Elusive Flame Read online

  Cerynise flushed in rising indignation. Regrettably, the man was right about everything but the last. It had been her talent that had merged the colored paints into realistic scenes of people going about their daily affairs in seascapes, landscapes and interiors. Oils and canvas were only that until an artist made something of them. Lydia had been mindful of the fact that the work of a mere girl would never have been taken seriously by wealthy patrons and had insisted that Cerynise’s identity remain a carefully kept secret. That had been her only reason for keeping everyone in the dark.

  “Lydia was merely holding that money for me,” Cerynise declared hotly, but even to her own ears, her defense sounded feeble. “There was no reason for a separate account, and if I hope to sail home to Charleston, I’ll need the funds to buy passage on the next available ship.”

  “It wouldn’t have mattered if there had been a separate account,” Alistair retorted. “My aunt was your guardian. Everything you have belonged to her.…” He smiled tauntingly. “And now it belongs to me.”

  “Oh, look at this!” Sybil squealed in delight, racing back into the room. She was wrapped in an evening cloak of heavy pink moiré silk, richly embroidered with garlands of rosebuds around the edges of the deep hood and the front opening. “Ain’t it a beauty?” Though she was in danger of tripping over the hem, Sybil whirled around to show off her new acquisition. She only wished that she would have been able to fit into the matching gown, but that had been impossible. “There’s a whole dressin’ room full o’ all kinds o’ pretty things. Why, I ne’er in all me born days seen the like. Bonnets! Slippers! Gowns galore! Pretty li’l lacy things ta wear underneath.” She tossed a laughing warble over her shoulder as she preened for Cerynise’s benefit. “How do I look in my new cloak?”

  Cerynise couldn’t resist giving the rude hussy a suggestion. “Perhaps you’ll be able to patch the seams on the gown once you let them out.”

  “Al!” Sybil cried, stamping her foot in outrage. “Ye gonna let her talk ta me like that?”

  Alistair was decidedly guilty of having entertained similar thoughts after observing the plump strumpet prancing around in front of them. Her bright lips and rouge seemed to overwhelm the delicately hued garment, and as much as he had wanted to exact revenge on the girl for being so uppity, he was of a mind to suspect that, without major alterations, only her cloaks and outerwear could be utilized by Sybil.

  His dark eyes wandered back to the prim beauty and casually caressed the soft, enticing curves that the mourning garb gently molded. Her back was straight, her head elevated, conveying an undaunted pride. She looked for all the world like a pale-haired goddess, and as much as he might have wished otherwise, it was a hard fact that Sybil suffered badly in comparison.

  Cerynise’s nape prickled as she felt the weight of Alistair’s stare, and she peered up at him in sudden wariness. His wide lips twisted upward in a confident one-sided grin that made her skin crawl. Even before he paced forward with his strange disconnected gait, she had begun to suspect that his thoughts were not the sort a proper lady would invite.

  “You needn’t distress yourself overmuch, Cerynise,” Alistair cajoled, reaching behind her head and freeing the thick knot of hair that she had hastily secured. “I can let you stay here in some capacity. I’m sure we’ll be able to work something out between us. Perhaps we’ll even become intimate friends.” Despite the coldness in the hazel eyes that watched him intently, he swept the curling length forward, allowing it to veil a rounded breast before his hand stroked downward over its silken strands.

  Cerynise’s outrage reached its zenith, and with a snarl she raised both arms and shoved him away from her with all of her might. “You disgusting viper! Do you actually think I would consider being on intimate terms with you? You dare come here, prancing about like some handsome lordling who deserves all of this? Why, you’re nothing but a worm crawling out of your dark, dank hole to eat the flesh of poor innocents! I’ll rot before I stay here under your authority!”

  Alistair’s eyes flared at her insults, and his face darkened to an ugly, mottled red as he hauled back an arm to strike. “I’ll teach you who is lord here!”

  Howard leapt forward with a startled gasp and grasped his companion’s wrist. “Mark the girl, and she’ll have something to show the authorities when she goes to complain,” he cautioned anxiously. “Best to send her on her way without causing a stir, don’t you think?”

  Alistair gave no indication that he had even heard the solicitor as his whole body shook with rage. It was a long moment before he regained some measure of control over himself and jerked free of Rudd. “Get out, bitch!” he bellowed. “You’re not worth the trouble it would take to teach you some manners!”

  Cerynise could scarcely breathe as she whispered, “Most willingly. I’ll pack a few things and then be gone—”

  “No, you won’t!” Alistair barked. “You’re going now!”

  Seizing hold of her arm, he whisked her out into the main hall. Jasper was there, having kept a distant vigil. The butler glanced from one to the other in blank astonishment before he ventured haltingly, “Sir, I beg you…”

  “I’m master here now!” Alistair asserted at the servant’s attempt to intrude. “If anyone disputes that, then he can go the way of this baggage.” Yanking open the door, he hauled Cerynise around and shoved her out of the portal with enough force to send her stumbling down the granite steps. He held the door aside in open invitation as his words further assailed the butler. “But consider well before you do! Positions are damn hard to come by, and not one of you will receive a reference!”

  The dark eyes turned their blazing fury upon Cerynise, who blinked back at him against the driving rain. “Now get out of my sight while you still can, chit! Or I’ll have you arrested! Or better yet, sent to the madhouse!”

  “Don’t think he can’t do it!” Rudd interjected, peering around the edge of the door. “He’s a man of property now, respected and all. You’re no one. Unless you want to find yourself in Bedlam, you’d better be off.” In the next instant the solicitor gasped in surprise and yanked his head back out of harm’s way as Alistair clasped the heavy portal and slammed it shut with a loud crack of finality.

  Cerynise huddled against the crisp wind and wrapped her arms about herself as she sought to find some meager warmth and protection from the elements. Here she was, literally thrown out of the only home she had known for the last five years and threatened with worse consequences if she remained. As cold as it was and without a wrap to ease her misery, she’d likely suffer frostbite before she reached a place of shelter. Having taken her art seriously, she had never spared the time to culture close friendships with women her own age. Most had been far more interested in attracting husbands than she had been. As for Lydia’s friends, they were much older and probably incapable of coping with the sort of violence that Cerynise had just experienced. And who could actually say what Alistair Winthrop might be tempted to do if anyone intervened in her behalf. After her insult, she had glimpsed a wrath that had given her cause to fear the man. During that moment he had actually seemed to waver on the border of insanity. Whoever helped her would likely elicit similar reactions and no doubt severe repercussions. As much as she yearned for solace from an acquaintance, Cerynise couldn’t imagine involving anyone who would be susceptible.

  Alistair might well have crossed over into an area of madness already…one had to consider that possibility. Yet, in this matter, he had the law on his side. As Lydia’s heir, he had every right to dispose of the Winthrop property in any manner he saw fit, including laying out a list of those who could or could not reside under his roof.

  Dismally Cerynise stared up at the house, but her vision was now impeded by a mixture of tears and rain. Her grief over Lydia’s passing, coupled with her recent lack of nourishment and sleep, left her exhausted and little prepared for what would undoubtedly be a long walk through the city.

  “Better get started,” she gritted di
smally through lips already stiff from the cold. Unable to control her shivering, she began trudging down the street, knowing where she must go. With the rain and the deepening cold, it would be difficult, yet she had no other choice.

  She had progressed only a short distance when the sound of running footfalls made her turn and look behind her. Bridget was clearly out of breath by the time she reached Cerynise. Before leaving the house, the parlor maid had paused long enough to sweep a heavy shawl around her. In her arms she carried her own woolen cloak, which she wrapped around the shivering girl.

  “Oh, mum, this is terrible,” she fussed amid her weeping. Lifting a trembling hand, she wiped at the wetness trailing down her cheeks. “I could hardly believe it, ye bein’ set out o’ Mrs. Winthrop’s house without so much as a place ta go. Mr. Alistair can’t really do that, can he, mum?”

  “I’m-m afraid h-he can, Bridget. Mrs. Winthrop’s will gives him that right.” Cerynise touched the maid’s hand gently with icy fingers. The raindrops falling on her face seemed just as frigid. “Y-you must go b-back. No one c-can afford to be dismissed w-without references. Now here…t-take your cloak…and g-go…”

  She tried to drag the garment from her shoulders, but the maid shook her head. “Nay, mum. ’Tis yours now, as sorry as it be. Mrs. Winthrop gave me one o’ hers last Michaelmas. So’s ye see, mum, I’ve got a much finer one ta replace this ol’ rag.”

  “Are y-you s-sure?” Cerynise queried, unable to stop her teeth from chattering.

  “Aye, mum,” Bridget affirmed, nodding with unswerving conviction. “I might not be able ta leave Mr. Winthrop’s employ, but at least I can send ye away knowin’ I’ve done the best I can for ye.”

  “Thank y-you, Bridget. You’re a dear friend,” Cerynise whispered, her eyes once again filling with moisture. “I shan’t forget you.”

  Hastily the servant informed her, “Right after Mr. Jasper o’erheard what Mr. Winthrop was plannin’ ta do, he set us ta movin’ yer paintin’s ta the storeroom below the stairs. He said he didn’t care that he’d be lyin’ ta the scoundrel, he was goin’ ta tell Mr. Winthrop the paintin’s were sent ta some gallery or another, an’ that we don’t know which one. Ye’ve gots ta find a way ta get ’em back, mum. Ye’ve just gotta.”

  “All of y-you could b-be t-taking an awful chance,” Cerynise stuttered, deeply moved by the loyalty of the staff. “Y-you mustn’t endanger y-yourselves t-trying to s-save them. I-I’m going to the d-docks…t-to…obtain p-passage t-to Charleston, s-so I might n-never return f-for them.”

  “All’s the same, mum, we’ll keep ’em hidden for ye. ’Twill be our own revenge for what Mr. Winthrop did ta ye.”

  “G-go back n-now,” Cerynise implored, giving the serving girl a gentle push toward the house, “before Mr. Winthrop sees you out h-here talking to me.”

  A sob crumpled the maid’s countenance, and in a sudden show of affection, she flung her arms around Cerynise. “Bless ye, mum!” After a moment she sniffed and retreated to meet the other’s gaze through swimming tears. “Ye’ve always been the soul o’ kindness ta us. We’ll count the days till that rascally Mr. Winthrop gets what he deserves.”

  Weeping bitterly, Bridget tore herself away and raced back toward the house, her black skirts flapping wetly around her legs, her small feet sending geysers of water splashing upward as she crossed ever-deepening puddles.

  Cerynise pulled the woolen hood over her head and huddled deep within the garment, seeking as much protection from the pelting rain as the garment could afford. Beneath it she was already soaked, and with the intensity of the howling wind and the slashing downpour, the cloak would only serve to lessen her discomfort rather than banishing it altogether. Even so, she was grateful for the gift as she made her way along the street, for even in so short a time it seemed that the air had gotten colder.

  It was some moments before Cerynise realized that a curious numbness had settled down within her after her confrontation with Alistair. To some degree it cushioned the harshness of her plight, for she no longer dwelt on how cold and miserable she’d be without warm clothing and food. Instead, she kept telling herself over and over again that she could walk as far as she had to. All she had to do was put one foot in front of the other. Encouraging herself with that simple bit of logic, she eventually found herself near the bridge that crossed over the Thames into the district of Southwark.

  The storm had gathered over the city, deepening the twilight into a brooding darkness, but in the strange eerie gloom, she could still make out several ships proceeding upriver where they would at some point along the wharves drop anchor. Her eyes flitted toward the distant banks in search of the taller masts which clearly distinguished the seagoing vessels from the smaller fishing boats. Whenever her family had visited her uncle at his house near the waterfront in Charleston, she had been given ample opportunity as a child to view the various sailing vessels gliding through the waters toward the southern port. While Uncle Sterling had fished nearby, she had perched on the wharf with sketchbook in hand, drawing contentedly as he talked to her about the different sailing ships and taught her how to recognize one type from another. She still remembered much of what she had learned from him.

  Memories of that distant city flowed like a deep, surging river through her mind, and in a space of a few heartbeats Cerynise could almost hear the trilling birds nesting in ancient live oaks beside her family’s home, the drone of insects on sultry summer nights, and feel the soft flutter of Spanish moss against her face as she raced through the woods with the joyful exuberance of a child, and ever so much more. She could even imagine that she caught a whiff of honeysuckle and could taste the sweetness of pralines melting on her tongue. However brief those recollections were, she was pierced by a longing so profound that it was all she could do not to cry out in anguish.

  Here she was, nearly frozen, exhaustion and grief enfolding her like a sodden blanket, her thin fingers rigid from the numbing cold, having no ken how she would ever obtain passage home now that she was bereft of funds. What sea captain looking at her now would permit her on his ship, much less allow her to sail on it? It seemed a farfetched idea even to her, but she knew that somehow…some way…she must go home.

  Obeying a desire so powerful that she could not curb it, Cerynise began making her way across the bridge. Rain had collected in the depressions between the cobblestones, but by now her slippers were so thoroughly soaked it no longer mattered. All she had to do was put one foot in front of the other, she reminded herself, and eventually she would reach her destination.

  The fetid stench of the river intensified as she entered the borough of Southwark. She kept close to the river, walking relentlessly onward until through the deep, stormbound shadows she could make out the lofty masts of larger sailing ships off in the distance. Heartened by the sight, Cerynise quickened her pace, painful though it was to walk with toes aching from the cold. She knew deep down that it was foolish for her to wander this area alone. In the security of Lydia’s coach, she had passed through the district enough to have become cognizant of a bolder type of women who, along many of the streets and byways, openly offered their bodies to sailors or any man who’d pay out a few coins to be entertained in bed. Cerynise knew that she was seriously tempting fate, for she could be accosted, perhaps even mistaken for a female of loose virtue. But she pushed that cautioning logic aside, regarding it as a luxury she could ill afford.

  The warehouses and shuttered tenements that she passed were dark. It was, after all, a place where every candle or ounce of oil was considered precious. The poor would understand her present plight, but they could not help her. It was up to her to find a way to go home. And find it she would!

  Cerynise had no real sense of just how far she had come. Her steps had begun to drag wearily as she wove an unsteady path along the bank, but when her foot suddenly caught on something that felt amazingly human, she peered into the shadows beneath an overturned dinghy that had been hefted across two planks.
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  “What the bloody hell are ye doin’?” a slurred voice snarled from under the craft. “Can’t ye watch where ye goin’!”

  Cerynise tried to focus on the small, wiry form that crawled out from under the boat. “Y-your pardon,” she stammered, wondering if it was fear or cold impeding her tongue. “I d-didn’t realize y-you were t-there, sir.”

  “Well, I was, see,” the little man retorted peevishly, staggering to his feet. He was shorter than Cerynise, completely bald, ancient if he was a day, and had not a tooth in his head. Yet, for all of that, he was garbed as a seaman.

  “W-what w-were you doing d-down there?” Cerynise managed to ask.

  The tar fixed his gaze upon her in some exasperation and flipped the hood of his slicker over his head as he hunched within the garment. “If’n ye must know, girlie, I was catchin’ a li’l snooze whilst I was waitin’ for me cap’n ta go back ta our ship.”

  “I’m-m terribly s-sorry for d-disturbing you, sir. I d-didn’t s-see you in the d-dark,” she answered as graciously as her clattering teeth would allow. Despite the man’s irascibility, she hoped he might be persuaded to help her. At the moment, he seemed her best chance of getting the information she needed. “I d-didn’t h-hurt you, did I?”

  “Hurt me? Ol’ Moon, here?” the sailor asked incredulously. Thrusting out his scrawny chest, he hitched up his britches as if tempted to strut for her benefit. “Girlie, it’d take a whale ta hurt ol’ Moon.”

  “I’m-m r-relieved to k-know that.”

  Much placated by her cordiality, Moon eyed the girl more closely. In spite of her stuttering tongue, she spoke like some of the rich class who came to the ship to which he was assigned to make inquiries about the quality of accommodations. Usually, after viewing them, they went in search of another one. But a blind man could see that this slender slip was several leagues above the sort of women who normally roamed the docks looking for men to entertain. “What cha doin’ out here in the rain all by yer lonesome? ’Taint no fit place for a nice li’l girlie like ye.”