The Lady in Gray

by Patricia Oliver

  The sun was still high in the cloudless sky when Nicholas dismounted and tossed Anon’s reins to Josh, the youngest stable-lad at the Castle. It had always been a Longueville practice to provide employment for local lads and sons of tenants, and Nicholas was well pleased with this new addition to the staff. Josh was proving to be a cheerful and willing worker, but that afternoon he appeared less talkative than usual.

  The fact that Angelica had deliberately lied to him about her visit to Grenville Hall and her presence on the cliffs had ceased to seem the serious crime it had two days ago. So she had not been where she had said she was, he thought, seeking an excuse to forgive and forget. Perhaps she had made an honest mistake? Perhaps Gates had mistaken the date he had seen the countess on the cliffs? Such mistakes happened all the time. He made them himself. The proper thing to do was to seek her out and break down that odious barrier of silence she had thrown up around herself, shutting him out while she smiled and flirted with every other gentleman guest.

  “I see her ladyship is still out riding,” he said, following Josh into the tack room, where the lad was removing Arion’s saddle. “How long ago did she leave?”

  “About an ’our ago, milord,” Josh replied, keeping his eyes on his task.

  “Did she say where she was going?”

  The lad shook his head vigorously. “No, milord,” he mumbled.

  Josh appeared nervous, and Nicholas hated himself for his sudden suspicion that the lad was hiding something.

  “Then tell me which direction her ladyship took,” he said patiently. “And leave that saddle on, lad. I intend to go out again.”

  After several minutes of stem questioning, Nicholas discovered that his wife had bribed Josh not to reveal her destination. Once his silence was broken, however, the lad spilled everything in a rush of words.

  “ ’er ladyship wished to be alone,” he confided. “She wished to read a new book, she said, and there were too many guests at the Castle. Took a picnic with ’er, she did. Told me not to tell a soul. Tired of company, she was. Or so she said.”

  “And gave you a shilling to keep her little secret, did she, now?”

  The lad’s face brightened. “Aye, milord, ’ow did ye know?”

  Nicholas ignored the impertinence and reached for Arion’s reins. “Which way did her ladyship go, lad?” he demanded as he swung into the saddle.

  ‘To Pirate’s Cove.”

  Just like Angelica to defy him again, Nicholas thought disgustedly as he cantered down the lane and cut across towards Mullion and the stone hut in Pirate’s Cove. His earlier euphoria had dissipated with Josh’s confession of his wife’s whereabouts. This further evidence of Angelica’s perversity disconcerted him. According to his mother, a wife’s first duty was obedience to her husband, a concept that his wife considered antiquated farradiddle, or so she was fond of telling him.

  As Arion crested the hill and began the descent to the cove, Nicholas was relieved to see only his wife’s mare tethered in a cluster of wind-bent pines some yards from the hut. At least she had told Josh the truth; she was alone.

  Nicholas’s mood mellowed slightly. He would surprise her, perhaps even make the apology he had planned. The lie still rankled, but he should not be so harsh with her. She was so French in her ways, so young, so beautiful, so willful, and he loved her as he had never imagined he could love a woman.

  By the time he had tethered Arion beside the mare and descended the rough steps, he felt the tinglings of desire quite as though he were keeping a secret assignation with his beloved.

  Heart beating with anticipation, he reached for the door latch and swung it open.

  The dim interior was cool, and he realized the curtains had been drawn on the single window facing the sea. The light from the open door revealed the cramped little room, walls of bare stone, uneven floor, and tiny hearth built into the south wall. At first he thought the hut was empty, but a newly laid fire smoldered halfheartedly, and then a rustle of movement drew his eyes to a low settee covered with a brightly colored wool rug.

  “What are you doing here, Nicholas?”

  His wife’s voice sounded shrill and breathless. He noticed that her eyes registered shock as he stepped into the room, and she shrank back against the cushions of the old settee.

  Nicholas gazed down at her and marveled once again at the translucent beauty of his wife’s perfect face. He had considered himself the luckiest man in England when Angelica DeJardin had accepted his offer of marriage. He would still be so blessed were beauty the sole criteria for happiness; but Nicholas had soon discovered that such radiant beauty as his wife’s came with a price. Every other gentleman of his acquaintance wanted her, too. And although Nicholas tried not to show it, every flirtatious glance, every tinkling laugh Angelica shared with another, cut straight into his heart.

  And she knew it; Nicholas was sure of it.

  “I seem to recall,” he began mildly, “asking you on numerous occasions not to ride about without the escort of a groom, my dear. Have you forgotten?”

  She shrugged, and Nicholas wondered how he could make his apology if they continued to be at daggers drawn with each other.

  “You are always asking me to do such monstrous silly things, Nicholas, it is not surprising I pay no attention to you.” She spoke petulantly, but her mouth pouted so prettily that Nicholas felt himself stiffen at the thought of kissing it. Perhaps if he tumbled her back among the cushions, they might bridge this misunderstanding, as they had bridged so many others over the brief months of their marriage.

  Before he could act on this notion, the countess waved impatiently, almost as though she had read his intention. “I do trust you have not come all the way down here to chide me for ignoring another of your nonsensical rules, Nicholas. I find it very tiresome, let me tell you.” She gazed up at him from beneath fluttering lashes, and Nicholas felt his senses reel at this unexpected coquettishness. She was a mass of contradictions, this wife of his, and her moods all too often left him feeling gauche and inadequate, as he did now.

  “As a matter of fact,” the countess continued, “Jean-Claude had promised to accompany me today, but he was not back from Falmouth when I left. I assume my brother’s protection would satisfy your unnatural insistence on propriety?”

  “Had he indeed accompanied you, my dear,” Nicholas replied, ignoring this obvious attempt to sidetrack the issue. “But he is not here, so I must assume you are alone, Angelica, and that I cannot like. Ladies do not sneak off to secluded places unless. ..” He paused, unwilling to accuse his wife openly of misconduct.

  “Unless what?” she demanded. “I fail to see how you dare find fault with me in this case, Nicholas,” she added, her voice sharp with annoyance. “I merely wanted a quiet place to read the latest Minerva Press novel that dear George obtained for me last week. It is impossible to find any peace at the Castle. Your mother has made it her business to instruct me on how to entertain house- guests at country estates. As if I had not been entertaining my father’s guests since I left the schoolroom.”

  “It is dangerous to be alone in a place like this, Angelica,” Nicholas pointed out, “and I have expressly forbidden it. Besides, it is your duty as my wife to entertain my guests. It will not be for much longer, my dear,” he added placatingly, “since most of them will be leaving in a week or two. Then we may be comfortable again.”

  “Comfortable?” she cried. “I will be bored beyond bearing, let me tell you. Unless of course, you plan to take me up to London for the winter Season. I simply must have some new gowns,” she added, a wheedling tone creeping into her voice.

  Nicholas hesitated, knowing full well that if he denied her any hope of a stay in London, he might forget about a reconciliation with his wife. Yet he had no intention of taking Angelica to London. He wanted her all to himself here in Cornwall. The two of them together, as he had intended when she made her vows to him earlier that summer.

  As he mulled over his response, he glanced around t
he stark little room, his gaze settling on the rustic table near the sluggish fire. He suddenly noticed the array of delicacies laid out on the plain blue and white tablecloth, and his earlier suspicions returned.

  “Were you expecting someone?” he demanded, gesturing towards the table. “I hardly imagine you intended to eat all that.”

  He was watching his wife intently, but aside from a small quirk of her lovely mouth, Angelica showed no sign of guilt.

  “1 expected Jean-Claude to join me,” she explained glibly, her eyes daring him to challenge her. “My brother mentioned that he might invite Matt to accompany us, and as you know, Matt likes his sweetmeats.”

  The thought of his wife shut up in that intimate setting with two notorious libertines turned Nicholas’s blood cold. He had known for years of his cousin’s addiction to the petticoat company, and reports from his contacts in Falmouth had confirmed his suspicion that Jean-Claude DeJardin was capable of any depravity that concerned money or women. Some old rumors—which Nicholas had dismissed as malicious gossip—even suggesting that the Frenchman’s appetites did not stop short of debauching his own sister.

  “And you have been left to cool your heels, my dear, while your two gallants dally in Falmouth, is that it?” Nicholas decided it was time for a little mockery of his own, and was rewarded with a dark frown. “Perhaps it is a good thing I am here after all.”

  Angelica’s face brightened, and Nicholas could almost hear her mind working furiously. When she smiled and reached for his hand, he knew that he was being given the chance to make that apology he had planned.

  For some odd reason he was no longer certain he wished to make it.

  “You are such a tease, Nicky,” his wife murmured, pulling him down beside her on the sagging settee and offering her lips for his kiss. “But I shall forgive you this time, and if you promise to be good, I shall invite you to join my picnic.” She glanced at the gold timepiece pinned to her riding habit. “It is certainly time for a cup of tea.”

  Brushing away his hands, which attempted to prolong their embrace, Angelica jumped to her feet and pulled open the curtains. Then she went to the open door and looked out with studied casualness, or so it appeared to Nicholas.

  Apparently satisfied, she returned to the table and filled the teapot from a sooty kettle that dangled over the fire.

  “There,” she said with all the enthusiasm of a child playing at housekeeping with her dolls, “everything is ready. As soon as the tea is set, we can enjoy a real tea-party together.” She threw him a dazzling smile, and Nicholas marveled at his wife’s ability to turn the tables on him.

  She was a continual surprise to him, and the next moment she surprised him again by throwing herself into his lap and squirming into a comfortable position. His reaction was instantaneous, but even knowing that he was being deftly manipulated by a woman with something to hide, Nicholas was incapable of resisting the insidious pull of his wife’s invitation.

  Ten minutes later, he regained a modicum of control and raised his head from her open bodice. Now was the time to bring out his apology, he reasoned.

  “My sweet Angelica,” he began, gazing into the mesmerizing blue depths of her eyes. “I really came down here to apo—” He stopped abruptly, one ear cocked towards the door. Had he imagined it, or had that been the sound of footsteps he heard?

  “What is the matter, Nicky?” Angelica murmured against his ear.

  “I thought I heard someone outside.”

  He made a move to rise, but Angelica grasped him more tightly around the neck.

  “Oh, Nicholas,” she cried, “what a tease you are. You are dreaming, love. There is nobody here but you and I.”

  But Nicholas was certain he had heard a noise. Resolutely, he lifted a protesting Angelica from his lap and struggled to his feet.

  “Nicholas!” his wife cried loudly, catching his arm and trying to drag him back to the settee. “What a heartless creature you are.” She laughed hysterically. “There is no one out there, dearest. I swear it. Sit down and I will serve you a cup of tea.”

  With some difficulty Nicholas pried her clutching fingers from his sleeve and strode to the door.

  Even as he flung it open, he knew he was too late. Either by accident or design, his wife had given the intruder time to make his getaway.

  In the distance he clearly heard the sound of racing hooves. They were going in the direction of the Castle.

  Without a backward glance, Nicholas took the stone steps two at a time and ran for his horse. Arion responded gamely, and in record time Nicholas reached the stable-yard and flung himself from the saddle.

  “Josh!” he yelled, wondering why the lad was not there to take his horse. “Josh, where are you?”

  A startled face peered at him from one of the stalls, “’ere, milord,” Josh responded, his toffee-colored mop of hair falling forward over his face. He ran to take the earl’s mount.

  Nicholas strode down the aisle to peer into the stall in which Josh had been working. He could hear an animal panting heavily and saw the sweaty outline of the saddle the lad had recently removed from the chestnut’s back. It was obvious that the rider had been in a tearing hurry and had not stopped to see his horse properly cared for.

  Nicholas stood for several moments, staring at the blown horse. He would have to speak to his cousin about mistreating other people’s cattle.

  For there was no doubt who the abusive rider had been.

  As there was no doubt that his Cousin Matt had been the stranger at the door of the stone hut at Pirate’s Cove.

  Chapter Eighteen

  First Kiss

  Cornwall September 1814

  After a restless night, Sylvia spent the morning up in her studio, putting the finishing touches to the portrait of her aunt and Giovanni in the rose-garden. Still dissatisfied with the results after several aborted attempts to capture the exact shade of pink she sought, she threw down her brush in disgust.

  Her mind was too full of unsettling thoughts to concentrate on her work. Usually when she immersed herself in painting, all else faded into the background, but this morning she tried in vain to find that release from the riotous images that plagued her.

  She glanced up at the two portraits on either side of the chimney. The pirate’s charming smile cheered her, as it always did, and Sylvia felt the captain’s comforting presence in the room with her. She truly missed his easygoing company and wry humor.

  As usual, the captain’s smile stirred memories of her brother, John, and a desperate longing for her twin’s encouragement and practical advice caused her throat to tighten. It had been far too long since they had shared confidences, as they used to do before her disgrace, and her birthday—when John might reasonably be expected to make the long journey into Cornwall—was still weeks away.

  Sylvia brushed at a suspicious dampness on her cheek. She refused to cry. That was for the pampered, naive schoolroom chit she had once been, who believed the world an enchanted place where

  her own personal fairy tale waited for her to step into it and live out her dreams in perfect harmony with the husband of her heart.

  That dream had turned out to be a cruel joke, an illusion that had begun to wither ten years ago at the Blue Duck Inn in Dover, but had finally expired in a painful twist of fate the previous afternoon at Pirate’s Cove. The insidious words My darling Angel, scrawled in Sir Matthew’s careless hand, had killed the last vestiges of romantic foolishness in Sylvia’s heart.

  Her eyes strayed to the portrait on the other side of the hearth, and her heart skipped erratically. The tall, lean gentleman who stood in the shadow of the hedgerow, pistol in hand, eyes challenging, dark cloak flung casually about his broad shoulders, was nothing like her brother. His irregular features, hawklike nose, and sensuous mouth held promises of excitement no pirate could rival. His dark eyes held hers as inexorably as if he stood in the room before her, and Sylvia felt her cheeks grow warm at the immodest thoughts that flooded her mind
.

  Sylvia tore her gaze from the brooding dark eyes of The Highwayman. He might be beyond her reach, but she would carry the scent and touch of him with her for the rest of her life. She was sure of it. That and the warmth of his arms as he held her against him would be all she would permit herself.

  Alarmed at the direction of her thoughts, Sylvia removed the smock she wore over her morning gown and ran downstairs and out into the garden. She made her way up a slope to a small folly that Giovanni had built in the early days of his residence at White- cliffs. She often escaped from the house to sit on one of the marble benches he had placed overlooking the riot of roses growing in wild abandon on the slopes. The rose-bushes had been Sylvia’s contribution to the landscape, and she found the perfume that floated in the air as restful as the hum of the bees raiding the flowers for their nectar.

  An exquisite statue of Aphrodite, her arms holding an urn against her perfect bosom, dominated the vista in front of the folly. Sylvia had always considered it one of Giovanni’s best pieces, and had begged him not to sell it. He had immediately gifted her with the statue, which Sylvia had placed where she could view it from her favorite bench in the folly.

  Today, the perfection of the goddess’s voluptuous body, draped around the hips with a cascading tunic, conjured up images of the Countess of Longueville. Sylvia had never seen a likeness of the earl’s young bride, but she imagined a fairy-like creature of dazzling beauty, petted and pampered by a doting husband until some goddess, envious of such mortal perfection, reached down from Olympus to destroy her.

  Had she lived, Lady Longueville would have been close to Sylvia’s own age; they would have been neighbors, certainly acquaintances, even friends. They might have visited often, shared confidences.

  They would—if that letter revealed what she knew it must— have shared lovers.