Chapter Thirty-Nine

Sandcombe, Lincolnshire, March 1816

The parlor at the inn—the Dancing Sailor, or some such—was quieter than he'd expected. A lone gentleman, consuming a plate of eggs with enthusiasm, sat near the fireplace, and a couple with a young woman were engaged in conversation at a table by the window. The rest of the tables were unoccupied.

A plump, ruddy-faced man appeared at the doorway—the same man who'd ushered Monty inside last night when he climbed out of the mail coach.

"Oh, Your Grace!" he cried, "I didn't expect you to be about at this hour after you arrived so late last night. I was going to send my Johnny to tend to you, seeing as you have no valet."

"Thank you for your consideration, Mr. Ham, but I've become quite adept at dressing myself."

"Very good, sir. Sit ye down and I'll send Mrs. Ham over."

The innkeeper ushered Monty to a table set for one in the corner, then exited the parlor.

"Mary—Mary! The duke is up!"

Monty sat and glanced around. The lone gentleman gave him a cursory glance. But the family eyed him with interest—the man with envy in his eyes, and his wife with curiosity. The young woman, most likely their daughter, and barely out of the schoolroom, blushed and lowered her gaze. Her mother took her hand and smiled. The man looked at his wife, and the envy in his eyes disappeared as the two of them exchanged a loving glance.

They might envy Monty his title and wealth. But, in truth, they were the ones to be envied—a husband and wife indulging in a simple seaside vacation with their daughter, experiencing the pleasure of being together as a family.

The door opened, and a woman even plumper than the innkeeper appeared, with graying hair peeking out from beneath her cap, rosy cheeks, and warm brown eyes. She approached Monty's table and bobbed a curtsey.

"Begging your pardon, Your Grace, we didn't expect you up so soon. Are you happy to take your breakfast in the parlor? Or I can make up a private dining room."

"The parlor will do very well, Mrs. Ham," Monty said.

"Very good, sir. We serve very fine bacon here, if you don't mind my saying. It's from Mr. Long's farm. He has the finest herd of Curly Coats in the county."

"Curly Coats?"

"The Lincolnshire Curly Coat, Your Grace. You'll taste none finer—not even in London."

"In which case, some bacon will do very well, thank you."

She bobbed another curtsey and disappeared. Monty glanced about the parlor, noticing, for the first time, the paintings on the walls. Most were seascapes, but by the window was a painting of a church, framed by trees and shrubs, its tower reaching to the heavens, toward a clear blue sky.

When Mrs. Ham returned with a plate of bacon, Monty gestured to the paintings. "Are these images of Sandcombe?"

"That they are. They're for sale, if you take a fancy to any of them—to remind you of your stay. Are you on vacation?"

"After a fashion."

If a vacation were defined as spending time away from home being waited on by strangers and avoiding the daily responsibilities of life, then yes, Monty was on vacation. And he had been since the beginning of the year while he traveled up and down the country on his quest.

Yes—he was on vacation, and would remain so until he'd found her. The Lakes had proven fruitless—as had Brighton and Exeter. Wells yielded a glimmer of hope after the innkeeper confessed to having seen a woman fitting Eleanor's description, but she turned out to be a happily married mother of four in her early forties, with a broad Scottish brogue.

He was now running out of places to search. If Sandcombe proved fruitless, there was only Arbroath left.

At least in Britain.

"The parlor doesn't seem very full," he said. "Do you have any other guests?"

"We expect to be full tomorrow. Several visitors arrive tonight, including a large party from Lincoln. I can make up the private parlor if you want to dine in peace—and I'll set aside a portion of my fish pie for you."

Monty took a bite of his breakfast. "If it's as good as this bacon, you should set aside two portions. I suspect some of your guests have no wish to leave."

"That's much appreciated, sir," she said. "We had a young man here last December—he stayed almost a month."

"Why did he stay so long?"

Her smile disappeared. "My guests are free to come and go as they please without being gossiped about."

"Of course," Monty said. "Some of my acquaintances stayed here and spoke highly of your inn. A Miss Howard—perhaps you recall her?"

"We've had nobody by that name."

"Are you sure?"

"I recall the names of every guest who's stayed here, sir. There was a Mr. Howarth who stayed here with his sisters, on their way to a house party. Perhaps that's who you mean?"

"No—this would have been a woman. Unmarried."

"As I say," she said, a hard edge to her voice, "we respect our guests' privacy."

"Of course—an admirable quality, Mrs. Ham. I didn't mean to intend otherwise."

"Do you have much to occupy yourself with today, sir?" she asked. "My husband tells me you weren't certain how long your stay was going to be."

"I fancied an impromptu vacation by the sea," he replied. "Somewhere quieter than Southend or Cromer. I might undertake a little exploring."

"If you wish to explore on horseback, we've a mount that should be suitable," she said. "A gelding—sixteen hands, with an excellent temperament, who responds well to strangers. You only need ask and I'll have Tom saddle him up."

"That would do very well, Mrs. Ham, thank you." Monty resumed eating, and, recognizing her cue for dismissal, the woman curtseyed and exited the parlor.

Devil's toes—the last thing he wanted was to arouse suspicion. Unfortunately for him, Mrs. Ham seemed to be that rare beast—a woman averse to gossip, despite all the tales she must have picked up from travelers over the years. Perhaps he'd have more luck with the husband, who seemed ruled by his wife.

After finishing his breakfast, Monty returned to the main hallway, remembering this time to stoop on his way through the doorway. Older buildings had their charm, with their uneven floors and beams that stretched across the ceilings, but those ceilings were low enough to necessitate a man of his height having to duck to avoid smacking his forehead on a door lintel, as he'd done last night on entering his bedchamber.

He strode along the hallway, toward the doors leading outside. Several oval-framed portraits adorned the walls—likenesses of Mr. and Mrs. Ham flanked the candle sconce beside the parlor door, followed by a portrait of a fox terrier, the same yappy creature that had nipped at his ankles yesterday. He continued along the hallway, glancing at each painting, until he came upon the one at the end.

It was the likeness of a man. The subject had strong features—a high forehead, sharp cheekbones, and deep-set, wide eyes that looked out at the observer. Their clear expression showed a sharp intelligence, and the firm set to the jaw spoke of a strength of character that few men possessed.

Monty took a closer look, and caught his breath.

"Are ye all right, sir?" Mr. Ham said from behind. "It's a fine likeness, isn't it?"

"Is it an old drawing?"

"No, sir—it was drawn recently. Last month, I think."

"Was it drawn by the same hand that painted all the seascapes?"

"That's right, sir, though this one's not for sale."

Monty studied the portrait, taking in the pencil strokes that had been drawn with care and love.

A love he recognized.

No—it can't be…

His heart somersaulted in his chest. "Wh-who's the subject?"

"That'd be the vicar, Reverend Staines."

"The vicar?"

"As fine a gentleman as you're ever likely to meet. He's Earl Staines's youngest, but he lacks the reckless arrogance seen in so many young folk these days."

"A veritable paragon."

If he recognized Monty's facetious tone, Mr. Ham showed no sign. "That he is. The village is waiting to see who he'll settle down with. A vicar needs a wife, don't you agree?"

"A-and the artist?" Monty asked.

"That'd be Mrs. Riley."

"Does she live in the village?"

"On the edge—just past the church. My Mary has often said to her it's wrong for a lady to live on her own away from other folk, but Mrs. Riley seems to like it."

"And Mr. Riley?"

"He's passed—though she doesn't speak of it," the innkeeper said. "And why should she, is what I say? Killed at Waterloo, that's what old Cobbers reckons. She says Mrs. Riley's haunted by something—ye can see it in her eyes. Though we shouldn't set much store by what an old crone like Ma Cobbers has to say. Some folk hereabouts reckon she's a witch. But in one aspect, she's right. A young woman like Mrs. Riley shouldn't shut herself up in the prime of life just because her husband's passed, for all that he was a hero."

"But you don't know?"

"Lord no, sir—I wouldn't like to ask. She's not lived here long, but she's a part of the village, though some folk hereabouts say that you can never be part of the village unless you're born and bred here. But she's liked among them that know her, and she gives some of the proceeds of her painting to the poor. Which is more than Mrs. Fulford does, I can tell you. Mrs. Fulford may portray herself as a paragon of charitable work, but she sits back and lets others do the work while she takes the credit."

"Who's Mrs. Fulford?" Monty asked. Evidently in some marriages, it was the husband, and not the wife, who loved to gossip.

"That'd be the squire's wife. A little too eager to poke her nose in everybody's affairs. But I daresay her nose will be put out of joint soon, now Mrs. Riley's here."

"How so?"

"Mrs. Riley helps the vicar with the church flowers, you see. A fine job she does, much to Mrs. Fulford's dismay. Everyone in the village knows that Mrs. Fulford wants the vicar for one of her daughters. But Reverend Staines needs a good woman for a wife—not a pampered miss who thinks too much of herself. I can think of none better than Mrs. Riley."

"Jim—Jim!" a voice cried. "Are ye prattling on with the guests again?"

The innkeeper colored. "Coming, Mary, love!" he called. "Beggin' yer pardon, sir. I must get the place ready—we've a large party staying tonight. I'll have Tom saddle Copper for ye. It's a fine day for a ride on the beach, but take care of the tide—it can catch ye out if ye ride too far."

"Jim—where are ye? I need that wood chopped before noon!"

The innkeeper scuttled off, leaving Monty with the portrait—and his conscience.

He reached out and traced the outline of the subject with his fingertip.

"Who are you, Reverend Staines?"

The subject stared back at him with an air of superiority—not a superiority born of arrogance, but arising from him being the better man.

What had Eleanor said? That she always drew the subject as she saw them—not as they were.

Did that mean that this Reverend Staines was, in her eyes, the better man?

Then he shook his head. This was mere speculation. Mrs. Riley's similarity to Eleanor was due to wishful thinking—nothing more.

*

Copper was anappropriate name. The gelding's chestnut pelt shimmered in the spring sunshine like polished metal. The animal was a fine beast. Not a thoroughbred—it had been bred for sturdiness rather than stamina—but it served as an adequate mount, to the point where it was tempting to ask Mr. Ham whether he'd consider selling the animal.

After pausing at the church with its squat tower and mottled stone walls, Monty steered his mount along the road leading out of the village until he spied a small dwelling—a white cottage with a red roof, surrounded by a garden fence. The garden was a blaze of color, and the air shimmered with the scent of the sea and a heady floral perfume.

Monty slowed his mount to a walk, then dismounted and tethered the animal to the fence. He lifted the latch on the gate and slipped through, following the gravel path to the building, where he knocked on a door surrounded by roses just coming into bloom.

There was no answer, and he knocked again.

Then he stepped back, glancing at the windows for signs of activity. But there was none.

The horse let out a snort. Seagulls squawked in the air above, their slim shapes circling toward the sky. The faint hum of bees filled the air, and he caught sight of their tiny shapes flying to and fro between the blooms in the garden.

Then he heard it—a woman's laugh.

His skin tightened in recognition, and he glanced about, but there was no sign of anyone. Then he moved along the side of the cottage until he caught sight of the figure of a woman, framed against the backdrop of the sea.

She sat at an easel, engrossed in her work, sweeping her brush over the canvas, then dipping it in a jar at her side, swirling it in the palette in her hand, before working on the canvas again.

Monty's heart swelled in his chest.

It's you… Sweet heaven above—it'sreally you.

Having endured disappointment after disappointment, week after week, he'd almost been driven mad with having his hopes raised, then crushed. Perhaps his mind was toying with him. Perhaps she was an apparition, formed out of hope—with her softly rounded curves, and the pure white skin of her neck visible as she bent her head, concentrating on her canvas.

Monty blinked and wiped his eyes. But the vision before him didn't disappear.

She was real—she was here.

And she was even more beautiful than before—perhaps because he now knew the sweet soul that resided within her delectable form. And perhaps because, having experienced the pain of having lost her, he understood the joy of having her in his arms—and in his life.

"Eleanor… My Eleanor."

Though he spoke in a whisper, she stiffened, as if his mind had reached out to hers. She looked up, a frown creasing her forehead.

I'm here, my love.

She smiled, her face illuminating with joy, and his heart soared. An invisible thread bound them together, uniting their souls. All he need do was call her name and she'd return to him.

Then another figure came into view.

A man—evidently a gentleman, given his apparel—approached her and placed a hand on her shoulder. She tilted her head up, her smile widening, and her eyes filled with friendship, and…

…and—dear Lord!—love.

Monty's gut twisted. He reached for the wall to steady himself and stepped back. He collided with a flowerpot, knocking it over with a clatter.

"Damn!"

He cursed, stopping to set the pot upright. Then he glanced up and froze.

Eleanor had risen to her feet and was staring directly at him, her companion by her side.

The peaceful smile had gone, and his heart ached to see the pain in her eyes.

Then she shifted her body toward her companion. Almost imperceptibly, but Monty saw it for what it was—an instinctive gesture where she looked to another for comfort.

But the pain in her eyes could not match the pain in his heart at knowing he'd lost her.