The Wicked Gypsy (Blackhaven Brides Book 8)

by Mary Lancaster

  “I can’t believe I let that happen to you,” he whispered into her hair.

  “You didn’t. You caught me. And in truth, nothing so very terrible could have happened in any case. There were far too many people on the staircase for me to fall very far.”

  He pulled back a little and gazed down into her face. “What happened? Did you really lose your footing or did you faint?”

  “I don’t faint,” she said scornfully. Then she admitted. “Though I did feel a trifle dizzy.” She took a deep breath. “Still, I would not have fallen if someone hadn’t pushed me.”

  He closed his eyes, as though the idea had already come to him and the confirmation was almost unbearable. His arms tightened convulsively. “Who would do such a thing?”

  “Oh, you never know what people are capable of if the circumstances are right. The question is rather, who could have done such a thing. And believe me, I have been awake most of the night trying to remember who was around me and work out who could have been in the right position.”

  He stared down at her, admiration mixed with the fear she read in his eyes. “And do you know?”

  “I have narrowed it down to five possibilities,” she said, aiming for a business-like detachment. “It could have been an accident. Someone could have been gesticulating or turned to speak to someone behind him and not noticed he pushed me.”

  “Go on.”

  “Or a complete stranger did it deliberately, just for devilment or because he or she did not like the style of my hair.”

  “Unlikely.”

  “I agree. Then the other possibilities are Serena, who was right beside me and Gardyn who was behind me. I don’t believe,” she added before he could, “that it was Serena.”

  “Neither do I,” he said grimly. “To be honest, I find it hard to believe even of Gardyn, though he was close enough behind you. But that is only four possibilities. Who is the fifth?”

  She dropped her gaze, unsure she wanted to see his reaction, then raised it again with conscious courage. “Miss Farnborough.”

  He blinked. A frown of half-amused disbelief formed on his brow. “She can barely carry herself down a flight of stairs. I seriously doubt she has the strength—or even the strength of character!—necessary to push anyone anywhere.”

  Torn between relief at his attitude and frustration with such masculine foolishness, she said dryly, “She may look frail and delicate, but she has a will of iron and a very clear idea of what she wants.”

  His brow twitched. “To be Countess of Braithwaite…”

  “Exactly. She does not know I’m a gypsy. And if glaring could kill, I would have been dead in the theatre several times over. She does not care for your attentions to me, especially when she was so sure she was winning you.”

  He blinked, looking startled. “No, she wasn’t.”

  “People mistake your civility,” Dawn said flatly. “They do not always realize, just at first, that you, too, have a will of iron. She does not understand you any more than you understand her.”

  His eyes lost focus for a couple of moments as he sank into thought. Interestingly, he did not dismiss what she said. “We were in front of you,” he said at last. “It could not have been her.”

  “Are you sure? You fell back, closer to Serena and me, and then I looked behind me and saw the Gardyns. As I turned back, I’m sure you were only one step below me. She could have reached behind me, unseen.”

  “Then so could I.”

  “No. You were on her other side, too far away.”

  His lips parted. “My God, you actually considered it.”

  She dragged her gaze free. “Oh, I’ve considered everything, believe me.”

  But instead of being offended, he stroked her hair and pressed his lips to the top of her head. “My poor, sweet, brave girl.”

  Now, at last, the tears threatened. “I’m not,” she said shakily. “But if it makes you feel better, I think it’s unlikely to have been Miss Farnborough. From her position, I doubt she would have got the strength behind the push I felt. It’s still possible, but I think…I think it was Gardyn.”

  “Christ, I am so sorry—”

  “For what?” she interrupted. “I have already exonerated you.”

  “For putting you in this position. I thought you would be safe as long as I or someone I trusted was with you. Instead, I’ve thrust you into the lion’s den and wandered off.”

  She couldn’t help laughing at such an image. “Hardly!”

  His eyes softened. “You are wonderful, you know. And I shall keep you safe.”

  She tilted her head in deliberate provocation, bringing her lips within an inch of his. “And how will you do that, my lord? By keeping me close?”

  His lips curved, and she brushed hers against them, feather-light, rejoicing in their instant response.

  “I think I need to send you out of Gardyn’s orbit. And Miss Farnborough’s.”

  “I won’t go.”

  “You are forgetting my will of iron,” he said flippantly, and softly kissed the corner of her mouth.

  Butterflies soared in her stomach. “And you are forgetting mine.”

  “You have one, too?”

  “Of course, I do.”

  “Prove it.” His mouth fastened on hers and she melted instantly, opening for his invasion. With fervent lips and tongue, she kissed him back, exulting in his passion. His heart galloped under her palm, and when he finally broke the kiss, his voice was unsteady. “Bending you to my will could become a favorite pastime.”

  “Except that this is my will.”

  He smiled as he kissed her again. Their arms were around each other inside her cloak and his great coat, and his hardness pressed into her, thrilling her.

  “How wonderful that we want the same things,” he murmured against her lips and sank in for another kiss.

  Eventually, with obvious reluctance, he loosened his hold. “We should think seriously about your going away until this is finished, one way or another.”

  She opened her mouth but he covered it at once with his finger.

  “In the meantime, you must take no risks.”

  “I won’t,” she promised and lightly bit his finger. His breath hissed. “But I refuse to cower in fear either.”

  “There would be no need for you to cower if you were away from Gardyn. It would only be for a little, until we have proven your identity, and then he would not dare hurt you.” He took her face between his hands. “Serena is talking about going to Frances in Scotland. You should think about going with her.”

  She blinked. “I would sooner go back to my own people.”

  A spurt of irritation crossed his face. Perhaps he did not want her to think of Ezra’s family as hers, but the fact remained, they were the only family she could clearly recall. This life at Braithwaite Castle, was still the masquerade.

  She prepared for battle, but after a moment, his frown vanished.

  “This ‘will of iron’ business is most inconvenient,” he observed, threading her arm through his and preparing to walk decorously along the path.

  “Yours or mine?” she teased.

  “Both.”

  *

  At Serena’s request, Dawn did not accompany the children to Haven Hall that day. Shortly after she had returned from her walk with Gervaise, full of both delight and comfort, she opened her bedchamber door to discover Serena in the passage, looking pale and drawn.

  Brushing past her, Serena held her hand to her mouth until Dawn closed the door and turned to her in alarm.

  “I have sent for Dr. Lampton,” Serena said in a rush, “to examine you after your fall last night.”

  “But there is no need,” Dawn assured her. “I’m perfectly well.”

  “Perhaps,” Serena said ruefully, “but I am not, and I don’t want Tamar to hear anything about it until after I have seen the doctor. He will be shown to your bedchamber when he arrives, and then he may see us both without anyone knowing.”

&nb
sp; Anyone, presumably, meaning her husband and her mother.

  Dawn could not refuse her. Instead, she persuaded Serena to join her at breakfast and eat a little toast. The younger girls were philosophical about going alone to Mrs. Benedict, and since there was no one else in the breakfast room, no explanations were required.

  Dr. Lampton came promptly after breakfast. He proved to be younger than Dawn had expected and would have been handsome except for the permanent frown on his face, and a sardonic expression that implied he didn’t care for his time being wasted. However, he spoke with perfect civility to Serena, and accepted her introduction to Dawn.

  “Miss Conway fell downstairs at the theatre last night,” Serena said. “I would like you to examine her and make sure there is no injury.”

  “There isn’t,” Dawn said bluntly. “Lord Braithwaite caught me before I hit the ground. I have nothing worse than a bruise on my ankle where it knocked against the step.”

  “May I see?” Dr. Lampton said patiently.

  To get it over with, Dawn sat and peeled off her stocking without fuss. Crouching in front of her, Dr. Lampton took her foot in his hands, examined the bruising, and turned her ankle in all directions.

  “Do you have any other aches or bruises?” he asked.

  She shook her head. It struck her that one would not hide symptoms from this man just for fear of his treatment. “To be honest, Doctor, I am not remotely concerned for myself. It is really Lady Serena who needs you.”

  *

  Lady Braithwaite came to a decision that morning. Having spent some time in the company of the girl claiming to be Eleanor Gardyn, and discovering her to be neither encroaching nor ill-mannered, she came to the conclusion that it was time they had a private talk. Although the girl did not exactly flirt with Gervaise, his attitude to her made the countess uneasy. He was too protective of her and too fond of her company. His eyes sought her out whenever he entered a room and were a shade too tender when they rested on her. And he smiled at her too often. This did not fit with Lady Braithwaite’s plans, not when she had brought Amelia Farnborough here specially.

  And so, once she had breakfasted in bed and completed her morning toilette, she sallied forth to find her. Encountering Clarry in the passage, she asked where Miss Conway was.

  “In her chamber, my lady,” Clarry replied. “Should I ask her to join you?”

  Lady Braithwaite hesitated. “Not, don’t bother. You may go.”

  Instead of going downstairs, the countess turned her footsteps towards the guest bedchambers. An informal talk would be best. But just as she raised her hand to knock, she heard a voice within. A man’s voice, and one she knew.

  Shocked beyond belief, she let her hand fall to her side.

  It was beneath Lady Braithwaite’s dignity to listen at doors, but by the time she had registered relief that at least the voice was not her son’s, she could not unhear the words spoken inside.

  The girl’s voice said, “Thank you, Doctor.”

  Ah, that was why she knew the voice. It was Doctor Lampton, who had attended her on a couple of occasions, and had, indeed, been most kind to Gervaise when his leg was broken.

  “Congratulations,” Doctor Lampton said with brisk, devastating clarity. “You are indeed with child and show all the signs of a healthy pregnancy.”

  The blood drained from Lady Braithwaite’s face so fast that she almost fell against the door. She spun around and hurried back to her own chamber to deal with this horror in peace.

  So, the girl was enceinte. The child may or may not have been Gervaise’s, but quite clearly, she would say it was. And force Braithwaite into marriage with her, because of course he would do the honorable thing. And for once, his mother would be behind him, because although she bitterly resented such a marriage, the girl was not some doxy who could be paid off. Eleanor Gardyn might not be the great lady the countess wanted for her son, but she was undoubtedly a lady, and Braithwaite had no excuse for his behavior. Now they must all pay the consequences of that.

  She sank down on her bed, waving her maid away while thoughts chased furiously through her head. The pall of disappointment hung over everything.

  What if she is not Eleanor Gardyn?

  The thought did not come out of nowhere, for she had never been entirely convinced of the girl’s identity. But Gervaise had been so sure, and both Serena and Tamar agreed with him. The girls clearly liked her. And so, she had begun to think it likely that Gervaise was right. But what if he wasn’t? What if the girl was merely an adventuress after a fortune and a noble title?

  If that was the case, then Lady Braithwaite would happily turn her out of the house. She could think herself lucky to get a small pension to keep herself and the child. If Braithwaite thought it was his.

  The countess stood and paced to her window overlooking the front of the castle. When she saw the girl and Serena cross the drive and walk up toward the orchard together, she made up her mind. This was her house, and she had every right. Especially when she had good reason to believe they had all been duped.

  No one saw her, but she made no secret about entering the girl’s chamber. Opening drawers at random, she found very few clothes, and nothing else more interesting than a notebook full of varying attempts at the signature of Eleanor Gardyn.

  “Practicing forgery,” Lady Braithwaite exclaimed, feeling justified in her search. The girl seemed to have no trunk or portmanteau, only the few respectable gowns hanging in her wardrobe and some tatty clothing flung into a carpet bag behind them.

  Also in the bag, she found a large painting. It wasn’t stolen, but surely the one Tamar had given the girl the night Lady Braithwaite had arrived at the castle.

  Curious, she pulled it out and laid it on the bed. She didn’t approve of her son-in-law’s ungentlemanly profession, and she was not, in any case, a great appreciator of art. But he had done some beautiful portraits of Serena and the girls which had almost reconciled her. Now, only her dislike of encouraging his disreputable activity prevented her from commissioning a portrait of Gervaise.

  This one seemed to be a picture of a gypsy tent. No doubt it had been taken when Braithwaite had let the gypsies camp at the old cottage a few weeks ago. Inside the tent sat an exotically beautiful gypsy fortune teller, examining the hand of an unidentifiable man. After that, the countess saw no more than the fortune teller’s face. Her veil covered most of her red-gold hair, but the countenance undoubtedly belonged to the person calling herself Eleanor Gardyn.

  “You’re no more Eleanor than I am,” the countess exclaimed aloud. I am housing a pregnant gypsy who wants to ruin my son. Oh, Gervaise…!

  *

  Dawn had walked with Serena as far as the cliff edge, from where Lord Tamar was painting the snow-covered beach. Wrapped in several layers of outer clothing and wearing gloves with the finger tips cut off, he seemed lost in his work. Before he registered their presence, Dawn squeezed Serena’s hand and left her with her husband.

  She took a long route back to the castle, smiling frequently as she recalled Serena’s frightened happiness at the doctor’s confirmation. She imagined Tamar’s joy and the discussions they might have about their child’s future. And then she realized her fantasy was not of Serena and Tamar’s conversation but of her own with Gervaise.

  You are a fool, an idiot, she castigated herself. Because he kisses you, because you are Eleanor, these things do not entitle you to marry him. He is an earl… And Dawn had thrown herself at him more than once. He was only human. On the other hand, there was tenderness as well as lust in his eyes when he gazed on her, and surely no one could kiss as he did without feeling something?

  Trying to focus on Serena’s happiness rather than her own uncertainty, she eventually returned to the castle. Paton the butler was crossing the foyer and paused to bow to her. “Her ladyship requests you attend her in the morning room.”

  Reluctantly, Dawn turned her steps in that direction. It was a room she had only glimpsed before, since th
e rest of the family seemed to regard it as peculiarly their mother’s domain. Dawn refused to be afraid of the redoubtable countess, but she did take a deep breath before she knocked and answered Lady Braithwaite’s command to enter.

  The countess was alone, seated at an elegant desk, where she wrote busily. With deliberation she set the pen in its stand and turned to face Dawn. Her eyes were wintry and she did not invite her to sit.

  “I am lost for words,” Lady Braithwaite said with imperfect truth. “I don’t know where to begin.”

  Dawn tried an apologetic smile. “I’m afraid I cannot help you without more information.”

  “What is it you want?” the countess demanded. “Money? Marriage?”

  Dawn blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Be assured that if it is the latter, it will not be with my son!”

  Mortified, but refusing to give in, Dawn drew herself up to her full height. “I don’t believe that is up to you.”

  Lady Braithwaite’s eyes narrowed. “Do you really imagine he would marry a gypsy?” There was so much venom in the word, so much certainty in her fury, that Dawn knew she had either seen the painting or had the truth from one of her children.

  “No,” she said. “But it seems I only lived with gypsies. I was born Eleanor Gardyn.”

  “Spare me,” Lady Braithwaite uttered. “If your hair color is any more than coincidence, you are more likely to be a Gardyn by-blow, and no, I will not apologize for my language. You have lied and inveigled your way into my home, somehow beguiled all my children into believing you—”

  “Actually, it was they who beguiled me,” Dawn interrupted. “And in the kindest way. They kept my upbringing from you because they knew you and the rest of so-called polite society would behave in just this way. Being brought up a Romany does not make me a liar.”

  The countess, with narrowed eyes and stretched neck, looked like a snake poised to strike. She even hissed. “But it seems to make you a slut! Am I supposed to believe that my son is the father of your child?”