A Dark and Brooding Gentleman (5 page)

She threw him a grudging nod. ‘I am glad that at least you have not let the old customs slip.’

He gave a nod of acknowledgement, his face cold and expressionless to hide the memories her words evoked.

His mother took her parasol from the maid who appeared from the carriage behind her. There was a silence as she surveyed the scene before her, a small half-smile upon her mouth there not for Hunter, but for the sake of the staff.

Hunter glanced round, expecting Miss Allardyce, but his mother’s companion did not appear.

‘The book was to your satisfaction?’ he enquired.

‘The book?’ His mother peered at him as if he were talking double Dutch.

‘Evelina,’
he prompted.

‘I have not seen that book in years,’ she said and turned her attention away from him.

Hunter turned the implication of her answer over in his mind and let the minutes pass before he spoke again.

‘Your companion does not accompany you,’ he said, as if merely making an observation. His face remained forward, watching the staff as they carried the hampers down onto the sand.

‘Miss Allardyce is feeling unwell. I told her to spend the day in bed, resting.’ His mother equally kept her focus on the maids and the footmen.

‘The timing of her illness is unfortunate.’
Or fortunate, depending on whose point of view one was considering,
he thought grimly.

His mother nodded. ‘Indeed it is—poor girl.’

Once everyone was settled upon the blankets, his mother in pride of place upon a chair and rug, he and McEwan removed their coats, rolled up their sleeves and served plates of cold sliced cooked chicken, ham and beef to the waiting servants. There were bread rolls and cheese and hard-boiled eggs. There were strawberries and raspberries, fresh cooled cream and the finest jams, sponge cakes, peppermint creams and hard-boiled sweets. And chunks of ice all wrapped up and placed amongst the food and drink to keep it cool. Expense had not been skimped upon. Hunter wanted his staff to have a good time, just as his father had done before him and his father before him.

This was duty. He knew that and so he endured it, even though the laughter and light that surrounded him made him feel all the darker and all the more alone. Hunter stood aside from the rest and watched the little party, his mother in the centre of it, good humoured, partaking in the jokes and the chatter; the few staff that
remained at Blackloch were as warm with her as if she had never left.

He slid a glance at his pocket watch before making his way over to his mother. The laughter on her face died away as soon as she saw him. And he thought he saw something of the light in her expire.

‘There are matters at Blackloch to which I must attend. I will leave McEwan at your disposal.’

She smiled, if it could be called that, but her eyes were filled with disdain and condemnation. She made no attempt to dissuade him. Indeed, she looked positively relieved that he was leaving.

McEwan appeared by his side as Hunter pulled on his coat.

‘Attend to my mother’s wishes if you will, McEwan. I will see you back at Blackloch later.’ Hunter brushed his heels against Ajax’s flank and was gone, heading back along the road to Blackloch Hall.

Phoebe did not know where else to look in the sunlit study. All six desk drawers lay open. She had searched through each one twice and found nothing of what she sought. There were bottles of ink, pens and pen sharpeners. There was also a packet of crest-embossed writing paper, books of estate accounts, newspapers and letters, a brace of pistols and even a roll of crisp white banknotes, but not the object she must steal. She had searched all of the library shelves, even sliding each deep red leather-bound book out just in case, but behind them was only dark old mahogany and a fine layer of dust.

The faint aroma of brandy still hung in the air, rich and sweet and ripe, mixed with the underlying scent of
a man’s cologne—the smell of Hunter. She thought of him sitting in this room through the long dark hours of the night, alone and filling himself with brandy. And despite her father’s words, and whatever it was that Hunter had done, she could not help but feel a twinge of compassion for him.

She slumped down into Hunter’s chair, not knowing what to do. The man had said it would be in Hunter’s study. But Phoebe had been looking for over an hour without a sight of it. She leaned her elbows on the dark ebony surface of Hunter’s desk and rested her head in her hands.
Where else to look? Where?
But there were no other hiding places to search.

The sun was beating through the arched lattice windows directly upon her and she felt flustered and hot and worried. A bead of sweat trickled between her breasts as she got to her feet, her shoulders tense and tight with disappointment and worry. There was nothing more to be gained by searching yet again. The Messenger, as he called himself, had been wrong; she could do nothing other than tell him so.

She thought of Mrs Hunter, and the man who was her son, and of all the staff down at the seaside, with the cooling sea breeze and the wash of the waves rolling in over the sand, and up to the ankles of those who dared to paddle. Her fingers wiped the sweat from her brow and she felt a pang of jealousy. And then she remembered the loch with its still cool water and its smooth dark surface. She rubbed at the ache of tension that throbbed in her shoulders as she thought of its soothing peacefulness and tranquillity.

She knew she should not, but Mrs Hunter had said they would not be back until late afternoon, and there
was no one here to see. Phoebe felt very daring as she closed the door of Hunter’s study behind her.

The glare of the mid-day sun was relentless as Hunter cantered along the Kilmarnock road. He would not gallop Ajax until he reached the softer ground of the moor. Sweat glistened on the horse’s neck, but the heat of the day did not touch Hunter, for he was chilled inside, chilled as the dead. In the sky above it was as if a great dark cloud covered the sun, the same dark shadow that dogged him always.

He thought of Miss Allardyce and he spurred Ajax on until he reached Blackloch.

Hunter stabled his horse and then slipped into the house through the back door. All was quiet, and still; the only things moving were the tiny particles of dust dancing in the sunlight bathing the hallway. He made his way into his study, his refuge. And, dispensing with his hat and gloves, scanned the room with a new eye.

Nothing looked out of place. Everything was just as he had left it. The piles of paperwork and books perched at the far edge of his desk, the roll of banknotes in the top drawer, the set of pistols in the bottom. He pulled out the money, counted the notes—not one was missing. Upon the shelves that lined the room the books, bound in their dark red leather with gold-lettered spines, sat uniform and tidy. No gaps caught the eye. His gaze moved to the fourth shelf by the window, to the one gap that should have been there.
Evelina
sat in its rightful place.

Hunter poured himself a brandy and sat down at the desk. She had been in here. He mused over the knowledge while he sipped at the brandy. Returning a book
that she had lied about needing to borrow. His gaze moved over the polished ebony surface of his desk, and he saw it—a single hair, long and stark against the darkness of the wood. A hair that had not been there this morning, on a desk that she had no need to be near in order to return the book to its shelf. He lifted it carefully, held it between his fingers and, in the light from the window, the hair glowed a deep burnished red. Hunter felt a spurt of anger that he had allowed his physical reaction to the woman cloud his judgement. He abandoned his brandy and made his way to find Miss Allardyce.

It was no surprise to find the bedchamber empty and the bed neatly made. He undertook a cursory search of her belongings, of which it seemed that Miss Allardyce possessed scant few. A green silk evening dress, the bonnet she had been wearing upon the moor road the day he had encountered her with the highwaymen. A pair of well-worn brown leather boots, one pair of green silk slippers to match the dress. A shawl of pale grey wool, a dark cloak, some gloves, underwear. All of it outmoded and worn, but well cared for. A hairbrush, ribbons, a toothbrush and powder, soap. No jewellery. Nothing that he would not expect to find. And yet a feeling nagged in his gut that something with Miss Allardyce was not quite right. And where the hell was she?

He stood where he was, his gaze ranging the room that held her scent—sweet and clean, roses and soap. And then something caught his eye in the scene through the window. A pale movement in the dark water of the loch. Hunter moved closer and stared out, his eye following the moorland running down to the loch. And the
breath caught in his throat, for there in the waters of the Black Loch was a woman—a young, naked woman. Her long hair, dark reddish brown, wet and swirling around her, her skin ivory where she lay beneath the surface of the water, so still that he wondered if she were drowned. But then those slim pale arms moved up and over her head, skimming the water behind her as she swam, and he could see the slight churn where she kicked her feet.

He stood there and watched, unable to help himself. Watched the small mounds of her breasts break the surface and fall beneath again. He watched her rise up, emerging from the loch’s dark depths like a red-haired Aphrodite, naked and beautiful. Even across the distance he could see her wet creamy skin, the curve of her small breasts with their rosy tips, the narrowness of her waist and the gentle swell of her hips. She stood on the bank and wrung out her hair, sending more rivulets of water cascading down her body before reaching down to pull on her shift. Hunter felt his mouth go dry and his body harden. He knew now the whereabouts of Miss Allardyce—she was swimming in his loch.

P
hoebe hummed as she hurried up the main staircase, carrying her petticoats and dress draped over her arm. She resolved that once she was dressed she would retrace her route and wipe the trail of wet footprints she was leaving in her wake. The tension had eased from her shoulders; she was feeling clear-headed and much more positive about tackling the Messenger on Tuesday. She was padding down the corridor towards her bedchamber when one of the doors on the left opened and out stepped Sebastian Hunter.

Phoebe gave a shriek and almost dropped her bundle of clothes. ‘What on earth …? Good heavens!’ He seemed to take up the whole of the passageway ahead. She saw his gaze sweep down over her body where the thin worn cotton of her shift was moulded to the dampness of her skin; she clutched her dress and undergarments tight to cover her indecency.

‘Mr Hunter, you startled me. I thought you were gone to the seaside with the rest of the house.’ She could feel
the scald of embarrassment in her cheeks and hear the slight breathlessness of shock in her voice.

‘I returned early.’ His expression was closed and unsmiling as ever.

‘If you will excuse me, sir,’ she said and made to walk past him, but to Phoebe’s horror Hunter moved to block her way.

‘My mother said you were ill abed.’ His tone was cold and she thought she could see a hint of accusation in his eyes.

‘This is not the time for discussion, sir. At least have the decency to let me clothe myself first.’ She looked at him with indignation and prayed that he would not see the truth beneath it.

Hunter showed no sign of moving.

‘I would hear your explanation now, Miss Allardyce.’ His gaze was piercing.

‘This is ridiculous! You have no right to accost me so!’

‘And you have no right to lie to my mother,’ he countered in a voice so cool and silky that it sent shivers rippling the length of her spine.

‘I did not lie.’ Another lie upon all the others. She could not meet his gaze as she said it.

‘You do not look ill and abed to me, Miss Allardyce. Indeed, you look very much as if you have been swimming in the loch.’

She could not very well deny it. She stared at her the bareness of her feet and the droplets of water surrounding them, then, taking a deep breath, raised her eyes to his. And in their meeting that same feeling passed between them as had done on the moor and that night in his study. Hunter felt it, too, she could see it in his eyes.

And standing there, barely clothed before him, at this most inopportune of moments she understood exactly what it was. An overwhelming, irrational attraction. Her mind went blank; she could think of not a single thing to say. ‘I …’

Hunter waited.

With a will of iron she managed to drag her gaze away and close her mind to the realisation.

‘I felt somewhat feverish and took a dip in the loch to cool the heat.’ The excuse slipped from her tongue and, feeble though it was, she was thankful for it. ‘As a result I am feeling much recovered.’

He gave no sign that he did not believe her, but neither did he look convinced. The tension hummed between them. The seconds seemed to stretch for ever.

‘Sir, I am barely clothed! Your behaviour is reprehensible!’ She forced her chin up and eyed him with disdain.

Hunter did not move. ‘You were in my study today, Miss Allardyce.’ That pale intense gaze bored into hers as if he could see every last thought in her head.

Phoebe’s heart gave a little stutter. The tension ratcheted tighter between them. She swallowed hard and kept her eyes on his, as if to look away would be some kind of admission of guilt. She thought of her father and his poor battered face and the memory was enough to steel every trembling nerve in her body. She knew what was at stake here.

‘I returned your book.’ She could feel the water dripping from her hair over her shoulders, rolling down over her arms, which were bare to Hunter’s perusal if he
should choose to look, but his gaze did not stray once from her own.

‘How did my mother enjoy
Evelina?’
‘Well enough, I believe.’ Phoebe spoke calmly, and stayed focused.

He said nothing, but there was a tiny flicker of a muscle in his jaw.

She shivered, but whether it was from the cooling of her skin or the burning intensity of Hunter’s eyes she did not know. ‘And now, if you will excuse me, sir.’

His gaze shifted then, swept over her bare shoulders, over the dress she clutched to her breast, down to her bare feet and the puddle of loch water that was forming around them. And she blushed with embarrassment and anger, and most of all with the knowledge that she could be attracted to such a man.

‘Really, Mr Hunter! How dare you?’ Hunter’s eyes met hers once more. He did not look away, but he did step aside to let her reach the door.

She edged past him, keeping her back to the door so that he would not see the full extent of her undress. Her hand fumbled behind at the door knob. The door did not open. Phoebe twisted it to the left. The door did not yield. Then to the right. Still nothing happened.

She rattled at the blasted knob, panicking at the thought she would have to turn round and in the process present Hunter with a view that did not bear thinking about.

Hunter moved, closing the distance between them. Phoebe gave a gasp as his hand reached round
behind her. He was so close she could smell his soap, his cologne, the very scent that was the man himself. Her heart was thudding so hard she felt dizzy. And as Hunter stared down at her she could see the sudden darkening blaze in his eyes, could sense the still tension that gripped his large powerful male body, could feel the very air vibrate between them. The edge of his sleeve brushed against her arm. And part of her dreaded it and, heaven help her, part of her wanted to feel the touch of those strong firm lips. To be kissed, to be held by such a strong dangerous man. She squeezed her eyes closed and clutched the dress all the tighter.

Cool air hit against her skin and she heard the sound of booted steps receding along the passageway. She opened her eyes to find Hunter gone and the door to her chamber wide open behind her.

Hunter paused as the clock upon his study mantel chimed eight and then looked across his desk at McEwan, who was sitting in the chair opposite and waiting with the air of a man much contented. Hunter swallowed back the bitterness.

‘You are up and about early this morning, Hunter.’ Hunter saw McEwan eye the still half-full brandy decanter, but his steward was wise enough to make no comment upon it.

‘I have things on my mind,’ said Hunter and frowned again as he thought of Miss Allardyce.

‘What do you make of my mother’s companion?’

‘I cannot say I have noticed her,’ McEwan confessed.

‘Hell’s teeth, man, how could—?’ Hunter stopped, suddenly aware of revealing just how much he had noticed Miss Allardyce himself. In his time he had
known diamonds of the
ton,
actresses whose looks commanded thousands and opera singers with the faces of angels, all of whose beauty far exceeded that of his mother’s companion. And yet there was something about Phoebe Allardyce, something when she looked at him with those golden-brown eyes of hers that affected Hunter in a way no woman ever had. He took a breath, leaned back in the chair and looked at McEwan.

‘She seems much as any other lady’s companion I have met,’ McEwan offered. ‘Why are you asking?’

Hunter hesitated.

The clock ticked loud and slow.

‘I do not trust her,’ he said at last.

McEwan’s brows shot up. ‘What has she done?’

‘Nothing … at least nothing solid I can confront her with.’ He thought of her visits to his study, and the telltale hair upon his desk so vibrant against the polished ebony of the wood. He glanced up at McEwan. ‘Let us just call it a gut feeling.’

‘Is it a question of her honesty?’

‘Possibly.’ Hunter thought of her lies about the coach fare,
Evelina,
her absence at the seaside trip, all of which were trivial and might be explained away by a myriad of reasons. But his instincts were telling him otherwise. And that was not all his damnable instincts were telling him of Miss Allardyce. A vision appeared in his mind of her standing in the upstairs passageway, her shift clinging damp and transparent, and the pile of clothing that hid little, and he almost groaned at the pulse of desire that throbbed through him. He closed his eyes, clenched his teeth to martial some control and felt anger and determination overcome the lust. When he opened his eyes again McEwan was staring at him.

‘Everything all right?’

Hunter schooled himself to dispassion. ‘Why would it be otherwise?’ He saw the compassion that came into McEwan’s eyes and hated it. ‘We are talking of Miss Allardyce,’ he said and knew he should curb the cold tone from his voice. Jed McEwan was his friend and the one who had helped him through those darkest days. The man did not deserve such treatment. ‘Forgive me,’ he muttered.

McEwan gave a single nod and the expression on his face told Hunter that he understood. ‘What do you want to do about Miss Allardyce?’

Hunter narrowed his eyes slightly. ‘Find out a little more about her. There is a man I know in Glasgow who should be able to help.’ A man he had used before for less honourable pursuits. ‘Would you be able to act on my behalf?’

‘Of course.’

Hunter scribbled the man’s details on a sheet of paper; while he waited for the ink to dry, he opened the drawer and extracted one of the rolls of banknotes. ‘The sooner, the better.’ He pushed the money and the paper across the desk’s surface to McEwan, who folded the paper before slipping both into his pocket.

‘And while you are gone I will see what I can discover from my mother.’

Hunter waited until his mother and her companion had finished their breakfast and were playing cards within the drawing room before he approached.

His mother was dressed as smartly as ever, not a hair out of place in her chignon, her dress of deep purple silk proclaiming her still to be in mourning for his father,
although it had been nine months since his death. Miss Allardyce sat opposite her, wearing the same faded blue dress he had last seen clutched raggedly against her breast, on the face of it looking calm and unruffled, but he saw the flicker of wariness in those tawny eyes before she masked it.

‘If you would excuse me for a few minutes, ma’am.’ Miss Allardyce set her cards face down upon the green baize surface of the card table and got to her feet. She smiled at his mother. ‘I have left my handkerchiefs in my bedchamber and find I have need of them.’

His mother gave a sullen nod, but did not look pleased.

‘Well?’ she asked as the door closed behind her companion. ‘What is it that you have to say to me?’

Hunter walked over to Miss Allardyce’s chair and sat down upon it. ‘How are you finding it being back at Blackloch?’

‘Well enough,’ she said in a tone that would have soured the freshest of milk. She eyed him with cold dislike. ‘There are no amends that you can make for what you did, Sebastian. You cannot expect that I will forgive you.’

‘I do not,’ he said easily and lifted Miss Allardyce’s cards from the table. He fanned them out, looking at them. ‘Is Miss Allardyce to play?’

His mother gave a grudging nod.

Hunter gestured for another card from the banker’s pile. And his mother slid one face down across the baize towards him. He noticed the arthritic knuckles above the large cluster of diamonds that glittered upon her fingers, and the slight tremor that held them.

‘I did not know you had taken on a companion.’

‘There is much you do not know about me, Sebastian.’

‘You did not advertise the position in the
Glasgow Herald;
I would have seen it.’ He narrowed his eyes and stared at the cards as if musing what move to make. His attention was seemingly focused entirely upon the fan of cards within his hand.

‘Miss Allardyce came to me recommended by a friend. She is from a good family, the daughter of a knight, no less, albeit in unfortunate circumstances.’

‘Indeed,’ murmured Hunter and played his card.

His mother nodded appreciatively at his choice. She sniffed and regarded her own cards more closely, then filled the silence as he had hoped. ‘She is left alone while her father, a Sir Henry Allardyce, is hospitalised. I offered my assistance when I heard of her situation.’

‘You are too good, Mother, taking in waifs and strays.’

‘Do not be sharp, Sebastian. It does not suit you.’ He gave a small smile of amusement. She played a card.

Hunter eyed it. ‘Your card skills have improved.’

His mother tried not to show it, but he could tell she was pleased with the compliment.

‘Did she offer a letter of recommendation, a character?’

‘Of course not. I told you, she is a gentleman’s daughter with no previous experience of such a position.’ His mother’s eyes narrowed. ‘You are very interested in Miss Allardyce all of a sudden. Do not think to start with any of your rakish nonsense. I will not stand for it. She is my companion.’

‘Miss Allardyce is not my type,’ he said coolly. ‘As well you know.’

Her cheeks coloured faintly at his reference to the light-skirts in whom he had previously taken such interest. ‘There is no need for vulgarity.’

‘I apologise if I have offended you.’ He inclined his head. ‘My concern is with you, Mother, and if that warrants an interest in those you take into your employ, particularly in positions of such confidence, then I make no apology for that. What do you really know of the girl? Of her trustworthiness and her background?’

‘Oh, do not speak of concern for me, for I know full well that you have none,’ she snapped. The disdain was back in her eyes, their momentary truce broken. ‘And as for Miss Allardyce, or any of my staff, I will not be dictated to, nor will I have my choice vetted by you. To put it bluntly, Sebastian, it is none of your business.’

‘On the contrary, I owe it to my father—’

‘Do not dare speak his name! You have no right, no damned right at all!’ And she threw the cards down on the table and swept from the room.