by Rebecca Ward
“—‘Or leave a kiss but in the cup, and I’ll not look for wine,’ ” Brandon warbled blithely. “It’s only a song, of course. I wasn’t suggestin’ that you leave kisses lyin’ about.”
Cecily attempted an icy stare. It was a failure, for the corners of her mouth had begun to twitch suspiciously. “A waste of time,” Lord Brandon went on, “leavin’ kisses inside cups. There’s a much better use for them.”
The bold black eyes that rested on her lips were neither sleepy nor lazy, and Cecily found it even more difficult to catch her breath. It was, she thought, high time to end this extremely improper conversation.
Abruptly she changed the subject. “Why did you not want to speak with Captain Jermayne?” she questioned.
“Because I’d rather have the honor of waltzin’ with you, naturally.”
Not taken in by his guileless smile, Cecily continued, “He said that you were both at Salamanca.”
He shuddered. “Not somethin’ I like to dwell on, ’pon my honor. It was one of Pershing’s maggoty ideas that I join a regiment, and I loathed every minute of it. Now come, Miss Vervant, listen to the music and let it carry you away.”
The waltz had slowed, gentled into a softer rhythm. Its dreamy swaying did not ease Cecily’s breathlessness, for although Lord Brandon held her the regulation twelve inches away from him, the expression in his eyes drew her closer.
It took some effort to meet that steady black gaze, but she persisted. “So you wish to forget Salamanca?”
“Why wouldn’t I want to forget cannons and dirt and smoke? Lord, the smoke. Poor Andrews despaired of keeping my shirts white. He would have given notice if he hadn’t been devoted to me. And the food—”
At this moment Sir Carolus, who was dutifully wheeling Lady Breek’s eldest daughter about the floor, almost collided with them. Instinctively, Lord Brandon pulled Cecily closer to him, and for a moment she was locked against a body that was whipcord-tough, lean and tight with muscle. And like a hammer blow came knowledge: she had been in this man’s arms before.
The waltz ended. Lord Brandon released Cecily and stepped back to bow, and without bothering to dissemble, she searched his face. No. Yes. He must be the man who had saved her at the Widow’s Rock.
“Miss Vervain, your most obedient. How do you do, ma’am? I am so happy to see you, give you my word.”
James Montworthy had shouldered himself between her and Lord Brandon and had taken possession of her hand. Still enmeshed in her tangled thoughts, Cecily barely managed a polite reply.
The conceited young man mistook her preoccupation for missish flutterings. “I didn’t see you when you first came in, ma’am,” he said soulfully. “Wanted to remind you of our waltz but saw Brandon had stolen a march on me. Didn’t think he could bestir himself to waltz, give you m’word.”
Cecily gazed after Lord Brandon, who was sauntering across the room. As she watched, he stopped a servant who was passing a tray of small pastries amongst the guests, chose a tidbit, and with elaborate gestures lifted it to his lips.
“A cotillion’s starting up, Miss Vervain. I hope you’ll honor me,” Montworthy was saying.
Cecily allowed Montworthy to lead her to the floor. But while her feet mechanically tapped her way through the cotillion, she kept her eye glued on Lord Brandon.
He had taken a seat next to little Sir Carolus and was seemingly involved in discussing the dinner to come. Cecily noted that Captain Jermayne had come to stand beside them, and that he was looking at Lord Brandon with a thoroughly bewildered expression. Of course the captain would be bewildered, Cecily thought. The captain did not yet realize that Brandon was wearing a mask.
Did his mask cover a smuggler? Lord Brandon was Pershing’s eldest son, and in fine old families there was often more ancestral pride than ready cash. Even a duke’s son might be tempted by the thought of easy riches.
Cecily realized that James had asked her a question. “You’re an incomparable dancer, Miss Vervain,” he was saying. “Beg you’ll stand up with me again—they’ll play a country dance next.”
Before Cecily could answer, there was a flurry near the door of the drawing room, and Colonel Howard and his daughter came in.
Even disliking the man as she did, Cecily had to admit that he had presence. Tall and broad-shouldered, erect and of martial carriage, the colonel was more than usually imposing tonight in a steel-gray coat and white breeches of military severity. A medal hung like a star on his white shirtfront, and he wore a ceremonial sword strapped around his waist. One powerful arm was decorated by three strands of gold braid.
He walked among his Riders like a general inspecting his troops, and tripping along in his wake came Delinda, Cecily noted that even while she curtsied to her host, Delinda’s blue eyes searched the room for young Montworthy.
Well, there was no accounting for taste, Cecily thought. Aloud she said, “I am afraid I cannot dance the country dance with you, Mr. Montworthy. I do not care for country dances.”
“Hoy—don’t you?” Montworthy looked momentarily taken aback but recovered himself to ask, “May I hope for a dance later on in the evening, then?”
Just then Colonel Howard bore down upon them. Cecily, who had steeled herself to meet the man’s patronizing smile, was grateful when Sir Carolus pattered up to greet his guests. With relief she turned to Delinda, who said in her breathless way, “How do you do, Miss Vervain? Your dress—how very lovely it is. How well you look—I wish I could achieve that effect myself.”
Delinda’s own round dress had been made of peach satin that did not suit her pale complexion. Her hair had been tortured into ringlets that gave her narrow, anxious face the look of a startled rabbit. She sent Montworthy a wistful look as the orchestra began to play and murmured, “Ah, they are setting up for a country dance. I do love a country dance.”
But Montworthy was listening to the colonel and Sir Carolus and did not—or pretended not to—hear. Cecily decided to enter the lists. Smiling at Montworthy, she queried, “I believe that you enjoy country dances, sir?”
James preened himself. He was certain that Cecily was about to change her mind and dance with him. “I do indeed,” he said. “Shall we—”
“That is capital,” Cecily interrupted heartily. “You and Miss Howard will make a charming pair.”
Delinda beamed with pleasure. Montworthy was so astounded that his jaw dropped. “But,” he stammered, “Miss Howard has just arrived. Probably fatigued.”
“Oh, on the contrary, I assure you that I shall enjoy it above all things—I am not fatigued at all,” Delinda protested earnestly.
Cecily felt a sense of satisfaction as she watched the reluctant James lead Delinda toward the floor. Then her attention shifted as she heard Colonel Howard’s hectoring voice at her elbow.
“I am sick of hearing about Ghent,” he was complaining. “Why should we sit down at a treaty table and try to pacify these colonials? I say we send all our troops across the sea and crush them.”
Sir Carolus suggested timidly that this would cost many English lives. The colonel looked scornful. “Patriots feel that death is preferable to dishonor,” he declaimed.
His bombast set Cecily’s teeth on edge. “My late father was a patriot, sir,” she objected, “but he would not agree with you. He often said that England could not afford another war so soon after fighting Bonaparte.”
The colonel fairly snorted. “Was your father a soldier?”
“No, but—”
“Either a man is a soldier, or he doesn’t know the first thing about war,” the colonel interrupted rudely.
“But I have read that—”
“You have read!” The colonel rolled his eyes, and a sputter of toad-eating laughter ran through the ranks of his Riders. “How can a woman understand military strategy?”
Goaded, Cecily cried, “If you would only see past your own prejudices—”
Raising his voice to drown out hers, Howard lectured, “What I see is that we mu
st take a hard line with these Americans. Their finances are exhausted, their military ready to collapse.”
“Now that,” commented a drowsy voice, “is a hum.”
Lord Brandon had strolled up and was examining the colonel through his quizzing glass. “Where did you hear such brummish stories?” he inquired. “Right now, I’ll lay you odds, Boney’s gatherin’ his forces. He’s waitin’ for us to escalate the fightin’ on the American front. Fightin’ a conflict, more’s the pity, that we can’t win.”
The colonel’s florid face turned several shades darker. “Are you saying that we may be beaten by Americans?” he barked.
“We were before,” Lord Brandon pointed out.
He reached a long-fingered hand into his coat pocket, extracted a bejeweled snuffbox, and offered it to the colonel. “My own mixture, Spanish bran, with a touch of Otto of Roses. No? Well, perhaps you prefer Macomber. Don’t like it myself, but—”
“Have done with your gabbling,” the colonel spluttered. “We were discussing the war. Either contribute to the discussion or be silent.”
Lord Brandon looked thoughtful. “We have to face facts. The Americans are fightin’ for their homes. If we take the war to America’s shores, we’ll likely be trounced.”
For a moment the colonel stared. Then he found his voice. “That,” he thundered, “is treasonous thinking.”
“Do you say so?”
The words were drawled softly, but some quality in them caused the hairs on the back of Cecily’s neck to quiver erect. Colonel Howard threw out his chest and stiffened his spine to ramrod straightness.
“And what if I do?” he challenged.
“Then I’ll call you a brave man.” Lord Brandon returned his snuffbox to his pocket, withdrew his musk-scented handkerchief, and touched it delicately to his lips. “You’d be sayin’ that half of England was talkin’ treason. Landholders want their taxes cut, Howard. Merchants want to sell their goods in peace. One very noble Englishman went so far as to say that we’ve no right to ask for any concessions of territory from the Americans.”
Like Jupiter hurling a thunderbolt, the colonel barked, “And who was that? The Duke of Pershing?”
“No, the Duke of Wellington,” Lord Brandon replied.
The silence that followed this statement was broken by Captain Jermayne, who said, “Struth, that. The Iron Duke’s not anxious for another war. Heard him say so myself at Lady Arnstruther’s ball.”
“So it seems as if you’ve insulted Wellington,” Lord Brandon continued lazily. “If I don’t mistake, you as good as called Wellington a traitor.” He lifted his quizzing glass and examined the colonel critically. “Not ton to lose your temper, old boy. Brings on the gout, I’m told.”
Plump Sir Carolus had been listening to this exchange with mounting anxiety. He now signaled the band to begin a spirited Scottish reel and begged the assembled Riders not to keep the ladies waiting for partners. The Riders, grateful to end this embarrassing discussion, dispersed, and Sir Carolus cast oil on troubled waters.
“My son tells me that you are converting your summerhouse into a military museum, Colonel,” he chirruped. “One can think of no one better qualified for such a grand undertaking. Tell me about it, sir, I beg.”
“Exit Captain Hackum,” Cecily heard Lord Brandon murmur as the little squire led Howard away.
Just then Lady Marcham signaled to Cecily from across the room. She was sitting with several other matrons, and as Cecily came closer, she could hear her grandaunt say, “Used as a gargle, bistort gives great relief to an inflamed throat, Lady Breek. Ah—here is my grandniece come to walk about the room with me. Pray excuse me.”
She rose, took Cecily’s arm, and practically dragged her away from the other women. “Thank you for rescuing me,” she murmured.
“I see that the villagers are not the only ones to ask you for help,” Cecily commented.
Lady Marcham made a face. “I shall never understand why some people think their illnesses are fascinating topics of conversation. I collect that I have heard every detail and twitch of Lady Grue’s latest affliction. Miss Levellier cannot sleep at night. Major Hamm is afflicted with bunions. All of them profess that they have great faith in Dr. Al-lardyce—but. Tell me, my dear, does anything ail you?”
“Do you have an antidote for Colonel Howard?” Cecily wondered.
“From what I overheard, Trevor has put him in his place.” Lady Marcham flicked her jeweled hand as if to rid herself of a nuisance, then added, “Really, it is too bad that the colonel decided to retire here in Dorset. The Duchess of Fullerhill confided in me that even in his regiment he was misliked because of his ungovernable temper and bullying tongue.”
“No wonder his daughter seemed afraid of her own shadow,” Cecily said, and Lady Marcham nodded.
“Poor Delinda. Her late mother was apparently a spiritless person, and like mother, like daughter. How did you manage to get James to stand up with her?”
Out of the corner of her eye Cecily noted that James was still hopping up and down with Delinda and that he wore a very disgusted expression. “The question is why she wants to stand up with him,” Cecily said.
“James is a handsome figure of a man, a Corinthian,” Lady Marcham commented placidly. “He dances adequately also, though Trevor is better, is he not?”
“Lord Brandon is full of surprises.” Cecily gave her aunt a thoughtful look. “I did not know that he had been at Salamanca until Captain Jermayne told me so. Apparently they served on the Peninsula together.”
Lady Marcham looked vaguely interested. “Oh, is one of his comrades from his regiment here? I must invite this Captain Jermayne to call. As to Trevor, still waters, you know, run deep, and sometimes they run dangerously swift.”
Was Aunt Emerald warning her? Instinctively Cecily glanced toward Lord Brandon. He was almost recumbent in his chair and had his eyes closed. The brief energy with which he had faced Colonel Howard had seemingly evaporated. There could be no possible danger associated with this man. He looked incapable of doing anything but falling asleep.
But then he stirred in his chair, and Cecily saw his lion’s ring catch the light. There was no question that still waters ran deep. The question was, where did they lead?
Cecily stood by her bedroom window and listened to the distant waves beating against the Widow’s Rock. It was three in the morning, and Marcham Place had been asleep for hours. Even Archimedes lay sprawled belly-up at the foot of the bed, but she herself felt restive and troubled and as far away from sleep as she was from the full moon behind the scudding clouds.
“Who are you, Lord Brandon?” she asked of the night.
The world knew him as the eldest son of the Ice Duke. He was well known to be a great dandy. Many considered him a useless fop. Yet the fop had knowledge of national policy and public opinion, and the dandy’s tongue had a cutting edge. He could ride as few men could, and apparently he could fight as well, for Captain Jermayne’s greeting had been to a respected comrade-in-arms. And there was another facet to the man as well. When they had danced, when they had stood together on the balcony—
There was a noise below her window, and Cecily saw a figure walking briskly toward the herb garden. When he turned his head and looked back at the house, moonlight silvered Lord Brandon’s face. For a second he stood still, as though listening for some sound. Then he began to stride through the rose garden and in a few moments had disappeared down the path toward the woods.
A low grumbling purr erupted at Cecily’s feet, and a shaggy head rubbed against her knee. Archimedes had woken up. She picked up the old cat, noting that he was much heavier than when they had arrived at Marcham Place. Mary, convinced in her superstitious soul that Archimedes was in league with witches, had enlisted Mrs. Horris’s aid and was propitiating him with offerings of food.
“Tell me, Archimedes,” Cecily said aloud, “why should Lord Brandon be walking about in the Haunted Woods at night?” The cat wriggled and growled. “
I know you like him, but there is something decidedly smoky about him. I am persuaded that he is a smuggler after all. But wait—here comes another man.”
The newcomer was tall and lean. He did not walk with Lord Brandon’s lithe stride but moved in a surreptitious manner. Was this yet another smuggler—Lord Brandon’s confederate, perhaps? Cecily leaned over the windowsill to look, but as the second shadow appeared on the garden path, the moon slid behind a cloud bank. When it reappeared, the second man had disappeared.
“I think I will watch and see who comes out,” Cecily mused. She drew a chair to the window, positioned the cat on her lap, and settled down to wait.
It was nearly an hour before Lord Brandon reappeared and made his way back to the house. This time he looked up as he passed Cecily’s window, and she instinctively drew back. It was almost, Cecily thought, as though he were looking for her.
What Lord Brandon did was no concern of hers, but it did concern her Aunt Emerald. Cecily frowned into the darkness. If he was breaking the law, he was putting Lady Marcham in a difficult position. Not only was he her godson and thus dear to her, but Lady Marcham herself could be accused of being his accomplice. “I cannot let that happen,” Cecily said thoughtfully, “but I cannot accuse him without proof. I must find out more.”
She slept fitfully that night, and dawn found her awake and dressed. When Mary appeared with the morning tea, Cecily was already settling her pelisse around her shoulders.
The abigail looked scandalized. “Holy saints above, ma’am,” she exclaimed, “where are you off to at such an hour?”
“I thought I would go for a walk in the woods,” Cecily began, but Mary immediately crossed herself and invoked the names of all the saints.
“Save us, and aren’t the Haunted Woods a horrible place?” she keened. “It’s said that the little people themselves put a word on the late master’s horse. They’re out there still, the elves and piskies and hobgoblins that come out and dance through the night.”
“But it is broad daylight,” Cecily pointed out.
