W. D. O.
Thunder and turf, Stephen inwardly raged. How was he to send his brother home now?
“He left no forwarding address?” he asked. “Or even a specific port or town?”
She shook her head. “Not with me. I believe the couple he mentioned was from Naples, but I could be mistaken.”
“Did Lieutenant Keith go with him?”
“Carlton Keith, do you mean? I assume so. They seemed to go everywhere together.”
Stephen nodded. “Do you happen to know if my brother took all his belongings with him?” He asked the question to determine if Wesley planned to return to Lynmouth.
Again she shook her head. “When I looked in this morning, I was surprised to see he’d left many of his paintings behind, as well as his winter coat.”
“Did he not tell your father he planned to leave?”
“My father has returned to Bath on a portrait commission. We thought your brother planned to stay on through the spring. That’s why I was so... surprised... to receive his note.”
Was that why she was surprised? The only reason? Stephen didn’t think so. Her tears and Wesley’s apologetic letter painted a telling picture. Miss Dupont was in love with Wesley. No doubt he had worked his legion charms on her and then left when he grew bored. Perhaps Wesley had loved her, for a time. Or at least admired her. How far had it gone? Had Wes done more than break her heart? Dread rippled through him at the thought.
Stephen asked, “May I see the cottage?”
She reared her head back. “Why?”
“I’d like to look around—see if I can find any indication of where specifically he’s gone. I’ll have to try to get word to him in Italy somehow.”
“Oh...” She paused in thought, then said briskly, “You might ask the harbormaster, see if he knows where the ship was bound.”
“I shall do that. Thank you. Even so, I’d like to take a look.”
She bit her lip, then faltered. “I... don’t think Bitty has been in to tidy it up yet. Perhaps you—”
“No matter. I am pressed for time, so if I could see it now... ?”
She drew a deep breath. “Very well.”
Miss Dupont clambered off the precipice, as nimble and surefooted as a girl, though she looked to be in her early twenties. She gestured toward a path on the other side of the headland. Not the way he had come. “This way is more direct,” she explained.
He fell into step beside her, feeling like a brawny brute next to her willowy figure.
She led the way into Lynton, the higher of the twin towns, past its blacksmith, livery, and old church, and then followed a cobbled path partway down the hill. There, three whitewashed cottages huddled along the hillside, overlooking the Lynmouth harbor and sparkling channel beyond. At the first cottage, she unhooked the chatelaine pinned at her waist and sorted through the keys until she found the correct one. She unlocked the door and stepped inside.
Stephen was surprised at the young woman’s apparent aplomb in entering a bachelor’s cottage, when she seemed so ladylike in her speech and demeanor. Entering after her, he left the door open behind them for propriety’s sake. He walked around the single room and noticed her survey the chamber as he did, as if looking for something. Was there something she didn’t want him to see? He saw remnants of art supplies: an easel, used paint pots, canvases, and sketchbooks. A table and chairs and a simple stove huddled along one wall, an unmade bed against the other. Her gaze flicked to it and quickly away.
She swiped a lacy glove off the arm of a chair and tried to make it disappear up her sleeve. Noticing his look, she murmured, “Must have dropped it when I looked in earlier...”
He glanced at the pair of matching kid gloves she wore but said nothing. Instead he fingered through the paintings propped against the wall, then paged through a sketchbook on the table. That same familiar face—her face—looked up at him wearing different expressions. Solemn and reluctant at first, progressing to increasing confidence, shy half smiles warming to full blown brilliance. Her clothing varied as well—prim lace collars giving way to round, open necklines and, eventually, one bare shoulder.
Reaching past him, Miss Dupont shut the sketchbook, her cheeks mottled red. “Yes, I posed for him several times.” A defensive note sharpened her tone. “He was most insistent. I had never done so before—not even for my father—and was quite uncomfortable with it. But as you might guess in such a remote place, his choice of models was extremely limited.”
Inwardly, Stephen groaned, his stomach sickening. Oh yes. It had gone too far. And Wesley had done more than break this girl’s heart. An otherwise innocent girl, if he did not miss his guess.
He asked, “Did Lieutenant Keith lodge here as well?”
“Yes. We offered to bring in another bed, but he said he preferred his bedroll.” She looked around the room. “I don’t see it. He must have taken it with him.”
Sounded like Keith, Stephen thought. “I don’t suppose my brother made arrangements to store his belongings, nor paid sufficient rent to keep this cottage until he returns?”
