chapter 1
March 1815
Devonshire, England
Infuriating artists...Captain Stephen Marshall Overtree grumbled to himself as he walked along the harbor of the unfamiliar town, looking into each shop window.
He glanced down at the crumpled paper in his hand, and read again his brother’s hastily scrawled note.
...I will let a cottage as last year, though I don’t know which yet. If the need arises, you may write to me in care of Mr. Claude Dupont, Lynmouth, Devon. But no doubt you will manage capably without me, Marsh. As always.
Stephen stuffed the note back into his pocket and continued surveying the establishments he passed—public house, harbormaster’s office, tobacconist, and cider seller. Then a stylish placard caught his eye:
CLAUDE DUPONT
Painter, Royal Academy of Arts
~
Portraits by commission, also local landscapes.
Instruction and supplies for the visiting artist.
Inquire within.
Stephen tried the door latch, but it wouldn’t budge. He cupped a hand to the glass and peered inside. The dim interior held easels, framed landscapes, and shelves of supplies, but not a single person.
He bit back an epithet. How could heinquire withinif the dashed door was locked? It was not yet five in the afternoon. What sort of hours did the man keep? Stephen muttered another unflattering comment about artists.
From the corner of his eye, he saw a frowsy woman step from the public house, dumping a bucket of water. He called, “I am looking for Wesley Overtree. Have you seen him?”
“That handsome Adonis, you mean? No, sir.” She winked. “Not today at any rate.”
“Know where he’s staying?”
“One of the hillside cottages, I believe, but I couldn’t tell you which one.”
“Well then, what of Mr. Dupont?” Stephen gestured toward the locked door.
“Mr. Dupont is away, sir. But I saw his daughter pass by not fifteen minutes ago. Walking out to the Valley of Rocks, I’d wager, as she does nearly every day about this time.” She pointed to the esplanade, where a path led up the hillside before disappearing from view. “Just follow that path as far as it goes. Can’t miss it.”
“Thank you.”
For a moment Stephen remained where he was, looking up the hill—thatched cottages and a few grander houses clung to the wooded slope, while Lynmouth’s twin town of Lynton perched above. Perhaps he ought to have remained in the coach for the half-mile climb to Lynton. He sighed. It was too late now.
He walked along the seaside esplanade, then started inland up the path. He was glad now he’d brought his walking stick—a thin sword cleverly concealed inside. One never knew when one might meet highwaymen while traveling, and he preferred to be armed at all times. His military training was well ingrained.
The steep path soon had him breathing hard. He’d thought he was in better condition than that. The month of soft living, away from drilling his regiment, had already taken its toll. He would have a few choice words for Wesley when he found him. Stephen should be with his regiment, not at home doing Wes’s duty for him, and not here.
He ascended through the trees, then out into the open as the rocky path curved westward, following the cliff side, high above the Bristol Channel—deep blue and grey. The steep downward slope bristled with withered grass, scrubby gorse, and the occasional twisted sapling. Little to stop a fall. If a man were to slip, he would instantly tumble four or five hundred feet into the cold sea below. His stomach lurched at the thought.
His old nurse’s recent pronouncement echoed through his mind.“You won’t live to see your inheritance....”He could still feel the wiry grip of her hand, and see the somber light in her eyes.
With a shiver, Stephen backed from the edge and strode on.
The cry of a seabird drew his gaze upward. Gulls soared, borne aloft by strident wind. Black-and-white razorbills and grey-tipped kittiwakes nested among the rock outcroppings.
He walked for ten or fifteen minutes but saw no sign of the young woman ahead of him. He hoped he hadn’t missed a turn somewhere. As he continued on, the temperature seemed to drop. Although spring came earlier on the southwest coast, the wind bit with icy teeth, blowing across the channel from the north, still held in the grip of winter.
