Rescued by Love

by Joan Vincent

  “Good eve, Reverend,” Dunstan said, rising. “My cousin must be abed. I trust you are satisfied with the results of our meeting with Pergrine?”

  “You are certain the men are not to be hanged in the morn?”

  “Very certain.” Dunstan extended his hand; his gaze did not waver from Durham’s.

  “Then I am well pleased. Good eve to you.”

  “Till morn,” the earl nodded and followed Lin.

  * * * *

  Lady Brienne tossed uneasily in her bed. Sleep had not come quickly after the events of the day, nor was it deep. A board creaked alarmingly close. It brought her to instant wakefulness. She groped for the knitting needles she had kept beneath her pillow since Lin had first been wounded.

  The full-mooned night sent a stream of light through the windows into the baroness’s chamber. It revealed two hulking shadows when she slowly opened one eye. Stealthily, they moved towards her bed. Forcing herself to remain motionless, she wondered if the ghost of Malvern had brought a friend.

  A hand reached towards her.

  “Hold fast,” she said crisply and put a knitting needle to the unknown’s chest.

  “What in God’s name are you doing with a rapier?” Lady Imogene gasped, jumping back from the stab.

  “Raspberries,” swore the marchioness. “Brienne, have you gone mad?” She pushed the knitting needle aside. “Light the lamp, Imogene,” she ordered.

  “What do you mean by skulking about?” the baroness demanded. “How was I to know it was you? ‘Pon my soul, I didn’t have the ten years to spare that you’ve frightened from me this night.” She put a hand to her brow.

  “What time of night is it?” The baroness jerked upright and fumbled for the timepiece on her bedside table.

  “It is nearing three,” the marchioness told her, taking the lamp from the countess. “Close the shutters,” she instructed.

  “Light the lamp. Close the shutters,” Lady Imogene muttered.

  The baroness straightened her bedcovers as she stared condemningly at them. “Quiet, Imogene. Why are you two prowling about disturbing my sleep?”

  “Brienne,” Lady Phillippa sat on the foot of the bed, “you will never guess whom I saw leaving the rectory shortly after we retired.”

  “Malvern’s ghost?”

  The marchioness frowned. “I suppose you consider that a jest? It was Mr. Sullivan. I have been awaiting his return. Immy has been helping me stay awake,” she ended pertly.

  “And now I am to keep you both alert, I suppose?”

  “Oh, no. We just wished to discuss your idea about Enoch and Sarita.”

  The countess pulled a chair beside the bed and sat down. “There must be some way to reconcile the pair.”

  “Enoch is totally smitten with Deborah. That is a simple, unalterable fact. Do you refuse to recognize it?” the baroness asked.

  “We do. We do concede there is a bit of truth to what you say,” Lady Phillippa reluctantly agreed. “But truly, Brienne, could we not do better than a secretary for Sarita? She cannot have—"

  “Phillippa,” Lady Brienne scolded. “Of all people I would not expect to hear such nonsense from you. Did not your own daughter wed a nabob from India? I suggest you two step aside and leave these young people to decide for themselves whom they will marry.”

  “Such gibberish.” Lady Imogene shook her grey curls. “Next you will have us believe all young people should choose their own spouses.”

  “Did you not?” Lady Brienne retorted, effectively ending the argument.

  “But,” the baroness continued, “I am intrigued by Mr. Sullivan’s behaviour. If he is to marry Sarita, we must be certain he is of good character. Stealing out at this time of night is definitely unacceptable.” She shook her finger at the two dowagers.

  “Do you have an idea, Brienne?” the sisters asked expectantly, their eyes twinkling merrily at the prospect.

  “Fetch me my slippers,” the baroness commanded. “And my dressing gown.” Once these were on and her sleeping bonnet adjusted, she took a firm hold on the knitting needles and blew out the lamp.

  “What are we going to do?” Lady Phillippa asked excitedly.

  “Follow me—quietly. Imogene, raise your skirts. We don’t want you stumbling in the dark. Carefully now,” she whispered. “We mustn’t wake anyone.”

  Slowly the elderly trio edged their way through the corridor, down the stairs, and into the kitchen.

  “You don’t mean for us to go—go out?” the countess whispered nervously. “In the dark?”

  “How else are we to catch Mr. Sullivan?”

  “But he must enter here,” Lady Phillippa added to Imogene’s protest.

  “Last week while in the garden I was contemplating the ivy growing so industriously beneath Enoch’s and Mr. Sullivan’s windows and noticed a few dying sprigs. I thought it odd, but ‘tis not so odd if someone has been climbing that wall.”

  “From the rectory’s upper storey?” the countess asked as the baroness led the way out the kitchen door.

  “He does look quite capable of such an action,” the marchioness pondered aloud as they entered the garden. “But why are you using that strange tone when you speak of Mr. Sullivan, Brienne?”

  “Later. For now let us position ourselves facing that window. Come.” She waved the two towards the concealing shrubbery.

  “My, the grass is damp. My slippers shall be ruined,” the countess grumbled.

  “Immy, forget about the slippers. This is so exciting.” Lady Phillippa lightly clapped her hands.

  “Both of you hush,” hissed the baroness. “Get behind these shrubs. No, Imogene, that one’s too small for you.

  “Philly, your mobcap is hanging on that branch. Fetch it before someone sees it.”

  “Someone?” quaked the countess, moving to a different shrub. “You—you don’t expect anyone but Mr. Sullivan, do you, Brienne? Could Malvern’s ghost be about?”

  “Oh, be quiet. Such nonsense. Wait, I thought I heard something.” Lady Brienne waved for them to crouch down.

  Coming from the woods, Dunstan glanced hurriedly over the landscape, then dashed for the rectory. Edging along the east wall in the garden, the sound of someone stirring in the stables caused him to dive beneath the closest shrub. A dampened cloth covered his face; he swallowed hard as he felt a pointed blade in his back and realized he was looking into the ruffling of the lower hem of a nightdress.

  “Quiet.”

  All remained as they were until the stable door thudded shut once more.

  Dunstan’s eyes travelled upward. “What a delightful nightdress, Lady Phillippa,” he said. “I truly regret not discovering it in a more—appropriate place,” he bantered.

  Lady Brienne prodded him with the knitting needle. “Enough of your smooth words, Mr. Sullivan.

  “Baroness Mickle, if you would kindly remove your blade.”

  “Not until your answers satisfy, Mr. Sullivan. Your evening expedition is enough to raise curiosity, but could you perhaps explain Lady Devereau’s description of yourself? You see, in a missive from that dear woman received just this day, she wrote: 'Mr. Sullivan is a tall, thin man of nervous habit, although he can be perfectly calm and wonderfully astute in business matters.’"

  “Lady Devereau is a most charming woman—" he began.

  “Might I mention,” the baroness interrupted, jabbing him sharply, “that it was rumoured this same lady was, shall we say, briefly involved with Lord Dunstan.

  “I believe she mentioned something about my nephew’s ‘terribly broad shoulders and ghastly thrilling locks.’ A bit overdone, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Sullivan?”

  “You mean he is Enoch?” the countess asked indignantly. “But—”

  “Brienne, you must be wrong,” Lady Phillippa protested.

  Dunstan waved the white kerchief he had managed to free from his pocket. “Ladies. My ladies. Might we discuss this in a more—comfortable position?”

  “Goodness, Brienne, if
he is Enoch, let him rise.” The marchioness took Dunstan’s hand to assist him.

  He arched an eyebrow upon seeing what the baroness held. “Knitting needles?”

  “Quite as effective as a rapier.”

  “I definitely shall not argue . . . aunt. Not with them still in your hands.” He bowed and then, much to her surprise, hugged her.

  “Truly, Enoch,” she scolded, straightening her mobcap as he released her, but the moonlight revealed her delight.

  “‘Tis with some hesitation, but I must protest,” Dunstan said with grave reproach. “‘Tis Cris or Crispin I answer to among my closest friends.”

  “Crispin?" Lady Phillippa laughed quietly. "Ah, yes, your head of curls.”

  “But—but what of him?” the countess asked, pointing to the window above.

  “He is Mr. Sullivan,” Lady Brienne explained, shaking her head at the countess’s slowness. “And we will hear the reason for this—”

  “Aunts,” the earl interrupted, “you have found me out, but no one else must know. Life and death for more than one depend upon that.” He considered how much to reveal to them.

  “‘Tis not a game I play at. Friends and country are involved. Swear you shall tell no one.” His voice hardened.

  “We have not. We shall not,” the baroness answered; her sisters nodded their assent.

  “I can tell you no more. Let us turn to our beds. Would any of ye be wishin’ to join me?” he asked mischievously, motioning to the trellis.

  “Now wouldn’t you be surprised to have us?” Lady Brienne threw back her shoulders. “We have done it in the past, but I suppose we wouldn’t want to frighten poor Lord Enoch to an early grave, would we, sisters?”

  “Certainly not. Decidedly not,” the countess answered hurriedly.

  “Come, Brienne.” The marchioness took her sister’s arm and marched her towards the rear of the rectory before anything further could be said.

  With a smiling salute, Dunstan began his climb up the trellis. He gave a huge sigh of relief as he dragged himself into the room above. “Methinks my aunts are a greater danger than Pergrine,” he muttered as he tiredly pulled off his coat. “And all four will descend upon us in the morn.”

  Chapter 15

  “Cris, we cannot just leave. Not without explanations,” Lin continued to protest at dawn the next morning.

  “I will leave a note telling Reverend Durham of a business matter which requires our immediate attention,” Dunstan told him as he finished his packing and buckled the small portmanteau’s straps.

  “I must explain to Deborah—Miss Durham. I must tell her the truth.”

  “That cannot be done. For now let us remove you to safety.”

  Lin sat on the chair near the bed. “I refuse to go.”

  “Now, Lin, you know someone suspects that I—” He threw his hands in the air. “You know that I never would have changed identities with you if I had thought it would involve danger. I don’t want anything to happen to you.”

  “But I cannot leave without telling Deborah. What if she learned the truth while we were gone? Why, she would never speak to me again.” He rose and put a hand on the earl’s shoulder.

  “What are you involved in, Cris? Since I have become a target, I have the right to know.”

  “The knowledge would only endanger you further.”

  Lin’s lips pressed into a stubborn line as he folded his arms.

  Dunstan studied his cousin for a moment. “You have heard that Napoleon is assembling an invasion force directly across the Channel from Hastings at Boulogne. Some of his landing craft are already completed. The War Ministry has learned that someone in this area is sending reports on troop numbers and movements, shore fortifications and similar information directly to Napoleon. I am hear to learn who that man is,” Dunstan ended softly.

  “You?” Lin began. “But all those rumours of amorous escapades . . ..”

  “At times a ruse. At times—” Dunstan shrugged, trying to lighten his cousin’s grim looks. “But we both could be killed if the informer believes we know—”

  “Exactly." Relief filled the earl’s voice. "Now will you come?”

  “No.”

  “Lin, I shall brook no—”

  “You must understand. I see the danger, but I cannot abandon Deborah. No, I must remain.”

  Dunstan’s glared a challenge.

  “I mean to wed the chit, Cris, if she will have me after the explanations are done. Her heart is devilish well set on being a countess.” He fingered his cravat nervously.

  A wry grin came to the earl’s lips. “I am sorry, Lin. Had I known—”

  “There are no regrets on my part. It is,” he grimaced apologetically, “reassuring to learn you are not—"

  “Entirely frivolous,” Dunstan finished for him. “We both have learned a great deal about one another.” He held out his hand. They shook solemnly.

  “Now I must go to Hastings. Don’t ask why. It’s to your protection not to know. I may be gone two, three days. I will leave the explanation of my absence to you. Do not provide too broad a target,” he joked lightly as he picked up the portmanteau. Halting at the door, he admonished once again. “No one is to be told.”

  “I understand, Cris. God speed your return.”

  * * * *

  “How did he manage it?” Lady Imogene fretted as the dowagers strolled in the garden in early morn. “He never explained anything.”

  “If you two had not been so fearful of having to climb a simple trellis, I could have questioned him,” the baroness returned. “He is wily, but then he is our nephew,” she smiled.

  “But how are we to learn anything? Imagine, stealing away so early in the morn.” Lady Phillippa pursed her lips.

  “He probably realized you two would now direct all your matchmaking efforts at him,” Lady Brienne countered with a laugh, then grew serious. “No, the surprise is that he left Enoch here to face the danger alone.”

  “You mean Mr. Sullivan,” the countess retorted, still angry at the trick. “How ungentlemanly of them to do such a thing.”

  “It would be best to continue as we have or we shall let the secret out,” the baroness corrected her. “Until we know the reason for this subterfuge, let’s not damage it. Where is everyone this morn?” Her eyes swept the open meadow before them.

  “Reverend Durham left just as we were rising. I imagine he went to see those two unfortunate men. Sarita has gone with a basket of food to the Widow Trumbull, and Deborah and Enoch are in the solarium—with Mrs. Durham as chaperone.” Lady Imogene rattled the list off with ease.

  The other two eyed her appraisingly.

  “Have I forgotten someone? Oh, Tessy. She is preparing—”

  “No, no,” the other two laughed. “Enough.”

  The sound of approaching horsemen drew their eyes to the meadow.

  “Why, they are coming here,” Lady Phillippa exclaimed and put her hand fearfully to her heart. “What could they want?”

  Hurrying, the dowagers reached the front of the rectory as the horsemen reined to a halt.

  “Open the doors,” the surly leader demanded, jumping down. “We mean to find the Trumbulls if we have to ransack the place.”

  * * * *

  “Mademoiselle Durham—Sarita. May I not walk with you?” Pierre Mandel called to her as she hurried along the path towards the rectory. “I shall carry that basket for you,” he said when he reached her side.

  “It is empty and very light,” she said, refusing to give it up. “I must return home quickly,” she added, her steps not slowing.

  “You have heard then?” Mandel questioned. “Are you not pleased?”

  Sarita ignored the intimacy of his tone. “Of what do you speak, monsieur?”

  “The freeing of the Trumbull brothers. I thought such an act would please you greatly.” He appraised her, his tone disappointed.

  It pleases me very much, but what interest do you have— You didn’t help them, did you?”
she asked doubtfully.

  “Why do you question it, mademoiselle? Do you think me so spineless that I would not aid them?” he asked, pretending to be hurt.

  “Of course not. It is just that you and Lord Pergrine—”

  “It is for my father that I maintain a pretence of being friendly with the man.”

  “But your father dislikes the—”

  “He does not understand the ways of the world. Non, his head is in his flowers.” Mandel took one of Sarita’s hands; his eyes swept over her petite form appreciatively. “You are pleased, are you not?” He reached to touch one of her dark curls.

  A chill ran through her as his tone caressed her. “I believe it was the right thing to do, monsieur.”

  “Pierre—please.”

  “Pierre,” she returned frigidly. “But are you not in danger?” she asked, managing to free her hand from his clammy hold.

  “Non. No one but you knows that I freed them, and certainement I need not fear you shall tell anyone, n’est-ce pas?”

  “You know I wouldn’t, but freeing the Trumbull brothers really wasn’t necessary. Lord Dunstan and Mr. Sullivan spoke with Lord Pergrine last eve. He was going to delay taking any action,” Sarita told him proudly.

  “Who told you this?” Mandel’s eyes narrowed. “Why—Sullivan again,” the Frenchman spat. “No one called on Lord Pergrine last eve. I was watching the manor—biding my time for the most opportune moment.”

  Sarita shook her head in disbelief. “Ask Mr. Sullivan himself.”

  “I cannot. He has gone away on business,” she returned numbly.

  “Ah, the coward. He realized the truth would be made known,” Pierre said, a triumphant gleam in his eye.

  “There must be some explanation,” Sarita countered.

  “Only the truth. Listen to me, m’amie. I have told you what the man is. This proves my words.” Confidence oiled his voice.

  “You know, my sweet, Father is very fond o£ you. It would please him very much if we were to—”

  “I must go, Pierre.” Sarita began to step away, but he caught her arm.

  “They have done no damage. There is no need to rush,” he leered.

  “What do you mean?”