Chapter 1 #2
Was that why she was surprised? The only reason?
Stephen didn’t think so. Her tears and Wesley’s apologetic letter painted a telling picture.
Miss Dupont was in love with Wesley. No doubt he had worked his legion charms on her and then left when he grew bored.
Perhaps Wesley had loved her, for a time.
Or at least admired her. How far had it gone?
Had Wes done more than break her heart? Dread rippled through him at the thought.
Stephen asked, “May I see the cottage?”
She reared her head back. “Why?”
“I’d like to look around—see if I can find any indication of where specifically he’s gone. I’ll have to try to get word to him in Italy somehow.”
“Oh . . .” She paused in thought, then said briskly, “You might ask the harbormaster, see if he knows where the ship was bound.”
“I shall do that. Thank you. Even so, I’d like to take a look.”
She bit her lip, then faltered. “I . . . don’t think Bitty has been in to tidy it up yet. Perhaps you—”
“No matter. I am pressed for time, so if I could see it now . . . ?”
She drew a deep breath. “Very well.”
Miss Dupont clambered off the precipice, as nimble and surefooted as a girl, though she looked to be in her early twenties. She gestured toward a path on the other side of the headland. Not the way he had come. “This way is more direct,” she explained.
He fell into step beside her, feeling like a brawny brute next to her willowy figure.
She led the way into Lynton, the higher of the twin towns, past its blacksmith, livery, and old church, and then followed a cobbled path partway down the hill.
There, three whitewashed cottages huddled along the hillside, overlooking the Lynmouth harbor and sparkling channel beyond.
At the first cottage, she unhooked the chatelaine pinned at her waist and sorted through the keys until she found the correct one.
She unlocked the door and stepped inside.
Stephen was surprised at the young woman’s apparent aplomb in entering a bachelor’s cottage, when she seemed so ladylike in her speech and demeanor.
Entering after her, he left the door open behind them for propriety’s sake.
He walked around the single room and noticed her survey the chamber as he did, as if looking for something.
Was there something she didn’t want him to see?
He saw remnants of art supplies: an easel, used paint pots, canvases, and sketchbooks.
A table and chairs and a simple stove huddled along one wall, an unmade bed against the other.
Her gaze flicked to it and quickly away.
She swiped a lacy glove off the arm of a chair and tried to make it disappear up her sleeve. Noticing his look, she murmured, “Must have dropped it when I looked in earlier . . .”
He glanced at the pair of matching kid gloves she wore but said nothing.
Instead he fingered through the paintings propped against the wall, then paged through a sketchbook on the table.
That same familiar face—her face—looked up at him wearing different expressions.
Solemn and reluctant at first, progressing to increasing confidence, shy half smiles warming to full blown brilliance.
Her clothing varied as well—prim lace collars giving way to round, open necklines and, eventually, one bare shoulder.
Reaching past him, Miss Dupont shut the sketchbook, her cheeks mottled red.
“Yes, I posed for him several times.” A defensive note sharpened her tone.
“He was most insistent. I had never done so before—not even for my father—and was quite uncomfortable with it. But as you might guess in such a remote place, his choice of models was extremely limited.”
Inwardly, Stephen groaned, his stomach sickening. Oh yes. It had gone too far. And Wesley had done more than break this girl’s heart. An otherwise innocent girl, if he did not miss his guess.
He asked, “Did Lieutenant Keith lodge here as well?”
“Yes. We offered to bring in another bed, but he said he preferred his bedroll.” She looked around the room. “I don’t see it. He must have taken it with him.”
Sounded like Keith, Stephen thought. “I don’t suppose my brother made arrangements to store his belongings, nor paid sufficient rent to keep this cottage until he returns?”
“No. He paid only to the end of the month.”
Stephen mentally calculated. A sea voyage to Italy could take two or three weeks each way, depending on weather and the winds, not to mention whatever time Wesley planned to spend there painting.
What had Keith been thinking to let him go?
To leave without sending word? Or perhaps a letter was even now making its way to Overtree Hall through the post.
Stephen sighed. “I will have to pack up his belongings and somehow transport them home.”
She nodded absently. “We probably have a suitable crate in the studio. Come. I will ask Papa’s assistant to help you make arrangements.”
“Thank you.”
She offered him the use of the cottage overnight, since his brother had already paid for it. He politely declined, having secured a room at the Rising Sun, where a warm supper awaited him.
He gestured for her to precede him. “I’ll escort you back.”
As the sun set, they walked down the switchback path and into Lynmouth.
“Do you know . . . ” she began. “Your brother never mentioned a sibling named Stephen. Only a ‘Marsh.’ Something of an ogre, apparently.”
Stephen pulled a face, knowing the act would only serve to pucker the scar on his cheek and make him more ogre-like yet. He explained, “My second name is Marshall. He calls me Marsh—one of several nicknames he reserves for me. Including Captain Black.”
“Oh. I’m sorry, I—”
“No matter. It’s an apt description.”
When they arrived at the studio near the harbor, Miss Dupont used another key to open the door. She frowned at the dim, silent interior. “Maurice is supposed to keep the lights burning and the door open until five at least. Looks like he’s been gone for hours.”
“Is this where you live?” Stephen asked.
“We have a house in Bath, but when we’re in Lynmouth we live in the apartment upstairs. Although, with my father gone I’m staying with a neighbor, Mrs. Thrupton.”
He read between the lines. “Is your father’s assistant a lad or a . . . married man?”
“Neither.”
“Ah.” He nodded, illogically relieved she cared something for her reputation.
A man of about twenty trudged down the stairs in stocking feet. He wore trousers, rumpled shirt and waistcoat, but no coat. His dark hair stood askew, as though he’d just rolled out of bed.
“Bring me any supper?” he asked her. “I’m starved.”
“You’re on your own, I’m afraid,” she replied, setting down her bonnet and gloves.
“Who’s he?” The young man lifted an insolent chin.
“This is Captain Overtree, Mr. Overtree’s brother. Captain, Maurice O’Dell. My father’s assistant.”
“Another Overtree? It’s my lucky day,” he said sarcastically. “What does this one want?”
“Simply to transport the belongings his brother left in the cottage. I would like you to help him.”
“I . . . heard he left,” O’Dell said. “And good riddance, if you ask me.”
Miss Dupont said coolly, “I didn’t.”
Stephen sized up the young man as he would an opponent. He was barely more than Miss Dupont’s height, though stockier. His prominent dark eyes and upturned nose put Stephen in mind of an ill-behaved pug yapping at a larger dog.
O’Dell turned to him, thick lip curled. “I am not merely an assistant. I’m family. Claude Dupont’s nephew.”
“By marriage, yes,” she clarified. “My father married Maurice’s aunt a few years ago.”
“I won’t be making prints forever,” O’Dell asserted. “I’m an artist in my own right. I’ll be famous one day. Just you wait.”
“Sadly, I haven’t that much time,” Stephen said dryly. “Now, if I might trouble you for a crate and the name of the local drayage company . . . ?”
“We have several crates in the storeroom,” Miss Dupont said. “Maurice, if you will see the largest delivered to the first cottage.”
“Very well, but don’t expect me to help pack up that fop’s leavings.”
“Then, please mind the shop in the morning while I do.”
She turned to Stephen. “What time shall I meet you?”
“I am an early riser. Shall we say eight—or nine, if you prefer.”
“Eight is fine. I’ll see you then.”
Stephen hesitated. “Are you . . . all right here, or shall I walk you to the neighbor’s you mentioned?”
“I’m all right on my own. But thank you.”
Sophia Margaretha Dupont watched the black-haired, broad-shouldered stranger stride away, barely believing he could be related to Wesley Overtree. Beautiful, heartbreaking Wesley.
She’d had no inkling that things had changed between them—for Wesley at least. She had shown up at the cottage that morning as usual, smiling, stomach fluttering with happiness, eager to see him again, wondering how best to tell him her news.
Only to find the farewell note he’d left and the cottage abandoned.
Her smile had quickly fallen then. Her stomach cramped with dread. What had she done wrong?
She knew men did not like to be pressured, so she had not pressured him. Had he simply lost interest, or had he realized she was not beautiful enough for him—either as a model or a wife?
She read the rescued note again, and the conclusion seemed unavoidable. Wesley had not only abruptly left Lynmouth, but he had also left her. She turned the note over, struck anew that he had written it on the back of one of the dozens of likenesses he’d painted of her. A dozen too many apparently.
Sophie sagged against the studio counter, feeling weary and low. It had been the worst day of her life, except for the long-ago day her mother died. At the thought, she gently clasped the ring she wore on a chain around her neck, close to her heart.
Not only had Wesley left, and her last hope of happiness with him, but then she’d had to endure that mortifying interview with his own brother. The man’s hard, knowing expression left her with the sickly feeling that he’d guessed the truth—that posing was not the worst of her indiscretions.
She remembered Wesley describing his dour and disapproving brother Marsh. And saying “Captain Black would sooner strike a man than listen to him.” She had formed an image of a foul-tempered, hardened warrior. A man who had seen terrible things. Who had probably done terrible things.
Captain Overtree certainly looked fierce, with that jagged scar, which his bushy side-whiskers and longish dark hair did little to conceal.
Had his coloring spawned the name Captain Black or had it been his brooding personality?
Perhaps black described both. He was taller than Wesley—several inches over six feet—and his strong-featured face boasted none of Wesley’s fine bone structure or handsome perfection.
His eyes were striking though. Blue, where Wesley’s were light brown.
She would never have expected blue eyes.
Her fleeting comparison of the brothers faded as the reality of her situation reasserted itself. This was no time to think of trivial things. Not when her life as she knew it hung in the balance and was soon to change forever.
She had not given God a great deal of thought since her mother’s death. Church had not played a significant part of her childhood. But during these last few weeks she had prayed very hard, hoping what she feared wasn’t true.
Now her prayer changed. She had been so certain Wesley would marry her. But now he was gone. Even if he came back, would it be in time to save her and her reputation? Oh, God, let him return in time. . . .