Rescued by Love

by Joan Vincent

“The men who searched for the Trumbulls, of course.”

  “The rectory? Mother—” She jerked free and bolted down the path.

  Mandel’s eyes followed her hungrily. “Oui, the poor mother. She needn’t worry about her daughter much longer. How fortune smiles on me with Monsieur Sullivan’s absence.”

  * * * *

  “You are certain of this information.” Dunstan, unrecognisable in tattered sailor’s garb with heavy stubble on his face, leaned across the table in the dimly lit alehouse.

  Billy nodded grimly.

  The earl whistled.

  “The word is he’ll come with his master, Lord Gerard, who has been invited to Pergrine Manor.”

  “What reason has been given for the invitation?”

  “His lordship invited Lord Gerard so he could relax away from the strain of the War Office,” Billy clipped softly.

  “Then Pergrine is involved.”

  “The Admiralty believes someone else is also, someone who knows the French coast well and speaks the language.”

  Dunstan clenched his fist. “Mandel.”

  “We have no names. It is for you to learn them.”

  “Is Gerard suspected in this?”

  “No, only his man Finley. Nor is it believed he would accept an accusation against his man. That is why you must handle it. They are uncertain which papers Finley has managed to copy, but Lord Gerard has access to the most confidential listings.”

  “He will bring the papers with him. If only we knew their intent. Pergrine is no fool. He must realize he cannot remain undetected.” Dunstan rubbed a hand calculatingly across his rough beard. “See if you can find any rumours of expected crossings on the Channel within the next week to ten days. They will have to make their move soon.”

  “Aye, but ‘tis dangerous. How fares 'his lordship?'” “Better than one might suppose—for a partridge in the midst of hunting season,” the earl quipped.

  “Direct the men you spoke of to come to the Anchor and Sail at midnight.” He rose.

  Billy nodded farewell and watched him till he was gone. Rising, he proceeded to his own rendezvous.

  * * * *

  A soft knock stiffened Lady Brienne as she was about to get into bed. “Enter,” she snapped, her temper still riled by the actions of Pergrine’s searchers.

  Sarita paused in the doorway, her smallness emphasized by her full, white nightdress. Her black hair framed her pert face. The large dark eyes bespoke a vulnerability the baroness had not noted before. “I beg your pardon for disturbing you so late,” she said.

  “Well, child, it is done. Close the door and tell me what it is you wish.” Lady Brienne tried to temper her words, sensing the young woman’s hesitancy.

  “You see, you are the oldest—I mean the most sensible—” Sarita shook her head, her hands clenched.

  “I believe I understand what you are trying to say,” the baroness told her softly. “Come. Sit. Tell me what troubles you.”

  Sarita sighed heavily as she sat down. “You must realize by now that Mother refuses to deal with anything distressing. She retreats into her own world at times—so I have only Father to turn to. But in this matter I cannot help but feel he would . . ..” She shrugged awkwardly.

  Sarita rose abruptly and made for the door. “Excuse me.”

  “Come back, child. I do not intend to lose an entire night’s sleep pondering on what you intended to speak of. Does it concern Mr. Sullivan?”

  The young woman whirled to face the baroness. “Is it so plain?”

  “I suppose he has been paying court to you?”

  “Oh, no. I don’t think so. Not that I wouldn’t wish him to, or so I thought,” Sarita admitted with her customary frankness. She slowly returned to the chair and sat.

  “So you thought? What has happened to alter this?” Lady Brienne studied her sharply. “Speak, child.”

  “It was Pierre,” Sarita burst out, her inner turmoil surfacing. “He claims that he set the Trumbull brothers free and that Mr. Sullivan and Lord Dunstan never went to see Lord Pergrine last eve. He says Cris is a coward and has run away because he knows he will be found out.” Doubt and anger mingled on her face.

  “You believe this?” Lady Brienne challenged, bristling.

  “I do not want to, my heart tells me not to, but there is so much that is—baffling about Mr. Sullivan.” Sarita jumped up. “Oh, I am a fool. I don’t even know if he cares for me.” She blushed a bright red.

  The baroness cocked her head, holding back her smile. “But you care for him?”

  “I am concerned for his safety. Pierre,” she shivered, “well, he seems to hate Mr. Sullivan. Why would Cris leave without saying anything to anyone—or at least to me if he cared? Even Lord Dunstan has avoided me all day. It is much a muddle.”

  “I agree, and a muddle not easily understood. I believe it is highly unlikely that Monsieur Mandel had anything to do with freeing the Trumbulls. He is far too involved with himself to care for others—unless there was something to his benefit in it.” She noticed Sarita’s sudden repulsion.

  “Is there something you have not told me?”

  “Pierre said—said he did it to please me—that his father wished us to wed.”

  Lady Brienne’s eyes hardened. “Has he made improper advances?”

  “No. No, I have always stayed as far from him as I could. There is something about the way he looks at me.” She shivered again.

  “I understand,” the baroness told her. “You do well to avoid him. In the future we shall have a keener watch on Monsieur Mandel. But, calm your doubts about Mr. Sullivan. He is certain to return and explain everything.”

  “It is so useless. With Mother—”

  “Sarita! Sarita!” Deborah’s shouts interrupted. Both women went to the door. “What are we to do?” she asked. “Lady Dunstan has arrived and is in hysterics. She is shouting at Father, and Lord Enoch is nowhere to be found.”

  Chapter 16

  Lady Brienne strode into the library where her sister was berating Reverend Durham. Sarita followed close behind.

  “Henrietta, calm yourself,” the baroness ordered.

  “What have you done with my son?” Lady Dunstan demanded, swinging to face Lady Brienne. “How could you harm him? I shall see that all of you are brought to justice,” she ranted.

  “Where are you going? Put that vase down.” Lady Dunstan followed close upon the baroness’s heels as the other calmly walked from her sister to a side table. “Put that vase down and listen to me.”

  Lady Brienne ignored her and casually removed the daisies from the vase. “Will you listen, Henrietta?” she asked carefully. Her look telegraphed her intent.

  “I would gladly listen if only you will tell me what has happened to my son. Put that vase down, I say.” Annoyance edged her anger. “Have you gone daft?

  “Really, Reverend Durham,” she stamped her foot as she turned to him, “you must make her explain what has become of—”

  The baroness dumped the vase of water over her sister.

  Lady Dunstan gasped.

  “Take this.” Lady Brienne offered her kerchief while the rector looked on the scene in utter amazement. “You always did carry on far too much, Henrietta. What is the reason for this impetuous visit?”

  A threatened renewal of the outburst ended before it began when she raised the vase.

  Lady Phillippa burst into the library. “Why, Henrietta, what has happened? You poor dear,” the marchioness clucked, putting her arm about her sister.

  Lady Brienne handed the vase to the countess as she padded onto the scene. “Refill this.”

  “Brienne, you are the most obnoxious—” Lady Dunstan began.

  “Ladies, ladies.” Reverend Durham stepped forward. “Let us put aside personal differences for Lord Dunstan’s sake.”

  “Is he truly to be found?” the baroness asked.

  “It is all your fault, you overstarched twig,” the earl’s mother began, but was again silenced, th
is time by the squeeze Lady Phillippa gave her. “Well, you did invite him here.” Tears welled up in her eyes.

  “Oh, Reverend Durham, what has happened? You say my son can’t be found.”

  “We must remain calm, Lady Dunstan. Please, won’t all of you take a seat while I tell the little I know?” He motioned for them to sit and then noticed Deborah’s white face peering into the room. “Has your mother heard of the earl’s absence?” he asked worriedly.

  “No, she sleeps,” came the faint reply.

  “Then come in, child,” he said gently. Waiting until Deborah taken a seat, the rector paced to the massive bookcase lining the west wall and turned. “Quite simply, Lord Dunstan excused himself less than an hour ago. He said he wished to walk in the garden a bit before retiring. I had no idea anything was amiss until your arrival.” He nodded at Lady Dunstan.

  “You have searched his bedchamber? The solarium? What of the garden?” the baroness asked, her calmness belying her inner fears.

  Reverend Durham nodded. “To no avail.”

  “But could he not have decided to walk farther—perhaps into the woods?” Deborah asked hopefully. She clenched her hands in her lap.

  “We may hope that, but I fear the worse,” her father returned, shaking his head.

  “Kidnapped,” Lady Brienne put in matter-of-factly.

  “Or worse still,” agreed the rector as Lady Dunstan began to sob.

  * * * *

  “Now yer lordship, ‘ope this convinces ye to tell us how much ye heard and where ye sent yer man.” The burly figure struck Lin several blows to the ribs as two other men held him firmly between them. He sagged in their hold. “Now where be Sullivan?” his tormentor demanded.

  “Told you,” Lin gasped. “In—Hastings—on business.”

  The man Angrily yanked Lin’s drooped head up. He sent his fist against the already bruised jaw with sickening force.

  “Ye ain’t be gettin’ nothin’ from ‘im,” said a voice from the shadows. One of the two that held Lin laughed sourly then released him.

  A tall, thin figure emerged into the cave’s dim light as Lin fell to the floor. “Tie him. Where did you say you found him?”

  “Followed us ‘e did. Must ‘ave seen Hal’s light. Told ‘im not to use it. Came from the rectory like ‘e owned the woods. Think ‘e ‘eard us talkin’ ‘about the shipment.”

  “Fools. I told you to be careful. Take the men to the usual meeting place. The boat should be in soon and someone has to be there.”

  “Why don’t we take ‘im with us? Fine fish bait ‘e’d make.” The burly man prodded Lin’s prone form roughly with his scuffed boot.

  “He may yet prove useful. If not, you may use him for what you like. Now go and no more mistakes or you’ll become fish bait.” He flashed an evil tinged smile, then turned and stalked out.

  “Ye’d better be careful yerself,” the rough man sneered at the other’s back. “There’s them that don’t like yer highhanded ways. Ye ‘eard,” he snapped at his cohorts. “Get this un’ tied. Drag ‘im to the back of the cave.” He gave Lin a final kick as he passed him.

  * * * *

  “What are we to do, Brienne?” Lady Imogene asked nervously as she joined her sisters in the garden. “Whatever are we to do?”

  “Calm yourself, Immy,” Lady Phillippa urged. “You’ll have palpitations if you don’t.”

  “A pother on that,” she waved agitatedly at the marchioness. “Crispin shall be returning and what will we do? Or if Reverend Durham and Mr. Traunt find Lord Enoch? What then? Either way Henrietta shall know.

  “My, what a scene we shall have then. Oh, and after he said it was so important that no one know.” She halted for sheer lack of breath.

  “Sit down, Imogene,” Lady Brienne commanded. “There is a problem, I agree, but I am equally certain we shall manage it. If Crispin is as knowledgeable as I believe, he will not walk into the midst of us without some warning. For now, we must play the worried aunts. In truth, I do fear for Lord Enoch.”

  “You? Care? For someone other than yourself?” Lady Dunstan’s icy tone froze the three.

  “Henrietta.” The marchioness stepped towards her, but Lady Brienne stopped her.

  “There is no reason we cannot behave in a reasonably civilized manner,” the baroness pointedly noted.

  “No reason,” Lady Henrietta returned coldly.

  “We are distressed at Lord Enoch’s disappearance. Very distressed.” Lady Brienne allowed a hint of her concern to show.

  “Enoch. Why does everyone call him Enoch?” Lady Dunstan’s features contorted as she tried to stave off a bout of tears. “My dear Crispin. What has become of him?” Her eyes begged an answer of Lady Brienne. “Shall I ever see my mischievous lad again?”

  Lady Brienne reached out consolingly. “I am certain you shall. Reverend Durham and Mr. Traunt have many men searching,” she reassured her.

  “But why would anyone want to harm him?” Lady Henrietta asked. She took the baroness’s arm, her concern for her son dwarfing the memory of their past quarrels.

  “There is oft much one does not know about sons—or nephews,” Lady Brienne answered carefully.

  “This would not have happened if he had wed as I wished,” the earl’s mother continued. “I have reached my wits’ end with him. Do you know, I came here actually hoping you had been successful?” She looked to Lady Phillippa.

  “I was even willing to accept anyone, provided, of course, that she was of the gentry.”

  “Of course,” the baroness controlled her remark.

  “Do you mean that?” the marchioness asked cautiously. “I mean, you would not object if he wished to wed—what if he wished to wed one of Reverend Durham’s daughters?”

  “One of the rector’s? Why, you don’t mean—”

  “He could always choose one of those garish merchants’ daughters. Like the Viscount of Harrow did just last month,” the countess interjected.

  “And rumours of his reputation with ladies of doubtful repute are widespread,” Lady Brienne noted.

  Lady Dunstan shrugged surrender. “He is hopeless. I will be fortunate if he, indeed, ever marries.”

  “But you would not discourage a match with Miss Durham?” Lady Phillippa persisted.

  “Have you managed to interest him in one of them?” Lady Dunstan asked suspiciously and burst into tears. “What use is this foolish chatter? What if he is—dead?” she sobbed.

  * * * *

  In the rectory’s kitchen a like scene was being played. Deborah and Sarita had been finishing the morning’s dishes when the younger fumbled and dropped a plate, smashing it to pieces.

  “A broken plate is nothing to shed such tears over, Debs,” Sarita told her sister as she bent to help her pick up the pieces.

  “I’m not . . . crying . . . over the plate.” Deborah raised tear-flooded eyes to her sister’s. “Do you think— think he still lives?” Her lower lip trembled.

  “Lord Enoch? Of course.” Sarita drew her sister to her as she broke into fresh sobs. “Do you wish to be a countess that badly?” she asked.

  Drawing back abruptly, Deborah daubed at her eyes. “Do you think so poorly of me that you can ask that?” She blew her nose soundly. “I don’t care if I never become a countess if only Lord Enoch is returned unharmed,” she sniffed. “I know you think I dwell only on frippery and geegaws, Sarry, but this is different. Enoch is so . . . special. I do believe I love him.”

  “Oh, Debs.” Sarita opened her arms and the two embraced. “If Clem and Father do not find him, I know Mr. Sullivan will.”

  “You care for Mr. Sullivan, don’t you, Sarry?” Deborah questioned, recovered enough to study her sister closely.

  “We had better get this plate taken care of before Tessy returns,” the other dodged the question.

  “What have you done? Another plate?” Tessy towered over them, hands on hips. Suddenly she softened. “Well, ‘tis to be understood with his lordship missing and his mother c
oming on us like she did. I’ll see to this.

  “That young Frenchman’s out in the garden wishing to see you, Miss Sarita. Go on now.”

  “You go, Deborah. I’ll help finish this,” Sarita answered quickly.

  “Won’t do, miss. Your mother said to send you both. So off with you.” Tessy shooed them from the kitchen.

  “Why don’t you like Mr. Mandel?” Deborah asked as they walked through the Hall.

  “I think very highly of Monsieur Mandel,” Sarita tossed back lightly.

  “I mean Pierre. The Bradly girls and even Laura Simpson would love to have him pay court to them as much as he does to you.”

  “I have never encouraged him,” she snapped.

  “I didn’t mean—”

  “I’m sorry, Debs. It’s just that I—I don’t care for Pierre. Let’s hurry. Perhaps he has word of Lord Enoch,” she said.

  “My goodness, Deborah, such hoydenish behaviour,” Mrs. Durham reprimanded her youngest as she ran up to the small group in the garden.

  “Tessy said Mr. Mandel was here and I thought perhaps,” she turned eagerly to him, “that you might have news of Lord—Dunstan.”

  “Je regretted—I am sorry, mademoiselle, but I carry no such tidings.” He bowed, his expression contrite. “I fear my news is much at odds with your present circumstances.” He waved his hand with a moue of regret. “I bring invitations to Lord Pergrine’s grand ball.”

  Chapter 17

  “Lord Pergrine has invited all of us?” Sarita asked dubiously.

  “Oui.” Mandel bowed to the dowagers. “Lady Peregrine especially wishes you to come. It is to be a grande celebration.”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know how to reply,” Mrs. Durham said nervously. “Reverend Durham and Lord Pergrine have been at such . . .. Well, you know they have not agreed. Oh dear, what shall we do?” she asked Sarita.

  “Lord Pergrine desired me to tell you he feels that in this time of trouble perhaps a new beginning can be made; that the seeds of understanding can be sown between him and your husband,” the Frenchman purred smoothly, convincingly. “One should not let such an opportunity pass. Think of the good it could do for the people if Lord Pergrine chose to be your husband’s sponsor once more.”