by Rebecca Ward
“In Sussex. My father was a scholar who loved his books and nature.” Cecily’s eyes sparkled as she added, “He had a small living, and my mother had her marriage portion. It was not very much, but it seemed more than enough to me. We had a comfortable little home and all sorts of animals. We had a tame squirrel, and a raven, and a poor old badger that we rescued from a trap.”
“And cats?”
“Archimedes was a kitten when my mother died.”
Brandon saw her smile fade and memories darken her eyes and thought that she had the most expressive eyes he had ever seen. He was used to people who had secrets to conceal or games of their own to play, but by looking into Cecily Vervain’s eyes, he felt he could look directly into her heart.
And just now, her heart was troubled. He could guess the reason and wished that he could say something to reassure her. But, he reasoned, the truth would probably alarm her even more than her suspicions.
“That cat of yours has terrorized the whole household,” he said aloud. “Even Andrews, who has never been afraid of anythin’, turns pale when Archimedes lifts his lip and hisses.”
“I have tried to make him behave, but he will not. Archimedes does not like too many people,” Cecily admitted. “He did not care for anyone at the Netherbys’, certainly. The Netherbys were my employers before I—before I came to Marcham Place.”
Brandon noted the slight hesitation in her voice. Without seeming too curious, he drawled, “Perhaps there was a reason for him not likin’ these Netherbys?”
“Indeed, there was. Master Giles Netherby, especially, was a care-for-nobody who kicked poor Archimedes whenever he could.” Cecily’s darkling look spoke volumes, and Brandon found himself wishing that he had the care-for-nobody close to his fist. “The curious thing,” Cecily continued, “is that Archimedes likes both you and Aunt Emerald. It is most strange.”
“He’s attracted to my sterlin’ character. He knows that I am to be trusted and relied on.”
She looked up quickly at this, and the look in his eyes made her catch her breath. For an instant it was as though a very different man was looking out from Lord Brandon’s black eyes. Then the fop came back.
“Of course,” Lord Brandon drawled, “cat hairs are somethin’ else again. Andrews almost went wild the last time your animal brushed up against my coat. Took him an hour to get it clean.”
Cecily was disgusted with herself. Once again Brandon had turned the tables on her. She had started talking to draw him out and had ended by telling him all about herself.
They fell silent as they traversed the long, winding street that led to Wickart-on-Sea, and soon they were following the twists and turns that led into the village. Lord Brandon withdrew his handkerchief and held it to his nose.
“I wish,” he complained, “that it did not stink of fish.”
What else did he expect of a fishing village? “We are almost there, for Mrs. Amber lives not far from Cully Horris. But what is this?”
Colonel Howard, on a mettlesome bay, sat waiting by the hawthorn hedge that edged Cully Horris’s garden. Behind him, like a phalanx of foot soldiers attending their general, were a dozen of his tenants, all of whom were armed with staves and pistols. Two of these retainers were questioning Cully, who stood in front of his closed door.
“Wonder why Captain Hackum is payin’ a visit,” remarked Lord Brandon idly.
It was plain that Cully did not care for the visit. His arms were folded across his chest, and he kept shaking his head. As they approached, Cecily could hear him say, “An Henglishman’s ’ome is ’is castle. You ’ave no right to go in there.”
“Then you admit that you have something to hide,” suggested the colonel.
The young man shook his head vehemently. “I hain’t suggesting no such thing—your honor.”
“Then why will you not allow my men to search your house?” Howard demanded.
“What right does he have to search anyone?” Cecily wondered, indignantly. “He is not an officer of the law.”
Cully was protesting, “I told you why you wasn’t being hinvited in. T’ lad is sick.”
“That’s a likely story.” Leaning forward in his saddle, the colonel stabbed an accusing finger at the fisherman. “My Riders have been observing you, Horris. Last night you were seen driving a cart up to and away from Robin’s Cove. My Riders tried to detain you, but you got away.”
Cully said nothing, and Howard nodded to his retainers. “Ableman, you and Pruett lead a search into the house.”
“Infamous!” Cecily exclaimed. But as she started forward, a hand clamped itself about her arm.
“Let it be,” Lord Brandon said.
“Who are you to give me orders?” she blazed up at him. She tried to shake loose his hand, but Lord Brandon’s fingers were like steel. “Let me go at once,” she commanded him. “That man is a bully, and—will you let me free!”
Lord Brandon held her fast. Outraged and helpless, Cecily heard Cully’s voice rise in protest. “My son is sick. I was set ter go to Marcham Place to get some medicine from ’er ladyship.”
“Here I am,” Cecily cried. As all eyes turned to her, she held up her basket of herbs. “I have a special decoction here for Tim Horris’s putrid throat. Putrid throat,” she added significantly, “is highly contagious.”
The rank and file paused uneasily, and the one called Ableman said, “Perhaps, sorr, we houghtn’t to disturb the lad.”
Colonel Howard said something that sounded like “Tchah.” He dismounted, flung his reins at his nearest henchman, and strode over to confront Cully. “So your boy is sick, is he?” Suddenly he raised his riding crop and brought it down on the young man’s shoulders. “You are a liar as well as a criminal,” he shouted.
“Shame!” Cecily cried.
Then she turned upon Lord Brandon. “And shame to you, too. Why do you not stop this?”
“I never interfere in other people’s business when I can help it,” was the cool reply.
He was contemptible. Cecily tore free of Lord Brandon’s grasp, caught up her damp skirts, and ran toward the cottage crying, “Stop beating that man!”
The colonel did not even bother to turn his head. “This is no place for a woman,” he rasped. “This business does not concern you.”
With the whip in his fist, he looked deadly, but Cecily was too angry to be intimidated. “Indeed, it is my concern,” she retorted. “If you do not stop at once, I will call the watch.”
The colonel’s only answer was to raise his crop again. Cecily started forward with some intention of arresting that blow but was shouldered aside. “Now, what’s this?” drawled Lord Brandon.
As leisurely as though he were inspecting his breakfast, he strolled forward and examined Cully through his quizzing glass. “What’s the fellow done?”
“I have no time to explain to you,” the colonel gritted. “Stand back.”
Once more he raised his arm. Simultaneously Lord Brandon leaned forward, and the colonel’s riding crop raked the front of his jacket. Lord Brandon started as the whip end of the colonel’s crop tore off one of his huge brass buttons.
“Hi,” Brandon shouted, “confound it, Howard. See what you’ve done to my coat!”
“I told you to move back, didn’t I?” But the colonel’s snarl turned to a bellow of outrage as Lord Brandon seized his whip hand and twisted it behind his broad back.
“I said,” Lord Brandon repeated, “look what you’ve done to my coat!”
His voice was almost petulant. “You’ve knocked off one of my buttons into the mud. Not any button, mind, but my own special invention. I had to hunt all over London to find a craftsman skilled enough to make ’em, and he destroyed the design. I tell you, they are unique. Prinny himself would give his soul for that button that you knocked into the mud.”
“Damn you, let me go.” Howard attempted to extricate his whip hand but found he could not move. Cecily watched in astonishment as the shorter, slighter Lord Brandon eas
ily held the giant colonel prisoner. “Leave go of me or you’ll be sorry,” the colonel threatened.
“Not until you apologize,” the duke’s son said.
“Until I—! I’ll do no such thing,” the colonel retorted furiously. “You got in my way, damn you. You had no right—”
“Seems to me,” Lord Brandon interrupted, “that you had no right beatin’ this fellow here. This is England, and that’s truth. You can’t go around thrashin’ people for no reason. Not ton at all. Settin’ yourself above the law, that’s what you’ve been doin’, you and your henchmen.”
The rank and file were looking uneasily at each other. They shifted from foot to foot and looked longingly at their horses as Lord Brandon continued, “If you think Horris has contraband in his house, bring the watch and let them search.”
The colonel let loose a stream of oaths. His face had turned almost magenta, and he glared at Cully and at Lord Brandon, who drawled, “Temper, Colonel. A soldier has to control himself, remember.”
“Let me go,” the colonel snarled, “or I will tear your head off.”
With a sigh, Lord Brandon nodded. “You heard him,” he said to the world at large. “He’s sworn at me. Called me names. Ruined my coat. There’s nothin’ for it but to demand satisfaction, sir.”
The colonel was about to open his mouth to roar that he would gladly put a bullet through the effete dandy, then realized that the grip on his arm was like steel. Though Brandon might smell like a Bond Street fribble, he had somewhere acquired a formidable strength of arm.
And there was something even more disturbing. If he quarrelled with Pershing’s disgusting son, he might well have to deal with the father. The Ice Duke could be a formidable adversary, and though Colonel Howard scorned the man’s pacifistic ideas in regard to America, he had no desire to have open warfare with him.
With a stupendous effort he controlled himself and growled, “You’re the one who interfered with me.”
“Then you can demand satisfaction,” Lord Brandon replied promptly. “Delighted, ’pon my honor. Who’s actin’ as your seconds?”
“Nobody, damn it. There’s no need for a duel. You don’t hand a man your cartel because of a frumpery button—”
“A button and my coat. Look at the mess you’ve made of it.”
Lord Brandon let go of the colonel, stepped back, and turned his back on him. After glowering at that back for a moment, the colonel bent down and retrieved the button from the mud. “Will this content you?” he snarled. “Here, take the filthy thing. Why aren’t you taking it?”
“Because it is a filthy thing,” drawled the duke’s son. “Wipe it first.”
The colonel’s face became mottled. On the point of throwing the button into Lord Brandon’s face, he once again recalled the Duke of Pershing. “Pruett,” he roared, “give me a cloth.”
One of the rank and file scuttled forward. The colonel wiped the huge button and almost threw it at Lord Brandon. “Will that content you?” he fairly gargled.
Lord Brandon took the button and examined it critically. “I still think that I require satisfaction. My coat—”
“Oh, Beelzebub fly off with you and your coat!”
The colonel strode to his horse, flung himself into the saddle, and galloped off. A few seconds later he and his retainers had vanished around a hairpin bend in the road.
“Well,” Cecily was beginning, when there was a splintering crash, followed by a scream.
“God almighty!” Cully exclaimed. “What’s that?”
Followed by Lord Brandon, he was off at a run. Cecily, running, too, turned the corner of the road and saw that a cart lay on its side. Nearby in the dirt lay an old man.
“How badly is he hurt?” she cried.
Cully Horris, kneeling by the motionless form, made answer. “I don’t know, miss. ’E hain’t moving.”
“The old man came straight for me—I had no time to move aside.” Colonel Howard and his retainers were sitting their horses some distance away. “It was his fault,” the colonel accused. “He came around that bend without warning.”
“An’ hif you wasn’t in such a pother, you’da ’eard ’im coming,” Cully retorted. “This ’ere is Linus ’Arding, what lives across the way from us. Poor, ’armless old sod.”
Kneeling beside the old man, Cecily saw that there was a vicious-looking bruise on his temple and that his leg lay at an odd angle.
“Leg looks broken.” Lord Brandon had come to kneel beside her. “That’ll mend—it’s the head blow I mislike. Cully, go and get me a litter so that we can carry him to your house.”
The fisherman ran off. “Horris’s house is a few steps away,” the colonel objected. “What do you want a litter for?”
“He must be moved as little as possible.” Lord Brandon turned to the rank and file. “You—Ableman, isn’t it?—help to carry the litter. You, Pruett, go for the doctor. And you, yes you! ride to Marcham Place and beg Lady Marcham to come.”
The colonel’s retainers started to obey, then stopped and glanced fearfully at their chief, who nodded wordless agreement. His mind was obviously on other things, for when Cully arrived with a flat plank of wood, Howard said, “I’ll come with you.”
Cecily guessed that no humanitarian instinct had prompted the offer. Once inside the Horris house, the colonel meant to search for contraband. She glanced uneasily at Lord Brandon, but he was helping to lift the old man onto the makeshift litter.
“Do as you will,” he said indifferently, “just don’t get in my way.”
Howard frowned. He disliked Brandon’s tone, but he also realized that he stood on shaky ground. “I didn’t see him coming,” he growled uneasily. “I had no intention of having anything like this happen.”
Lord Brandon did not bother to reply. He was busy giving orders. Cully’s wife was set to boiling water. Cully himself was sent to find wood for splints.
“What shall I do?” Cecily asked.
Brandon could not help smiling into her anxious face. “If you’ll hold the compress to his temple, it may make him more comfortable. Don’t worry, it will all come to rights.”
“He is still unconscious,” Cecily pointed out.
“He was thrown out of his cart with some force, remember. Luckily he’s a tough old fellow. Barring shock, he’ll come to and be none the worse for it.”
He removed his coat and tossed it aside before starting to set the old man’s leg. He exuded confidence with every movement, and Cecily, who chanced to glance at the colonel, saw that he was watching the duke’s son with growing suspicion. He, too, had seen beneath the mask of the dandy, Cecily thought, and from henceforth he would watch Lord Brandon carefully. She must warn him for Aunt Emerald’s sake.
Pruett now returned with news that the doctor was not at home and would not return before dark, but shortly thereafter Lady Marcham arrived in her trap. Accompanying her on horseback were both Montworthy and Captain Jermayne. Dickinson the underfootman, laden with jars of medicine, rode with Lady Marcham.
She paused only to wash her hands in hot water before examining the old man. “You have seen to the head wound and set the leg, I see. Well done. Now help me give him something to offset shock.”
From her place by the sickbed Cecily watched the interaction between her Aunt Emerald and Lord Brandon. She glanced at the colonel to see if he, too, was watching, but Howard had wandered off. Assisted by Montworthy and trailed by Captain Jermayne, he had begun to poke about Cully’s small cottage.
Montworthy’s actions did not surprise Cecily, but she wondered why Captain Jermayne was joining in the unlawful search. But perhaps he was only curious. “Smugglers, eh?” she heard him saying. “Well, it’s possible, I suppose. What with the war and all. Dorset’s the perfect place for it. By Jove, yes.”
Just then old Linus opened his rheumy eyes and demanded to know what had happened and why his head ached like a blacksmith’s anvil. Cully explained, and Lady Marcham said that she would remain behind
to show Cully’s wife how to take care of the old man.
“Trevor, take the trap and Cecily and go back to Marcham Place,” she instructed. “Cecily, I will need bistort in case the head wound becomes purulent, and a decoction of lavender for a disinfectant. Get them from the stillroom and send them here with one of the servants. I shall keep Dickinson here in case I need him.”
Colonel Howard came up to them. “So the old man will recover?” he demanded.
Lady Marcham did not deign to reply, but Brandon nodded. “Fortunately for you. Be careful that your zeal for ferretin’ out smugglers doesn’t put you on the wrong side of the law.”
“I don’t need any warning from you.” Colonel Howard paused to add significantly, “I didn’t know you were studying to be a sawbones, Brandon.”
“Lord, no.” Deliberately his lordship donned the coat he had cast off, flicked lint from his cuff, and removing his scented handkerchief, fluttering it under the colonel’s nose. “I merely remembered some battlefield doctorin’. In the heat of the moment, you might say.”
“That’s right,” Captain Jermayne interposed. “Had to know some doctoring where we were.”
“Where was that—on your way to dinner?” Montworthy sneered. He had noted the attention Miss Vervain was paying to that smatterer, Brandon, and he did not like it at all.
Captain Jermayne blinked hard, but before he could speak, Lord Brandon gave a yelp.
“Dinner! I have actually forgotten about lunch. No wonder I’ve been feelin’ faint. And I quite forgot my, er, damp garments. Your servant, Lady M., gentlemen. Come, Miss Verving, come, before I catch a chill.”
He caught Cecily by the elbow and steered her through the door and to the waiting trap. “This time, I will drive,” he informed her. “Lunch awaits, and I don’t want it to become too impatient.”
Cecily remained silent until they had left the house behind. Then she said, “The colonel knows who you are and what you are doing here.”
“Does he indeed?” Lord Brandon flicked the reins lightly over the horses’ backs. “And what might that be?”
