Read the book: «Historical Romance March 2017 Book 1-4»

Chapter One

September 1818—Sandbay, Dorset

It was an elegant shop front with its sea-green paintwork, touches of gilding and sparkling clean windows. Aphrodite’s Seashell. A risqué choice of name, Lucian thought, considering that Aphrodite was the Greek goddess of love, born from the sea foam when Cronus cut off Uranus’s male parts and threw them into the ocean. Otherwise it looked feminine and mildly frivolous as befitted its function and location. Not a place he would normally set foot in unless absolutely desperate.

But Mr L. J. Dunton Esquire, otherwise known in polite society as Lucian John Dunton Avery, Marquess of Cannock, was desperate. Otherwise he would not be found dead within a hundred miles of an obscure seaside resort in the not very fashionable time of mid-September. That desperation had driven him to ask for advice and the landlord at the rigidly respectable Royal Promenade Hotel had recommended this place, so he pushed open the door to a tinkle of bells and stepped inside.

* * *

Sara gave one last twitch to the draperies and stepped back to admire the display of artists’ equipment she had just set up beside the counter—easel, palette, a box of watercolour paints, the beginnings of a rough sketch of the bay on the canvas—all tastefully made into a still life with the addition of a parasol set amidst a drift of large seashells and colourful beach pebbles.

There, she thought, giving it an approving nod. That should inspire customers to buy an armful of equipment and rush to the nearest scenic viewpoint to create a masterpiece.

She replaced the jars of shells she had used on their shelf next to the other glass vessels full of coloured sands and assorted mysterious boxes and tins designed to stir the curiosity of the browser. A glance to her left across the shop reassured her that the bookshelves, the rack of picture frames and the table scattered with leaflets and journals looked invitingly informal rather than simply muddled.

Behind her the doorbells tinkled their warning. Sara turned, then modified her welcoming smile of greeting into something more restrained. This was not one of her usual clients. Not a lady at all, in fact. This visitor was not only unfamiliar, but male. Very male and a highly superior specimen of the sex at that. She kept the smile cool. She was female and most certainly young enough to be appreciative, but she had too much pride to show it.

‘Good morning, sir. I think you may have gone astray—the circulating library and reading room is just two buildings further up the street on this side.’

He was studying the shop interior, but looked round when she spoke and removed his hat. That was a very superior specimen as well. ‘I was looking for Aphrodite’s Seashell, not the library.’

‘Then you have found it. Welcome. May I assist you, sir?’

Aphrodite, I presume? The question was obviously on the tip of his tongue, but he caught it with the faintest twitch of his lips and said only, ‘I hope you may.’ He glanced down at her hand, saw her wedding ring. ‘Mrs—?’ His voice was cultured, cool and very assured.

She recognised the type, or perhaps breed was the better word. Her father was one of them, her brother another, although those two conformed only in their own unique way. Corinthians, bloods of the first stare, non-pareils, aristocrats with the total, unthinking, self-confidence that came from generations of privilege. But they were also hard men who worked to keep at the peak of fitness so they could excel at the pastimes of their class—riding, driving, sport, fighting, war.

Whether such gentlemen had money or not was almost impossible to tell at first glance because they would starve rather than appear less than immaculately turned out. Their manners were perfect and their attitude to women—their women—was indulgent and protective. Nothing mattered more than honour and the honour of these men was invested in their women, in whose name they would duel to the death in order to avenge the slightest slur.

It was not an attitude she enjoyed or approved of. She feared it. Nor did she approve of their attitude to the rest of the females they came into contact with. Respectable women, of whatever class, were to be treated with courtesy and respect. The one exception, in terms of respect, although the courtesy would always be there, was attractive widows. And Sara knew herself to be an attractive widow.

She conjured up the mental image of a very large, very possessive, husband. ‘Mrs Harcourt.’

The warmth in his eyes, the faint, undeniably attractive, compression of the lines at their outer corners that hinted at a smile, was the only clue to what she suspected his thoughts were.

He was a very handsome specimen, she supposed, managing, with an effort that was deeply annoying, not to let her thoughts show on her face. He was tall, well proportioned, with thick medium-brown hair and hazel eyes. His nose was slightly aquiline, his chin decided, his mouth...wicked. Sara was not quite certain why that was, only that staring at it was definitely unwise.

‘Sir?’ she prompted.

‘I have a sister. She is eighteen and in rather delicate health; her spirits are low and she is not at all happy to be here in Sandbay.’

‘She is bored, perhaps?’

‘Very,’ he admitted. Then, when she made no response, he condescended to explain. ‘She is not well enough for sea bathing and, in any case, she is unused to the ocean. That unfamiliarity makes her rather nervous of walking on the beach. She has no friends here and there are few very young ladies resident here, as far as I can see. At home, were she well enough, she would be attending parties and picnics, going to the theatre and dances, or shopping. At least her friends would be on hand. Here, she is not up to evening entertainments.’

‘You hope to find an occupation for her, something that will help her to pass the time during the day. I can understand that it might help. Can she draw or paint?’

‘Her governess taught her, but I do not think she ever applied herself to perfect her art. Marguerite was always too restless for that.’

If the girl was naturally active then convalescence and its restrictions must be even more galling. ‘Can she walk at all?’

‘A few hundred yards along the promenade seems achievable. Then she flags and asks to return. I cannot tell whether her reluctance is weakness or depressed spirits.’

‘Would she come here and visit the shop to see what we can offer?’

‘I do not know,’ he admitted. ‘Not if I suggest it.’ He shut his mouth, tight lips betraying his anger with himself for allowing that flash of irritation to escape.

So, the young lady was at outs with her brother. Probably she wanted to be in London with her friends, however unhealthy that grimy city was for her. ‘Then shall I come to her? I could bring some ideas for crafts she might like to try, some drawing equipment, perhaps.’ As she spoke Sara made a slight gesture with her hand at the bounty of objects in the shop. ‘Something might tempt her.’

‘Temptation?’ The word, spoken in that warm voice, was like a touch. He really could stand very still for a man of his size. It was faintly unnerving for some reason, even though her closest male relatives had the same quality of stillness. It came from power and fitness and the knowledge that they did not have to move to make their presence felt. But this was not her father or her brother. ‘That would be most obliging of you, Mrs Harcourt. But who would mind your shop for you? Your husband, perhaps?’

That had been clumsy of him, the first maladroit thing he had done, and the rueful twist of those beautiful lips showed that he knew it.

‘I am a widow, Mr—?’ She did not expect for a moment anything other than a title, or at the very least a family name she would have heard of. She did not recognise him, but then she had been out only one Season before she married and moved to Cambridge with Michael, so it was perfectly possible to have missed him.

‘Dunton.’ He produced his card case and placed a rectangle of crisp pasteboard on the counter. ‘We are at the Royal Promenade Hotel.’

‘Where else?’ Sara murmured. With that tailoring and manner even the best private lodgings in Sandbay would not do. She took the card, felt the depth of expensive engraving under her thumb, glanced at it and found herself surprised. A plain Mister without so much as an Honourable to his name? She was not altogether certain she believed that, but she could hardly challenge the man on no evidence. Besides, as long as he was not engaged in some criminal endeavour he could call himself what he liked.

Faint sounds of pans clattering emerged from behind the curtain screening the door to the back room. ‘Excuse me, sir. Mrs Farwell, could you spare me a moment?’

To do him justice, Mr Dunton did not flinch when Dot emerged through the curtains, rolling pin in hand. She was a big woman, but then most of the dippers who commanded the bathing machines were. She glowered at him, which was her normal reaction when any man was close to Sara, and he returned the look with one of indifference. Dot gave a little grunt as though he had passed some test.

‘I am accompanying this gentleman to visit his sister at the hotel. Do you mind managing by yourself for an hour? I am not expecting more than usual to this afternoon’s tea and everything is ready to set out.’ Sara handed her henchwoman the card. Dot was not much of a reader, but it did no harm to let him see that someone else knew where she was going with Mr Dunton. She might be independent to a fault, according to her brother Ashe, but she was not reckless enough to go away with a strange gentleman without taking basic precautions. Particularly with this one who, she was certain, was not who he said he was.

‘Aye, all’s prepared and ready. All I need to do is to pour the hot water on the tea. Sandwiches are made, fruit cake and plain scones with strawberry jam waiting to be set out and the boy brought up a good lump of ice, so the cream and the butter are cooling nicely. I’ll take my apron off and come out the front.’ Her accent might be pure local Dorset, but none of their customers ever had any problem understanding it. If fate had decreed that Dot had been born somewhere other than a fisherman’s cottage, then she would have made even more of herself than she had already.

‘This is also a tea shop?’ Mr Dunton enquired as Sara took a basket and began to walk around the shop, selecting things to try and tempt his sister’s interest. It was hard to decide what to take, for Miss Dunton might be a very fragile invalid or she might simply be a wilful and tiresome brat. Time would tell.

‘We provide tea and refreshments twice a week. Customers come and work on their latest artistic projects, or their writing, perhaps. They exchange ideas and take tea. It provides a congenial place for ladies to congregate, somewhere they are not expected to confine themselves to idle chit-chat or to sit about looking decorative.’

‘And it encourages them to replenish their supplies while they are here.’

‘Exactly. This is a business, after all, Mr Dunton. The ladies encourage each other, take up new crafts having seen them being practised by their acquaintances and have an enjoyable few hours together. If you are ready?’

She put on a light pelisse, tied on her new, and pleasingly dashing, bonnet and added her reticule to the craft supplies. Mr Dunton reached for the basket, Sara held on to it. ‘There is someone outside to carry it, thank you, sir. I will be back soon, Dot.’

He held the door for her and attempted again to do polite battle for the basket, but as they emerged Tim Liddle came trotting over from the mouth of the alleyway beside the milliner’s shop opposite. He was eight and the main support of his widowed mother, so Sara gave him all the odd jobs she could find and some she had to create. He was clean but skinny, despite her best efforts to feed him up, and dressed in clothes that were worn and handed down, but his gap-toothed grin was cheerful.

‘Here you are, Tim. Down to the hotel with it, if you please.’ She handed over the laden basket, took Mr Dunton’s proffered arm and sent him a slanting look from under her bonnet brim as they walked down the hill to the promenade. ‘You did not really think I would go to a hotel with a strange gentleman, just like that, without any escort?’

‘That lad would not provide much protection against some unscrupulous buck, I’d have thought.’

‘No? If I do not reappear by the time I give him Timmy will raise hell with the hotel staff, then run for Dot, then fetch the constable whose second cousin he is.’

‘Ah, the formidable Dot. Now she would scare any ill-meaning male. She might well have assisted Cronus in his gruesome assault on Uranus, given the size of those brawny arms and the look she gave me. Does she not like my face in particular, or is she opposed to the entire male sex on principle?’

Sara did not rise to the bait of his reference to Aphrodite’s birth. ‘Dot was a dipper. They need to be strong women to deal with nervous customers who have never been in the sea before. Some of them fall over and have to be dragged out of the surf and others become agitated when it comes to being dipped and so have to be held tight and ducked under even more firmly. She hurt her back and could no longer do such heavy work, so she came to help me. She was grateful for the opportunity and, quite unnecessarily, has set herself to guard me against...importunity.’

That should suppress any inclination Mr Dunton might have to flirtation. Sara, who was not above enjoying the escort of a large, elegant gentleman—or the stimulating sensation of a well-muscled arm under her hand—allowed the silence to persist for the five minutes it took to reach the Royal Promenade Hotel at a gentle stroll.

The hotel was a straggling edifice consisting of a number of adjoining buildings tacked together with linking doors and added passageways. All had been unified by a coat of cream colour wash over the entire façade, set off by royal blue trim and the hotel’s name in large gilt letters.

Mr Dunton removed the basket from Tim’s grasp and stopped in front of the reception desk where the proprietor was speaking to the clerk. ‘Mr Winstanley, would you show Mrs Harcourt to our private sitting room while I fetch my sister to her?’

Nicely done, sir, Sara thought as she, and her basket, were ushered upstairs and through to a pleasant room with a bay window overlooking the promenade. All very much above-board and using Mr Winstanley to establish his credentials as a respectable man who does, indeed, have a sister in residence. But there is still something not quite right about you, Mr Dunton.

But whatever it was it did not affect the essential attractive masculinity of the man, even if something was making her antennae twitch with curiosity. He was very aware of her as a woman and she was equally as aware of him—the trick was going to be not showing that.

She settled herself at the table, took the sketchbook and a pencil from the basket and began to draw the scene from the window, concentrating on a rapid and amusing vignette of two ladies who had stopped to chat by the flagpole. One was large, the other thin, and both had ridiculously small lapdogs on ribbon leashes. When the door opened Sara stood up and dropped the book quite casually, face-up, on the table.

The young woman who came into the room with Mr Dunton at her back was obviously his sister, with the same brown hair and hazel eyes, but a straighter nose and less firmness to her chin. She was also very obviously young, had been unwell and was in a state of the sulks.

‘Marg—Mrs Harcourt, might I present my sister, Marguerite.’ Mr Dunton frowned at his own stumble and the girl sent him a sharp glance. ‘Marguerite, this is Mrs Harcourt whose shop I passed today. She has kindly brought down some things that might interest you.’