Rescued by Love

by Joan Vincent

  Matters worsened as the walk progressed, for not only was Sarita unsuccessful in her attempts to converse with “Lord Dunstan” who seemed oddly ill at ease, but Lady Imogene was keeping “Mr. Sullivan” and Deborah at the rear of the entourage with the baroness and Lady Phillippa in between.

  It soon became apparent that only his lordship’s secretary and Lady Imogene were conversing at all. Deborah refused to even look at Cris, and Lin acted as if Sarita had contracted the plague.

  With sighs of relief from everyone they arrived at Monsieur Mandel’s greenhouses. At variance with the invitation, however, they found the doors firmly locked.

  “I don’t understand.” Sarita rattled the handle once more. “Monsieur Mandel is seldom away from his work. He would never leave after having invited us. I do hope nothing has happened to him. He has been so troubled and preoccupied of late.”

  “Do you think something is bothering him unduly?” Dunstan asked. His hand grazed hers as he reached to try the door.

  “Yes, very much so.” Sarita stumbled over the words, shocked by the strength of her reaction to his touch. With difficulty she turned her thoughts to Mandel and the troubles in the area. "Perhaps we should force the door?”

  “That shall not be necessaire.” Pierre Mandel sauntered around the corner from one side of the greenhouse and came towards them. “My father wishes me to extend his apologie. Lord Pergrine has summoned him to the house.” He shrugged, giving no further explanation.

  “Could you not open the doors for us, Monsieur Mandel?” Lady Brienne asked.

  A tight smile came to Pierre’s lips. “It is my father’s wish that he alone unveil his secret project.” His smile broadened as he bowed.

  “But, come, let me walk with you as you return to the rectory. I should not like to be deprived of the opportunity to visit with you.” He bowed to the women.

  “Of course you may, Monsieur Mandel,” Lady Imogene smiled.

  “It is Pierre to you, madame,” Mandel corrected her with a flourish.

  “As you wish. We shall enjoy your company,” Lady Phillippa agreed. “Sarita, you must walk with Monsieur Mandel.” She edged the young woman forward, having decided that the earl needed a lesson in the effects of jealousy.

  Bemoaning a second unsuitable companion, Sarita was cheered by a glance at Deborah, who at least had a chance to assume a place beside the “earl.” With her sister appeased, she was certain the atmosphere would warm. Sarita reluctantly joined young Mandel.

  Neither young woman, however, had reckoned with the marchioness’s skill at manoeuvring them. As the little band ambled back towards the rectory, Pierre and Sarita led, followed by Lin and Lady Brienne. Lady Imogene and the marchioness came next, and unchaperoned at the rear were Dunstan and Deborah, with neither wishing to take advantage of the opportunity arranged for them.

  About half the distance had been covered when young Mandel halted abruptly, causing Lin to walk into him.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Lin apologized awkwardly.

  “What is it, Pierre?” Sarita asked, growing concerned as his searching eyes swept across the area.

  “I thought I heard a strange sound. Lord Pergrine has been increasingly plagued by poachers.”

  “But they have no reason to bother us,” Lady Brienne said from behind them. “Let us go on.”

  Pierre shrugged, walked a few steps forward, and halted again. “My lord,” he turned to Lin, “let us look about. I wish the mesdames et mesdemoiselles safe.”

  “If you insist,” Lin replied reluctantly, looking askance as he thought of his highly polished pumps, his immaculate attire, and the heavy brush all about them.

  “You shall look this way, and I the other,” Pierre suggested and disappeared into the undergrowth.

  “Shall I do it for you, my lord?” Dunstan asked lightly from the rear, his voice not betraying his sudden apprehension.

  “No. It shall take but a few minutes,” Lin answered and eased off the path. He had gone only a few paces when a shot sounded, followed closely by a second. Lin fell to the ground.

  Deborah screamed and took a hampering hold upon Cris, preventing him from rushing forward with Lady Brienne and Sarita. The countess and Lady Phillippa had crouched down at the sound of the gun blast but rose quickly and detached Miss Durham from the earl, who then vaulted into the brush.

  Kneeling beside Lin, Sarita and the baroness managed to turn him over. Blood seeped through left side of his coat.

  “Cloth. We must have cloth,” Lady Brienne commanded. “Your petticoats, child,” she waved impatiently.

  Finally understanding, Sarita ripped the flounce from her top petticoat.

  Without noticeable success, Lady Phillippa and the countess tried to calm Deborah.

  “He is dead! Oh, he is dead. I know it,” she screamed.

  When the baroness lifted his jacket and revealed even more blood, the distressed miss fell into a dead faint.

  “Thank goodness,” the countess said gratefully.

  “Really, Imogene,” Lady Phillippa reprimanded her sharply as she eased the young woman to the ground.

  “Well, she would have convinced Lord Enoch he was near death if he became conscious,” the lady defended herself and offered her reticule as a pillow.

  “How is he, Brienne?” the marchioness questioned.

  “It shall take a surgeon to remove the ball, but I am hopeful he shall recover. Actually Lord Enoch is quite fortunate. An inch or two lower and he would have no chance of survival,” she answered, pressing the folds of the petticoat tightly to the wound.

  Sounds of thrashing underbrush, snapping twigs, and fist slamming against flesh tightened a band of fear about the women. Sudden silence drew them, shivering, together.

  Pierre Mandel broke through the undergrowth at the same instant that the earl pushed a bruised Clem Traunt into view.

  “Clem!" Sarita rose in surprise and stepped towards him. “What has happened? Who has done this?”

  “Oui, what has happened?” Pierre exclaimed. “I heard the shots and rushed back. Mon Dieu! Why, he has shot Lord Dunstan!” He stared at Clem.

  “My thought exactly.” The earl’s voice was cold and hard as he pushed against the arm he had wrenched behind Traunt’s back and raised a fowling piece in his free hand for all to see.

  “But Clem would never have shot Lord Dunstan,” Sarita protested angrily. She strode forward and attempted to take Cris’ hold from him.

  “Here is the gun—newly fired,” Dunstan clipped, refusing to release him.

  “Let us all regain our senses,” Lady Brienne snapped. “Would you prefer that Enoch bleed to death while you haggle?

  "Mr. Traunt will not seek to escape. We must get his lordship to the rectory and summon a surgeon to attend him,” she ordered.

  Dunstan dropped his hold; his eyes flickered to Sarita as she ripped a further piece of cloth from her petticoat and used it to wipe the blood from Traunt’s lower lip. Concern for his cousin overrode all else. He knelt down at Lin’s side.

  “I could go at once for Dr. Simpson,” Pierre offered. “He attends Lord Pergrine and other gentry in this area.”

  “Be gone then,” the baroness barked. “Mr. Sullivan, you and Mr. Traunt carry Enoch to the rectory.”

  “Let me see the wound,” Dunstan commanded and the baroness raised the blood-soaked compress and watched as he probed expertly.

  “You are familiar with wounds of this sort, Mr. Sullivan?” asked the baroness.

  “I served briefly in the army,” he returned, giving her a sharp look. “Can we have a fresh compress?” His eyes swung to Sarita.

  “Of course,” she replied and hurriedly tore a flounce from her second petticoat.

  Dunstan took it and pressed it in place. Speaking curtly, he instructed the baroness, “Keep it tightly held.

  "Traunt, take his feet. Carefully now.”

  From Lin Sullivan’s forbidding, worry-ridden features to her sister’s pale face as she lay u
pon the ground, Sarita looked at Lord Enoch’s ashen colour in a daze. The fear and tension of the last few weeks had exploded far too close.

  Chapter 11

  “Where is that surgeon?” Dunstan asked impatiently as he came from the bedchamber.

  “Pierre will have him here soon,” Sarita reassured him. “Here are the towels Lady Brienne asked for. How is Lord Dunstan?”

  “Losing far too much blood. The surgeon should have been here by now.” Anger edged his voice.

  “He will come soon.” Sarita laid a hand on the man’s arm to comfort him. The anguish on his face wrenched her. “Do you fear he shall die?”

  “It is possible.”

  “We are all to die,” she said gently.

  “But he would not be there but for I.”

  “Sarita! Sarita!” Lady Phillippa ran up the stairs. “Dr. Simpson has arrived.”

  “Send him up at once,” Dunstan called to her. Taking the towels from Sarita, he returned to the bedchamber.

  * * * *

  The tasty, cold roast set upon the table as an early supper was hardly touched. Mrs. Durham, her composure more ruffled than usual by the circumstances, picked at the lace on her kerchief as the others stared wordlessly at their plates.

  “Should we not eat?” she asked nervously. “Food must never be wasted. Oh, it is so late.

  "Where can John be? Oh, dear, what shall we do?” Lines of uncertainty and confusion etched her face.

  “Oh, Mother, I don’t see why you insisted we serve this,” Deborah snapped. “No one has eaten a bite.”

  Sarita motioned to her sister to be silent.

  “How can you speak to me in that way?” Mrs. Durham burst into tears.

  “Mother, must you always—”

  “Let me take you to your chamber,” Lady Phillippa interrupted Deborah. She rose from her chair and went to Mrs. Durham’s side.

  Smiling her thanks, Sarita also rose and clamped a hand on her sister’s shoulder. “No more,” she whispered sternly.

  Lady Imogene pushed back from the table. “Let us put the food away. Even I find no taste for anything this eve.”

  “I have the cure for that,” the earl said as he entered the room smiling.

  “Lord Dunstan?” the women asked as one.

  “Will happily recover—completely. The ball has been removed and the bleeding halted.”

  “Thank the lord.” Lady Phillippa spoke for them all.

  “Lady Brienne asked that you come to the earl’s bedchamber,” he told Sarita.

  “I’ll go at once,” she answered, approaching him. “I am so glad,” she said softly, pausing before him, then hurried from his searching look.

  “Let us eat,” Dunstan told the women with an exaggerated wave at the table. “Mrs. Durham,” he said gently as she and the marchioness moved forward, ”surely you mean to partake of this delicious food. May I not seat you?” His calm voice assured and steadied her, and she allowed him to return her to her chair.

  “Sarita! Sarita,” Reverend Durham’s voice reached the dining salon.

  Lord Dunstan went into the corridor. “She has gone upstairs.”

  “I just heard the news. How does the earl fare?” the rector asked, his face haggard.

  “He will recover with little but the scar to tell of his wound,” Dunstan told him. “We were just about to savour a cold collation.” He motioned to the dining salon.

  “My wife—”

  “Mrs. Durham was naturally—upset over the—incident, but she is calm now. Your presence would perhaps be steadying.” He studied Durham closely as he spoke.

  The rector sighed. “Yes, I suppose so. I had not meant to be so long, but after this morn’s—” His words ended vaguely. “Do tell me what happened,” he said, signing for the rector to return to the dining salon ahead of him. The episode was quickly told.

  “We saw no one,” Lady Imogene answered when questioned by Reverend Durham, “until Monsieur Mandel and Mr. Sullivan appeared with Mr. Traunt in tow.” She paused, perplexed.

  “I wonder where Monsieur Mandel could be now? He left immediately after coming with Dr. Simpson.”

  “Why is he not here?” Dunstan echoed the question. “Where is Traunt?”

  “Mr. Traunt is in the kitchen,” Lady Phillippa said. “He left briefly to attend to something on his farm but has returned.”

  “I cannot believe Clem Traunt is responsible for this.” Reverend Durham’s deep voice held a firm conviction. “He has been steadfast in supporting my actions and has no need to poach. Besides, his marksmanship is excellent. He would never have taken Lord Dunstan for a partridge. Have you heard his account of what happened?”

  Dunstan grimaced painfully. “No, my concern was for my cousin.”

  “Quite understandable, Mr. Sullivan, but matters are calmer now,” Durham noted. “Deborah, ask Mr. Traunt to join us.”

  Petulantly, the young woman rose and did as bid. She returned quickly. In fresh attire and with his cuts and bruises tended, Mr. Traunt followed.

  “Reverend Durham, don’t be believing what he says,” Clem waved at Dunstan.

  “I asked you to come and tell us what you saw, Clem,” the rector reassured him.

  Red tinged Traunt’s cheeks under Dunstan’s gaze, and with a mixture of anger and embarrassment he said, “I was on my way to the rectory, to call on Miss Sarita.” He looked up from the hat in his hands challengingly. “You know I seldom use the path, Reverend.”

  A nod assured him.

  “Well, I heard these voices and realized it was the ladies.” Traunt nodded at the dowagers. “I was makin’ to join them when I saw a man takin’ aim at somethin’. He didn’t look like no one from here, so I went his way to see what mischief he was up to.

  "When I was still several paces away from the bloke, he fires and I realizes it was at them ladies he shot. He took off a-runnin’, but I got off a shot. Hit him too. Would have had him if it weren’t for that one.” His look condemned the earl as he tenderly touched a bruise on his jaw.

  “Right good he is with his hands, but cause o’ him the guilty bloke got clear away. Followed his trail this afternoon, but it ended.” Traunt’s eyes swung back to the rector.

  “What direction did he take?” the earl asked.

  “Round about at first, it was. First towards Pergrine’s, then back towards them plant houses of the Frenchman, Mandel.” Clem met his gaze steadily.

  “I regret my hasty actions, Mr. Traunt,” Dunstan and, rising and walking around the table. “I hope you understand they were caused by my concern for my cousin.” He extended his hand in apology.

  “Likely’d done the same,” Clem muttered, accepting the hand. “Would feel better if I’d a landed at least one blow.”

  “In justice, you deserve the opportunity,” Dunstan smiled. “Whenever you choose—”

  “Don’t say I care to.” Clem attempted a smile with his swollen lip.

  “Then come, both of you, sit down,” Durham invited. “Partake of this delicious fare the ladies have served.”

  After a second handshake, the men turned to the table. Everyone but Reverend Durham fell enthusiastically upon the cold beef, roast hen, biscuits, breads, and spiced fruits which lay before them.

  Lady Brienne returned to her bedchamber in mideve to find her sisters awaited her. “You should be abed,” she scolded them. “How are you to take your turn sitting with Lord Enoch if you do not rest?”

  “We had to speak with you, Brienne.” Lady Imogene shook her head at the baroness’s tone.

  “How is Enoch?” Lady Phillippa asked.

  “Sleeping quietly. He seems calmer with Sarita’s handling. I have aged twenty years this day.” She sat down and passed a hand across her eyes.

  “But don’t you see, Brienne, even this unfortunate occurrence has hidden blessings,” Lady Phillippa told her happily. “With Sarita caring for Enoch, their match is a certainty.”

  “Our nephew is in no condition to compromise Miss
Durham,” Lady Brienne returned caustically.

  “This time of trouble will bring them closer,” the countess countered seriously. “Philly means he will be grateful to Sarita and—”

  “Gratitude does not a marriage make,” the baroness refused to agree.

  “Oh, Brienne, you—” Lady Imogene spluttered.

  A wave of the baroness’s hand silenced her. “I am far too fatigued for this.” She shook her head. “Instead of pursuing your matchmaking, you should be searching for reasons why Enoch was shot. Death was the intent.”

  Both sisters gasped. “You cannot be serious,” they said in unison.

  “Am I in this room?” she returned acidly. “We shall call on Monsieur Mandel, both Messieurs Mandel, at the first opportunity. My bones tell me the answer lies in their direction.”

  “But why? Pierre only met Enoch on the eve past and his father never has,” Lady Phillippa protested.

  “You had as lief accuse Lord Pergrine,” the countess snorted.

  “Perhaps I shall,” Lady Brienne returned coldly. “Perhaps I shall.”

  * * * *

  The tread of steps too heavy for a woman’s and yet not her father’s warned Sarita of Mr. Sullivan’s approach as she sat at Lord Dunstan’s side.

  Entering, Cris paused and studied her features, the glow of the bedside lamp giving them a warm, bewitching glow. The earl moaned and she took his hand. For the first time in his life Cris felt a twinge of envy.

  “I see he sleeps easily,” he whispered.

  Still holding the earl’s hand, Sarita nodded. “The dowagers are to take turns keeping watch through the night,” she spoke softly. “You may feel at ease about his lordship and retire yourself.” She gave him a heart-warming smile.

  “I must go out—a matter of importance to the earl that needs attention,” Dunstan returned without thinking, his eyes moving to his cousin’s ashen face.

  “It is far too late for any business matter,” she challenged, her voice rising above a whisper.

  The earl put a finger to his lips. “You are, perhaps, correct,” he amended his error. “Yes, I shall retire.” He searched her features as concern diminished in them. “Good eve. Thank you for caring for my cousin. It shall not go unrewarded.”