The Wicked Gypsy (Blackhaven Brides Book 8)

by Mary Lancaster

  He scowled. “Why do you want to go there?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “Try.”

  She drew in her breath, dropping her gaze as though embarrassed, and then she flung up her head and looked into his eyes. “I feel things,” she said abruptly. “Through touch. I know the science behind palm readings, for I was taught it, but I gain most of my insights through touch. I don’t tell all I see. I couldn’t.”

  He gazed back until a faint, rueful smile curved her lips. “There. I told you, you would not believe me.”

  “Yes, you did,” he allowed.

  She pushed her long, tangled hair aside and he said impulsively. “I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll take you to Haven Hall, and if Mrs. Benedict allows, you may touch whatever you like. And then I’ll take you back to your family.”

  She hesitated. “I’ll go back if you still want me to,” she said.

  And since he couldn’t imagine her condition changing anything, he agreed with relief.

  Smuggling her out of the house turned out to be fun. Since Serena and Tamar had their private rooms in the old part of the castle, and his younger sisters normally had lessons at this time of day, he imagined they would only have servants to dodge. And as they made their way past his mother’s apartments, laughter from beyond the open door betrayed the presence of maids cleaning and making up the room ready for whenever the dowager countess returned. Gervaise and Dawn crept past soundlessly, only to make a dash for it as a voice approached the door.

  Rounding the corner, trying not to laugh, Gervaise caught sight of another maid approaching, the clean linen in her arms piled so high that she could barely see over it.

  Hastily, Gervase opened the nearest door and unceremoniously shoved Dawn inside before strolling onward.

  The maid observed him at last and tried to bob a curtsey without dropping her burden.

  “Don’t,” he begged. “It will be disastrous. We’ll just pretend we don’t see each other.”

  The maid giggled and carried on around the corner. Gervaise hurried back to release Dawn, who was already emerging.

  “Goodness,” she whispered, clearly awed as she glanced back over her shoulder. “You have a whole room full of pretty bowls and jugs.”

  “It’s just a cupboard,” he said, before he remembered that the whole cottage he’d allowed her family to sleep in for a couple of nights, was probably about the same size.

  Gervaise had also forgotten that his sisters currently had no governess. Heading for the back staircase which was normally deserted, he physically ran into Helen, the youngest, who, fortunately blindfolded, was searching for Alice and Maria.

  “Gervaise?” Helen said, when he steadied her, while Dawn stood frozen by his side.

  “Who else would I be?” Gervaise said easily.

  “Well, John the footman is just as tall,” Helen observed. “Although his coat feels quite different.”

  “I wish I didn’t know that you went around feeling the footmen’s coats.”

  Helen laughed. “Well, I don’t often,” she said, by way of comfort. She lowered her voice. “Did Maria run this way, because—”

  “No one did,” Gervaise said at once. He guided her by the shoulder in front of him until a rush of dresses reached his keen ears from the direction of the long gallery. He turned her in that direction. “Go. And for God’s sake, don’t go as far as the staircase!”

  “As if I would be so stupid,” she said indignantly.

  “As if,” he agreed. “Good hunting.” With that, he seized Dawn by the hand and opened the door onto the back staircase.

  However, before he could congratulate himself on a lucky escape, he heard the plodding footsteps of someone coming. He dared not go back to the passage in case he encountered the girls in their game. Upward seemed the only solution. He just hoped whoever this was wouldn’t follow.

  However, before he could drag Dawn up with him, she pulled her hand free and leapt behind him, using his body as a shield. A footman carrying a tray rounded the spiral stairs and halted in dismay at sight of him. It was, in fact, John, the one Helen had mentioned moments ago.

  “Sorry, my lord,” John mumbled with a jerky bow. “Just taking a short cut. Don’t usually see anyone on these stairs.”

  “Go on,” Gervaise instructed, and turned with the footman’s progress to hide Dawn. John looked thoroughly alarmed since it must have seemed Gervase was watching his every move as he mounted the stairs and vanished through the door to the passage they had just left.

  “For such a large house, it’s not easy to be alone here, is it?” Dawn remarked.

  “No,” Gervase agreed with feeling. “Come on, you’re nearly free.”

  At the foot of the spiral staircase, he unbolted the side door, opened it, and looked out onto the damp garden. There was no one around.

  He jerked his head, and Dawn brushed past him. She ran off without a backward glance. Gervaise, expecting a flood of relief, felt instead a twinge of unease, something almost like disappointment, because their own little game was over.

  Chapter Four

  Dawn made her way around the outside of the castle toward the road Lord Braithwaite had told her led to Haven Hall. She did not care if she was seen. Instead, her head was full of the unexpected fun of their clandestine exit, and the glimpse she’d had of the earl’s easy relationship with his servants and his little sister. It contrasted rather endearingly with the cynical, brooding gentleman she had met last night, and the responsible lord who had found her asleep on the floor this morning.

  So lost was she in her own pleasant thoughts that she didn’t see her father until he was almost upon her, flanked by her brother Jeremiah and Matthew, whom she had refused to marry.

  “Dawn,” her father said, dragging her off the road and into the trees. The others crowded after.

  “What do you want?” Dawn demanded, shaking Ezra off.

  “What have you got?” Ezra retorted. “You look empty-handed to me.”

  Dawn stared at him. Deliberately, she raised her hands, palm upwards.

  Ezra scowled.

  Jeremiah sneered, “Didn’t you get that you were to make the most of your night of luxury?”

  Ignoring him, Dawn said to her father, “You sold me to him so I could steal for you?”

  “I didn’t sell you, I lent you,” Ezra disputed. “And there’s no need to get on your high horse. His lordship is an open book. I knew he wouldn’t touch you.”

  Deliberately, Dawn smiled at him. “Did you?”

  Ezra’s eyes widened momentarily, but it was Matthew who grasped her arm. “Did that—?”

  “Let go of me!” Dawn exclaimed, yanking herself free. “None of you has any right to know, let alone complain. And you’d better vanish, for he’s right behind me and he knows I’m not pleased with you.”

  “She’s teasing us,” Ezra said in relief. “Provoking us. Don’t rise to it. Very well, my girl, you’ve had your fun and made your point. Have another day of luxury. Bring us something beautiful at sunset and we’ll be off.”

  “Someone is coming!” Jeremiah hissed. “On horseback!”

  Approaching hooves could be heard quite clearly, cantering along the forest track.

  “Told you,” Dawn said serenely and brushed past them on to the track.

  In truth, she had no idea whether or not the rider was Lord Braithwaite or not. He had said only that he would catch up with her on the road to Haven Hall. He hadn’t specified his means. But her heart lifted unaccountably as she recognized the straight figure on the big, grey stallion.

  Being unaware of her family’s skulking presence in the trees, he grinned spontaneously when he saw her. Slowing only a little, he bent from the waist, stretching down one inviting hand. She grasped it and jumped, and he swung her up in front of him. An instant later, he lifted himself behind the saddle and settled her comfortably between his confining arms.

  He kicked the horse to a ga
llop, and she laughed aloud, clinging to the horse’s mane as they sped toward the road. Such physical closeness to a man she barely knew was an exciting novelty to her. That the man was a “foreign” lord who had kissed her so sweetly last night—even if he couldn’t remember it—added an extra thrill. In truth, she liked Lord Braithwaite, the way he talked to her, the way he smiled, his humor, his looks, his feel…

  The visions she had glimpsed so briefly when she touched his bare hand last night rushed into her mind once more. A tangle of naked limbs, an overwhelming sense of closeness and shattering pleasure… The images had flashed by so quickly, yet so intensely, it had crossed her mind that she was his lover. The possibility thrilled her all over again, adding to the peculiar happiness of riding with him like this. The warmth of his strong body seeped into her back. The dreams could come true. This amazing man, this stranger, could be her lover. Lord Braithwaite…Gervaise, his little sister had called him.

  But her euphoria did not last long. How could she rob a man who made her so happy? One, moreover, who had shown her nothing but kindness. Now that her anger was spent, and her father had explained his actions to some degree, it didn’t really enter her head to disobey him—although she was content enough to punish him a little.

  “You are quiet,” Lord Braithwaite—Gervaise—said at last. “Is something bothering you.”

  Dawn pulled herself together. “I was wondering how you plan to introduce me to Mrs.…Benedict, is it? At Haven Hall. I can’t imagine she’ll want me in her drawing room drinking tea.”

  He only shrugged. “She is a lady of superior understanding,” he said.

  “I’m not certain she’ll understand your bringing your gypsy peculiar to call upon her.”

  A breath of laughter escaped him, stirring her hair. “Peculiar? Where did you learn a term like that?”

  “Where do you think?” she retorted. “I’m not one of your sheltered little misses, am I?”

  “Well, I’m sure Mrs. Benedict will see at once that you are sheltered enough not to be my peculiar!”

  “Who is your peculiar, then?” she asked, just because she wanted to know. And then she blushed, for in any company, it was improper not to say scandalous question.

  His lordship, however, merely regarded her with amusement. “What makes you think I have a mistress?”

  “You’re handsome and rich,” she said cynically. “And so far as I can tell, you are not married. You have no reason not to have one.”

  He continued to regard her with tolerant amusement, until she got a crick in her neck.

  She faced forward again. “Well, whoever she is, you should give her up.”

  Braithwaite blinked. “I should?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Why?”

  “Because she is clearly not satisfactory. If she were, you would not have looked at me as you did last night. Nor kissed me. She is not for you.”

  Behind her, he had gone very still, and it struck her with a little frisson of fear that she had gone too far. She felt his burning gaze on the top of her head, but she doubted it was the heat of desire this time.

  “You think me disloyal,” he said, surprising her. “But I assure you, the lady and I have a perfect understanding.”

  It was the first time he had admitted the lady’s existence, but Dawn spared no time to crow over her victory.

  “If you cannot be faithful, you should not be with her.”

  “You are very keen on loyalty and faithfulness,” he observed.

  “I am,” she agreed. “And that is why I would not marry Matthew.”

  “He would not be faithful?” Braithwaite guessed.

  “I would not be faithful,” Dawn corrected. “I do not love him enough. Or at all really.”

  Something touched the top of her head. She thought it might have been his cheek. “You are delightful,” he said with a slightly shaky voice. He was laughing at her, but she didn’t mind. It was the right kind of laughter.

  In the end, the problem of being conducted to Mrs. Benedict’s drawing room was solved by the fact that they met her on the terrace, where she was walking toward the front door with a basket over her arm.

  She turned at the sound of the trotting horse, and Dawn saw that she was rather younger than she had expected, in her twenties, perhaps, and beautiful. Dawn hoped uneasily that this was not the lady with whom his lordship had a perfect understanding.

  “My lord!” The lady greeted him with a smile, changing directions to come to meet them. “What a pleasant surprise. I hope all is well at the castle?”

  “Of course,” Lord Braithwaite replied with a hint of humor. “Do you think we only call on you when we are in trouble?”

  “I hope you would all call more often than that!” Mrs. Benedict’s calm eyes focused on Dawn as she spoke. They betrayed no outrage, merely a mild interest. “And whom have you brought with you?”

  “This is a new friend of mine, Miss Boswell. Dawn, this is Mrs. Benedict.” He dismounted as he spoke, and Dawn jumped to the ground before he could help her.

  “How do you do?” Mrs. Benedict said in friendly enough tones, although there was inevitable curiosity in her expression.

  Dawn nodded curtly in reply. She tried to dip a curtsey, but she wasn’t sure it worked.

  “Did you come to see Javan?” Mrs. Benedict asked. “I’m afraid he’s taken Rosa into Blackhaven.”

  “Not in particular,” Lord Braithwaite said. “To be frank, I wanted you to show us the old Gardyn portraits.”

  Although this wasn’t quite what he had agreed to with Dawn, it would at least get them into the house.

  “Really?” Walking beside them to the front door, Mrs. Benedict looked intrigued. “What can you want with those?”

  Quite casually, Braithwaite tugged the hood of Dawn’s cloak part way down and Mrs. Benedict’s eyes widened.

  “What beautiful hair,” she said faintly. She opened the door and went in.

  Braithwaite stood back, ushering Dawn before him. Her heart began to beat faster as she reluctantly stepped over the threshold. A shiver shook her whole body. She gazed around her, at the paneled entrance hall and the staircase leading to the upper floors. The house was not massive like Braithwaite Castle, but something about it moved her. And although it was what she had come for, she was afraid to touch the door, the walls.

  Instead, she held herself rigid to prevent the visions touching her. “I don’t wish to embarrass you,” she said gruffly to Mrs. Benedict. “I’m a Romany, and I know you don’t want me in your house.”

  “I know no such thing,” Mrs. Benedict said at once. “Like everyone else, you are welcome unless you prove otherwise. The Gardyns’ pictures are all up in the attic now. If you like, I’ll take you up? Marion,” she added to the maid who had appeared. “Bring tea and scones up to the attic, if you please.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the maid replied as though there was nothing odd in this request.

  Dawn followed the lady of the house up two flights of stairs and then along a winding passage to a door and another, narrower, steeper set of stairs to a crowded attic in the roof space.

  “Any further word from Julius Gardyn?” Lord Braithwaite asked.

  Mrs. Benedict sighed. “He wrote that he will be in Blackhaven at the end of the month to make arrangements. In other words, to evict us. Javan still hopes to change his mind, for we have come to look on Haven Hall as our home. I shall be sorry to leave.”

  “I wish I could help,” Braithwaite said ruefully. “But as things stand between him and me, my interference could only hurt your cause with him.”

  “I know. Perhaps Javan can glower at him.”

  “He does have a spectacular glower,” Braithwaite allowed.

  Mrs. Braithwaite walked into the attic. It wasn’t dark, daylight flooded in through two skylights and a row of tiny windows. “We don’t come up here much,” she apologized, pausing as if to remember something. “These are largely the Gardyns’ things that
were either put away before Javan took the house, or by us because we didn’t like them. We did remove an old portrait from the study last week, though—it was covered by a bookcase!—and put it up here with the other paintings, so I should know… Ah, here they are.”

  Mrs. Benedict bent and drew a Holland cover off a stack of large, framed pictures. They stood in two rows. A man from one and a woman from the other glared at Dawn as though for her temerity in encroaching on their domain.

  With a slightly crooked smile, she knelt to examine them.

  “That’s the old fellow we took out of the study,” Mrs. Benedict said.

  “Don’t blame yourself,” Lord Braithwaite replied, crouching down beside Dawn. “Guaranteed to make you feel guilty about something. Besides, he’s wearing a wig, so we can’t see his hair.” He reached over and removed the “old fellow” to a third stack, revealing the head and shoulders of a much younger and slightly more modern man. His hair was long and tied behind his head and he wore the distant expression of a dreamer.

  Without quite intending to, Dawn reached out and touched the frame, and then the painting itself. A shiver ran up her arm.

  “Robert Gardyn,” Lord Braithwaite said. “As a young man. Before his marriage, I would think. Look at his hair.”

  The hair was clearly the reason he had noticed Dawn in the first place. More than fair, it shone around his face, a reddish blond of a very similar color to her own. Her heart ached for the tragedy of his life, but his portrait had nothing to do with his lost child or his early death. She felt none of that, just some unworldly, almost fey quality. Which was probably more imagination than anything else.

  “Mrs. Barbara Gardyn,” Mrs. Benedict read from the plate beneath the other painting. “Was this his wife?”

  “Yes,” Lord Braithwaite replied. He reached across Dawn at the same time as she touched the portrait of the lost child’s mother.

  Their hands brushed together and her breath caught. She was not concentrating on him so there were no visions or foreknowledge thrown at her. Only an electric, very physical awareness. Because he had looked at her so last night? Other men had looked at her with desire, inspiring little more than indifference or even disgust in her.