by Rebecca Ward
Cecily rose to her feet as Montworthy walked around one of the topiary bushes. “The fireworks are going to begin,” he announced. “See you’ve found a quiet place to watch ’em from. Quiet and private.”
There was no mistaking the insinuating note in his voice. “I must be going,” Cecily said coldly. “Aunt Emerald will want me.”
“Lady Marcham’s promised to keep Lady Bagge and Mrs. Hovernath company. You don’t want to sit next to them—pair of muffin-faced griffins. Better stay here with me, give you m’word.”
Montworthy hardly bothered to mask the triumph that he felt. He had been right all along about Miss Vervain. The country mouse had played out her waiting game, and now the time was ripe. Why else would she have been waiting for him there in the darkness?
Sliding his arm around her waist, he murmured, “Come, m’dear. No need to be coy, eh? No one will see if you give me a little kiss.”
Next moment, he was staggering backward with a hand clapped to his ear. “Touch me again, and I will box the other ear, you loose fish!” Cecily threatened.
James stared at Miss Vervain in disbelief. With her eyes narrowed to slits and her small hands clenched, the country mouse looked more like an outraged lioness. “Now, see here,” he began.
“I see very well,” Cecily retorted. “You are a care-for-nobody, sir. Now go away. Go far away, and do not trouble me again.”
Astonished, angry, and shaken, James took himself off. Cecily remained where she was. Her heart was racing as though she had been running, and she had begun to tremble with reaction. “At least,” she murmured, “he will never try that again. I should have—”
She broke off as she heard footsteps approaching. “Did I not tell you to go away?” she cried, but broke off as Delinda appeared out of the darkness. “I—I thought you had gone on ahead with Captain Jermayne,” Cecily stammered.
“The captain is such a kind person. But I . . . I missed another.”
Delinda ducked her head and Cecily said with some impatience, “If you mean James Montworthy, he is not worth your regard.”
“You do not love people because they are worthy or not,” Delinda pointed out. “You love them because you cannot help yourself.”
There was no answer to this. Delinda continued, “I have decided to take measures into my own hands. Cecily, do not eat me—I am going to make a love potion.”
“But there is no such thing!”
“Yes, there is.” Passion filled Delinda’s voice. “In that book of herbs that Lady Marcham has, I found a recipe that guarantees love.”
She drew a deep breath. “To make the potion I need to wear a white dress and unbind my hair, pluck marigolds and wild verbena at the dark of the moon. I must dance a ’stately measure’ as I cull the herbs. If I do this—and I will—my true love will be mine.”
She paused to ask hopefully, “Do you know where verbena grows wild hereabouts?”
“No,” Cecily replied firmly, “and even if I did, I would not tell you. I have never heard of anything so idiotic. Be sensible, Delinda—”
She broke off as Delinda pounded one small fist into another. “I have been sensible all my life. Oh, Cecily, I do not want to watch other girls marry the men of their dreams and have children—I want to love and be loved. You cannot understand how much I want that.”
Her voice faltered into a whisper, and Cecily thought of a moonlit glade and strong arms and a voice that asked for her trust. Who was to say that Delinda was wrong? she wondered. Delinda was only seeing with the eyes of the heart.
Cecily put her hands over Delinda’s cold ones and squeezed hard. But before she could speak, there was a thunderous roar and the night sky was emblazoned with color. Cecily and Delinda looked upward and stood transfixed as rockets, saxons, star shells, and Roman candles flung themselves against the darkness.
Delinda put her lips to Cecily’s ear and shouted, “We cannot hear each other out here. Come back to the house—we can talk there.”
As Cecily followed her hostess, she saw that not everyone was enjoying the fireworks. Their lurid glare clearly showed the colonel’s massive form standing on the steps before his house. Just then a horseman came riding up.
“That is one of Papa’s Riders,” Delinda shouted in Cecily’s ear.
Uneasily Cecily watched the man swing down from the saddle and race up the stairs to his chief. She could not hear what was being said, but the fireworks lit the colonel’s face, and Cecily bit her lip when she saw the expression on his face. Colonel Howard looked like a pit bull who had scented blood.
Trevor, she thought.
There was a lull in the boom and blast of the fireworks, and she heard the colonel ask, “You’re certain that the smugglers are carrying contraband?”
His Rider nodded. “A ship was sighted off Robin’s Cove. We waited and watched, and soon Horris and a half a dozen others drove carts down to the cove. Half an hour later they left with their carts loaded and began to drive them out of Dorset.” The colonel’s Rider paused to add gleefully, “This time, sir, we’ve got them dead to rights.”
Chapter Ten
By the red glare of the fireworks, Cecily saw triumph suffuse the colonel’s face. “Who is the leader of the pack?” he demanded.
“A man in black,” was the reply. “He’s taking the road toward the western downs.”
“Man in black—that’s Brandon right enough,” the colonel exulted, and Cecily realized that she had not seen Lord Brandon come out of the colonel’s military museum.
She gave Delinda’s arm a shake. “Fetch Aunt Emerald for me,” she begged. “Please, Delinda. It is most urgent.”
Then she picked up her skirts and ran up the stairs toward the colonel calling, “Colonel, I have been searching for you.”
“Miss Vervain.” Impatience warred with Howard’s habitual air of condescension. “I am sorry, but I cannot stay to converse with you.”
Determined to keep him from pursuing Lord Brandon, Cecily cast about her mind for some convincing lie. “Aunt Emerald desires to—to consult you immediately on a most important matter,” she said.
She was interrupted by a roar, as if a hundred cannons had gone off at once. The colonel’s house shook, the windows rattled, and Cecily felt jolted to her bones. She stared up at the sky, which was lit by an unholy glow, and when she looked down again, she saw Delinda and Lady Marcham coming up the path. They were followed by Captain Jermayne.
Delinda was speaking, but Cecily could not hear a word until she reached the steps. “The volcano has just exploded,” Delinda was saying. “Such a spectacle—Papa, why are you not watching the fireworks? Your absence was remarked.”
“Make my excuses, girl. I have business to attend to.”
“But, Papa,” Delinda protested, “you cannot abandon our guests.”
“In matters such as this, speed is of the essence.” The colonel seemed to grow in stature and appear even more formidable. “The smugglers have made their move.”
To Cecily’s astonishment Captain Jermayne exclaimed, “Now, that’s interesting. By Jove, yes. Never thought I’d see smugglers in the flesh. I’d like to ride along with you, Colonel.”
The colonel showed his teeth in a grin. “My riders will be glad of your company. And your friend Lord Brandon—perhaps he would also like to join us?”
Cecily’s heart sank, but Lady Marcham said, “You are joking, of course. Trevor hates to ride at night. The rogue has gone inside the house, and I strongly suspect that he is taking a nap.”
The colonel looked even more pleased with himself. “He is not in the house, Lady Marcham. I have been standing here ever since we left the military museum, and I did not see him.” He turned to the Rider who had brought him the news and ordered, “Alert the others, Farmington. And see if you can unearth Lord Brandon.”
As the Rider hurried off, Lady Marcham exclaimed, “It is useless to try and persuade Trevor to go with you. He has no interest in smugglers.”
�
��You are far afield, ma’am, far afield. I would say that he is very much interested,” the colonel purred. “If I do not mistake, he is leading his band of smugglers from Robin’s Cove to the western downs.”
Lady Marcham began to laugh. “You are joking me.”
“Lady Marcham, I never joke.”
“Then you are foxed,” she retorted. “Or mad,” she added as an afterthought.
Just then Montworthy came striding up the walk. There was a suspicious red mark on his cheek, and he avoided looking at Cecily as he announced, “Brandon’s nowhere to be found. Nobody’s seen him, neither. Looks like he did a bunk.”
“Mount up,” the colonel ordered.
Helplessly Cecily watched as the colonel’s Riders called for their horses and arms. Her brain had apparently gone numb, for she could not think what she should do. She could only look on helplessly as the colonel buckled on his sword and added a brace of pistols.
James Montworthy was also settling a sword around his waist. “Always thought that fribble Brandon was up to no good,” he commented.
“Hold your tongue, sir!” Lady Marcham exclaimed. “Be careful what you say. Pershing will not stand idly by and let his son be slandered.” Then turning from the abashed James to the colonel, she added coldly, “I collect that you are accusing my godson of being a common smuggler.”
“Not at all common, ma’am,” Howard fairly crowed. “He is a prince amongst smugglers. He has brains, but he could not gull me. I knew all along that he was gallow’s bait.”
The insult loosened Cecily’s frozen tongue. “If Lord Brandon were here,” she cried, “he would shoot you for that insult.”
The colonel smiled indulgently. “It is a good thing you are a woman,” he said. “If you were a man—”
“If I were a man, you would not dare to take that tone with me,” Cecily retorted. “How dare you blacken a gentleman’s name when he is not here to defend himself? Besides, you have not one shred of proof.”
“I’ll have all the proof I need as soon as we see what’s in those carts.” The colonel strode down the stairs to his waiting horse and swung into the saddle. Then, followed by a score of Riders and a small army of his hastily mustered tenants, he cantered away.
Lady Marcham turned to Delinda. “Be so good as to summon my carriage,” she said haughtily. “I will not remain in this house another moment.”
Delinda looked ready to burst into tears. “Oh, Lady Marcham, I am so sorry.”
“Well, well, I suppose that it is not your fault that your father is a jackass,” Lady Marcham said in a milder tone. “Do not cry, Delinda; I am not angry at you.”
Just then Captain Jermayne cantered by on his horse. Cecily glared after him. “I thought,” she said bitterly, “that he was Trev—Lord Brandon’s friend.”
“There are friends and friends,” Lady Marcham replied cryptically.
“I hope he may fall off his horse,” Cecily cried.
Of all the events of the night, the captain’s defection bothered Cecily the most, for it illustrated a point most clearly: now that he stood accused of wrongdoing, Lord Brandon had no friends.
Cecily tried to believe that Trevor was miles away and safe, but she could not make the picture. As she followed Lady Marcham into the carriage, her mind conjured up details of the chase, of the colonel’s catching up to the smugglers, the flash of swords and the bark of pistols.
“Stop worrying,” commanded Lady Marcham. “There is nothing to fear.”
Cecily rounded on her. “Nothing to fear! Aunt Emerald, the colonel’s riders are armed with swords and pistols. If he resists, they will kill him.”
“It is all part of the plan.”
Lady Marcham looked about the closed carriage and lowered her voice. “You may be sure that Trevor has no dealings with smugglers. Hush, now. These matters cannot be discussed on the open road.”
With difficulty Cecily restrained the questions that crowded her tongue. The short journey to Marcham Place had not seemed so long before. When they were climbing the steps to the house, she could no longer keep from crying, “Tell me this, at least—do you know about the Americans?”
Before Lady Marcham could reply, Grigg opened the front door. Though he was much too well trained to show any emotion, Cecily could swear that there was a glint of annoyance in the butler’s eyes.
“M’lady,” he announced, “There has been a—an occurrence during your absence.”
He lowered his voice and murmured something that Cecily could not catch. Lady Marcham exclaimed, “On this night of all nights? Could you not have prevented—but of course, you could not. We must deal with things as they come, Grigg.”
“Yes, m’lady. Also, I regret to say that Mary Tierney has gone mad.”
“Mary?” Cecily gasped. “But when I last saw her, she was perfectly sane.”
Lady Marcham rolled her eyes. “Send her into the marigold room, and I will see what can be done,” she said with a sigh.
“It must be some mistake,” Cecily protested as, temporarily diverted from Lord Brandon’s troubles, she followed her grandaunt. But when Mary stumbled into the room, she had to admit that the girl definitely had a wild look. She was ghost-pale, and her linen cap was set askew on her red head.
“What on earth ails you?” Lady Marcham exclaimed.
“Sure, and they’re not of this earth,” the girl moaned. “My lady, the little people have landed at the Widow’s Rock.”
Lady Marcham pushed an impatient breath through her nose. “You were dreaming.”
Mary shook her head so hard that her red curls bounced. “Holy saints, wasn’t I awake entirely, and standing by the Widow’s Rock when I saw the little people coming in from the sea?”
“I suppose you were meeting Dickinson at Widow’s Rock?” Lady Marcham asked.
Mary burst into tears. “I didn’t go to do so, m’lady. Cook had sent me to get some eggs from the henhouse, and I saw Mr. Dickinson slipping out the gate and down the road that leads ter the sea. An’ I thought that if I met him by chance—” She broke off whimpering, “Sure and I ran so hard home, I broke all the eggs, and Mr. Grigg said as I was a wicked girl for trying to meet with Mr. Dickinson, and that you’d turn me off without no character.”
“I will do no such thing,” Lady Marcham soothed. “Stop crying, you goose. You must have seen fireflies or Saint Elmo’s fire on the water.”
Mary fell on her knees and called on the blessings of all the saints to fall on Lady Marcham. Then she added, “But it wasn’t fireflies, m’lady. Fireflies don’t talk amongst themselves, do they? I heard them say they were going to meet in the Haunted Woods.” She began to sniffle loudly. “Oh, musha, musha, it’s like me mam told me onct—the little people have come to dance about their queen, and me that saw them will be taken away to Fairyland.”
Cecily glanced at Lady Marcham and saw an odd expression flicker in her eyes. For a moment she seemed to hesitate. Then she glided forward and placed a hand on the girl’s forehead. “As I thought, gadding about after dark has brought on a fever. You have been hallucinating, my girl. Not another word from you, or you will end in a madhouse, not Fairyland. Come to the stillroom with me now, and I will give you a soothing draft.”
Subdued by these words, Mary followed Lady Marcham out of the room, but Cecily remained where she was. She was sure that the ‘little people’ Mary had seen were Americans landing on English soil, and she strongly suspected that Lady Marcham knew of their arrival.
Once more the thought of treason rose blackly in Cecily’s mind, and she was now doubly afraid. There were only two people she cared for in the world, and both of them were most probably traitors to the crown. “What do I do now?” she said with a sigh.
A gruff meow at her feet made her look down. Archimedes was sitting there. Needing to hold something, she bent down and picked him up, and for once he allowed her to stroke him. “What shall I do?” Cecily asked the cat.
Archimedes purred and rubbed his
battle-scarred head against her chin, and Cecily pressed her cheek against his rough fur. She envied her cat. His loyalties, like his life, were simple. Because he loved her, he would defend Cecily to the death. The rest of the world, except for a carefully chosen few, could go hang for all Archimedes cared.
Suddenly the cat stiffened in Cecily’s arms. His head rose, his whiskers cocked into an alert position, and he glared into the dark. Following the direction of that stare, Cecily saw that a man was walking past the window and into the garden. His back was to her, but she recognized that swift, commanding walk.
“I thought he was riding for the western downs,” she gasped.
Archimedes growled, deep in his throat, and with that sound everything came clear to Cecily. She, too, cared less than a rush for the world. She had the greatest affection for Lady Marcham. She loved Trevor. He had told her that when she doubted the most, she must trust, and if ever there was a time for trust, it was now.
“I must warn him,” she said aloud. “He may not know that the colonel is on his trail. He cannot know that even Captain Jermayne has joined the enemy.”
Setting the cat down, she went into the hall. No one was there, and no one saw her open the door and slip outside. There was no sign of Lord Brandon, and in the faint starlight the woods at the edge of Lady Marcham’s property looked dark and menacing.
Moving as swiftly as she dared to in the starlit dark, Cecily traversed the herb garden, passed the statue of Ceres, and entered the woods. There the faint starlight did not penetrate, and the darkness was almost absolute. Cecily was groping her way along the path when a dark figure barred her way.
It was not Lord Brandon. This man was taller, heavier, and much more menacing. As Cecily retreated a step, he threw out a hand and caught her by the wrist. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” he demanded.
His was not an American voice. It was also the coldest, most inflexible voice she had ever heard, and his grip on her wrist was iron-hard. Cecily had never felt so afraid in her life, and it took all the courage she had to command, “Let go of me at once.”
