The Earl's Revenge (3 page)

“But that tells me nothing,” objected Taylor.

“Precisely. One more word, and then we will permanently drop the subject. If you wish to keep your money, never bet against Bridgeport; never play cards with him; and never wager on whether or whom he will wed.”

* * * *

Wearing a concealing cloak, Bridgeport slipped out of the back of his townhouse. One of the lessons he had mastered after a lifetime of countering his mother’s manipulation was how to cover his tracks. He went first to the rooms he rented under an assumed name, downed a bite of dinner, and put in an intense four hours of work. Then he picked up Lady Wainright behind Lady Beatrice’s house, where she was attending a card party, and headed for a cottage he owned in Kensington. The lady was a nitwit, but it was not her conversation that interested him. She was the most insatiable of his current liaisons. Two hours of frenzied passion expended the restless energy that had accumulated since his morning bout with Jackson, allowing him to pass the night in peace.

“Mr. Thornton accepted my sketches!” announced Elaine Thompson, bursting into the parlor where her friend, Anne, huddled close to the fire, a woolen shawl tucked securely around her legs. Anne had not completely recovered from a winter chill.

“I knew he would,” she replied calmly. “You possess an enviable talent. I am glad that you have the opportunity to develop it.”

A shadow flickered across Elaine’s face. “Poor Mr. Beringer. How I miss him. What a tragedy that he died so young.”

“Sixty is hardly young,” protested Anne, herself but four-and-thirty.

“You know what I mean. He was as energetic as Mr. Reeves.” Reeves was their forty-year-old vicar who regularly tramped the hills and moors in pursuit of his duties. “And he was never sick a day in his life that I know of. I thought my own heart would stop when I heard that his had given out in his sleep. Poor man. How I miss him,” she repeated.

“I know, dearest,” soothed Anne. “But you had the benefit of his instruction, advice, and support for nearly eight years. He has established you as an illustrator in your own right and even arranged for his solicitor to continue looking after your interests. How many projects have you finished?”

“Seventeen, but they are all fairy tales and other children’s stories. I am not yet sufficiently well known that I can cease fretting. What if Mr. Murray discovers that M. E. Merriweather is a lowly female, and not a very aged one at that?”

“And how would he go about learning such a thing?” she countered sensibly. “Mr. Beringer took steps to see that your career would flourish regardless of what happened to him. He loved you very much.”

“Certainly, but not in the way you imply. He looked on me as a daughter. I sometimes think he believed I really was Jessie.” Mrs. Beringer and their daughter, Jessie, had drowned more than thirty years before. According to local gossip, Beringer had shut himself away from all human contact for nearly a decade, remaining reclusive even after that. Elaine had been amazed when he’d agreed to instruct her in drawing. She had been barely seventeen at the time, newly arrived in Cornwall, and female to boot.

She had Anne to thank, of course. And for so much more. She had arrived on Miss Becklin’s doorstep with no warning, all her worldly possessions carried in one small valise, her money nearly exhausted by the expenses of the long journey, and her sole companion a fourteen-year-old maid who was untrained in even basic duties. Her former governess had taken her in, resumed the education that had been so rudely interrupted five years earlier, and lavished her with affection. Anne had enthusiastically examined the sketches Elaine had made during the trip to Cornwall, and had immediately shown them to their neighbor, Mr. E. F. Beringer, artist and illustrator.

Elaine added a bit of coal to the fire, hoping the extra heat would make Anne more comfortable. Spring was late in arriving this year, allowing cold damp to linger.

Drawing had always been her obsession. Lacking formal instruction, she had taught herself the rudiments, experimenting until she could produce the images her eyes perceived. Beringer had complimented her talent, admired her skill, pointed out every one of her failings, and then taught her everything he knew. She had developed a style that packed immense amounts of suggestion into a few lines, conveying emotion as well as form and texture. Two years later, he’d set up her first contract – illustrating a new edition of Perault’s Mother Goose tale
Cinderella
using Samber’s translation from the French of twenty years earlier. There had been other commissions in the years since, but none as potentially rewarding as this latest one.

Mr. Beringer had been contacted about doing an illustrated volume of poetry similar to Blake’s. Beringer had known Blake most of his life and possessed both
Songs of Innocence
and
Songs of Experience
. Having often studied them, Elaine had envied her mentor his chance – which made her feel guilty now that tragedy had dropped the opportunity into her own lap. But excitement pushed that feeling aside.

“Look at this,” she said, handing Murray’s letter to her friend. “Not only will he pay more than I received for anything I’ve previously done, but he has even agreed to give me a percentage of the sales. Not that they will be enormous, for this version will have a limited distribution, but it will allow me to support myself at last. I have lived on your charity far too long.”

“Fustian!” snorted Anne. “You continually ignore Lucy in your very mercenary calculations. She is a godsend and has proven so adept that she takes the place of two ordinary servants. How many illustrations does Murray want this time?”

“About a quarter of the poems. I can pick which ones I wish to do. The illustrations will occupy the same page as the text, so it would be best to choose the shorter ones, but I can’t wait to read Thornton’s verses. Those two samples he sent are his best work to date.”

“I know he is your favorite, though personally I prefer Pope.”

Elaine laughed at this old disagreement. “Pope wrote quite nice verse – as even our great-grandparents must have observed – but I find it sterile. Thornton’s words touch my soul in some strange way that other poets do not. I cannot really explain it except to note that there is no accounting for taste. Will you be needing me for anything?”

“Meaning you wish to read and know you cannot stop once you begin,” teased Anne with a grin. “Of course you may. Lucy can take care of me quite nicely, and Mrs. Hedges promised to call.”

Elaine made a face.

“Yes, she is a trial,” agreed Anne. “But she derives so much pleasure from her tales that I hate to curtail her. Besides, I dare not risk her ire. One is never quite sure how she portrays us to others.”

“There ought to be a way to divert her interest to some topic other than spiteful gossip,” grumbled Elaine.

“Air-dreams, my dear,” said Anne with a chuckle and a shake of her ebony head.

“At least spare me her company. I am out.” She headed upstairs to her studio.

* * * *

Two weeks later, Elaine was perched on a rock with a sketchbook balanced on her lap. The site was her favorite place to idle away an hour or two in dreaming. Thus it seemed the ideal setting for Thornton’s poem, ‘The Secret Place,’ where one could come alone to
contemplate the wonders of the world
. Behind her was a shallow cave positioned halfway up a steep hill. The tiny lawn offered exquisite views of Bodmin Moor and the rugged Cornish coast with its ever-changing patterns of sunlight on water.

She had pondered long over this verse, trying to decide if his words referred to the quiet beauty of a wind-ruffled pool hidden deep in a dark forest or to the wilder grandeur of the sparkling sea as viewed from the depths of the earth. In her own mind, nothing could equal the sea. There was another poem that she would interpret as the passionate fury of storm-tossed waves trying to overwhelm an ancient oak that stood on the edge of their domain, though perhaps she would not include that among the finished illustrations.

Thornton’s verse always extolled the natural world – which had sometimes made her wonder if the man avoided human relationships – but she suspected that ‘The Siege’ was an allegory for a determined libertine’s campaign against a stubborn lady, though how that picture would arise in her five-and-twenty-year-old spinster’s mind she could not explain. But she was masquerading as a male in the publishing world. Perhaps she should illustrate it that way.

She giggled. While she had never been the recipient of seductive looks, she had seen them bestowed on others during the month she had spent in London. Particularly by Devereaux and Staynes. But for now she would work on the ‘The Secret Place.’

A gentle breeze brushed her cheeks as she picked up a pencil to block out her design. All else receded from awareness. Half an hour passed in oblivious concentration. Birds soared unnoticed overhead. An inquisitive squirrel paused to stare before returning to its own affairs. Shadows lengthened, reaching greedy fingers toward the rock on which she sat.

“Who are you?” asked a voice, startling Elaine into leaving a jagged line on her sketch. She raised her head to see a young lady – a very young lady – with rich auburn curls and startling green eyes. The girl had obviously slipped a governess, for both her voice and her clothes were genteel, but she was a stranger.

“I am Miss Elaine Thompson. Are you newly arrived? I don’t believe we have met before.” She shivered in sudden apprehension. No one had visited Treselyan Manor since her arrival – or for twenty years before that, if gossip could be trusted – and she had ceased to feel guilty over haunting a spot that lay on private property. Even worse, she could not recall who owned the estate. The last Treselyan interred in the churchyard had died more than a century earlier. What if the owner was someone she had met in town?

“We finally got here late last night. I am Lady Helen Parrish. Do you live here, too?”

“No. I live in the village, which means I am trespassing. Was this a planned visit? We had heard nothing of the family’s arrival.”

“Actually, it is only me and Nana. And Toby, of course. He drove our carriage. They had to put a new roof on Westron Manor, so Nana brought me here for a few months.”

“Will your parents be joining you?” asked Elaine. The child was amazing. She could not possibly be more than eight, yet she spoke and acted like an adult.

Helen moved closer, her eyes taking in Elaine’s old blue gown and dark brown hair as if evaluating her exact place in society. Elaine had not encountered such calculating scrutiny since leaving London. “My mother died when I was born. Papa stays in town. I never see him.”

“And who is your papa?”

“The Earl of Bridgeport.”

Elaine swayed, all the blood draining instantly from her head. Dear God! Had she really escaped him only to turn up on one of his doorsteps? But she fought down the panic. He had never visited Cornwall. Nor would he be likely to do so now that his daughter was in residence. She knew the man well enough to understand Lady Helen’s remark. The girl had never laid eyes on her father. Nor could Elaine blame her own ignorance on Anne. Her friend had only moved to Treselyan a few months before Elaine arrived. Keeping her smile firmly in place, she turned the discussion to impersonal topics. What was a child doing halfway up a dangerous hill … alone?

“Who is Nana?” she asked ten minutes later when they had achieved an easy camaraderie.

“My nurse. She does not travel well, so she is resting today,” stated Helen as though that was the most natural thing in the world.

“But is not someone else looking after you?”

“I wanted to explore. I’ve never been anywhere new before. This is very exciting, and the sea is even more fascinating than I expected.”

“But dangerous to the unwary,” warned Elaine. There was much of Bridgeport in the girl, especially this determination to do as she pleased. It was a trait that could lead to odious self-indulgence – witness the girl’s father.

Lady Helen turned wide eyes to the cave. “Are lions or bears hiding in there?”

“Why don’t you go see?” suggested Elaine. “I didn’t take the time to check today.”

The child’s eyes grew rounder, but she straightened her shoulders and marched toward the cave. Elaine turned back to her sketchbook, rapidly penciling in the rest of the scene. Since the cave was a barren pocket barely ten feet in diameter, Helen must return very soon.

“It is empty,” announced the girl, sounding disappointed. “And I cannot see the sea from inside.”

“That is true,” agreed Elaine. “The cave faces the moor, unlike this lawn, which also overlooks the Bristol Channel.”

“I shall ask Toby to set up a playroom inside.”

“It is fairly protected from the weather since it faces east. And it offers has a lovely view,” agreed Elaine. “But it would be a good idea to wait until the next storm before deciding. The path can be treacherous, especially in wind and wet. You would not wish to injure yourself.”

Helen thoughtfully looked around before nodding.

“May I escort you back to the house?” asked Elaine lightly. “I have never seen it up close. No one has been inside for years except a few servants.”

“All right. What were you doing up here?”

“Drawing.”

Helen stepped closer and looked at the page. “Why do you draw the sea as if looking out of the cave? That is not right.”

“But I am not really drawing this scene,” explained Elaine. “I am drawing an idea that exists in my head and am only using this view as a guide.” She pointed to her sketch. “These rocks are a little like that point over there, but you can see that I’ve made them rougher and larger. Then there are the plants. This flowering shrub near the cave mouth is more typical of Kent than of Cornwall.”

“I see!” exclaimed Helen. “It is a fantasy picture just like my storybooks.” She frowned. “This reminds me of one of my books.”

“Which one?” asked Elaine idly.

“Beauty and the Beast,”
she replied instantly, and Elaine hid a smile. The content of the sketch was nothing like her illustrations for that work. Helen obviously had a sharp eye for style.