A Dark and Brooding Gentleman (4 page)

‘Ever the gentleman, Sebastian,’ said his mother. ‘You see, Miss Allardyce, do not waste your concern on him. He is quite beyond the niceties of society. Now you know why I do not come to Blackloch. Such unpleasant company.’

He leaned back in his chair. ‘If we are speaking bluntly, what then has prompted your visit, madam?’

‘I am having the town house redecorated and am in need of somewhere to stay for a few weeks, Sebastian. What other reason could possibly bring me here?’ his mother sneered.

He gave a bow and left, vowing to avoid both his mother and the woman who made him remember too well the dissolute he had been.

After the awfulness of that first day Hunter did not seek his mother out again. And Phoebe could not blame
him. She wondered why he had not told Mrs Hunter the truth of the cut upon his face or revealed that his mother’s companion had not spent her money upon a coach fare after all. She wondered, too, as to why there was such hostility between mother and son. But Mrs Hunter made not a single mention of her son, and it was easy to keep her promise to her father as Phoebe saw little of the man in the days that followed. Once she saw him entering his study. Another time she caught a glimpse of him riding out on the moor. But nothing more. Not that Phoebe had time to notice, for Mrs Hunter was out of sorts, her mood as bleak as the moor that surrounded them.

Tuesday came around quickly and Phoebe could only be glad both of her chance to escape the oppressive atmosphere of Blackloch and to see her father.

The Glasgow Tolbooth was an impressive five-storey sandstone building situated at the Cross where the Trongate met High Street. It housed not only the gaol, but also the Justiciary Court and the Town Hall, behind which had been built the Tontine Hotel. There was a small square turret at each corner and a fine square spire on the east side, in which was fitted a large clock. And the top of the spire arched in the form of an imperial crown. The prison windows were small and clad with iron bars, and over the main door, on the south side, was built a small rectangular portico on a level with the first floor of the prison, the stairs from which led directly down onto the street.

Phoebe arrived at the Tolbooth, glad of heart both to be back in the familiar cheery bustle of Glasgow and at the prospect of seeing her father. She hurried along
the street and was just about to climb the stone steps to the portico and the main door when a man appeared by her side.

‘Miss Allardyce?’

She stopped and glanced round at him.

He pulled the cloth cap from his head, revealing thick fair hair beneath. He was of medium height with nothing to mark him as noticeable. His clothes were neither shabby nor well-tailored, grey trousers and matching jacket, smart enough, but not those of a gentleman. Something of his manner made her think that he was in service. He blended well with the background in all features except his voice.

‘Miss Phoebe Allardyce?’ he said again and she heard the cockney twang to his accent, so different to the lilt of the Scottish voices all around.

‘Who are you, sir?’ She looked at him with suspicion. He was certainly no one that she knew.

‘I’m the Messenger.’

His eyes were a washed-out grey and so narrow that they lent him a shifty air. She made to walk on, but his next words stopped her.

‘If you’ve a care for your father, you’ll listen.’

She narrowed her own eyes slightly, feeling an instant dislike for the man. ‘What do you want?’

‘To deliver a message to you.’ He was slim but there was a wiry strength to his frame.

‘I am listening,’ she said.

‘Your father’s locked up in there for the rest of his days. Old man like him, his health not too good. And the conditions being what they are in the Tolbooth. Must worry you that.’

‘My father’s welfare and my feelings on the matter are none of your concern, sir.’ She made to walk on.

‘They are if I can spring him, Miss Allardyce, or, should I say, give you the means to do so. Fifteen hundred pounds to pay his debt, plus another five hundred to set the pair of you up in a decent enough lifestyle.’

A cold feeling spread over her. She stared at him in shock. ‘How do you know the details of my father’s debt?’

The man gave a leering smile and she noticed that his teeth were straight and white. ‘Oh, we know all about you and your pa. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that. Just think on the money. Two grand in the hand, Miss Allardyce, and old pop is out of the Tolbooth.’

‘You are offering me two thousand pounds?’ She stared at him in disbelief.

He threw her a purse. ‘A hundred up front.’ She peeped inside and felt her heart turn over as she saw the roll of white notes. ‘The rest when you deliver your end of the bargain.’

‘Which is?’

‘The smallest of favours.’ She waited.

‘As Mrs Hunter’s companion you have access to the whole of Blackloch Hall.’

Her scalp prickled with the extent of his knowledge.

‘There is a certain object currently within the possession of the lady’s son, a trifling little thing that he wouldn’t even miss.’

‘You are asking me to steal from Mr Hunter?’

‘We’re asking you to retrieve an item for its rightful owner.’

The man was trouble, as was all that he asked. She shook her head and gave a cynical smile as she thrust the purse back into his hands. ‘Good day to you, sir.’ And she started to climb the steps. She climbed all of four steps before his voice sounded again. He had not moved, but still stood where he was in the street.

‘If you won’t do it for the money, Miss Allardyce, you best have a thought for your pa locked up in there. Dangerous place is the Tolbooth. All sorts of unsavoury characters, the sort your pa ain’t got a chance against. Who knows who he’ll be sharing a cell with next? You have a think about that, Miss Allardyce.’

The man’s words made her blood run cold, but she did not look back, just ran up the remaining steps and through the porch to the front door of the gaol.

‘Everything all right, miss?’ the door guard enquired.

‘Yes, thank you,’ she said as she slipped inside to the large square hallway. ‘If I could just have a moment to gather myself?’

The guard nodded.

Her hands were trembling as she stood aside a little to let the other visitors pass. She took several deep breaths, leaned her back against one of the great stone columns and calmed her thoughts. It was an idle threat, that was all. The villain could not truly hurt her father within the security of a prison as tough and rigorous as the Tolbooth. The man was a villain, a thief, trying to frighten her into stealing for him. And Phoebe had no intention of being blackmailed. She tucked some stray strands of hair beneath her bonnet, and smoothed a hand over the top of her skirts. And only when she was sure that her papa would not notice anything amiss did she make her way through the doorway that led to
the prison cells. Once through that door she passed the guard her basket for checking.

He removed the cover and gave the contents a quick glance. ‘Raspberries this week, is it?’ With her weekly visits over the last six months Phoebe was on friendly terms with most of the guards and turnkeys.

‘They are my papa’s favourite.’

‘Sir Henry’ll fair enjoy them.’

‘I hope so.’ She smiled and followed him up the narrow staircase all the way up to the debtors’ cells on the third floor in which her father was held.

But the smile fled her face and the raspberries were forgotten the moment she entered the cell.

‘Papa!’ She placed the basket down on the small wooden table and ran to him. ‘Oh, my word! What ever has happened to you?’ She guided him to stand in the narrow shaft of sunlight that shone down into the cell through the bars of the small high window. And there in the light she could see that the skin around Sir Henry’s left eye was dark with bruising and so swollen as to partially conceal the bloodshot eye beneath. The bruising extended over the whole left side of his face, from his temple to his chin, and even on that side of his mouth his lower lip was swollen and cut.

‘Now, child, do not fuss so. It is nothing but the result of my own foolish clumsiness.’

But the man’s words were ringing in her head again.
Dangerous place is the Tolbooth. All sorts of unsavoury characters, the sort your pa ain’t got a chance against.

‘Who did this to you?’ she demanded; she did not realise her grip had tightened and her knuckles shone white with the strain of it. ‘Who?’ Her eyes roved over his poor battered face.

‘I tripped and fell, Phoebe. Nothing more. Calm yourself.’ ‘Papa—’

‘Phoebe,’ her father said, and she recognised that tone in his voice. He would tell her nothing. He did not want to worry her, not when he thought there was nothing she could do.

Her gaze scanned the cell. ‘Where is the other man, your cellmate?’

‘Released,’ pronounced her father. ‘His debt was paid off.’ Sir Henry nodded philosophically. ‘He was interesting company.’

Who knows who he’ll be sharing a cell with next?

Phoebe felt her stomach clench and a wave of nausea rise up.

‘You are white as a sheet, child. Perhaps this travelling up from Blackloch Hall is too much for you.’

‘No. Really.’ She forced herself to smile at him brightly, so that he would not be concerned. ‘I have been taking very great care to keep my complexion fair. A difficult proposition with red hair and the summer sun. I do not wish to end up with freckles!’ She pretended to tease and managed an accompanying grin.

He chuckled. ‘You have your mother’s colouring, and she never had a freckle in her life, God rest her soul.’

Her eyes lingered momentarily on his bruising and she thought for one dreadful minute she might weep. It was such a struggle to maintain the façade, but she knew she had to for his sake. The smile was still stretched across her mouth as she took his arm in her own and led him back to the little table they had managed to save from the bailiffs. Her blood was cold and
thick and slow as she pulled off the basket’s cover to reveal the punnet of raspberries within.

‘Oh, Phoebe, well done,’ he said and picked out the largest and juiciest berry and slipped it into his mouth. ‘So, tell me all about Blackloch Hall and the moor … and Hunter.’

‘Oh, I have rarely seen Mr Hunter.’ It was not a lie. ‘But he seems to be a gentleman of honour, if a little cold in manner perhaps.’ She thought of how Hunter had rescued her from the highwaymen and his discretion over the same matter.

‘Do not be fooled, Phoebe. From all accounts the words honour and Sebastian Hunter do not go together in the same sentence. Why do you think his mother has disowned him?’

‘I did not realise there was such …’ she hesitated ‘… bad feeling between them,’ she finished as she thought of the one interaction she had witnessed between Hunter and his mother. ‘What is the cause of it, I wonder?’

‘Who can know for sure?’ Her father gave a shrug, but there was something in his manner that suggested that he knew more of the matter.

‘But you must have heard something?’

‘Nothing to be repeated to such innocent ears, child.’ She saw the slight wince before he could disguise it. He eased himself to a more comfortable position upon the wooden stool and she saw the strain and pain that he was trying to hide.

She pressed him no further on the matter, but tried to distract him with descriptions of the Gothic style of the house and the expansive ruggedness of the moor. And all the while she was conscious of the raw soreness of her father’s injuries. By the time she kissed her father’s
undamaged cheek and made her way down the narrow staircase, her heart was thudding hard with the coldness of her purpose and there was a fury in her eyes.

The man was leaning against the outside of the gaol, waiting for her.

He pulled off his hat again as he came towards her. ‘Miss Allar—’ he started to say, but she cut him off, her voice hard as she hid the emotion beneath it. She looked at him and would have run the villain through with a sword had she one to hand.

‘I will do it, on the proviso that no further harm comes to my father.’

There was a fleeting surprise in those narrow shifty eyes as if he had not thought her to agree so quickly.

‘What is it that you want me to steal?’

And he leaned his face closer and whispered the words softly into her ear.

She nodded.

‘We have been told Hunter keeps it in his study—in his desk. Bring it here with you when you visit next Tuesday. And keep your lips sealed over this, Miss Allardyce. One word to Mrs Hunter or her son and your old pa gets it.’ He drew his finger across his throat like a knife blade to emphasise his point. ‘Do you understand?’

‘I understand perfectly,’ she said and as the crowd hurried past, someone jostled her and when she looked round at the man again he was gone.

Her heart was aching for the hurts her father had suffered and her blood was surging with fury at the men who had hurt him. She knew she must not weaken, must not weep, not here, not now. She straightened her
shoulders, held her head up and walked with purpose the small distance to the Tontine Hotel to wait for the mail coach that would deliver her to the moor.

T
he moor was bathed golden and hazy in the late evening light. Behind the house, out over the Firth of Clyde, the sun would soon sink down behind the islands, a red ball of fire in a pink streaked sky. There was no sound, nothing save the steady slow tick of the clock and the whisper of the breeze through the grass and the heather.

Hunter remembered the last day of his father’s life. When he closed his eyes he could see his father’s face ruddy with choler, etched with disgust, and hear their final shouted exchange echoing in his head, each and every angry word of it … and what had followed. Thereafter, there had been such remorse, such anger, such guilt. He ached with it. And all the brandy in Britain and France did not change a damned thing.

The glass lay limp and empty within his hand. Hunter thought no more, just refilled it and settled back to numb the pain.

Phoebe struck that night, before her courage or her anger could desert her. Mrs Hunter was in bed when she arrived back in Blackloch, having retired early as was her normal habit.

Within the green guest bedchamber Phoebe went through the mechanics of preparing for bed. She changed into her nightdress, washed, brushed her teeth, combed and plaited her hair, brushed the dust from her dress and wiped her boots. And then she sat down in the little green armchair and she waited … and waited; waiting as the hours crawled by until, at last, Phoebe heard no more footsteps, no more voices, no more noise.

Daylight had long since faded and darkness shrouded the house. From downstairs in the hallway by the front door she heard the striking of the grandfather clock, two deep sonorous chimes. Only now did Phoebe trust that all of Blackloch was asleep. She stole from her room, treading as quietly and as quickly as she could along the corridor and down the main staircase.

The house was in total darkness and she was thankful she had decided to bring the single candle to light her way. Its small flame flickered as she walked, casting ghostly shadows all around. There was silence, the thump of her heart and whisper of her breath the only sounds. Her feet trod softly, carefully, down each step until she reached the main hallway. She could hear the slow heavy ticking of the clock.

The hallway was expansive, floored in the same greystone flags that ran throughout the whole of the lower house and roofed with dark disappearing arches reminiscent of some ancient medieval cathedral. She held up her candle to confirm she was alone and saw a
small snarling face staring down at her from the arches. She jumped, almost dropping her candle in the process, and gave a gasp. Her heart was racing. She stared back at the face and saw this time that it was only the gargoyle of a wolf carved into the stone. Indeed, there was a whole series of them hidden within the ribs of the ceiling: a pack of wolves, all watching her. She froze, holding her breath, her heart thumping hard and fast, waiting to see if anyone had heard her, waiting to see if anyone would come. The grandfather clock marked the passing of the minutes, five in all, and nobody arrived. She breathed a sigh of relief and looked across at the study.

Not the slightest glimmer of light showed beneath the doorway. No sound came from within. Phoebe crept quietly towards the dark mahogany door, placed her hand upon the wrought-iron handle and slowly turned. The door opened without a creak. She held up her candle to light the darkness and stepped into Sebastian Hunter’s study.

Hunter was sitting silently in his chair by the window, his eyes staring blindly out at the dark-enveloped moor when he heard the noise from the hallway outside his study. The waning half moon was hidden under a small streak of cloud and the black-velvet sky was lit only by a sprinkling of stars, bright and twinkly as diamonds. His head turned, listening, but otherwise he did not move. His senses sharpened. And even though he had been drinking he was instantly alert.

Someone was out there, he could feel their presence. A maidservant on her way down to the kitchens? A footman returning to bed following a tryst? Or another
intruder, like the ones who had tried before? He set the brandy glass down and quietly withdrew the pistol from the bottom right-hand drawer of his desk, then turned the chair back to face the moor so that he would not be seen from the doorway; he waited, and he listened.

He listened to the light pad of footsteps across the stone flags towards his door. He listened as the handle slowly turned and the door quietly opened, then closed again. Within the small diamond-shaped lead-lined panes he saw the reflection of a bright flicker of candlelight. The soft even tread of small feet moved towards the desk behind him. He waited until he heard the clunk of the brass candlestick being set down upon the wooden surface of the desk behind him, then he cocked the pistol and swivelled his chair round to face the intruder.

She was standing with her back to him, looking over his desk.

‘Miss Allardyce.’

She started round to face him, gave a small shriek and stumbled back against the desk. Her mouth worked, but no words sounded. He rose to his feet. Her gaze dropped to the pistol. He made it safe and lowered it. ‘Mr Hunter,’ she said and he could hear the shock in her voice and see it in every nuance of her face, of her body and the way she was gripping at the desk behind her. ‘I had no idea that you were in here.’

‘Evidently not.’ He let his gaze wander from the long thick auburn braid of her hair that hung over her shoulder, down across the bodice of the cotton nightdress which, though prim and plain and patched in places,
did not quite hide the figure beneath. His gaze dropped lower to the little bare toes that peeped from beneath its hem, before lifting once more to those golden brown eyes. And something of the woman seemed to call to him so that, just as when he had first looked at her upon the moor, an overwhelming desire surged through him. Had this been a year ago … Had this been before all that had changed him.

He saw her glance flicker away before coming back to meet his own and, when she did, he could see she had recovered herself and where the shock and panic had been there was now calm determination.

‘Mrs Hunter is having trouble sleeping. She sent me to find a book for her, in the hope that it would help.’ She made to move away and he should have let her go, but Hunter stepped closer, effectively blocking her exit.

‘Any book in particular?’

Miss Allardyce gave a little shrug. ‘She did not say.’ The backs of her thighs were still tight against the desk, her hands behind her still gripping to its wooden edge.

He leaned across her to lay the pistol down upon the smooth polished surface of the desk and the brush of his arm against the softness of her breast sent his blood rushing all the faster.

Miss Allardyce sucked in her breath and jumped at the contact between their bodies. He saw the shock in her eyes … and the passion, and knew she was not indifferent to him, that something of the madness of this sensation was racing through her, too.

He was standing so close that the toe of his left boot was beneath the hem of her nightdress. So close that the scent of roses and sunlight and sweet woman filled his nose. His gaze traced the outline of her features,
of her cheekbones and her nose, down to the fullness of her lips. And the urge to take her into his arms and kiss her was overwhelming. A vision of them making love upon the surface of the desk swam in his mind, of him moving between the pale soft thighs beneath the thick cotton of her nightdress, of his mouth upon her breasts.

Desire hummed loud. He had never experienced such an immediacy of feeling like that which was coursing between him and Miss Allardyce. Hunter slid a hand behind that slender creamy neck and her lips seemed to call to his. All of his promises were forgotten. He lowered his face towards hers.

And felt the firm thrust of Miss Allardyce’s hands against his chest.

‘What on earth do you think you are doing, Mr Hunter?’ Her chest was rising and falling in a rapid rhythm, her breath as ragged as if they had indeed just made love.

It was enough to shatter the madness of the moment. He realised what he was doing.

She was staring at him, her eyes suddenly dark in the candlelight, her cheeks stained with colour.

‘Forgive me.’ He stepped swiftly back to place a distance between them. He was not a rake. He damn well was not. Not any more. He did not gamble. And he did not womanise. ‘A book, you say?’

‘If you please.’ A no-nonsense tone, unaffected, except that when she picked up the candlestick he could see the slight tremor of it in her hand.

‘Be my guest.’ He gestured to the books that lined the walls and moved away even further to the safety of the shelves closest to the window.
‘Evelina
used to
be a favourite of my mother’s,’ he said and drew the volume from its shelf. He offered it to her, holding it by the farthest edge so that their fingers would not touch.

She accepted the book from him, said ‘Thank you’, and made her way to the door where she paused, hand resting on the handle, and glanced round at him.

‘And thank you for both your assistance upon the moor and your discretion over the matter.’ She spoke with hesitation and he could feel her awkwardness at both the situation and the words, but there was a strength in her eyes that he had not seen in any other woman before. ‘I will catch the coach in the future.’ And before he could utter a word she was gone, leaving Hunter staring at the softly closed door of his study with a firm resolve to keep a distance between Miss Allardyce and himself for the weeks that remained of his mother’s visit.

Inside the green bedchamber Phoebe leaned heavily against the door. Her legs felt like jelly and she was shaking so badly that the candlelight flickered and jumped wildly around the room. She set the candlestick down upon her little table and tried to calm the frenzied beat of her heart, to no avail.

Her heart was hammering as hard as it had been when she had faced Hunter in his study. Standing there in just his shirt and breeches. No coat, no waistcoat, no neckcloth. The neck of his fine white shirt open and loose, revealing the bare skin beneath, a chest that she knew was hard with muscle from the hand she had placed upon it. Memories of his very proximity that made it difficult for her to catch a breath. She closed her eyes and in her mind saw again that piercing gaze
holding hers, driving every sensible thought from her head, making her stomach turn a cartwheel and her legs melt to jelly. Images and sensations vivid enough to take her breath away, all of which should have shocked and appalled her. She
was
shocked. Shocked at the spark the mere brush of his arm had ignited throughout her body. Shocked that for the tiniest of moments she had almost let him kiss her. Phoebe had never experienced anything like it. She clutched a hand to her mouth and tried to stop the stampede of emotion.

What on earth was he doing sitting in there in the dark in the middle of the night anyway? And she remembered the rich sweet smell of brandy that had clung to his breath and the way his chair had been positioned to face out onto the moor. A man who did not sleep. A man who had much to brood upon.

She walked to the window and pulled the curtains apart. Unfastening the catch, she slid the window up and stared out at the night beyond. The bitten wafer of the moon shone silver and all around, scattered across the deep black velvet of the sky, were tiny stars like diamonds. Cool fresh air wafted in and she inhaled its sweet dampness, breathing slowly and deeply in an attempt to calm herself. Not so far away she could hear the quiet ripple of the Black Loch, its water merging with the darkness of the night. She thought of her father’s warning about Hunter and his wickedness. And no matter how much she willed it, her heart would not slow or her mind dismiss the image of a raven-haired man whose eyes were so strangely and dangerously alluring.

In the cool light of the next morning after a restless night Phoebe could see things more clearly. Hunter had
discovered her about to search his desk in the middle of the night. No doubt any woman’s thoughts would be in such disarray and her sensibilities so thoroughly disturbed were a gun levelled at her heart by a gentleman with Hunter’s reputation. The important thing was that he had appeared to believe her excuse and for that she could only be thankful. Phoebe had bigger matters to worry about. She could not let the incident in the night deter her from securing her father’s safety.

Phoebe tried again the next night and the night after that, but each time she stole down the stairs it was to see the faint flicker of light beneath the door to Hunter’s study and she knew he was alone within, drinking through the night, as if he could not bear to sleep. As if he were haunted. As if he carried a sin so dark upon his soul that it chained him in perpetual torment. She shivered and forced the thoughts away, knowing that the days before Tuesday and her visit to the Tolbooth were too few. There had to be a way to search the study. Phoebe was in an agony of worry.

It was Mrs Hunter who solved the problem … when she told Phoebe of the Blackloch outing to the seaside planned for Saturday.

The morning of the trip was glorious. The sun shone down on a sea that stretched out in a broad glistening vastness before him. To the right was the edge of the island of Arran, and to the left, in the distance, the characteristic conical lump on the horizon that was the rock of Ailsa Craig. A bank of grass led down to the large curved bay of golden sand. It was beautiful, but nothing of the scene touched Hunter.

He and McEwan dismounted, tying their horses to a nearby tethering pole. The maids and footmen were milling around the carriages, chatting and laughing with excitement. McEwan looked to Hunter for his nod, then went to organise the party, to see that the blankets were spread upon the sands before collecting the picnic hampers and baskets containing the bottles of lemonade and elderflower cordial. Hunter stood there for a moment alone, detached, remote from the good spirits, and watched as the men peeled off their jackets and the women abandoned their shawls and pushed up their sleeves. There was such joviality, such happiness and anticipation amongst the entirety of his household that Hunter felt his very presence might spoil it. He moved away towards his mother’s coach where her footman was already assisting her down the steps.