A man sat on one side of the second desk, gazing at them. He was a tall, lean, swarthy individual in a mended coat, with a dirty yellow kerchief tied around his throat. He might have been anywhere between forty and fifty years old. He was almost certainly a gypsy. And beside him stood a burly man who presumably was responsible for keeping him there. Several chairs had been placed around the desk.
“What’s going on, Julius?” his mother demanded. “Why are we here? It’s cold.”
“I beg your pardon, ma’am,” Braithwaite said at once, always so damnably civil. “It won’t take long, but I do feel you should be present, too. Sit here, by the fire. This,” he went on, as everyone sat in the chairs provided, “is Mr. Abraham Smith, a travelling Romany, and a horse dealer to trade. He has a story to tell. About a child taken from the garden of her home. If you please, Abe, repeat what you told us on the way up to the castle.”
Abe looked up, not at the earl but at his new countess. That, too, was ominous. Although there was nothing this fellow could say that could not be denied. If it ever came to a gypsy’s word against a Gardyn’s, there was no doubt which would be believed.
The gypsy said, “Back in the summer of 1799, in June, before the horse fair, someone paid me a lot of money to take a little girl from her home. So I did. I saw her in the garden—”
“Which garden?” Winslow interrupted.
“Garden at Haven Hall,” the gypsy said clearly. “In front of the house.”
Julius had been ready for it. His mother emitted a piteous cry. He patted her hand absently. From her other side, the new countess rose and poured a glass of water, which she gave to his mother.
“Did you snatch her, frighten her?” Winslow demanded.
“No,” the gypsy said. “I asked her if she wanted to see the horses. She said yes, took my hand, happy as you please.”
“And what were you to do with this child?” Braithwaite asked.
The gypsy’s eyes slid away. “Kill her.”
The words echoed around the office, chilling, dreadful. Julius could not move. He stared at the surface of the desk, wishing he could think.
“And did you?” Winslow demanded.
Abe released a long sigh. “No.”
Gardyn lifted his gaze from the desk to the gypsy. He could almost breathe again. There had been no murder. Everything would be well.
The gypsy shifted in his chair. “I couldn’t do it. She were a sweet little maid, so I took her to my wife, who screamed at me all the way to Appleby. She were ill, you see, my wife, not up to caring for another child. So I had a word with another couple I knew who’d recently lost a babe. I gave them this child and some money to care for her.”
Oh dear God, how could he be so stupid? Of course he was not yet clear. He could see where this was going.
“So,” Julius said, fixing the gypsy with a glare, while he snatched something from the desk, anything to keep his anxious hands busy. “You stole my baby cousin from her home and gave her to another gypsy couple to hide her. While her family died of grief. Why is this vile cretin not in chains?”
Winslow said, “Because we need him to identify—”
“Eleanor?” Julius laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant sound and he hadn’t meant it to be. “If she is truly alive still, she is nineteen years old! No one could identify her from the memory of a three-year-old child. Not sixteen years later.”
“That is true,” the young countess said, speaking for the first time. She gazed at Julius without troubling to introduce herself. “Of course, I remember things. I remember the schoolroom at Haven Hall. I remember my mother—my real mother—and my nurse. I remember the castle, and Lord Braithwaite when he was a ten-year-old boy. I even remember you, Cousin Julius. But you are right. None of that is proof of my identity. Even though I remember Abe, too. What was she wearing, Abe? The child you took from Haven Hall?”
Abe shrugged. “Little white dress with pretty flowers.”
“Yellow ones,” Julius’s mother said dreamily. “And blue and red ones. Silly gown to dress a child in when she’s going outside to play in the mud.”
Braithwaite opened a drawer in his desk and took out a parcel wrapped in brown paper. And Julius knew. Involuntarily, his fingers tightened on the object in his hand. It was a letter opener.
Braithwaite threw off the string and spread the paper wide. “That dress?”
Julius felt sick. “Where did you get it?” he managed.
“From the woman I called my sister for sixteen years,” Lady Braithwaite said. “I was wearing it when Abe gave me to her parents.”
So, there was no murder to prove. But she had proven her identity. She was Eleanor. Haven Hall and the modest Gardyn fortune were hers. And he, Julius, was left with nothing. As usual.
Or…
Julius drew in his breath on a sudden laugh. He threw the paper knife back onto the desk and asked the question they all wanted the answer to. In order to bury him. Well, it would not be him they buried.
“Then tell us, Abe,” he said clearly. “Who paid you to steal and murder Eleanor Gardyn?”
“You know,” Abe muttered.
“Is he in this room?” Winslow asked impatiently.
“It weren’t a he at all!” Abe exclaimed.
In the frozen surprise, while everyone stared at him, Julius’ mother acted just as he’d known she would. She threw herself forward, spilling water everywhere. The glass tumbled to the floor as she snatched the letter knife from the desk and threw herself on the new Countess of Braithwaite.
Chapter Nineteen
It all happened so quickly that Gervaise had no time for thought. In one instant, he was sure they finally had Julius for paying Abe to kill Eleanor. The next, a frail old lady flung herself at Dawn, his own wickedly sharp letter knife glinting in the candlelight as she plunged it downward.
Pure fear propelled him. His chair fell over with a crash as he leapt forward and seized the old lady’s frail wrist, hauling her off Dawn like a sack. But there was already blood on the knife he forced from her claw-like fingers before he dropped her.
“Dawn,” he whispered, falling to his knees beside her chair, pushing aside the sable cloak she still wore. If he were to lose her now… His blood ran like ice. Never in his life had he known fear like this.
“Mrs. Gardyn,” she whispered, staring at him. “It was Mrs. Gardyn.”
“Yes, yes.” It didn’t seem remotely important right now, while blood oozed from her shoulder over the provocative lilac gown. “Hodges, send for Dr. Lampton. Now.”
Since it was to hand, he ripped a chunk off her gown to use as a makeshift bandage which he pressed to the wound.
“She stabbed me,” Dawn said in wonder.
“Yes, she did.” Gervaise lifted the bloody rag from her shoulder. The wound was higher up than he’d thought and not as deep.”
“She’ll live,” Abe said, peering over her shoulder. “Be right as rain in a few days.”
Gardyn, meanwhile, had picked his mother off the floor where Gervaise had dropped her, and put her in his own chair. She looked once more the sweet, bewildered old lady.
Gervaise caught his gaze and held it. “You knew she would do that.”
“It was a possibility,” Julius drawled. “You might have noticed she isn’t exactly stable these days. If you ask me, she couldn’t actually handle the guilt of ordering Eleanor’s murder, but she never said a word.”
“But you knew,” Gervaise accused.
Gardyn shrugged. “I began to suspect, particularly in later years as she grew more violent and less guarded.”
“She pushed me down the stairs,” Dawn said in wonder.
“And dropped a washing bowl on your head. I couldn’t stop her in time once she’d seen you. Not that I objected to the principle, you understand, merely the public nature of the act.” His lips twisted. “Isn’t it odd? She was the only one who knew without a doubt that you were Eleanor. Even though she thought she’d killed you.”
>
“That’s why you wanted the hall,” Braithwaite said, suddenly understanding. “Somewhere to keep her quiet and safe. Not to have a country pile in which to entertain your political friends.”
“Well, not while she is still alive,” Julius said dryly. “I couldn’t have her murdering them in their beds, or over dinner, could I?”
Gervaise, still holding the pad to Dawn’s wound, stared up at him. “But you would let her murder my wife here before witnesses? Even give her the means?”
Julius shrugged. “It was a gamble. If she had succeeded, your wife and the person responsible for her abduction would both be dealt with, the culprit a mad old lady. Leaving me free to inherit Haven Hall. And the rest of the estate. I know you won’t understand this, but I really do need the money. Um, do you know your gypsy has walked out the door?”
“I don’t need him to convict you,” Mr. Winslow said grimly. “I have his statement, sworn before witnesses. I have the dress, and, if necessary, the witness statements of Lady Braithwaite’s adopted family.”
“And what about her?” Gardyn said, regarding his mother with a peculiar mixture of affection and revulsion. “Who will look after her if you convict me?”
“I will,” Dawn said unexpectedly.
Gardyn laughed. “In Haven Hall?”
Dawn’s eyebrows flew up. “Oh no. The Benedicts will continue to live in Haven Hall. I expect they’ll buy it from me one day. But trust me, you and your mother will both be…secure.”
Gervaise wanted to laugh and hug her at the same time. She was splendid in every way.
Gardyn’s eyes narrowed as he regarded her. “You are quite ruthless under that sweetness, aren’t you?”
“I understand justice,” Dawn said with dignity. She met Gardyn’s harsh gaze without fear. “And I don’t like you, Cousin Julius. I never did.”
*
“How did this happen?” Dr. Lampton demanded, frowning at the wound in her shoulder.
“A mad woman attacked me,” Dawn replied calmly.
Dr. Lampton shifted his gaze to her face, then up to Gervaise who was pacing anxiously behind her. “She’ll be fine. You may go to your party and I’ll send her down to you if she wishes.”
Gervaise, unused to being dismissed by mere physicians, blinked, then glanced at Dawn to see what she wished. When she smiled soothingly, he shrugged and left the room. He was already dressed for dinner and his mother would need pacifying.
“How did this happen?” Dr. Lampton repeated when the door was closed.
“I just…oh!” Dawn regarded him with shock, and then laughter bubbled up. “You suspect his lordship?”
“Nothing surprises me, but no, not really, though I wouldn’t put it past him to cover for one of his wretched family.”
“Actually, it was one of my wretched family. Mr. Winslow is dealing with the whole matter.
“You know, from my perspective,” Dr. Lampton said, getting out his needle and thread, “Blackhaven is a positive nest of violence and insanity. Congratulations on your marriage.”
Fifteen minutes later, after a few good sips of “medicinal” brandy supplied by Dr. Lampton, and duly laced into her evening gown by Clarry, she sallied forth to the dining room. She felt rather lightheaded which at least kept at bay the dread of entering the dining room late and alone under the rigidly disapproving eyes of Lady Braithwaite.
Although the countess had risen to the occasion when they had first arrived and prevented an incipient scandal, Dawn was not fooled. Lady Braithwaite was furious.
A footman opened the door for her and she sailed in, fixing a smile of apology on her lips.
They were all gathered around the huge table, and inevitably conversation died as Gervaise rose to his feet and came to meet her. To her consternation, all the gentlemen rose. Even worse, so did the dowager.
Gervaise took her hand and placed it on his arm with an encouraging smile, although his eyes were concerned. “All well?” he murmured.
“I think I may be slightly foxed. Dr. Lampton gave me brandy.
A breath of laughter escaped him. “It’s probably a good thing.”
And then Lady Braithwaite inclined her head to her. “Your place, Lady Braithwaite,” she said clearly, indicating the chair she had just vacated.
“Oh dear,” Dawn said, flummoxed by such awkwardness. “Do we need to worry about strict formality tonight? I’m sure we’d all be more comfortable if we stayed as we are. I’ve already held everything up, for which I apologize to everyone.”
And it seemed that by accident it was the right thing to say. Serena smiled warmly at her from across the table and the countess inclined her head before resuming her seat. Miss Farnborough smiled at her, too, though quite without affection. Dawn spared her a moment of pity—which was more, she suspected, than Miss Farnborough would ever have wasted on Dawn.
Gervaise squeezed her hand and escorted her to the vacant place at the table beside his.
Before they got there, Tamar swiped up his wine glass and raised it high in a toast. “The bride! Lady Braithwaite!”
And to her surprise, the toast echoed around the room in genuine, enthusiastic welcome. She clung to her husband’s arm, for she thought she would weep all over again.
*
Finally, when all the guests had left, or retired to their chamber in Miss Farnborough’s case, came the part Dawn dreaded most. Where the countess would scold her and convince her all over again that she was not good enough for Gervaise. Everyone knew that. But if Gervaise had not wanted her, she would not be there. She hung onto that knowledge as silence fell in the room.
“How can you possibly be married?” the dowager demanded. “Did you go to Scotland?”
“No, we married according to Romany rites,” Gervaise admitted, and flung up his hand to ward off his mother’s explosion. “You’re right, it probably isn’t legal, but I’ll get a license and Grant will marry us quietly as soon as may be. Until then, I believe we are still married in the eyes of God. Dawn—Eleanor—is my wife.”
“Yes, she is,” Serena pronounced.
Her mother glared at her. “What do you know about the matter?”
“That you had better give in gracefully,” Serena said frankly, “because if you contest this at all, even privately, it’s you who will be hurt. Any fool can see that.”
“As it is, your quick thinking and generous words when we arrived have averted trouble,” Gervaise added. “For which we are grateful. As to the rest, Dawn is the wife I want, Mother, and the only one I have ever considered. Or ever will consider.”
The countess closed her mouth tightly. “I will vacate my rooms in the morning,” she said stiffly to Dawn. “They are yours now.”
Dawn opened her mouth to deny she wanted to displace her mother-in-law, but Gervaise’s arm nudged her in warning. She swallowed. “Thank you,” she managed. “But there is no rush, of course. I shall share with Gervaise.”
“Share with—” She broke off, fanning herself urgently. “Dear God. My smelling salts, Serena!”
Gervaise’s lips twitched. Tamar and Serena looked as if they might explode into laughter at any moment.
Gervaise rose to his feet. “Talking of which, it has been a hectic couple of days and I believe we will retire.”
Dawn took his offered hand and rose obediently. God knew she was glad to get off so lightly. But before they reached the door, she turned back and addressed the dowager. “My lady? You know how I have been brought up and how ignorant I am about running a house. Might I beg your help, just for a little? Until I find my way and won’t let you down.”
The dowager stared at her, as though suspecting some mockery, and then her shoulders relaxed and her stern face softened just a little. “I shall be happy to help.”
Dawn smiled. “Thank you.”
“How did you know?” Gervaise demanded as they walked upstairs hand-in-hand. “You couldn’t have said anything more guaranteed to win her approval.”
“She’s no different from a thwarted gypsy mother,” Dawn said.
Gervaise let out a shout of laughter. “For God’s sake, don’t tell her that.”
“I’m not stupid,” Dawn said with dignity.
“Far from it,” Gervaise agreed, still grinning. “Come.”
As he led her into his chamber, she had little leisure to look about her. Her eyes fixed to the huge, canopied bed, to which he immediately led her without apology.
“I have always wanted to make love to you here,” he said huskily, taking her into his arms. “To begin with…”
She melted against him, as she always would, though she whispered. “Are you not too tired?”
“No,” he said firmly, reaching for her lips. And he was not.
Mary Lancaster’s Newsletter
If you enjoyed The Wicked Gypsy, and would like to keep up with Mary’s new releases and other book news, please sign up to Mary’s mailing list to receive her occasional Newsletter.
Other Books by Mary Lancaster
VIENNA WALTZ (The Imperial Season, Book 1)
VIENNA WOODS (The Imperial Season, Book 2)
VIENNA DAWN (The Imperial Season, Book 3)
THE WICKED BARON (Blackhaven Brides, Book 1)
THE WICKED LADY (Blackhaven Brides, Book 2)
THE WICKED REBEL (Blackhaven Brides, Book 3)
THE WICKED HUSBAND (Blackhaven Brides, Book 4)
THE WICKED MARQUIS (Blackhaven Brides, Book 5)
THE WICKED GOVERNESS (Blackhaven Brides, Book 6)
THE WICKED SPY (Blackhaven Brides, Book 7)
THE WICKED GYPSY (Blackhaven Brides, Book 8)
REBEL OF ROSS
A PRINCE TO BE FEARED: the love story of Vlad Dracula
AN ENDLESS EXILE
A WORLD TO WIN
About Mary Lancaster
Mary Lancaster’s first love was historical fiction. Her other passions include coffee, chocolate, red wine and black and white films – simultaneously where possible. She hates housework.
Blackhaven Brides (Books 5–8) Page 85
