A Lady by Midnight (Spindle Cove #3)(13)
Author: Tessa Dare

And she looked like Kate. She looked a great deal like Kate, save for some differences about the eyes and chin, and the absence of any birthmark. The resemblance was uncanny, disturbing, and readily apparent to everyone in the room.

“Oh my Lord,” Kate breathed.

Lark beamed. “Isn’t it gorgeous? When we found it, we just knew we had to search you out.”

“Put that away.” Thorne stepped forward. “It’s vile.”

“I beg your pardon,” Harry replied, proudly propping the nude painting on the mantelpiece and standing back to admire it. “The female form is beautiful in all its natural states. This is art.”

“Put it away,” Thorne repeated in a low, threatening tone. “Or I will make it kindling.”

“He’s just being protective,” Aunt Marmoset said. “I think it’s sweet. A little savage, but sweet.”

Harry yanked Lark’s jade-green shawl from her shoulders and draped it over half the painting, obscuring most of the nudity. “This backward little village. Philistines, all. When we showed it to the vicar, he developed a stammer and visible hives.”

“You . . .” Kate swallowed hard, staring at the painting now boldly displayed above the fire. “You showed this to the vicar?”

“But of course,” Lark replied. “That’s how we found you.”

Kate crossed her arms over her chest, feeling unaccountably exposed. She leaned forward and peered at the face of the woman in the painting. “But it can’t be me.”

“No, Miss Taylor. It’s not you.” With a long-suffering sigh, Lord Drewe stood and addressed his siblings. “You’re making a right hash of this, I hope you know. If she wants nothing to do with us after tonight, you’ll have only yourselves to blame.”

What on earth could he mean? Kate’s brain made a lazy twirl in her skull.

The corporal addressed the room in a deep, commanding voice. “I’m giving you one more minute to start making sense. Otherwise, I don’t care if you are lords and ladies—you’ll be leaving. Miss Taylor’s under my protection, and I won’t have her treated ill.”

Lord Drewe turned to Kate. “I’ll make this brief. As my youngest sister has attempted to explain, I am the much-beleaguered head of this traveling circus. And we’ve been waiting for you, Miss Taylor, because we believe you may be a part of it.”

“I beg your pardon,” she said. “A part of what, precisely?”

He gestured with one hand, as though it should be obvious. “A part of the family.”

Chapter Five

The room swam in Kate’s vision. Badger scampered to the floor, and she made no effort to stop him. All around her, the Gramercys argued.

“I told you we shouldn’t have sprung it on her this way.”

“It’s been sprung on us all. It wasn’t as though we knew, starting out this morning . . .”

“Oh, dear. She’s so pale.”

They were such a . . . such a family. Kate could scarcely believe that she might be a part of it. The temptation to hope was so great, and optimism came to her too easily. But she didn’t want to make a fool of herself. She had to make some sense of this first.

While the rest of them talked, Aunt Marmoset came and sat next to her. She pulled a small, paper-wrapped candy from her pocket. “Have a spice drop, dear.”

Kate accepted it numbly.

“Go on,” the old woman urged. “Eat it now.”

Uncertain how to refuse, Kate unwrapped the sweet and popped the hard lozenge into her mouth.

Oh . . . blazes.

Her eyes watered instantly. The disc of pure, sugared fire burned on her tongue. It took everything she had not to spit it out.

“Strong, isn’t it? A bit overwhelming at first. But with patience, and a bit of work, you’ll arrive at the sweetness.” Aunt Marmoset patted Kate’s arm. “This family’s like that.”

Then the old woman sharply addressed the room. “All of you, be calm.”

They were all of them instantly calm. Even the one who was a marquess.

“The only way to tell this is as a story, I think.” Aunt Marmoset’s papery, age-spotted hand clasped Kate’s. “Once, there was a man named Simon Gramercy, the young Marquess of Drewe. Like all Gramercys, he tended toward tempestuous, inappropriate passions. Simon’s particular interests were art, and the charms of a highly unsuitable girl. The daughter of a tenant farmer from his Derbyshire estate, can you imagine?”

Kate shook her head, her tongue still puckered around the evil spice drop.

“Simon’s mother, the dowager, was scandalized. The girl’s parents disowned her. But Simon would hear no censure. He set up a love nest with his muse at Ambervale. They lived ensconced there for several months, merrily painting and posing and making passionate—”

“Aunt Marmoset.”

“Really, after the portrait, I don’t think it can come as a shock.” The older woman continued, “Anyhow, poor Simon’s health took an ill turn. The next the family heard of him, he was dead. Suddenly, tragically, dead. And no one knew what had become of the farmer’s daughter. She seemed to have vanished completely. Perhaps she’d taken ill, as well . . . Perhaps she’d gone on to be another man’s muse. No one could guess. The title passed to Simon’s cousin, my brother-in-law. And then, on his death, to Evan.” She waved in Lord Drewe’s direction.

“Are you confused yet?” Lark asked.

“We’ll draw you a chart later,” said Harry.

Kate stared at the painting. “We do look rather alike, I’ll admit, but I’m only twenty-three. And I have this.” She raised her hand to her birthmark.

“Oh, but that’s a family trait,” Lark said. “Several of the Gramercys have something like it. Harry has only the small beauty mark, and most of mine is covered by my hair. Evan’s is behind his ear. Show her, Evan.”

Lord Drewe gamely turned to display the side of his neck. Yes, he did have a port-wine mark that disappeared beneath his crisp, immaculate cravat.

“Is it making sense now?” Lark asked. “When we found this painting in the attic, we knew she must be Simon’s lover. But no one ever knew she was pregnant. The question was, what became of the child?”

“Dead, we assumed,” Harry said. “Otherwise we surely would have heard something. But Lark couldn’t resist the chance to investigate.”