocketed his father’s old pistol and the tinder box. Then, swiping up a lantern, he went to Jack’s and offered a penny to his son for crawling in the back window and bolting the door from the inside.

  It left the window unlocked, of course, but no grown man could get in that way anyhow. After carefully examining the lock, he’d come to the conclusion it had been simply been picked. It wasn’t so easy to unbolt the door from the other side.

  That
done, he walked swiftly up to the castle, and, avoiding the locked gates, took his usual route into the grounds—under the bottom hedge. The hole was harder to find in the dark and he was forced to light the lantern. He muted the light by covering it with his neck cloth as he drew nearer the castle building, then blowing it out altogether.

  He could only see a couple of faint lights at the front of the house, which looked shut up for the night. He moved round the side to the old courtyard, where the cellar was, and where Serena had seen the smugglers. All appeared quiet there, too, so he walked under the arch and up the sloping grass to the stone wall from where he could look down on the yard. Moving along it, he found shelter from the spitting rain under a crooked tree, where he sat down, his back against the trunk, and prepared to watch and wait.

  Which was a dull way to spend one’s time. He amused himself by planning a painting of the castle by night, with just that faintest of lights at one window. He wondered who slept there—servants, probably, or perhaps the governess.

  Despite his best of intentions, he had almost nodded off when a scraping sound in the yard below made him sit bolt-upright, peering into the darkness. It was wood scraping against stone, and the cellar door was moving open, very slowly.

  Tamar’s skin prickled. Christ, they’d been inside all the time, and now they were coming out. Soundlessly, he pulled himself to his feet and closed his fingers around the cold pistol in his pocket. It wasn’t loaded but he could at least threaten with it if necessary. If he remained hidden, he could watch and follow and discover where they were taking the contraband. Whatever it was.

  A pale hand holding a night candle slowly emerged from the half-open cellar door. It didn’t move and neither did its owner. Above, Tamar stood equally still, poised to act one way or another.

  Candle and hand withdrew, and the door began to close again.

  Tamar scowled. What was going on here? Was someone checking the way was clear, preparatory to removing the barrels? It seemed the likeliest solution, so he waited, straining his ears for sounds of movement. You couldn’t shift a heavy barrel over stone without making some noise, but Tamar heard none.