The Lady in Gray

by Patricia Oliver

  Timmy blinked at her owlishly. “’Appens ’e might,” he said slowly after a while.

  “Will you ask him, Timmy?”

  The lad’s face took on the crafty expression Sylvia had encountered before. Many a shilling had she paid to induce the boy or one of his siblings to sit for her. It was a routine they all understood.

  “A shilling?” Sylvia murmured, pretending disinterest in the transaction.

  “Right-ho.” Timmy leaped to his feet and dashed away towards the copse. At the edge of the trees, he turned.

  “For another sillin’,” he said with the sly grin she knew so well, “I might even persuade ’im to give you the letter.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  A Second Wife

  After spending a good part of the morning in his study with Tom Gates, discussing the cost of rethatching two of the tenants’ cottages, the earl found his thoughts wandering from business to pleasure. He was mildly surprised that his afternoon sittings in Lady Sylvia’s studio had acquired the status of pleasure in his mind, but he put his enthusiasm with that lady’s company down to boredom and the dearth of eligible females in the vicinity.

  His mother was right, he thought, rising from his leather chair and stretching his cramped muscles as the door closed behind the agent, it was high time they started entertaining again. Better that than the exodus to London in October as the dowager had planned. The thought of pulling up roots again so soon after returning home and jauntering off to join the crush of the autumn Season in London made Nicholas shudder. He had everything he needed right here in Cornwall. His mother, his favorite aunt, his best friend, his shipping interests just a short ride over in Falmouth. And he had Lady Sylvia.

  The thought of Lady Sylvia made him smile. He did not yet have her, of course. The lady had proved to be more skittish than a female in her situation should be. But Nicholas did not expect her to hold out much longer. No sensible female could ignore indefinitely the advantages of the arrangement he had in mind. And she would be worth the wait. Nicholas was quite sure of that.

  His smile broadened as he poured himself a glass of brandy at the sideboard and sipped it slowly. Oh, yes indeed, he thought, savoring both the French liquor and the delights that lay ahead of

  him. Lady Sylvia was a prize worth waiting for. A pity she was ... He stopped short in mid-thought, alarmed at the direction of his musings. A mistress was one thing, he reminded himself. He had indulged himself with several over the years. A wife was quite another.

  The prospect of taking a second wife appalled him, Nicholas suddenly realized, his stomach clenching into a knot of anxiety. After Angelica—and it had taken him years to admit the young Beauty had been a mistake, just as his mother had warned him— the fear of committing a similar error of judgment paralyzed him. Perhaps he should leave it in his mother’s hands, as she never tired of suggesting. His gravest mistake had been losing his heart to the French Beauty, a mistake the dowager was unlikely to make.

  The notion made him smile again. He could not imagine his mother growing sentimental over any female, no matter how refined and eligible, destined to take her place as Countess of Longueville. Yes, he thought, suddenly determined not to put off his duty any longer, he would ask his mother to scout out eligible candidates among her friends and acquaintances and invite them to one of the famous Longueville house parties.

  The earl took his half-finished brandy over to the bow window and glanced out at his pristine Park, the pride of generations of Longuevilles. Not a blade of grass out of place; not a bush anything but perfectly trimmed; not a single tree in the long row of ancient limes that bordered the driveway out of line, by so much as a leaf—or so it seemed to the earl’s suddenly critical eye—with its neighbors.

  Then his glance shifted to the sparse flower beds, and his lips twisted into a wry quirk. There they were, in the same stiff row, like soldiers on parade, rigid and lifeless. His mother’s rose-trees; pruned in identical round clusters on spindly stalks. All blood red—the color of the Longueville standard, the dowager claimed when questioned on her lack of variety.

  Unbidden, a picture of the rose-garden at Whitecliffs flashed into his mind. Nicholas saw again the exuberant masses of pink blossoms reaching out their carefree arms in all directions, like tipsy butterflies. And through that world of riotous pink clouds drifted the enchanting presence of The Lady in Gray, a gentle smile on her lips, her hands outstretched in welcome.

  Before Nicholas had made his unwelcome announcement that he intended to wed the daughter of an obscure French emigre eking out a dubious existence in Falmouth, the dowager had routinely invited two or three eligible young ladies with their parents to the Castle during the summer months.

  It was time to renew that tradition.

  Feeling a sudden uplifting of his spirits, the earl tugged the tapestried bell pull. He would enlist his mother’s aid before he lost his nerve.

  “Ask her ladyship if she will spare me a few minutes, Green- ley,” he said when the butler appeared at the door.

  “Very well, my lord,” Greenley responded, disappearing as silently he had come.

  Ten minutes later, Nicholas joined the dowager and his aunt in the Yellow morning room and was relieved at the enthusiastic reception of his plans by both ladies.

  “I am glad to hear you have come to your senses, Nicholas,” the dowager remarked when she had heard him out. “Your aunt and I will start our list of eligible young ladies immediately after nun- cheon.”

  At that moment the morning room door opened and Jason sauntered in.

  “Finished with your dreary accounts, I see,” the captain remarked. “Now do you understand why I prefer to purchase a frigate rather than property in some rural spot isolated from the rest of the world? I do not fancy spending my days tending cattle or tenants. Give me the wide-open sea any day.”

  “You will have to settle down and start your nursery sooner or later, Jason,” Mrs. Hargate chided him gently. “And you may be in luck. Nicholas has just given instructions to resume the house parties that made Longueville so famous. Naturally, those plans will include a bevy of eligible girls that I am sure Nicholas will be willing to share.”

  Nicholas saw his friend glance at him in dismay, one ginger eyebrow raised inquiringly. “I see it will soon be time to take my conges,” the captain drawled, a grimace of amusement on his face.

  “Oh, no, you do not, my lad,” Nicholas cut in with a grin. “I am depending on your support in this ordeal and—”

  “Ordeal?” the dowager broke in sharply. “Since when is it an ordeal to take your pick of the choicest gels on the Marriage Mart, my boy? And believe me, Nicholas, they will be the most eligible candidates in England. Lydia and 1 will make quite sure of that. No more foreigners for this family, thank you.”

  In the awkward silence that followed this unfortunate remark, Nicholas heard his Aunt Lydia clear her throat.

  “I hear the Ashfords have an American heiress staying with them,” she said in her calm voice. “A distant cousin to the duke, I believe. She is reported to be a great Beauty, and very modest. Her father has no title, of course, being the youngest son, but he made a fortune in the railroads, and unless you consider the gel a foreigner, Dorothy—”

  “Colonials are hardly foreigners, Lydia,” the dowager broke in impatiently. “Especially if they are related to the Duke of Ashford.”

  Nicholas shot an amused glance at his friend, and noted that Jason was grinning at the dowager’s incongruous remark.

  ‘They are hardly colonials either,” he drawled. “Particularly since they won the war and have established their own government. But you are right, Mama,” he added, tongue in cheek, “a wealthy heiress from either side of the Atlantic must indubitably be on our list of candidates.”

  “If for no other reason than to give the selection a taste of the exotic,” Jason added mendaciously. “Who knows? I may even take a fancy to the chit myself. Connections on the other side of the ocean might
be good for the shipping business.”

  Before he could add his voice to Jason’s, however, the door opened to admit Greenley, a note on his silver tray, which he presented to the earl.

  A quick glance at the contents of the missive, written in a firm, elegant hand, cast an invisible cloud over his day. Although why Lady Sylvia’s sudden canceling of his afternoon sitting should make the slightest difference to his mood, Nicholas was at a loss to understand.

  “And exactly what do you hope to achieve by this mad notion of yours, Nick?” Jason demanded as the two gentlemen turned their horses towards Whitecliffs several hours later. “It strikes me that Lady Sylvia will view the purchase of that old nag as a deliberate attempt to thwart her creative design for your portrait. I fear she might be more than a little put out by your high-handed ways, old man.”

  “Nonsense!” Nicholas exclaimed, amused at the anticipation of the lady’s wrath falling upon his head. “The lady is quite magnificent when she is angry. Besides, I consider the purchase of old

  Hercules from Dudley a brilliant solution to this addle-pated notion of including the nag in my portrait. Now, if she had suggested adding Arion to the composition, I would not have resisted. Quite the contrary. Arion is as fine a piece of horseflesh as you will find anywhere. A fitting addition to a family portrait.”

  “Will you carry the news of this underhanded ploy to the lady yourself?” Jason wanted to know.

  “Naturally,” Nicholas admitted with a broad smile. “I shall look forward to doing so.” For some reason he could not fathom, the idea of outwitting Lady Sylvia held a certain piquancy that tickled his fancy. Perhaps the lady would realize that the Earl of Longueville was not a man to trifle with.

  When they rode through the gates of Dudley’s farm, the old man greeted them with his usual heartiness. “Goodday t’ye, milord,” he said, motioning to a scruffy youth to take the visitors’ horses. “I trust ye ’ave come to tell me I’m to ’ave a new roof at last. This one”—he gestured towards the ancient sprawling farmhouse— “was put up by the old earl, your grandfather, and ain’t goin’ to last another winter, that’s for sure.

  The earl regarded the old farmer with real affection. He had known Dudley ever since he could remember. “I believe my grandfather would agree it is high time you had a new roof, Dudley,” he said noncommittally. “I shall tell Gates to talk to the thatchers.” He was reluctant to let the old man know that he had already authorized a new roof, at least until that ugly old nag Hercules was safely in his possession. “We are here on another matter.”

  Over a flagon of home-brewed ale served by Dudley’s youngest granddaughter, and after the state of the crops, the price of barley, the weather, and sundry other topics dear to a farmer’s heart had been exhausted, Nicholas made his tenant a generous offer for a horse that would have been better off underground long since. A ridiculously generous offer, he thought, watching Jason’s blue eyes widen in surprise.

  Dudley’s expression remained impassive. Unless, Nicholas thought wryly, that was a flicker of unholy glee that flashed over the old farmer’s weathered countenance and disappeared as rapidly as it had come.

  “Yer lordship wishes to buy ’ercules?” Dudley asked, after a pause that severely taxed the earl’s patience. This time he was sure, from the telltale quaver in Dudley’s voice, that the old man was laughing at him. “Now, what would ye be wantin’ with a fine ’oss like ’ercules, I wonder? Ain’t there enough cattle in the Longueville stables to mount ’alf Wellington’s army?”

  Nicholas kept a tight rein on his temper. He had forgotten, after ten years away from Cornwall, just how irritatingly garrulous country-bred folk could be. He heard the captain stifle a chuckle and gritted his teeth.

  “Perhaps not quite that many,” he replied affably.

  “So yer lordship wishes to add my ’ercules to yer stable, do yer, now?” Dudley repeated, unnecessarily, Nicholas thought. “And a right generous offer ye’re making, to be sure, lad. I’m not sayin’ ye ain’t. Take after yer grandfather, ye do, and no mistake. But ye should know, milord, that old ’ercules ’as left ’is best days behind ’im, same as me. Ain’t goin’ to win ye any more races, ’e ain’t, and that’s a fact. Not that ’e wouldn’t try if ye was to ask ’im. Grand old ’oss ’e is, even if I say so meself, who raised ’im from a colt nearly thirty years ago.” He gazed off into the distance as though remembering his nag’s past victories.

  Nicholas shifted his feet impatiently. The sly old man was deliberately delaying his answer, but he knew better than to hurry a Cornwall man who had his crop still half full.

  “Grand indeed,” the captain remarked, interrupting the silence. “And I can well understand how reluctant you are to part with him, Dudley. But consider the savings. Why not let his lordship pay for the horse’s oats and hay?”

  The old man suddenly grinned, revealing a remarkable number of yellow teeth still firmly rooted in his gums. “Now, that’s sound advice if ever I ’eard any, Captain,” he said with a loud chuckle. “And 1 can just ’ear yer grandfather telling me I’d be balmy not to jump at it, milord,” he added, his sharp eyes fixed on the earl.

  “Then you will take my offer?” Nicholas interrupted, eager to conclude the sale.

  “Well, I don’t know that I can, milord,” Dudley answered slowly. “Not that I’m complaining about yer offer, milord,” he added, a definitely wicked gleam appearing in his eyes. “Right generous it is, to be sure.”

  “So you have told me already, Dudley,” Nicholas interrupted again, his patience seriously frayed. “Now, tell if you will sell me that horse or not.”

  Even before Dudley replied, Nicholas had a premonition that something was wrong.

  “Well, it’s like this, milord,” the old man replied ponderously. “And it’s not as if I wouldn’t sell ye the ’oss if I could. But ’ap- pens that I can’t, if you get my meanin’.”

  “No, I do not get your meaning at all, Dudley. Pray explain it to me.

  “’Appens the ’oss ain’t mine to sell, milord,” the old man replied, looking the earl straight in the eye.

  Nicholas returned the man’s stare, his face stony. “Am I to understand you have sold the horse to another?” he demanded, knowing full well who that other must be.

  “Aye, milord,” Dudley admitted sheepishly. “But ’ad I known that yer lordship—”

  “Who is this mysterious buyer?” Nicholas interrupted brusquely, exasperated at being outsmarted by a presumptuous red-haired female.

  “Oh, it was ’er ladyship,” the old man admitted with a wink. “Lady Sylvia, that is. Insisted on it, she did, milord. What was I to do, I ask ye? Quite set on it, she was, milord. Not a female a man would cross if ’e could ’elp it. Reminds me of that red-haired firebrand Lady Giselda, ’er as used to be mistress up at Whitecliffs when I was a lad. Folks around ’ere still tell stories of her ladyship riding around the moors on that big roan ’oss of hers, hair flying in the wind like some restless spirit from Hell.”

  “Looks to me that you are destined to go down in history astride a bone-setter of the worst sort,” Jason remarked with ill-disguised amusement as they rode back down the lane. “But cheer up, old man. I daresay the lovely Sylvia would sell Hercules to you if she knew how much store you set on that horse.”

  “She is not about to know it,” Nicholas snapped harshly. “And I forbid you to mention a word on the matter, Jason. Is that quite clear?”

  “Very clear indeed, old man. But I should warn you that our Sylvia is not a lass to bamboozle with your high-handed games, Nicky. Heed Dudley’s advice, I say, and do not cross the lady. You are bound to lose, you know.”

  Nicholas grunted something unintelligible, his mind tom between chagrin at being bested by the lady and delight in her ingenuity.

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Lost Letter

  The slant of the sunlight on the stone hut warned Lady Sylvia that the afternoon was half over, but she could not seem to concentrate
on her work. The sketch of the hut had progressed smoothly, taking on the sinister appearance of a gray toad squatting in the shallow indentation in the cliff wall. The stone chimney and slate roof were barely visible at ground level, but from her elevated position on the slope, Sylvia could clearly see the narrow front door facing the rough stairs cut into the rock wall.

  It was the dark figure she had sketched in descending those stone steps that disturbed her. Broad shoulders hunched, as if attempting to conceal his presence, face half turned towards the sea, black hair ruffled by invisible fingers of wind, the man stood poised midway down the narrow stairs. Perhaps he had heard a noise, Sylvia thought. Perhaps he suspected the hut was empty. Or feared that his trip would be fruitless.

  But no, Sylvia thought, as an almost palpable vision flashed through her mind, leaving her chilled and covered with goose bumps.

  The door to the hut was ajar.

  She blinked. That door had been closed in her previous painting of the hut; she was quite sure of it. The dark figure—added later— had been standing on the cliff looking down intently at the hut.

  Today, her imagination had placed the figure halfway down the steps, hurrying to keep an assignation. He must know there was someone in the hut.

  Sylvia glanced down at her canvas, and with a few quick strokes

  of her trembling fingers the door in the painting was suddenly ajar. From there it was but a leap of the imagination to brush in the shadowy figure—a woman’s slim form—standing just inside the door. The ghostly face was indistinguishable in the shadow, but the hair stood out clearly, a pale golden mass hanging loosely about her shoulders.

  Sylvia shuddered at the picture that had emerged from her imagination. Was she allowing it to run wild? she wondered. Or was there—as she firmly believed—more than a modicum of truth to her premonitions.