The Wicked Gypsy (Blackhaven Brides Book 8)

by Mary Lancaster

  Lord Braithwaite, in his shirt sleeves, a morning coat clutched in one hand as if he hadn’t yet had time to struggle into it. He beckoned her urgently. Intrigued, she increased her pace until she came to a halt at the door.

  “What—?” she began before he jerked her inside and all but slammed the door. “My lord?”

  “I thought we were agreed you would not go out alone?” he snapped.

  She lifted her chin. “No, sir. You brought it up. I would never agree to it.”

  He dragged one hand through his hair. “Dawn, for your own safety—”

  “You said yourself there was no danger,” she interrupted. “And even if there were, I am not afraid of Julius Gardyn. He fights with his mouth, and mine is more than capable of holding its own in any battle.”

  “I don’t doubt that, but I won’t risk you.”

  She laughed and reached for the latch. “My lord, I am not yours to risk.”

  His hand closed over her wrist. “Actually, you are,” he said tightly. “You are in my care.”

  She stared up into his implacable face. “You mean it…” she said in disbelief. Panic rose up from her stomach. She wrenched her hand free and backed away from him. “Oh, no. No, you cannot keep me inside. I will suffocate. I can’t stay here!”

  He started after her, his expression both startled and appalled. “Dawn, wait! Of course I would not keep you inside. If you wish to go out, just take someone with you. I will happily come if you give me a moment to put on my boots.”

  Only then did she see that he was in his stocking soles, his hair unbrushed, his jaw unshaven. He must have seen her from his window and dashed down to stop her.

  “And drag you from whatever you wish to do every time I get the urge for fresh air?” she said in disbelief.

  He spread his hands. “If I’m busy, there are footmen—”

  “I cannot live like that,” she exclaimed, turning on her heel. She strode away, through an empty reception room she had never been in before because through the open door at the far end lay the entrance hall and the front door. Her breath came in short pants. “And I won’t,” she gasped. “Not even for you. I would wither—”

  She had more to say, but the painting above the fireplace suddenly caught her attention and she broke off, rooted suddenly to the spot.

  The picture was of a boy, of perhaps eleven or twelve years old. He wore only breeches, white shirt, and a waistcoat, and his dark hair tumbled about his face. She could not tell the age of the painting. She doubted she had ever seen it before and yet…

  And yet, she found herself acting out the memory. She curtseyed to the picture. “My lord.” But her voice was overlaid with another, much more childish.

  Gervaise stood beside her. Although she could not take her eyes off the painting, she knew he was frowning in concern. Or consternation.

  “It’s you,” she whispered. “The room is full of people and someone has brought me to you… It’s my mother!” Tears choked her. Her real mother, with soft, gentle eyes, was the woman who had walked away from her in that other vision at Haven Hall. Here, her mother had led her by the hand to the tall boy who was talking and laughing with other older children. But he had turned to face her with perfect good nature and not minded at all that she was so small. In fact, he had grinned at her in a friendly way and she had liked him. “I had to call you my lord, and you smiled at me, even though you were a big boy and I a tiny girl.”

  His fingers slid against hers and grasped. “You remember,” he said in wonder. “It was a reception my parents held, only a week or so before you vanished. I was supposed to entertain the children… You were a funny, solemn little thing but you still smiled back at me.”

  He turned her slowly to face him, forcing her to drag her gaze away from the portrait at last and fasten instead upon his adult face.

  “I knew we had met before,” she said huskily. “But you do not look like a child anymore.”

  “Neither do you. This portrait was not painted for a year or so after that day, but you still recognized me.”

  “I saw you, not the picture…”

  “You realize what this means?”

  She swallowed. “I remember Julius, too, And the schoolroom at Haven Hall.”

  His arms went around her, drawing her against him. “It isn’t a tragedy, my sweet. You are Eleanor.”

  Clutching his shoulders, she opened her mouth to reply, to try to explain, but he covered it with his and she gasped.

  Matthew, whom she had once allowed the liberty, had never kissed her like this. Even that impudent boy at the fair hadn’t made her bones melt and her toes curl. She knew the bliss of utter surrender, the helpless upsurge of desire, before the truth struck her.

  He’s kissing Eleanor. Not me.

  With a sob, she wrenched herself free and ran from him out into the entrance hall, past the maid polishing the brasses, and out the front door, down the steps and away.

  Chapter Eleven

  Gervaise groaned and clutched his head, castigating himself for an imbecile. It wasted several vital seconds, for by the time he ran after her, the front door slammed shut. Swearing furiously at himself, he ran upstairs to his chamber, where, without waiting for his valet’s help, he pulled on his boots and grabbed his greatcoat from the chair.

  As he ran downstairs once more, swinging the coat around his shoulders, Gertie, the maid polishing the brasses, simply opened the door for him and stood aside.

  At least, thanks to the snow, he could follow her footsteps. They took him to the woods, where her footprints vanished into a muddle of others, including horse and dogs. He walked on, his breath streaming out like smoke in the cold air. He knew she couldn’t have gone far, and that he knew these woods better than she did. On the other hand, she had been brought up with gypsies and was no doubt quite adept at hiding.

  In the end, he simply followed muffled sounds that could have been faint footfalls or piles of disturbed snow dropping from tree branches. And then he saw her walking ahead of him. He lengthened his stride to catch up. He made no effort to hide his approach, but she neither increased her pace nor waited for him.

  Falling into step beside her, he searched her face for signs of distress. After several moments, she cast him a rueful half-smile. “I told you I wanted to go out by myself. Here I am, walking off my ill-temper.”

  “I don’t mean to dictate to you,” he said quietly. “But I need to look after you as well as I can.”

  “I understand,” she replied. “But you are not responsible for me.”

  “There, we must agree to disagree, but yes, we should discuss it like rational beings instead of me simply laying down the law. I’m too used to doing so.”

  “Yes, you are,” she agreed, but at least her eyes were smiling again.

  He took a deep breath. “And I should not have kissed you like that. It was meant to be comforting, in a friendly kind of a way, only with you I’m afraid it will never be that.”

  She looked away, color seeping into her cheeks. “You should not apologize. I should. I have wanted you to kiss me since we first met.”

  Gervaise’s heart turned over. Her honesty moved him, thrilled him in a way he did not quite understand. “Then why did you run away?” he asked softly.

  She didn’t answer for several paces. “You’ll think I’m silly.”

  “Never that.”

  She glanced at him, doubtfully, but it seemed she had decided on honesty. Taking a deep breath, she said, “You kissed Eleanor.”

  “I know who you are.”

  “You never kissed me when I was merely Dawn.”

  He halted, taking her hand to make her stop with him. “Yes, I did. You think I’ve forgotten, but I haven’t. I kissed you the first night I met you. Since the day after, I knew you were Eleanor.”

  “No, you didn’t. You thought I might be, hoped I might be. You didn’t know.”

  He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Dawn, Eleanor, Miss Conway, Cousi
n, they are all you.”

  She stepped closer, raising her face to his. Her brilliant eyes sparkled, her lips glistened. “Then kiss me again,” she said intensely. “Me, as I am, not some lady you wish me to be.”

  Gervaise swallowed. He had told her once before that if he kissed her he would not stop. But for her sake, he would stop. He would.

  “One kiss,” he said hoarsely. “And then I will be good. We will both be good.”

  Her smile was anything but good. Something that wasn’t quite laughter threatened to close up his throat, and then he gave in and sank his lips into hers. She yielded, parting her lips for his invasion. With aching slowness, he took possession of her mouth, her tongue and teeth, tasting, exploring. And when she threw her arms around his neck, tangling her fingers in his hair and kissed him back, arousal exploded.

  He closed his arms around her, sweeping his hand down her back to press her luscious body against him and hold her there. She seemed to melt into him, and then she moved in his arms, caressing him with her whole body, her whole being. No one had ever excited him like this, and certainly not from a mere kiss…

  Sense struggled to break through the sensual fog. He wanted to push her against the thick trunk of the tree behind her and take her there and then. He wanted to flee with her to the castle and take her to bed…

  Instead, very gradually, the effort shaking his entire body, he detached his mouth from hers and loosened his hold without releasing her completely. Her quickened breath mingled with his as he took her face in his hands and let his thumbs trail over the corners of her mouth.

  “You leave me speechless,” he said hoarsely. “And senseless.”

  She held onto his wrists. “I haven’t left you at all.”

  “Not yet.” He smiled and turned his head to kiss the insides of her wrists. “Not yet. And now, we will be good.”

  He released her face and tucked her hand decorously in his arm to walk back to the castle. At least that was his plan. But when she swept up some snow from an overhanging tree branch and formed it into a snowball, regarding him with mischievous intent, he suddenly had far too much energy for staidness.

  As soon as she threw the snowball at his shoulder, he ducked to avoid it and scooped up snow from the ground. Her second snowball hit its target, but as she ran on, laughing, his caught her in the back. He ran after her to follow up the attack, a snowball in each hand. The first one brushed her shoulder as she dodged behind a tree, which she used for cover until he swept around and bombarded her.

  Never one to give in, she fought back, and ran on. He grinned and followed. He couldn’t remember when he had last enjoyed such simple fun.

  A long snowball battle later, they finally arrived back at the castle in time for late breakfast, flushed and laughing as they shook snow from their clothes. His bad leg ached, but he didn’t care.

  Serena, descending the stairs with Caroline, regarded him with a faint smile on her lips and an odd expression in her eyes that he couldn’t quite read. Some of it was amusement. Some of it was concern, though for what he could not fathom. He felt…happy.

  *

  After they had waved the Benedicts off to Haven Hall, Gervaise announced that he was going over to Henrit, if anyone cared to accompany him.

  “I’ll come,” Serena said brightly. “I have some silk I promised to Catherine. Cousin, would you care to visit the Winslows? It’s a pleasant ride.”

  “Mr. Winslow is the local magistrate,” Gervaise told Dawn.

  For an instant, she looked confused, as though she had forgotten the whole subject of her identity and disappearance from Haven Hall. Then she nodded. “Yes, of course. Is it far?”

  “About an hour’s ride there and another back again,” Serena said.

  “Is it possible to go in the carriage?” Dawn asked unexpectedly. “I find I have no energy after the ball. And then defending myself from his lordship’s vicious snowballing!”

  She did not look at Gervaise, but he understood what she was doing. Although he had tried to hide that his leg ached, she must have noticed all the same. He was about to deny it and insist that they ride, but Serena said, “Of course, that’s a much better idea. I’ll order the carriage sent round.”

  He declined to make a fuss. In fact, Dawn possessed a very natural tact, for he found he did not even mind her coddling.

  They set off for Henrit as soon as Gervaise was more properly attired for a morning visit. The Winslows’ estate was one of the more accessible in the area, and although the snow had made the road slower and more difficult than usual, any snow drifts had been cleared away.

  Mrs. Winslow welcomed them with her usual delight. Catherine, her eldest daughter, and Serena had been friends since childhood, so she was used to his sisters running tame around her house. Besides, her good-natured snobbery made her preen at a visit from the earl himself.

  Mr. Winslow was winkled out of his study to take tea with the visitors, which he did very graciously before Gervaise requested a quiet word. At once, Winslow hailed him off to the study and poured him a glass of brandy “to keep out the cold” he insisted with twinkling eyes.

  Gervaise grinned and raised his glass in a silent toast to his host.

  “So, what can I do for your lordship?” Winslow asked genially, waving him to a chair on one side of the fire while he took the other.

  “I was wondering what you remembered about the disappearance of Eleanor Gardyn.”

  Winslow’s bushy eyebrows flew up. “Mainly that we never found her. It still breaks my heart. When I think of my own children, the pain of Robert and Barbara Gardyn—” He broke off. “Such a tragedy. What on earth has brought that into your head?”

  Gervaise took a sip of brandy. “You may have noticed Miss Conway’s coloring.”

  “If I didn’t know better,” Winslow said carefully, “I would say there was Gardyn blood in there.”

  “So would I. In fact, it’s my belief there is. Sir, I have to confess to you that she is not my cousin. That was a ruse to justify her staying with us while I made some inquiries. It’s my belief she is Eleanor Gardyn.”

  Winslow’s brows descended into a frown. “On what evidence?”

  “Her appearance—she could be Theresa Gardyn’s twin—and her age were what drew me first. But she remembers certain things no one else would know, like meeting me at the castle during that reception in May of 1799 and calling me my lord.”

  “That is somewhat scant proof.”

  “I know it would not convince a court of law.”

  “Where did you find her?”

  Gervaise hesitated. “With the gypsies who camped on my land a couple of weeks back.”

  “Dear God, Braithwaite!” Winslow exclaimed in disgust. “There could be any number of reasons for her to possess such coloring! What are you thinking of—”

  “Passing off a gypsy on polite society?” Gervaise finished for him, allowing a hint of steel into his voice which made Winslow bite his lip. “I was thinking of just such prejudice which, even if it were justified, would not apply to her. Hear me out, sir. I spoke to the man who brought her up, who is not her father by blood. He claims he acquired her from another gypsy couple during the Appleby horse fair in June 1799. Moreover, his description of the dress this child was wearing fits almost exactly with the one Miss Muir gave me of what Eleanor wore the day she vanished.”

  “They could have heard that somewhere and remembered it,” Winslow pointed out.

  “I know. But put with the rest, it surely means something.”

  Winslow drank his brandy in a distracted kind of way. “What does she say? Does she claim to be Eleanor Gardyn?”

  Gervaise shook his head. “I think as she is more distressed about it than anything else. At first, she denied it utterly. She herself brought up the possibility of her being a Gardyn by-blow.”

  “Julius was a bit of a loose screw in his youth,” Winslow recalled.

  “He was. I haven’t spoken to him on the subjec
t, and at least until I do, it remains possible that he is her father.”

  “But you don’t believe that.”

  “No, I don’t,” Gervaise said flatly.

  “And your interest in this case has nothing to do with your ongoing feud with Gardyn? Or the fact that he is currently seeking to have Eleanor declared dead and claim her inheritance?”

  Gervaise drained his glass. “It did when I first saw her. I was drunk and angry and thought I had found in her a way to annoy him. But when I saw the portrait of Theresa Gardyn side by side with her, when I learned more about her and what she feels and remembers, I am as sure as I can be about anything. The only trouble is, as you say, I lack evidence. Is there anything at all to tie Eleanor’s disappearance to gypsies? And if so, do you have any names?”

  Winslow stared at him for a moment, then set down his glass, stood, and walked to the shelves behind his desk. He took down a fat file as if he always knew where it was. And laid it on the desk. “Come and search with me. Two pairs of eyes are better than one.”

  *

  Dawn knew Gervaise was discussing her with Mr. Winslow. She wondered what he would learn, and whether what he told Mr. Winslow would change the magistrate’s attitude toward her. Those who did know her history—the Braithwaites and Tamars, the Benedicts and even the Grants—had shown her nothing but kindness and acceptance. But the Winslows were not Gervaise’s particular friends. They would not necessarily believe him, let alone do what he asked.

  Dawn wasn’t sure she believed. Things she knew, things she remembered, could only have come from Eleanor’s memories. But that was almost like hearing about someone else’s life. She did not feel like Eleanor. She felt like Dawn. And she wanted to be whichever of them Gervaise had kissed. Because that kiss was the most soul-shattering, wonderful thing that had ever happened to her.

  Well, she could neither influence nor overhear the conversation in Mr. Winslow’s study, so she decided to make her own inquiries. When Serena and Miss Winslow moved to the table, comparing ribbons of silk with scraps of other fabric, Dawn remarked how much she had enjoyed last night’s ball.