by Rebecca Ward
“Day or night makes no matter,” Mary retorted. “Sure, and those woods are not safe. Lady Marcham agrees, too, for didn’t she have the groundkeeper’s cottage torn down after my lord met his death? There is no more hunting or riding done there anymore.”
Her warnings followed Cecily out of the room and down the stairs, and it was a relief to step into the cloudy day and walk down the garden path toward the woods. No one was about at this early hour, but as Cecily was about to step into the trees that bordered the woods, a familiar voice spoke behind her.
“Highly unwise, ’pon my honor,” Lord Brandon drawled. “Wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
At the sound of his voice Cecily’s heart seemed to stop. Then it commenced pounding. It took an effort to turn to face him and ask, “Why?”
“Shoes, ma’am,” was the prompt reply.
“Shoes,” she repeated blankly.
He tapped the ground with the tip of his walking stick. “It rained pitchforks and shovels toward dawn, Miss Verving. See the mud? Walk into the woods, and your shoes will be ruined.”
“And that will never do,” she said sarcastically.
She regarded Brandon. His eyes were again hooded, and from his polished boots to his buff coat with enormous brass buttons, he was every inch the dandy.
He raised a languid hand to pat back a yawn before saying, “I went walking there once after coming to Dorset, and I can tell you that I ruined a perfectly good pair of boots.”
“And did you not ruin your shoes last night when you walked in the woods?” she challenged.
The look that met hers was as bland as a baby’s—and about as blank. “Eh?” his lordship asked. “What’s that? Me walk at night?” ’Pon my honor, Miss Verving, I did no such thing.”
“But I saw—”
“You didn’t see me,” his lordship insisted. “I thought I told you once that the night air is ruinous to a man’s complexion. Besides, I was sound asleep all night.”
“Were you indeed?” Cecily murmured.
She turned her back on him and began to walk into the line of trees. “So you’re determined.” Lord Brandon sighed. “In that case there’s nothin’ for it—I’ll come with you. I can’t shirk my responsibilities as a gentleman.”
“You have no responsibility to me,” Cecily retorted. “I am perfectly capable of managing my own affairs. Besides, I could not bear to have you torture your shoes.”
He took her sarcasm at face value. “Andrews will be in a takin’, but what can I do? I can’t fight shy and abandon a female in unfamiliar terrain. See, there’s the path that leads into the woods. Muddy, as I said.”
The path was small and, as Lord Brandon had warned, very wet. Cecily sank up to her ankles almost at once. “Where does this path lead?” she asked as she attempted to extricate herself from the mud.
“To the old groundkeeper’s cottage, I expect.” Lord Brandon sounded glum. “Lady M. had it dismantled after Marcham died. He used to be a keen huntsman, Marcham, and I suppose she couldn’t bear to be reminded of him. Do you know their story, Miss Verving?”
Plodding determinedly through the mud, Cecily shook her head.
“Marcham was one of the wealthiest peers of his generation,” Lord Brandon began. “His family wanted him to marry the plump-pursed Countess of Lesserford. It’d been arranged by both the families since the principals were in leadin’ strings. But then Marcham saw Lady Emerald and fell in love with her—and she with him. Of course there was trouble.”
In spite of the fact that she was sure that Lord Brandon was talking to distract her, Cecily was interested. “Trouble from Lord Marcham’s family, you mean?”
“And from hers, too. Lady M. was the second daughter of Lord and Lady Veere, and the beauty of the season. She had earls and nabobs danglin’ after her. Offers fell like ripe plums at her feet. Even the pater—this was before he met my mother—fell head over heels in love with her. But she chose Marcham and remained true to him till he died.”
Lord Brandon paused. “Faithful to him after he died, actually. Lady M. was still beautiful enough and rich enough to have married many times over, but she has never looked at another man.”
His voice seemed to echo among the gnarled trees and sigh away into the woods. His words awoke a memory. “I once asked Father why he did not marry again,” Cecily heard herself say.
“And what was his answer?”
“That for certain people love comes only once. He said that he did not know whether that was a blessing or a curse, but that was the way it was.”
Lord Brandon said nothing. He simply walked beside her, listening, and after a pause Cecily continued, “My father was lonely after Mother died. If he had married a good, kind woman, she would have brightened his days.”
Brandon was watching the shadows grow in her eyes. “And you,” he could not help but say, “were you lonely, too?”
“I do not know,” Cecily replied truthfully. “I had my father, you see. But sometimes when I saw him look at Mother’s portrait and smile, it made me sad. I suppose it was because I could not share his memories.”
“You need not envy him. You will have memories of your own.”
His voice had changed. It was softer, almost as soft as the dark shadows thrown by the surrounding trees. It was cool under those trees, cool and rich with the scents of new-turned earth and moss and greenery. A golden butterfly danced ahead of them, like a promise.
With her eyes on those shimmering wings, Cecily spoke almost to herself. “I wonder what kind of memories they will be.”
“Happy ones,” he told her. “You have my promise on that, Celia.”
His name for her brought back reality. Cecily did not know what she had been thinking about.
Since her father’s death, she had not talked about him or about her feelings with anyone, and yet here she was confiding her innermost thoughts to the outrageous Lord Brandon. She felt embarrassed and annoyed at herself and at him. Perhaps he was secretly laughing at her.
But there was no laughter in his face or voice as he said, “Your father understood that though marriage in our class is usually a matter of convenience, once in a while the equation changes. No one asks for love to come, perhaps would rather not have it come, but if it does, it changes everything.”
An almost dreamlike quality held Cecily enthralled. She found herself holding her breath as Lord Brandon continued. “I think I understand how your father felt. When a man has seen the sun, neither the moon nor all the stars will satisfy him.”
When she looked at him like that, with her gray eyes softened to silver and her lips curving softly, Brandon tore his wandering mind back from ruinous thoughts and clasped his hands behind his back. Fool, he warned himself, take care or you will ruin everything.
Smuggler, fop, or knave, it did not matter—the man beside her was unlike any man she had ever known. But before that thought could take hold in Cecily’s mind, Brandon was speaking again.
“Here the path ends,” he said in his old die-away drawl. “Do you see the thicket that has grown around what’s left of the groundkeeper’s cottage?’Pon my honor, Lady M. should do something about this eyesore.”
With a feeling of anticlimax, Cecily looked at the tumbledown cottage. As Lord Brandon had pointed out, the place was a hideous ruin. Not even the most desperate criminals could have used it as a meeting place. She looked beyond the mess to a thick growth of alder trees and then at the muddy ground. She could see no sign of footprints. Wherever the duke’s son had gone the night before, it was not here.
“Satisfied, Miss Verving?” Lord Brandon asked.
Suddenly she wondered why she had even bothered to investigate the woods. She did not care a rush whether Lord Brandon was a smuggler or not, and Lady Marcham could obviously take care of herself.
“Thank you, I am quite satisfied,” Cecily said stiffly.
But as she turned to retrace her steps, her foot caught a root submerged in the mud. She stumbled an
d would have fallen if Lord Brandon had not caught her in his arms.
For a moment black eyes met wide gray ones, and the world seemed to go very still. The insect drone around them hushed, and even the wind held its peace. Cecily tried for a bracing breath and drew in not musk but a strong, clean, virile scent that was Lord Brandon’s own. His arms held her so easily, and against her softness she felt the steady beat of his heart.
For a moment his eyes held hers, and then it was as though a shutter had come crashing down. Lord Brandon blinked, smiled, and drawled, “Warned you about that mud, didn’t I? Well, no damage done, ma’am, but we should lose no time gettin’ back to the house. Unless I miss my guess, it’s past breakfast time.”
Chapter Six
Lord Brandon watched Cecily across the breakfast table and thought for perhaps the hundredth time that he had not expected his work in Dorset to be so difficult.
He had expected danger and unforeseen problems, and though he had not calculated on Colonel Howard’s interference, he was dealing with the man in his own way. Cecily, however . . .
As if aware that he was thinking of her, she looked up, and her gray eyes were dark with suspicion. Brandon blamed himself for that. The incident at the Widow’s Rock had been unfortunate, but last night on Sir Carolus’s balcony had been sheer lunacy. And he had compounded that folly this morning. If he had not come to his senses at the last moment . . .
“More tea, dear boy?”
With difficulty Brandon pulled himself back to reality and drawled, “Indeed. Where would we be without tea? A most excellent potation in the mornin’, ’pon my honor. But you are not eatin’, Miss Verving. I hope you have not caught a chill in the woods.”
Brandon had devoured a dish of kidneys and ham, lamb chops done to a turn, and eggs served up as only the skillful Mrs. Horris could cook them. Watching him, Cecily could not help wondering if she were not mistaken about the previous night’s events. Lord Brandon seemed incapable of anything more energetic than lifting his fork.
But then she looked into her grandaunt’s smiling eyes and felt her worries return. Colonel Howard was a tyrant and a bully, and he and his Riders would eventually run the brethren of the coast to earth. If the Duke of Pershing’s son was one of the smugglers, his rank would not save him. And those who gave him comfort would not be spared.
So vivid were these thoughts that when Grigg entered the room to announce a visitor, Cecily started. She envisioned Colonel Howard striding into the room to arrest Lord Brandon and accuse Lady Marcham of being his accomplice, but their visitor was only Delinda.
As usual, Delinda’s costume was expensive and ugly. Though her bonnet of lavender chip straw tied with ribbons might have come from the best milliner in Bond Street, it had a distinctly dowdy look, and her walking dress of sprigged muslin made her appear even taller and bonier than she was.
“Good morning, dear Lady Marcham,” Delinda breathed. “Good day, Miss Vervain, Lord Brandon. I hope I am not intruding. It is, after all, so early—”
“It is never too early,” Lord Brandon interrupted. He rose and bowed with sleepy gallantry as he added, “It’s always a pleasure to see you, ma’am.”
The flustered Delinda curtsied and dropped her reticule. “Oh—forgive me,” she stammered as his lordship retrieved it. “Papa says that I am fumble-fmgered and as clumsy as a plow horse.”
That was exactly what a clod like the colonel would say, Brandon thought. He returned the reticule with another bow saying, “He does you an injustice, ma’am.”
“I collect that he has reason,” Delinda said mournfully. “I am so clumsy—I drop things everywhere. I fear that I am sadly wanting.”
“Another injustice. I find you most delightful in all things, ma’am.”
Cecily felt a rush of warmth for Lord Brandon. He was probably guilty of many things, but he was kind, too. She decided that, smuggler or not, she did not want the colonel to trap him.
“Fathers don’t often see that their daughters are diamonds of the first water,” Lord Brandon was saying. “Were it not time for me to take my mornin’ perambulations, I’d beg to be permitted to share your company, Miss Howard. The loss is mine, ’pon my honor.”
Excusing himself he sauntered off, and Delinda said resolutely, “Lady Marcham, there is a reason I have come—”
She broke off, looking confused. Lady Marcham said kindly, “You are nervous, child. I have an infusion of sage that will make you feel more the thing. If you come to my stillroom, I will give you some to take home with you.”
Delinda murmured her thanks but glanced pointedly at Cecily. “If you will excuse me also,” Cecily was beginning, but Lady Marcham shook her head.
“No, you must come with us. Delinda will be glad of your company.”
Delinda looked anything but pleased, but she did not dispute Lady Marcham. “It will take a moment to prepare the tonic,” Lady Marcham said as she led the way to the stillroom. “I will also infuse for you some tea of broom flowers and dandelion root and juniper berries. It is my secret recipe for a digestive tonic.”
While Cecily assisted her grandaunt, Delinda walked about the stillroom. She paused before the book of herbs that Lady Marcham’s grandmother had illustrated, and exclaimed, “What wonderful drawings. May I look at them?”
She began to leaf through the pages and became so absorbed that she did not at first hear Cecily come up behind her. Then she started, blushed a fiery red, and slammed the book shut.
“I beg you will not spy on me,” she cried.
Cecily was astonished. “I did not mean to spy on you,” she protested. “Whatever is the matter with you?”
To her surprise two tears appeared at the corners of Delinda’s eyes. “Forgive me,” she sobbed. “I have not been truthful. I did not come for a remedy for headache.” She gulped hard and whispered, “Lady Marcham, could you—would you make me a . . . a love potion?”
There was a moment of silence before Lady Marcham laughed. “You are funning me.”
“There must be a recipe for a love potion in your books,” Delinda pleaded. “There is a page entitled, ‘The ancient uses of verbenum in a love philter.’ ”
“Oh, that. The ancient Romans had some such notion, but that is because verbena has such a pleasant fragrance. La, child, people in the Dark Ages believed in a great deal of humgudgeon, including witchcraft. I hope you do not think I am a witch, Delinda?”
“Of course not. I beg your pardon—I did not mean to be insulting.” Distressed, Delinda clasped and unclasped her hands. “I have given you a disgust of me, Lady Marcham, and I am sorry, but I—I am beside the bridge. He never notices me.” Two new tears welled over her eyes and slid down her cheeks. “He loves another.”
“If you mean that James Montworthy loves me,” Cecily said frankly, “I tell you to your head that he does not. He only throws sheep’s eyes at me because he is bored in Dorset.”
Delinda looked shocked at such plain speaking, but her emotions caused her to quaver, “Then you do not return his regard, Miss Vervain?”
“I have told you, there is no regard. And even if there were, I could not return it. So you need not want to scratch my eyes out after all.”
She smiled cheerfully at Delinda, who managed a faint answering smile. “I am sorry,” she murmured. “I did not know. But—but Lady Marcham, is there really no potion that will make Mr. Montworthy notice me?”
“Not unless I could dose him with common sense,” Lady Marcham replied somewhat impatiently. “I have known him since he was in leading strings, and though he is not a bad boy, he was badly spoiled by his late mother. And Sir Carolus has not made his son come up to the mark, even though James has lost so much money in the gaming hells.” She paused. “I agree with you that he looks well in his gold braid, but I do not think he in the least resembles the young Lochinvar.”
Delinda, who had been bristling at criticisms of her beloved James, stared at Lady Marcham. “Oh,” she gasped, “how could you kn
ow that I—”
“Mind you,” Lady Marcham interrupted, “I have always considered that the young Lochinvar was a nincompoop. To snatch a bride from her wedding festivities and throw her over the saddle for a gallop across the border—well! This kind of behavior may serve for totty-headed gentlemen who consider themselves Corinthians, but what the bride’s mother said to her assembled guests I cannot begin to guess. Truly intolerable, my dear. And it is also intolerable that your father’s sapskull Riders were racketing around my woods last night.”
Delinda’s eyes widened at this rapid change of subject. “They must have been patrolling the sea road. Papa believes that the smugglers have been landing at Robin’s Cove,” she explained feebly.
“All they will find is night mist and owls. It will serve them right if they catch the grippe.” Lady Marcham broke off and patted Delinda’s cheek apologetically. “I did not mean to rail at you, dear child. Take this thyme mixture and the broom tea, and you will feel less down pin.”
With this she left the stillroom. Delinda stood clutching the two phials to her chest and looked longingly at the book of herbs. “Have you looked all through the book, Miss Vervain?” she asked.
“Please, call me Cecily. And, yes, I have read the book.”
Delinda looked so sorrowful that Cecily’s heart ached for her. “My late father used to quote Hecaton of Rhodes,” she said gently. “I remember him saying, ‘I will reveal to you a love potion—’ ”
Delinda clasped her hands together. “Yes, yes?”
“ ’—without medicine, without herbs, without any witch’s magic. If you want to be loved, then love.’ You do not need a love potion, Delinda, really.”
Delinda drooped even more. “I wish I knew what to do. You are beautiful and sure of yourself and would never be at a loss like me. Cecily, Mr. Montworthy does not even know I exist. But I—oh, look!”
Through the window Cecily could see a familiar figure on a bay gelding galloping up to the house. He was followed by Captain Jermayne.
Delinda had begun to tremble. “He is here,” she faltered, adding gloomily, “He has come to see you, of course.”
