by Rebecca Ward
She said it as bluntly as she could. “He thinks you are a smuggler.”
Brandon began to whistle softly. Cecily gave him an exasperated look. “Is that not what you are?” she demanded.
“If it pleases you,” he replied cheerfully, “I am a smuggler. I have been called much worse names, believe me. My father, when the mood was on him, would refer to me as a jacknapes, a chitty-faced runt, a—”
“Will you be serious?” Cecily shouted. “You are in danger of being arrested.”
“And that worries you?” Looking up at the black eyes that smiled into hers, Cecily felt a sense of imbalance. It was almost as though she were being drawn into their dark depths. She forgot to be angry, forgot Linus’s lying unconscious and the suspicion in the colonel’s eyes. She heard only the song of the blackbirds and drew in the magical scents of summer.
When she sat there looking at him with that expression in her eyes, Brandon’s best intentions began to take French leave. “That is kind,” he told her softly. “It means that you must care what happens to me.”
His voice was like a caress. Like a moth drawn to fire, Cecily leaned toward Lord Brandon. But as he bent toward her, his steady hand on the reins changed pressure, and the horse threw up its head and neighed.
The noise startled them both. Cecily was aware of the various emotions that were coursing through her and was both angry and a little frightened. Why should Lord Brandon make her feel like this? More to the point, why did she allow herself to be gulled by this devious lord?
“Do not flatter yourself. It means nothing of the kind,” she exclaimed fiercely. “I am worried about Aunt Emerald, not you. Have you ever thought what would happen to her if that colonel and his friends arrested you? She could be named your accomplice and arrested, too. Her estates would be confiscated by the crown. She would—”
She broke off as Lord Brandon reached out and covered her hand with his. “Nothing like that will happen,” he promised. “I give you my word.”
His fingers were cool and strong. They evoked memories she did not care to examine. Jerking her hand away, Cecily cried, “How can you be sure?”
“I would never allow harm to come to her. Or to you.”
He thought that she was afraid for herself. Cecily’s bosom heaved with indignation, but she did not trust herself to speak. Lord Brandon, she was well aware, could twist her words around so that they came to mean something else.
Turning her head away, she maintained an icy silence as they drove back to Marcham Place. There she requested, in frozen tones, that he set her down on the garden path.
“Goin’ to the herb garden without waitin’ for lunch? Now, that’s true heroism,” Lord Brandon opined.
Not waiting for him to help her down from the trap, Cecily dismounted and walked very quickly down the path that led to the herb garden. Well, she told herself, she had warned him. It was more than he deserved. If Colonel Howard caught him and sent him to prison, it would serve him right . . .
Her thoughts were checked as, in the periphery of her vision, she glimpsed a flash of color. She turned her head quickly. Though the herb garden was silent and deserted, the branches of the trees just behind the statue of Ceres were moving gently.
There was no wind. Something—or someone—had just disappeared into the woods.
And that someone had not wanted to be seen. Cecily stopped short as she considered that the colonel was all abroad in searching Cully’s house. She would lay odds that whatever he was seeking lay hidden in the Haunted Woods.
Chapter Eight
It had rained all morning, and the afternoon skies were still heavy with moisture. A fitful wind tugged at Cecily’s skirts as she walked briskly through the herb garden. Lady Marcham was occupied in the house, and Lord Brandon was pretending to doze in a corner. It was the perfect moment to explore the woods.
“Miss Vervain! Your most obedient, ma’am!”
Cecily’s heart sank as she saw James Montworthy striding toward her. He was dressed for riding and carried a crop in one gloved fist. “Just arrived with the pater and Jermayne,” he said. “Lady Marcham said that you had gone out walking. Give you m’word, ma’am, it’s been a long time since we met.”
He spoke as though he was sure that she had been pining for his attentions. Cecily remained repressively silent as he continued, “Heard that Harding’s on the mend. Talk in the village is that you and Lady Marcham have been taking care of him. Think it commendable myself. Always said it was a good thing to be kind to the lower orders.”
His condescension was almost as bad as the colonel’s. “I am glad that we meet with your approval,” Cecily said coldly. “Now, if you will excuse me, I must continue my walk.”
“Hoped I could persuade you to ride out with me,” Montworthy suggested. “Got my team of grays out front.”
“Thank you, but I have not the time,” Cecily said.
“Perfect day for it. Whip around the woods, rattle up to the Widow’s Rock—show you what my high-steppers can do.” As Cecily turned her steps toward the house, Montworthy added, “You don’t want to go in there. Jermayne’s droning on and on about the war, and Brandon’s asleep. The pater’s nattering about an apricot fool that he tasted at Lady Hanson’s turtle supper. He’s the biggest fool, but he don’t see that.”
He paused to laugh at his own wit, and Cecily said, “I beg you will excuse me, Mr. Montworthy.”
Her dismissive tone finally got through to him. “Have you got your bristles up about that argle-bargle in the village?” he demanded. “Old hunks getting hit in the noodle? Not my fault, Miss Vervain—wasn’t even there. Fact is, that fellow Harding ran smack into the colonel. Not Howard’s fault, is it, if a fool runs into him?”
Cecily said sharply, “The old man was nearly killed because Colonel Howard lost his temper.”
A contemptuous look hardened Montworthy’s eyes. “Brandon’s enough to make anyone get on his high ropes. Give you m’word on it, it’s hard to believe he’s the Ice Duke’s son. Should tell him so one day.”
“I doubt,” Cecily retorted, “whether your good opinion would count with Lord Brandon.”
The Corinthian frowned at the tone of her voice, then reminded himself that he must not brangle with the pretty country mouse.
“Let’s talk about other things,” he suggested.
“I have no time to talk at all. Excuse me, for I must be going.” Cecily started to move away, but he blocked her path. “I beg that you will step out of my way,” Cecily exclaimed.
There was an odd note in her voice, and James hid a smile. He was certain that Miss Vervain was merely playing a game with him. He had played variations of it in London with ladybirds and straw damsels as well as respectable females, and he knew where the wind sat.
Putting a coaxing hand on her arm, he lowered his voice to a seductive murmur. “Don’t go. If you knew just how beautiful you are just now—”
He was interrupted by a growl that raised the hair on the back of his neck. Looking around, Montworthy saw a cat glaring at him.
“Archimedes thinks you are harming me,” Cecily warned. “You know what he is like. You had better back away from me—slowly.”
Like an avenging fury, Archimedes began to pad forward. His tail was swollen to twice its normal size, and his lips were pulled back to reveal his one tooth. James retreated, holding his riding crop in front of him.
“Put your crop down. It will only goad him to—Archimedes, stop it at once. Oh, be careful!”
As Cecily cried out, Montworthy stumbled over a rake that had been left in the herb garden. He tried to regain his balance, could not, and fell into a clump of low-growing asparagus fern. Cursing volubly, he tried to rise, but Archimedes had jumped onto his chest. “Get this brute away from me,” James shouted, as Archimedes began kneading his victim’s shirtfront with his paws.
“Am I interruptin’ something?” an interested voice drawled.
Lord Brandon was standing a few yards a
way and examining the scene through his quizzing glass. “What,” he asked, “are you doing among the ferns, Montworthy?”
On this gloomy morning Lord Brandon looked like a burst of sunshine. He wore a canary-colored coat with mother-of-pearl buttons, a striped yellow waistcoat, and mustard-yellow pantaloons. His legs were encased in cream-colored stockings tied with silk ribbons.
“Your father and I have come to an impasse,” he continued. “He tried to persuade me that a pinch of marigold in the sauce makes it better. To my mind flowers should stay in the garden and not infiltrate the saucepan. You have to draw the line somewhere.”
Cecily was trying to lift Archimedes off James’s chest, but the cat had a good claw-hold. “Do not prose on so,” she snapped at Lord Brandon. “Help me get this wicked cat away from Mr. Montworthy.”
“To hear is to obey.” Lord Brandon sauntered closer, bent down, caught Archimedes by the scruff of the neck and gave him a firm shake. “Enough, sir,” he commanded.
To Cecily’s astonishment, Archimedes meekly let go of Montworthy, who sat up and sputtered, “That brute attacked me. He’s dangerous.”
He began to get to his feet, then yelped. “My ankle—it’s broken. I’ll scrag that wretched beast for this.”
Brandon pointed out that since the animal had only been protecting his mistress, Montworthy had himself to blame.
“You should have remembered what happened to Howard when he interfered with Miss Verving,” he continued. “He’s actually as gentle as a lamb.”
The “lamb” lay purring in Brandon’s arms. When put down, Archimedes rubbed against the lord’s leg before swaggering over to do the same to Cecily. He then sat down, eyed James, and licked his chops.
Cecily exclaimed, “You wicked cat, you have hurt Mr. Montworthy.”
“What is this you say—oh, who has wounded you?”
Delinda Howard had come into the herb garden. Her modish London bonnet was slightly askew over the tight bun at the nape of her neck, and her walking-out dress of ruffled white cambric had all the style of a leg of mutton. “Who has wounded you, Mr. Montworthy?” Delinda repeated.
James glared at Archimedes. “That brute attacked me,” he said sullenly. “Made me break my ankle.”
“But that is horrible. Poor, poor Mr. Montworthy—let me assist you back to the house. Lady Marcham will make things better.”
Brushing past Lord Brandon and Cecily, she tenderly took Montworthy’s arm and led him away. “Exit unwanted suitor and his devoted handmaiden,” Brandon murmured.
“Mr. Montworthy is no suitor of mine,” Cecily began, but her lips had begun to twitch. She glanced at Lord Brandon and intercepted such a merry look that she burst out laughing. So did he. They laughed until Cecily’s sides fairly ached.
“It is cruel to laugh,” she gasped at last. “The poor man was really hurt. I hope he does not insist that Archimedes be destroyed.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that. No man—especially not one of Captain Hackum’s brave Riders—would admit to being routed by a cat.”
With his breath warm on her cheek, Cecily realized how near to Lord Brandon she was standing. Under pretext of patting Archimedes, she hastily withdrew from danger.
Brandon watched her with a longing that she did not see. “Lady M. sent me to bring you back to the house,” he explained after a moment. “Sir Carolus’s conversation has made everyone hungry, so she’s called for an early luncheon. Sensible lady, ’pon my honor. The Montworthys and Jermayne were goin’ to remain for the repast, but I don’t know what they will do now.”
However, when they entered the marigold room, they found the Montworthys in no apparent hurry to leave. Sir Carolus was wiping his forehead and sipping sherry. James was stretched out on a Chinese daybed, and Lady Marcham, with Delinda’s help, was engaged in bandaging his ankle. Cecily noted that Captain Jermayne, who had withdrawn to stand beside the window, kept his eyes on Delinda.
“I cannot abide the sight of pain,” Sir Carolus was saying plaintively.
“Mrs. Horris will be serving duck with lemon-and-raisin sauce,” Lady Marcham said briskly. “It will soon put you to rights. Cecily, do ring for Dickinson to take the water and bandages away. And do not fret so, Delinda. No one has yet died of a sprained ankle.”
Delinda, who had been looking yearningly at Montworthy, blushed painfully, and Captain Jermayne came to her rescue. “Understandable. I feel as blue as a razor when a friend is hurt,” he commented.
A grateful look from Delinda made him stop short, turn bright red, and then go pale under his tan. “I mean to say,” he faltered, “that’s how I feel. Not how you feel. By Jove, no.”
As the captain stammered into silence, Montworthy frowned. He cared not a rush for Delinda, whom he had mentally classified as a tallow-faced antidote unworthy of his attention, but he enjoyed being the center of attention.
Jocosely he said, “Talking about the war again, eh, Jermayne?”
Now that he was not addressing a female, the captain found his tongue again. “Can’t help it,” he replied. “Always seems to be a war somewhere.”
At this Sir Carolus looked anxious. “One has heard that the talks at Ghent are continuing.”
“I’m talking about Boney, sir. Bleater’s gathering his forces. We’ll be needed again, and soon. By Jove, yes.” He turned to Lord Brandon. “Sorry you’re not going to be in the thick of things? Cannons here, cannons there—”
James began to laugh. “Closest he’d come to cannons’d be fireworks, give you m’word. Ain’t that right, Brandon?”
The captain looked about to speak but was forestalled by Delinda, who exclaimed, “But that is why I have come.” She fumbled with her reticule and drew out an envelope, which she handed to Lady Marcham.
Her ladyship raised her eyebrows in surprise. “But how extraordinary,” she exclaimed. “I collect that this is the first time we have been invited to the colonel’s estate since he took up residence.”
“What’s the occasion?” Lord Brandon drawled.
“The colonel writes that his military museum is complete and that he wishes to dedicate it on Friday evening. There will be a picnic supper and a display of fireworks to commemorate the event. What do you think, Trevor?”
Lord Brandon shrugged and said he and the colonel were not exactly the best of friends, whereupon Delinda explained that this was the reason for the invitation. “Neighbors should be friends,” she concluded earnestly.
“Well said. If we were all friends, there’d be no wars.” Captain Jermayne approved. Then, intercepting another grateful look from Delinda, he retreated into blushing silence.
“The captain is right,” Lady Marcham announced. “I am fond of fireworks, and the Brock family, whom the colonel has engaged to manage the display, is well regarded. Besides, Friday will be the dark of the moon, so we will see the fireworks very clear.” She paused. “What say you, Trevor?”
Lord Brandon was examining his nails through his quizzing glass. “As long as the man sets a good table,” he said indolently, “I am willin’ to extend the olive branch.”
“And you, my dear?”
Cecily said, “I will do whatever you wish, ma’am.
But she had no desire to go to the Howards’. The colonel had no love for any of them, and especially had he no love for Trevor.
Cecily felt her cheeks grow warm as she realized that she was thinking of the duke’s son by his first name. She shot a glance at him, but he was telling Sir Carolus about a display of fireworks he had seen in London.
Shortly thereafter lunch was served. Cecily noted that Captain Jermayne hardly touched his plate, but that both Montworthys did justice to the food. Sir Carolus went into raptures over the wild duck with lemons and praised the potato-and-onion soufflé that accompanied it to the skies.
He implored Lady Marcham to allow him to compliment the cook in person, and when Mrs. Horris appeared, he hopped to his feet and bowed as though she were royalty.
&nbs
p; “One has partaken of this dish many times, but one has never before encountered such a delicate flavor.” Breathing hard, he bent a speaking look on Mrs. Horris. “Tell me, ma’am—how is it done?”
Mrs. Horris blushed and curtsied so profoundly that she nearly collapsed onto the floor. “It’s an old family recipe, sir,” she twittered. “The secret is in the last fifteen minutes o’ cooking. I mix lemon juice and butter and pour the ’ole hover the duck.”
The little squire clapped his hands in rapture. “Quite wonderful! One must attempt it at once.”
“Not at Montworthy House, you won’t. I want to keep our cook,” James growled. Obviously humiliated that his sire should stoop so low as to admire a mere servant, he added pointedly, “Anyway, the food don’t signify. It’s the company—of the fair.”
Cecily ignored the speaking look he turned on her and felt desperately sorry for Delinda. Like Captain Jermayne, Delinda had hardly touched her food and looked so unhappy that Cecily was grateful when Lady Marcham said, “Cecily, my dear, would you be an angel and bring me a bottle of dandelion cordial? I collect that it is now ready for table. I would send one of the servants, but you know I prefer them not to enter my stillroom.”
Murmuring that she must be returning home, Delinda followed Cecily from the dining room. “I am so sorry, Delinda,” Cecily told her. “I would like to box James Montworthy’s ears.”
“If only there was something that would make him love me,” Delinda sighed.
Cecily stopped and looked hard at the young woman in her hideous, expensive clothes. “If you mean, is there a love potion, the answer is no,” she said frankly. “But there are other ways. Will you come with me to my room, Delinda?”
“Now? But Lady Marcham said—”
“Aunt Emerald will agree that helping you is more important than wine.” Shooing Delinda ahead of her, Cecily mounted the stairs and closed the door of her room after them both. “Now,” Cecily said, “stand here in the light.”
