She would never see him again, that must be the explanation for her reckless question. ‘There is someone, isn’t there? Someone you are in love with and cannot have.’
‘I thought so.’ He spoke readily, but his eyes were bleak. ‘I was wrong, but it clouded my judgement badly enough to almost get me drowned through sheer inattention.’ He turned and mounted, collected the restless horse with a light hand on the reins. ‘I would have done my best to make you happy, if marriage was what you wanted.’
‘What I want, my lord, is my old life back. I wish you a safe journey and a happy return to your old life. Thank you for your help and for taking the pictures to be appraised.’ She could still hardly think of them without feeling ill.
He inclined his head, turned Jackdaw and spurred off up the lane, not slowing as he drew alongside his friend, but cantering on. She waited, but Cris did not look back.
Thank you for your help. Thank you for two nights of bliss in your arms. I wish I had never seen you, because I do not know how my heart will heal.
It was more difficult than she could have imagined to walk back briskly into the house and join the aunts in the drawing room, but it was good discipline, Tamsyn told herself. Soon, if she kept on smiling and pretending everything was all right, she would begin to get used to this hollow ache.
‘Such nice young men,’ Izzy said, patting the sofa beside her. ‘I will miss them.’
‘We will hear from Mr Defoe soon enough, I expect,’ Rosie said. ‘He did not think it would take the expert long to assess the paintings.’
‘Dear Mr Defoe will know what to do,’ Izzy said, apparently comforted by the thought.
‘Dear Mr Defoe is having the pictures valued for you, not investigating the crime,’ Tamsyn pointed out.
‘If Franklin had come to me in the first place, told me he needed the money and wanted to sell the pictures, then I would have given them back,’ Izzy lamented. ‘I still would if it were not for that poor man’s death.’
‘With no proof, there is not a lot we can do, although I hate to admit it,’ Tamsyn mused. ‘We must be on the alert here and hope some way to deal with Franklin occurs to us.’
As she spoke the bulky figure of Seamus the chairman passed the window. He was apparently strolling casually, but Tamsyn noticed the truncheon hanging at his side when his coat was blown back by the breeze. At least their bodyguards were in place, but unless she could come up with some plan then they were never going to be free of Franklin’s shadow.
*
The London papers arrived, courtesy of the vicar, four days after publication. A week after Cris and Gabriel had left, Tamsyn sat and attempted to read an account of the antiquities of Devon—also thanks to the vicar, who was generous with his library—and told herself that she was managing very well without Cris de Feaux. She’d hardly thought of him at all—not more than every hour or so—although it was unaccountably difficult to concentrate on manorial history for some reason. It was hard to sleep as well, but that must be because of her worries over the pictures and what Franklin might do next, and the faint crunch of footsteps as one or other of the Irishmen made their nightly patrols.
‘Franklin’s name is in the paper,’ Izzy announced suddenly, making Tamsyn jump.
‘It is?’
Her aunt folded the Morning Post, pushed her spectacles further down her nose and peered at the small print. ‘Here, I glimpsed his name somewhere under “Fashionable Arrivals and Departures”. In “Arrivals” it says, “The Duchess of Devonshire to Ashbourne’s Hotel; the Marquess of Avenmore to St James’s Square; the Earl of Edenbridge to Half Moon Street; Dowager Countess of…” Here it is. “The Viscount Chelford from Holt Hall.”’
So Cris and Gabriel were in London. She wondered what Cris’s house was like. It must be very grand, she supposed. Even if she had never been to London she knew that the St James’s area was fashionable and that the legendary Almack’s was just off St James’s Square, which was convenient for Cris in his pursuit of an eligible wife. With Franklin out of town, at least there was no risk of the two meeting.
‘Here comes the post,’ Rosie observed before Izzy could launch into futile speculation on Franklin’s movements and motives.
A few minutes later Jason brought in the letters. Tamsyn’s correspondence was all exceedingly dull until she reached the letter from Mr Pentire, their man of business, who was delighted to report that since their banker had received a letter of guarantee from no less a person than the Marquess of Avenmore, he had been energetically quashing all rumours about the state of finances at Barbary Combe House.
It should have been a huge relief, of course. Damn him, Tamsyn fumed. In he strolls, setting my life straight with the bank as well. Dear Mr Defoe, says Izzy. Interfering, patronising marquess, I say.
It was unworthy and ungrateful and she should think of the aunts’ security and happiness, not her own wounded heart and dented pride. She was still talking herself out of the sullens when Rosie gave a shriek.
‘They are by Rubens! The oil paintings, Mr Defoe says they are by Rubens and worth—oh, my goodness, I must be misreading his handwriting. Isobel, dear, you see what it says.’
Izzy took one look, added her own shriek. ‘I don’t believe it! That much, for two little pictures? Whatever am I going to do? I am very fond of the paintings, but hardly to the extent that I would see anyone hurt to keep them.’ She looked as though she might weep at the thought.
‘Nothing,’ said Rosie fiercely. ‘If you
r nephew had been a decent young man and you had discovered this, then of course you would tell him. But he is responsible for that poor man’s death, whether he intended it or not. Your father wanted you to have the pictures. That should be enough—it is not as though you could or would sell them and they will go back to the estate eventually.’
‘If he takes them, he will only be stealing his own property,’ Tamsyn said thoughtfully. She got up and went to sit beside Izzy, put an arm around her and gave her a hug. ‘I am trying to think of what we could accuse him of if there is no evidence about the murder. He would be breaking the terms of your father’s will and he would be breaking and entering, I suppose.’
‘We must think on it when we have got over the shock,’ Rosie said. ‘Ring for some tea, Tamsyn dear, and let us open the rest of our post.’
Even tea did not entirely stop Izzy’s agitated murmurings, but eventually she opened the remainder of her letters. ‘This is from Cousin Harriet—do you recall her, Rosie? Sylvia’s daughter, such a nice girl, and she made a good marriage, to Lord Pirton, and had three sons and a daughter, Julia. I haven’t heard from her in an age, but she says she has been in a whirl with her daughter’s come-out and marriage! Goodness…to Lord Dewington. And she—Harriet, that is—says she was quite cast down with anti-climax and Pirton is insisting on staying in London during the summer because of some government business and she’s been meaning for an age to invite us all to stay, but couldn’t because of Julia—’ Izzy paused for breath ‘—and would we like to come now?’