Rescued by Love

by Joan Vincent

  “Your main task,” Dunstan included both men, “will be to gather enough men to take care of the ruffians Pergrine keeps inside and around the manor. The night of the ball I must explore and want no interference. Besides, we must be certain that no one eludes us that night.

  “Can you find enough willing men for the task?”

  “Many’s the man who’s been wanting a go at those blackguards,” Traunt grinned.

  “Good. Now for the details. As soon as it grows dark on Thursday night, I want you to begin working your way towards the manor,” began Dunstan.

  * * * *

  Thursday came with frightening suddenness, all attempts to find Lin fruitless. Last minute details and alternative plans for the evening’s rescue attempt kept Dunstan, Traunt, and Reverend Durham closeted in the library for most of the afternoon. The chambers in the upper storey of the rectory were the scene of constant flurries of activity as the women readied for the ball.

  Petticoats were pressed, re-starched and pressed again. Gowns were chosen, discarded, and re-chosen as the dowagers struggled with the Misses Durham’s toilettes as well as their own.

  Deborah reluctantly took part, consenting only when reminded that going to the ball would aid Lord Enoch. Her pleasure came from Sarita’s excitement.

  “Could this sudden interest in gowns, ribbons, and furbelows be caused by Mr. Sullivan?” she teased.

  “Does it show so terribly?” Sarita sighed as she turned before the looking glass, examining her gown.

  “The pair of you could light a room,” Deborah laughed. “Do you think he will speak to father soon?”

  A wave of sadness darkened the other’s features. She returned lightly, “He has been speaking with Father all day.”

  “You know what I mean.” Deborah grimaced at her. “He is going to, isn’t he?”

  “Cris has said we shall wed—and I have not disagreed, but how can I, Debs, with Mother as she is? No, I shall take what happiness I can for now.”

  “‘Tis cruel you are being, Sarry—far crueller than I would have ever believed. How can you play with Mr. Sullivan’s affections with so little concern? ‘Tis plain to everyone how much he cares for you,” Deborah challenged.

  “I do love him, Debs, but my duty is to Father and Mother,” she protested weakly.

  “Rubbish and balderdash.” Deborah laughed and rose. “Now I sound like you.” She embraced her sister. “You are being the foolish one. Mother is weak because we allow—encourage her to be. Besides, they shall still have me.”

  “No.” Sarita gripped her sister’s arm. “Cris shall find your Enoch.”

  “Perhaps,” Deborah sighed sadly, then forced a bright smile. “But for this eve we must dress you to outshine everyone at the ball. Mr. Sullivan will know he has found the most beautiful woman in the kingdom.”

  Sarita burst into laughter at her sister’s posturing. “That is like thinking Enoch is a secretary and Cris an earl,” she giggled.

  “Then you would have to endure Lady Dunstan.”

  Deborah giggled, and they both broke into laughter. But their emotions were taut and tears quickly threatened.

  “Her ladyship can be kind,” Sarita defended the earl’s mother. She daubed at her eyes. “She is even likeable when she forgets herself.”

  “Oh, Sarry.” The two hugged once more. “I don’t care how Lady Dunstan is or whether or not Enoch is an earl. I only care that he is safe.”

  “I know Debs, I know.” The two held each other tightly.

  * * * *

  Late Thursday afternoon a heavy knock on the library door brought the three heads peering over a drawing of the Pergrine estate up with a start. The drawing was quickly rolled and laid upon the floor behind the desk.

  “Yes?” Reverend Durham called.

  Davy Caine stuck his head in warily. “There be a fellow callin’ himself Jervy wantin’ to see Mr. Sullivan.”

  The earl rose hastily. “Where is the man?”

  “I didn’t like his looks. Ben and Josh are watchin’ him in the stable.”

  A bark of laughter escaped Dunstan. “That’ll be Jervy all right. Bring him here. Quickly,” he ordered.

  A nod from Reverend Durham sent Caine on his way.

  * * * *

  The little man, his garb indistinguishable beneath a layer of dust and grime, danced into the library. He went straight to Dunstan. “We’ve found him, m’lord.”

  Dunstan grabbed the man’s shoulders. “Alive?”

  “Aye, m’lord. A little worse for the beatin’s he’s been gettin’, methinks, but breathin’ strong.”

  “Thank God,” breathed the earl, dropping his hands. “Where is he? No, wait. Davey, not a word of this to anyone. Go back to the stables and ready one of the best mounts there.”

  “Gladly, milord.” He bowed with a wide grin, and then left hurriedly, closing the door carefully as he went.

  “Now, Jervy, where is Lin? Are there many guards?”

  “One question at a time, m’lord.” Jervy waved a begrimed hand. Seeing the map Reverend Durham unrolled, he pounced on it. “There be the spot—a cottage.”

  “That building hasn’t been used for near a year,” Traunt noted. “Not since Pergrine threw the renter in gaol and tossed the poor wife and wee ones out.”

  “I thought this had been checked earlier,” the earl questioned sharply.

  “‘Twere, m’lord,” Jervy answered. “He’s only been there two—three days at most.”

  “How did you find him?” Reverend Durham asked.

  “Took a poacher from a pair of Pergrine’s men last eve.” Jervy flashed a row of crooked teeth. “When we’d convinced him we were friends, he told us ‘bout a queer bunch scuttlin’ back and forth. Said last time he saw them they were carryin’ a big bundle which looked suspiciously like a body. Led us right to ‘em, he did.

  “Three men there most times,” he added, looking to Dunstan.

  The earl flicked Clem’s shoulder. “Can we handle that?”

  “Aye,” the other grinned.

  “What about the men?” Dunstan questioned Jervy.

  “Left two watchin’ the cottage. The rest are prowlin’ the shoreline, keeping watch for Le Blatte.”

  “I’m going with you,” Reverend Durham told them.

  The earl shook his head. “No. You have to stay here to escort the women should we be delayed,” Dunstan told him. “Tell them nothing. We will meet you at Pergrine’s,” he threw over his shoulder as he followed Jervy and Traunt from the library.

  * * * *

  The sun dimly shadowed the forest as it set for the night. Dunstan and his two companions had joined the men watching the cottage. As darkness fell candlelight flickered inside.

  “Someone’s comin’,” Jervy whispered. “A tall, thin man— Mandel.”

  “Do we take him now?” Clem whispered.

  “No, I want him at Pergrine’s,” Dunstan whispered.

  Inside the cottage, the young Frenchman posed before Lin. “My lord,” he bowed, “you do not seem well. The gout, perhaps?”

  “Aye, the gout,” the three men standing behind Mandel jeered.

  “I am sorry it prevents you from attending Lord Pergrine’s ball. In fact,” Mandel smiled, “it is going to prove fatal.”

  Lin remained quiet. He stared at Mandel contemptuously. Inwardly he cursed his bound hands and gagged mouth.

  “Console yourself, my lord, with the thought that Miss Durham shall be mine, not yours as those meddling aunts of yours intended.” Mandel’s maliciousness ripened as he imagined the dowagers’ reaction. “You English lords are fools,” he spat.

  “Take him to our rendezvous. Weight him well with English rocks,” he laughed. “Then wait for me. This night we return to France,” he told his men. “Keep a keen watch. Get him to his feet now.”

  From the underbrush Dunstan and Traunt saw the cottage suddenly darken. Mandel and his men came out, dragging Lin with them.

  “Hold fast,” the
earl whispered as Jervy began to rise.

  They watched the conference and remained still when the Frenchman headed towards Pergrine Manor. His men forced a staggering Lin in the opposite direction.

  Calculating, Dunstan said, “We must alter our plans. Jervy, you take the men and follow those who have Lin. When they reach their destination, free him, and scuttle back to the manor.

  “Clem, gather your men and surround Pergrine’s. Do as we planned there. I’ll come after I’ve dressed.”

  Jervy shook his head. “I don’t like it, m’lord. Why not free him now?”

  “Because you would then have to search those coves and points for the boat. They won’t harm Lin getting him there. Be off with you before you lose sight of them,” Dunstan ordered. “Take your horses with you. You may have need of them.”

  With a curt nod, Jervy and the other two men hurried after Mandel’s men. Dunstan and Traunt hurried to their hidden horses.

  “Remember, pick off Pergrine’s bullies by one’s or two’s. Don’t do anything that will raise alarm. Your purpose is to stop anyone from escaping. Good luck.”

  “The same with you,” Clem saluted, and the two spurred away.

  Chapter 21

  In the lowering evening light, a disappointed, sombre group stood uneasily about the steps and drive before the rectory.

  “I think it best we go,” Lady Brienne announced, gathering her skirts and approaching one of the two coaches awaiting them.

  “I agree,” Reverend Durham told the others. “Mr. Sullivan told me he would join us at the ball if he returned late.”

  “Are you certain he did not say where he was going?” Lady Dunstan asked, reluctantly following the baroness to the first coach.

  The rector shook his head as he helped his wife into the second coach. “Come, Sarita, Deborah. We are late as it is.”

  “You don’t think any harm has come to him, do you, Father?” Sarita asked as he assisted her into the coach.

  “No, little princess.” He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. “He will return to you.” The warmth of her smile twisted his heart. Would she understand the deception as readily as Dunstan believed?

  The brief journey to Pergrine Manor was made in silence in the rector’s coach, but with less tranquillity in the dowagers’.

  “Ladies,” the baroness’s firm voice silenced the cacophony. “If we are to be of aid to Enoch—Crispin,” she conceded to Henrietta’s scowl, “we must be in harmony. Let us each select a task for the eve so we do not hinder more than help.”

  Lady Henrietta peered down her sharp nose. “For once we are in agreement.”

  “I propose that you,” Lady Brienne nodded to Lady Imogene and the marchioness, “stay close to Sarita and Deborah. Especially if that young Mr. Mandel is present.

  “You and I, Henrietta, shall maintain a watch on Lord Pergrine and Lord Gerard’s man.”

  Lady Imogene brushed back a lock from her face. “But how shall you know him?”

  “When we are announced, I will simply ask the footman to point him out,” Lady Brienne answered.

  “How can we be certain he is the one handing the papers over?” asked Lady Phillippa.

  “Crispin said Lord Gerard was a mere dupe. A trusted secretary is the only one who would have ready access to his papers.”

  “But where is Crispin?” Lady Dunstan asked worriedly.

  “Mr. Caine told me he went with Mr. Traunt and another man,” began Lady Phillippa.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before we left?” lady Henrietta snapped. She tapped on the coach’s roof. “Driver.”

  “Mr. Caine will halt only on my command,” the baroness told her. “Crispin is in the act of or has already rescued Sullivan. He will appear at the ball, be certain of that.”

  “I had so hoped he would see Sarita as she came down the staircase,” Lady Phillippa sighed.

  “Who would have thought Mrs. Durham had such exquisite gowns as a young woman. The lilac silver tissue is perfect on Sarita,” the countess noted.

  “Sarita was—becoming,” Lady Dunstan admitted.

  “Beautiful,” the baroness corrected. “Just the daughter-in-law for you, Henrietta. She won’t brook your fustian. You will enjoy her.”

  “‘Tis apparent Crispin adores her and she him. But what will happen when she learns that he has deceived her?” Lady Henrietta frowned worriedly. “I fear even his title will not lessen Miss Durham’s indignation.”

  “Never fear. Sarita is a sensible young woman, and if she hasn’t enough sense—why then, we shall give her a suitable amount,” stated Lady Brienne with a wink. “Our concern for this night is our individual quarries. Do not lose sight of yours at any time,” she emphatically admonished the three ladies as she tapped the coach’s floor with the gold-knobbed cane she had chosen for the evening.

  * * * *

  With growing timidity, Sarita and Deborah followed their parents up the grand marble staircase which was wreathed with greenery and flowers for the evening. They sensed rather than heard their names announced as they paused at the entrance of the huge upper gallery.

  The Pergrine ancestors, properly dusted, gazed blankly upon the dancers below them amid brilliant candelabras and bouquets.

  A few guests glanced up casually at the mention of Reverend Durham’s family. Their eyes widened in pleasant surprise as they beheld the daughters.

  Always considered fair because of her light hair, Deborah enchanted in the stylish jade-green silk Lady Phillippa had loaned her. The pallor of her features caused by days of worry enhanced her glow of fragility.

  More surprising was Sarita’s dark beauty, for she had long roamed the countryside in frayed gowns and mismatched aprons and bonnets. The lilac silver tissue gown, worn by her mother as a young lady in the ‘70s, had been stripped of the rows of ruching about the hem, skirt, and bodice. Wide lace trim had been removed from the full, puffed sleeves and the square neckline. The silver tissue half overskirt had been eliminated. With these furbelows gone, it looked like a Grecian gown of current style. The raised waistline complemented Sarita’s petiteness. The sheer material flattered her softly curved form. Her dark locks were pulled back, twisted into a knot, and pinned at centre back. A gentle roll of hair framed her features, while the lilac ruche flowers about the knot glistened against the smooth black sheen of her hair. The quiet elegance of manner with which she carried herself transformed the country rector’s daughter into a woman easily taken for one of the haut ton.

  “Miss Durham—Sarita—will make an excellent countess,” Lady Henrietta whispered to the baroness a short time later. “See how she dances—as if born to it.” She glanced about nervously.

  “I do wish Crispin would come. I have the most dreadful feeling something has—”

  “There is Mr. Finley,” Lady Brienne interrupted. “Go after him. I must see to Lord Pergrine.”

  “Why, Baroness Mickle.” Pierre Mandel bowed before her just as Lady Brienne began to walk away. He was perfectly attired for the occasion in form-fitting white knee breeches, an evening jacket of black with a white silk cravat at his neck. A white with black striped waistcoat complemented it. “Would you honour me with this dance?” he asked smoothly, taking her gloved hand and brushing it with a kiss.

  “I thank you for remaining true to your word,” Pierre added, nodding towards Sarita, who was surrounded by admirers.

  “I always do, monsieur,” Lady Brienne clipped.

  “The dance?”

  Seeing Lord Pergrine lead Lady Imogene to the assembling dancers, the baroness nodded her consent. At the end of the set, Mandel bowed once again. “It has been most pleasant.”

  His voice belied his eyes. Cold fear skittered down Lady Brienne’s pine when he looked at Sarita. The malicious smile that curved his lips as he sauntered away rang as clearly as any spoken threat.

  The baroness fanned herself, her unease growing even when Mandel walked past Sarita with a wordless nod. She relaxed slightly when
she saw the countess, in her rose-coloured gown, return to the young woman’s side. With a quick glance she noted a cool Henrietta in dogged conversation with a perspiring Mr. Finley. A further check showed Lady Phillippa visiting with Lady Pergrine, her arm wrapped through Deborah’s.

  The baroness scanned the crowded gallery hoping to catch sight of her nephew. The hour was growing late. Pergrine would conclude his dealings with Finley long before the ball ended.

  At the end of the next country set, the orchestra took a brief pause and Lady Brienne hastened to take up a position near Lord Pergrine. Overhearing him excuse himself to a guest, she stuck out her cane as he passed, nearly tripping him.

  “How clumsy of me,” she piped an apology. “Have you injured yourself, my lord? I could never forgive myself if you have. Truly, how utterly abominable of me. Do forgive me,” she babbled, taking hold of his arm.

  “It is nothing, Lady Bawden.” He forced a smile. “I hope you are enjoying yourself. Let me get you a glass of champagne.” Pergrine began edging away, only to find the baroness’s hand glued to his arm.

  “This is such a lovely ball,” she simpered, “but I have not had a chance to visit with Lord Gerard. He is an old and dear friend, you know. Would you mind terribly helping me find him?” She delicately fanned herself.

  “But—”

  “I just knew you would.” Lady Brienne lurched the surprised man forward, making certain she was going in the opposite direction from that taken by Lord Gerard when he had walked past her a short time before.

  Lord Pergrine grew increasingly nervous as the time passed. When the orchestra struck up the strains of an allemande, He was frantic to escape the baroness.

  Casting about for Finley and Mandel, Lady Brienne saw a broad-shouldered man at the entrance of the gallery. “At last,” she murmured.

  “What, my lady?” Pergrine followed her gaze. “Sullivan, isn’t it?”

  She nodded as she took in her nephew’s handsome figure.

  The local ladies had also noticed Mr. Sullivan’s manly cut. His superfine cutaway jacket of deepest violet lay smoothly across his shoulders, little disguising their brawn. His jabot and cravat were of palest violet. Pale cream knee breeches and hose clung to his muscular calves and thighs. A sigh escaped the younger women when he nonchalantly brushed a hand slowly through his dark curls as he surveyed the crush.