hard put to manage on so small a sum.
To top it all, Uncle John had reached out from the grave and planted Christopher a facer. A letter, to be delivered if he refused to take Mademoiselle Boisette under his wing.
Curse it. New rage flared up to heat his blood. He dropped on to a wooden bench looking out over the harbour. Sullen, foam-crested waves tumbled up the beach and rattled the stones. On the horizon black clouds heralding yet more rain. A dousing would make a perfect end to the day.
He pulled the letter from his pocket and broke open the red wax seal. Ripe with the smell of seaweed, the stiff breeze fluttered the paper as he peered at the spidery handwriting.
Dear Nephew,
I write in haste, for I have little time left to me. If you are reading this letter, you have rejected my request to care for my little Sylvia.
Request? More like a bludgeoning over the head with a gravestone. Christopher fought the urge to ball the paper in his fist and toss it into the surf rolling around the rotting timber breakwater.
She has been a daughter to me all these years.
Then why hide her away?
Her mother was my first and only love. She chose another, but my feelings remained constant. Now, all I can do for my beloved Marguerite is take care of her little girl, Sylvia. My poor Marguerite, so tender in her emotions, dragged down into the pit of hell by viciousness and vice.
These were words a Gothic novelist like Mrs Radcliffe would have been proud to write. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to read on.
Understand, my dear Christopher, her father deserted his child and continues to deny her. I have spent my life and most of my money trying to prove her claim.
You must succeed where I have failed. The duke must pay for his crime.
Please, do not let me down. You are Sylvia’s only hope.
John Christopher Evernden.
The word hope had been underlined several times.
He was supposed to guess the name of this duke? He turned the paper over to see if it contained the answer on the back. Nothing. Was he supposed to walk up to each of them in turn and accuse them of siring a French bastard?
Damn. His uncle must think him some sort of knight on a white charger, riding around the countryside rescuing damsels in distress. Questionable damsels at that.
It was the sort of thing Garth would have jumped at when they were boys. And Christopher would have followed behind, cleaning up the mess. A fool’s errand. The old man had to be addled in his pate. Sylvia Boisette had been brutally clear about her mother’s occupation.
But not the daughter? For some obscure reason, he wanted to believe Uncle John’s assertion she was his ward and nothing more. In the face of a statement made by a man facing death, Christopher ought to believe in her innocence as a matter of family honour, despite her wanton behaviour earlier today.
A sudden image of her siren smile, the languorous removal of her gloves, fired his blood. Hell, did he have no self-control where this woman was concerned? Was desire mingled with disgust colouring his judgement?
Whatever the case, the almost nonexistent funds for her support left the workhouse as the only solution unless he succumbed to her blackmail.
He stared blindly at the tumbling surf and grating pebbles.
She needn’t know how much would be left after the sale of the house. He could add to the balance, just be rid of her. He certainly had enough blunt left from the tidy profit he’d made on the last cargo of silks from the Orient. Even after purchasing a half-share in a ship bound for America, there was more than enough left to see Mademoiselle Boisette comfortably settled.
It would solve the problem. If he could be sure she would leave his family in peace.
He stuck the note in his pocket alongside the agreement drawn up by Tripp, pushed to his feet and headed towards town and the comfort of his inn. He’d think about it some more over dinner.
Taking hasty decisions on an empty stomach only resulted in trouble.
Chapter Three
At the crunch of wheels on gravel, Sylvia turned her gaze from her beloved cliffs to the Evernden carriage rolling through the gate.
Thirsty for one last memory, she wheeled in a slow circle, the coarse fabric of her plain, grey wool travelling cloak twisting about her legs. Above her, white against grey, crying seagulls hovered on a breeze alive with the boom of crashing surf and a smattering of rain. Weighed down by the lessons she’d learned as a child, she drank in her last view of the rambling mansion’s warm red brick framed by windswept larches. One could never go back.
The matching chestnuts slowed to a halt at the front door. All loose-limbed athletic grace and conservative in a black coat, Mr Evernden leaped down. The wind ruffled the crisp waves of his light brown hair. His handsome face brightened when he caught sight of her.
Warmth trickled into her stomach. Her mind screamed danger.
He waited as she strolled across the drive to his side, then glanced at her green brassbound trunk beside her valise on the steps. ‘Is this everything?’
She had packed only the most practical of her clothing. She nodded. ‘All I need.’
The coachman tied her luggage on the rack at the back and Mr Evernden swept open the carriage door. ‘Are you ready, Mademoiselle Boisette?’
He held out his hand to assist her in. A small, polite smile curved his firm mouth and green sparks danced in his eyes.
Awareness of his size and strength skittered across her skin. She stilled, frozen by the odd sensation. Last night, his note had indicated his agreement to take her to Tunbridge Wells. After performing the harlot yesterday, dare she trust him? Prickles of foreboding crawled down her back.
She ignored his proffered aid. ‘Quite ready, Mr Evernden.’ Maintaining a cool expression, she stepped into the well-appointed carriage and settled on the comfortable black-tufted seats.
He followed her in, his musky sandalwood cologne heady in the confined space. Lean long legs filled the gap between the seats as he lounged into the squabs in the opposite corner. He gave her a sharp glance, then rapped on the roof and the carriage moved off with a gentle sway.
The window afforded glimpses of white sails skimming the spume-capped grey waves of the English Channel, an impenetrable moat around the castle of her past.
‘Another wet day,’ he said.
She kept her gaze fixed outside. ‘Indeed.’
‘Having caused us to freeze all winter I understand there are predictions that the Tomboro volcano will also ruin our spring.’
The masculine timbre of his voice resonated a chord
