LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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