The Wicked Marquis

by Mary Lancaster

  “What is he doing with them?” Serena asked, gazing at a rather beautiful picture of Brathwaite Castle at sunset.

  “Selling them. Certainly, he sold one at the local gallery, pretending to be acting for me.” Tamar grimaced. “Negotiated a better price, too, damn him. I expect that’s what is paying to send the other paintings elsewhere by some means or another.” In one movement, he swept a newspaper, two books, and a small pile of indistinguishable clothing off the sofa, then kicked it all forcefully to one side. “Please, sit down,” he invited.

  “That’s outrageous,” Kate observed, sitting gracefully. “Set the watch on him. Mr. Winslow would be happy to organize that for you.”

  “No point, really, I know who it is. I just don’t know what he’s done with them. I need him to lead me to Daxton’s portrait at the very least. It’s meant to be a wedding gift. What is Grant’s message, by the way?”

  “Not in Carlisle,” Kate quoted wryly. “Does that refer to your paintings? My husband does play his cards very close to his chest at times.”

  “I asked him to,” Tamar apologized.

  “Maybe York then,” Kate suggested. “Or London. Though who but Daxton’s family would want a portrait of Dax? I’m fairly sure Willa’s family wouldn’t!”

  “He won’t know it’s anyone as famous—or infamous—as Dax. He probably just thinks it’s a pretty picture he can sell.”

  Serena, after watching her sisters rummage through the paintings piled along the walls with a modicum of care, sat down beside Kate. “Is it?”

  His gaze landed on her face. So did Kate’s.

  She flushed. “I mean, here, you are known and your paintings have come to be valued. And while I know there is some coming and going between Blackhaven and London, I am wondering if your thief will find the pictures as easy to sell there. You say you know who the thief is. Does he have knowledge of the London art world? Acquaintances there?”

  “I would doubt it,” Tamar said thoughtfully, his gaze remaining on her face. “Although one can never tell.”

  She drew in her breath. “Perhaps you should go to London,” she said in a rush.

  His lips twisted. “Perhaps I should. Only then, who would prevent him plundering my studio at his leisure? Even my bailiff would follow me.”

  “You mean the thief is still here in Blackhaven?” Kate asked in surprise.

  “He arrived on the stagecoach and he hasn’t left again. Nor has he hired a horse, so yes, I think he’s still here.”

  “You need to have him arrested,” Serena said with decision. “Then, even if he won’t tell what he’s done with the paintings, at least he won’t take any more.”

  “It would give me a certain amount of satisfaction,” Tamar admitted. “But I find I’m loathe to drag his name through the mud.”

  “Why?”

  He laughed. “Because it’s the same as mine. The thief is my brother.”

  Serena stared at him in horror. Beside her, she was sure Kate’s face bore much the same expression. From nowhere, she remembered the man she’d seen in the gallery who at first glance had looked so much like Tamar. Could that have been his brother? The thief? Surely no one would steal from his own brother! Certainly not one as good-natured as Tamar. Or was he too good-natured? Did this betrayal hurt him?

  “How do you know?” Serena demanded. “How do you know it was your brother? Do you have proof?”

  “He gave his name to Davidson at the gallery. Davidson described him. And the tavern staff know him by the same name.”

  “It could be a trick to deceive you into leaving him alone,” Kate said hopefully. “Perhaps he gave a false name.”

  “Oh, he did. He gave the name of my youngest brother, to send me on a false trail after Sylvester.”

  Serena frowned in bewilderment. “How do you know it isn’t Sylvester?”

  He threw up one impatient hand. “Because Sylvester isn’t that devious. He’d clear the paintings out in one swoop and probably leave me a note. Julian prefers to entertain himself.”

  “But he must know there’s a risk of your discovering him,” Serena objected. “Especially if he’s still staying at the tavern.”

  “Well, there’s the thing. He isn’t. I went to his room and there’s no sign of him. His bed hadn’t been slept in. There are no clothes there and certainly no paintings.

  “Then he must be at the hotel.” Kate said. “There’s nowhere else to stay in Blackhaven.”

  “He isn’t. I doubt he can afford the hotel,” Tamar said impatiently. “Not with the sale of one painting.” He blinked suddenly, then began to laugh. He threw himself on to the stool near the covered easel “What am I saying? He is still here, and I think I know why. Don’t worry. If I’m right, I’ll get all the paintings back.” His eyes refocused on Serena, then shifted to Kate. “Sorry. Now you know more than you ever wanted to about my family. Feel free to cut me at any time.”

  “I think I’ll just have a look at your paintings, first,” Serena said, jumping to her feet. For some reason, his squalid little story had only increased her curiosity in his work. While she wandered around, gazing at the paintings hanging on the cluttered walls, crouching down to examine those propped up on the floor, the girls bombarded him with questions. Who were the people in the portraits or depicted in landscapes? Which ship was that in the harbor, whose was the house? Tamar answered them all with a mixture of honesty and wild, stories that had them in stitches.

  “Why, this is Haven House,” Maria said once. “Is it really so overgrown, now? Is there not a new tenant there?”

  “Yes, but he seems to like it this way,” Tamar said. “It can’t be very comfortable, of course, but I thought it made an interesting painting.” He lowered his voice, contorting his body. “A haunted house.”

  The girls giggled.

  For Serena, the more she looked at his work, the more impressed she became by his talent. It was far more than technical competence, which in itself would have been impressive enough considering his lack of formal training. He had the knack of capturing an atmosphere, complicated expressions, the beauty in everyday objects as well as in people the world regarded as nobodies, even ugly nobodies.

  There was one painting hanging up, of an old woman collecting wood in the forest at the edge of a lake. The loveliness of the lush, local countryside was staggering. In such a piece, Serena would have expected the poor old woman to be part of the background, but she wasn’t. She was the focus of his painting, bent and wrinkled and ragged. And yet, there was charm in her eyes, in the exquisite structure of her bones, in the very character of her face, old in experience, both tragic and happy. He’d seen beneath the ugliness of age to the beauty of her life, her person, and more than that, he’d shown it to whoever looked.

  It made her want to cry, that picture. Tamar was more, far more, than the amiable, careless young man he appeared. His perception, his understanding, staggered her, set her wondering afresh what experience had forged it.

  And somewhere, too, it saddened her. No wonder he rejected her tentative overtures. What was there in her silly, shallow life of privilege, parties, and husband-hunting to capture the genuine interest of such a man? She was well aware she could inspire attention, even lust, although she was not meant to know about such things. She’d had a taste of Tamar’s. But that was not enough to keep him.

  The pain turned her away from the painting, but she hadn’t taken a step before her eyes strayed back to it.

  “My lord, what would you charge for this?” she blurted.

  “Take it,” he said at once. Leaving the girls clustered with Kate over some local scenes, he strolled across to see, presumably, which picture she meant.

  “You’ll never make any money if you give away all your masterpieces,” she said severely.

  He stood behind her, a little to one side, and every nerve tingled with awareness. His warmth, his clean yet earthy scent filled her.

  “You like that one?” he said in surprise.
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  “It makes me sad and happy at once. Who is she?”

  “Her name is Martha. I met her on my way up here, not so far from Blackhaven. Formidable woman.” His breath stirred the hairs on her neck.

  She swallowed. “Will you sell it to me?”

  “Of course.” He reached over her head to take the picture down.

  She wanted to whisk herself under his arm to get away. She longed to stay this way forever, to keep this intimacy, this promise that there could be more between them. His chest brushed against her shoulder, her hair. There seemed to be some difficulty with the hanging wire being caught around the nail in the wall, which caused a delay. Imagining this would be absorbing all his attention, she risked a surreptitious glance at his face… and met his steady gaze.

  Her heart seemed to dive. She couldn’t breathe. The moment stretched. Because she couldn’t help it, she dropped her gaze to his slightly parted lips, became fascinated with every tiny crease in their texture. It would take so little to reach up and touch them with her own, to step back fully against him and feel his arms close around her.

  He moved, freeing the picture from its nail at last, but though he straightened behind her once more, he didn’t step back, merely held the picture out to her.

  Swallowing, she took it. “Thank you.” It came out as a whisper, appalling her. Pride decreed she should hide his effect upon her.

  His lips quirked, but he said nothing. He stepped back at last, giving space to Helen and Kate who had come to see what she’d chosen. Mutely, she held out the painting, to let them see for themselves. She couldn’t trust herself to speak, for the tiny incident had shaken her to her core.

  *

  They left with two paintings, having also taken the one of Braithwaite Castle at sunset as a gift for Gervaise. Although the girls had made a wish list as long as their own arms, they didn’t have the funds to buy, and Serena refused to countenance any presents from the marquis.

  To her surprise, as they took their leave, Tamar slung on his coat to accompany them and carry the roughly wrapped paintings—which was kind, for although the castle one was fairly small and light, the old lady was large and framed.

  They parted from Kate at the harbor, though only after the vicar’s wife had promised the children to think about playing chaperone at the castle so that Tamar could paint their portraits.

  “You don’t need to do such a thing,” Serena assured him as they walked down the steps to the beach. “I’m not even sure Braithwaite will fork out for it.”

  “Oh well, it will be more fun than my mill owner, in any case. I would like to paint them.”

  “I think you want to paint everyone and everything.”

  “Sometimes, I do,” he admitted. “Other times, nothing inspires me. It’s already there, so why paint it? Why make it less than it already is?”

  “I don’t think you ever do that.”

  He glanced at her. “You’re being kind.”

  “No.”

  After the odd moment in his studio and the manner of their previous parting, she thought there might be some awkwardness between them. But his mood seemed to change like quicksilver—from the brooding cynic he’d portrayed when they first arrived at the studio, to the fun, surrogate brother he’d been to the girls, to the intense man who’d stared at her like a lover. And now this carefree friend who told them to take off their shoes and run in the sand, for no one would see them.

  When he sat down on the beach, the pictures balanced on his thighs while he kicked off his boots and stockings, Serena and the girls sat behind him to remove their own. With delicacy, he stood and walked on, waiting until the girls ran up to him. Then, he tapped Helen on the shoulder.

  “Tag!” he said, and darted away at high speed, the pictures still under his arm along with his boots. All the girls ran after him, including Serena, and there ensued a fast and spirited game of tag that took them breathless and laughing, all the way round to Braithwaite Cove.

  “The tide’s coming in,” Maria observed. “You won’t be able to go back along the beach. He can have tea with us at the castle, can’t he, Serena? Since he’ll have to come up with us anyway to get to the road.”

  “Does your cook make chocolate cake every day?” he asked with every appearance of hope.

  “No, sometimes she makes a lemon cake which is almost as good,” Helen said. “And a cherry cake…”

  “Well, you must have made him so hungry by now that he won’t survive without tea,” Serena said lightly. He’d been in the kitchen the other night, after all. He seemed to have a knack of eroding society’s boundaries. But surely, if Miss Grey was home, there was no real harm.

  Chapter Nine

  Tamar knew he shouldn’t go in. Quite aside from whatever trouble she’d get into with her brother and the countess for receiving visitors of his reputation, he knew that he was getting in far too deep. Every moment spent in her company would make the inevitable parting harder, possibly for them both. He could tell himself it was making them familiar and therefore boring to each other, extinguishing this fascination by a hearty dose of the mundane and civilized. But in his heart, he knew he was beguiled by the innocent fun of the family, perhaps because it was something like his own might have been, if only things had been different.

  And he was more than beguiled by Serena. He wanted her, of course. He always had. Her beauty, her wit, and sheer vitality had charmed him from the outset. But he’d never imagined she’d weep for old Martha of the Lakes, as he called the woman of the painting Serena had bought. She makes me sad and happy at once. He’d seen the tears standing in her eyes. She felt what he had. His painting had made her feel it, and he treasured that.

  You’re attributing affinity where there is none, he told himself severely. Because you want it to be there.

  It didn’t matter. He found himself walking into the castle through the front door, following the young ladies past the Friday-faced butler.

  “Thank you, Paton,” Serena said. “We’ll all have tea in the small drawing room. Is Miss Grey back yet?”

  “Just ten minutes ago, my lady.”

  “Ask her to join us, if you please.” Tossing her pelisse over the butler’s waiting arm with a smile that must have endeared her to all her servants, she led the way up the grand staircase to a long gallery, lined with portraits of past earls. At least, he assumed that’s who they were, for he followed her into the drawing room before he’d glimpsed more than a few stern faces.

  A fire had been lit in the grate. To his surprise, Serena knelt on the rug before it and raised her arms to receive the pictures. It was such a natural gesture, he could imagine her holding her arms up like this to ask for his embrace.

  Mentally squashing the vision, he laid the pictures before her on the rug instead and unwrapped them.

  The younger ladies were debating where they should be hung when the governess walked into the room. Called upon, she duly admired the paintings, though she seemed distracted by more than Tamar’s somewhat unconventional presence at tea.

  Since the maids almost immediately brought in tea, newly baked bread and butter, scones and a cake that made the girls’ eyes sparkle, no one questioned Miss Grey until the servants had retired. Serena, from a more traditional position in an arm chair, poured the tea for Alice to take to everyone, while Helen and Maria offered plates of bread and scones.

  From long habit in never being sure where his next meal would come from, Tamar took two slices of bread and a scone.

  “Are you quite well, Miss Grey?” Serena asked. “Did you not have a pleasant walk?”

  “Yes, of course I am,” Miss Grey replied in surprise, “and my walk was most pleasant indeed. For most of the day, I did not see a soul, except a few farmers in the distance. Only then I did encounter a strange man and have been debating with myself ever since whether or not I should tell you.”

  “Why?” Serena asked blankly.

  “Because of our current…problems,” Miss Grey said
with delicacy. “With gunpowder and so on. And I’m very aware Mr. Winslow said to be wary of strangers.”

  “Did he threaten you?” Maria demanded.

  “No, no, not in the slightest. He was merely…grumpy. But he clearly didn’t want anyone on that land, whether it was his own or his employer’s. He sent me the other way. And I wondered if perhaps our villains were hiding up there. Only he didn’t appear terribly villainous.”

  “Where was this?” Serena demanded.

  From Miss Grey’s slightly erratic description of her path, Tamar surmised she’d been near Haven Hall. “What did he look like?” he asked.

  “Tall, with hair as black as yours, sir. And a scar running all the way down his right cheek.”

  “Oh, he sounds most villainous,” Alice enthused.

  “He sounds most like the tenant of Haven Hall,” Tamar said wryly. “I met him walking up there, too.”

  “Then you don’t think he has anything to do with our gunpowder?” Serena asked, as though disappointed.

  Tamar scratched his head. “I would doubt it, though I suppose it isn’t impossible. No one seems to know where he’s come from and he has no obvious connection to the area. He certainly doesn’t mingle with the community.”

  “Perhaps we should call on him,” Serena mused.

  “I will,” Tamar said hastily. “He’d think it dashed odd if a parcel of young ladies and their governess just turned up on his doorstep!” Having finished his scone, he reached for another.

  “Perhaps he means to blow up Haven Hall,” Helen said hopefully.

  “Why would he do that?” Alice scoffed.

  “I don’t know. Why would anyone have gunpowder here? Unless they were soldiers, and we know it doesn’t belong to the 44th.”

  Tamar had his own theory about that, though he chose to keep it to himself. He knew he’d feel much easier when the owners of the powder were safely locked up.

  From somewhere in his childhood, he dredged up enough idea of etiquette not to linger too long at the castle, tempting as it was. After a second cup of tea and a slice of the lightest, tastiest fruit cake he’d ever eaten, he rose and civilly took his leave.