by Rebecca Ward
“Rag-mannered young fool,” Lord Brandon observed. He flicked dust from his sleeve adding, “You’re lucky, Montworthy. If you’d ruined my coat, there’d have been the devil of a dustup.”
Montworthy jumped to his feet, clenched his hands, and once again advanced on the duke’s son. “You need to be taught a lesson,” he vowed. “Come on, damn you. I’ll teach you to mock me.”
Looking eminently bored, Lord Brandon drew out his snuffbox. With an oath Montworthy knocked the box aside. “You smatterer, will you attend to me?” he shouted.
In that moment Lord Brandon moved. So swiftly that Cecily saw little more than a blur of speed, he struck James a clean, hard blow on his chin. Sir Carolus stared as his son and heir buckled at the knees, then pitched facedown onto the grass.
Cecily knelt at Montworthy’s side and felt for a pulse. “He is unconscious,” she exclaimed.
She looked up at Lord Brandon, who was rubbing the knuckles of his right hand. “I regret subjectin’ a lady to such a sight,” he said. “My apologies. And to you also, Sir Carolus.”
The little squire trundled forward, bent down, and with an effort turned his offspring on his back. He examined James’s jaw and shook his head. “That was a flush hit, Lord Brandon. One has not seen such a whisty castor since one’s days at Oxford.” He sighed deeply. “I regret to say that James requires knocking down from time to time. One has failed to do one’s duty in that respect, one is sorry to say.” He looked up earnestly and added, “But I beg you will forgive that nonsense about his arresting you. He is not a bad boy, but unfortunately wanting in the upper works.”
As he spoke, there was a low whistle nearby, and the shadowy form of a man slid out of the woods. James’s followers, who had gathered awestruck around their leader’s felled form, looked up and confronted the muzzle of Lord Brandon’s pistol.
“Stay where you are,” he ordered. Then, as the newcomer whispered a message, he nodded. “See to it.”
As Lord Brandon’s man slipped back into the woods, Cecily heard a new sound carried on the wind. “A rider?” she questioned.
“The colonel’s Riders,” Lord Brandon amended. “They’ll be here soon.”
He did not seem in the least perturbed, Cecily noted, but the colonel’s tenantry took heart. “Now see ’ere, sorr,” their leader began, “you ’ad better put that pistol down, or it will go ’ard with you.”
Ignoring him, Lord Brandon spoke to Sir Carolus. “Will you escort Miss Vervain back to the house, sir?”
“I shall stay here,” Cecily declared.
At that moment there was a chorus of yells in the near distance. “Oh, by Jove,” a familiar voice shouted, “the brute’s gone mad.”
“That is Captain Jermayne,” Sir Carolus exclaimed.
There was a crashing, a neighing and whinnying, and the colonel’s furious voice. Next moment, a frenzied horse came galloping up the pathway toward them.
“ ’Ware horse,” Captain Jermayne shouted. “I can’t control him—out of my way!”
The colonel’s retainers threw honor to the winds and ran for their lives. Cecily seized James Montworthy’s arms and tried to drag him to safety.
“Shoo, avaunt—get away!” With some idea of protecting his unconscious son, Sir Carolus waved his plump arms at the approaching horse. Surprisingly, it obeyed and stopped dead in its tracks.
“That’s that,” Captain Jermayne exclaimed in a matter-of-fact voice, adding as he slid down from the saddle, “Couldn’t keep him away any longer. Get on Cavalier and make a run for it, old fellow. I’ll distract them.”
Brandon smiled affectionately at his flushed friend. “A heroic effort, but unnecessary, Jermayne. We’re ready to welcome the good colonel.”
Clasping his hands behind his back, he assumed his habitual, indolent stance. Even so, Cecily could sense the tension that rippled through his lean, hard-muscled frame.
In spite of her resolve she was suddenly afraid. Cecily searched Lord Brandon’s face and saw him mouth the words, “Easy, Celia.”
She did not feel at all easy. The woods had begun to echo with the stamp of booted feet and the crackle of branches broken by impatient men. A few more minutes, and the colonel strode into the clearing.
“So!” he exclaimed.
Followed by a dozen of his Riders and many more of the rank and file, Colonel Howard strode into the clearing. Like Caesar at the head of his legions, he looked around to gloat, then, saw Captain Jermayne. “You!” he exclaimed in tones of loathing. “If you had been under my command, I would have seen you cashiered.”
The captain protested, “It wasn’t my fault that my horse bolted. By Jove, no. The brute ran off with me. And was it my fault that you were in my way?” He paused to add solicitously, “Hope you weren’t hurt too much by being knocked on your—hem!—out of the saddle.”
With a final glare at Jermayne the colonel transferred his attention to the duke’s son. “Well, well, well,” he sneered. “So the fox has been run to earth.”
Sir Carolus protested, “Colonel, there is no need to take that tone. Lord Brandon—”
“Lord Brandon is a smuggler.” The colonel all but smacked his lips as he said the word. “You did not expect to see me here, did you, Brandon? You thought I would be on my way to the western downs chasing wagons filled with rubbish. I tell you, you’ll catch cold trying to gammon me. I smelled a rat straightaway.”
“Did you?” Lord Brandon murmured.
“You thought I would follow that red herring and leave you free to move your contraband undeterred. Instead, I sent a dozen of my men and the watch to follow Horris, while these gentlemen and I came to arrest you. When Montworthy gives me his report—”
For the first time the colonel became aware of the prostrate James. He frowned. “Is he dead?” he demanded.
Sir Carolus shook his head, and the rank and file, who had ventured out of their hiding places, began to explain at once. “Silence!” the colonel ordered. “That can wait. Seize Lord Brandon.”
“For what reason and by what authority?” Cecily demanded hotly. “He has done nothing but walk in his godmother’s woods. It is you who are trespassing.”
One of the Riders who had been advancing with the intent of placing Lord Brandon under arrest stopped and looked questioningly at Colonel Howard, who repeated, “Arrest him at once.”
“How dare you, sir!”
Lady Marcham’s clear voice startled them all. Even Brandon looked astonished as his godmother, followed by her servants, glided into the clearing. “How dare you put your hands on Lord Brandon?” the lady repeated.
Lady Marcham was still dressed in her party clothes. With her rich pelisse flung about her shoulders and a scarf of some silvery gauze crowning her hair, she looked regal. Offended dignity seemed to add inches to her height, and the eyes she fixed on the colonel glittered like frozen jade.
“If I understood you correctly,’’ Lady Marcham continued, “you ordered my godson’s arrest. It is beyond everything that you dare to trespass on my land and issue such an order.”
Colonel Howard looked taken aback for a moment, but then he rallied. After all, Lady Marcham was but a woman, and no mere female could come between him and justice.
“The man is a smuggler,” he retorted.
“So you say,” Lord Brandon murmured.
“Actually,” Captain Jermayne interposed, “I’d like to see some proof. No joke accusing a duke’s son. No, by Jove.”
A mutter of agreement began to circulate among the rank and file, and one of the Riders cleared his throat. “You do have proof, don’t you sir? I mean, about Lord Brandon’s involvement—”
As if his words were a signal, Lady Marcham’s servants began to talk at once. The motherly housekeeper insisted that Master Trevor was as blameless as a day-old lamb. The senior footman pleaded for his lordship’s release. The pot boy began to blubber. Mrs. Horris was heard to insist that Colonel Howard was as mad as a March hare for even suggesti
ng that Lord Brandon had done anything wrong.
“The man is a common criminal!” the colonel roared above the babble. “He has broken the law.” His lip rose in a sneer. “Perhaps, Lady Marcham, you are his accomplice.”
Brandon’s head snapped up. “You will not speak to Lady Marcham in this way,” he began, but his godmother gestured him quiet. “Are you accusing me, sirrah?” she demanded.
Even the colonel quailed before that tone and that look. “Since you defend the criminal—” he began uneasily.
“You are the criminal, sirrah!” Lady Marcham hissed. “You dare set foot on my land. You dare to come into these woods. Be careful, Colonel Howard. Remember where you are.”
It almost seemed to Cecily that as Lady Marcham spoke, she grew in stature. There was a whimper of fear from among her staff, and Cecily saw Mary cowering behind Mrs. Horris.
“We’re in the Haunted Woods, that’s where,” Mary quavered, “at the dark of the moon. Holy saints preserve us now at the hour of our death.”
Cecily noted that the colonel’s tenants had begun to edge back along the path. Apparently the colonel had seen this, too, for he said contemptuously, “Are you old women that you’re afraid of hobgoblins? Stop mucking about. Seize that man!”
Obediently a Rider stepped forward. As he did so, Lady Marcham flung wide her arms in a dramatic gesture that caught him in the face. He staggered back clutching his nose as she declaimed, “There are forces, dark and old, that you defy in these woods. Hush! Can you not hear their age-old voices in the wind?”
Cecily found herself holding her breath and listening with the others. It seemed as though the woods had definitely acquired a voice. Not of haunts and goblins but of ancient truths and knowledge that had existed when England was still young.
But the colonel was not impressed. “Lady Marcham, I beg you’ll return to the house. You too, Miss Vervain.”
“I do not take orders from you,” Cecily snapped.
Out of patience, the colonel grasped Cecily’s arm. “I said that you were to leave,” he gritted.
That was as far as he got before Lord Brandon hurled himself across the glade and choked the words back into his throat. Colonel Howard tried to defend himself, but he could do nothing against hands that tightened like steel bands around his neck. His eyes nearly popped out of his skull, and he gasped and gargled for air.
“I say, old boy, don’t kill him,” Captain Jermayne exclaimed. “He’s Miss Howard’s father.”
The captain’s judicious voice recalled Brandon to sanity. He shoved the colonel away from him, so that he fell on his knees beside the prone Montworthy.
“You’ll meet me for this,” Howard panted. “You’ll meet me now, with swords.”
On the point of replying that there was nothing he would like better, Brandon checked himself. Dueling with the colonel was not a part of his plan. He should never have lost his control, but when the man had laid his hand on Cecily—
For a second Lord Brandon hesitated. Then he turned his back. “ Ton my honor,” he drawled, “I’ll not duel with you tonight, Howard. Another time, perhaps.”
“Now!” The colonel got to his feet and drew his sword. “Now, or I’ll run you through for a craven dog.”
“Here, old boy, take this.” Eyes hard, Captain Jermayne unsheathed his own sword and extended it to Lord Brandon. “Can’t let any man alive call you a coward. No, by Jove.”
“Oh, Trevor.”
Cecily had spoken in a whisper, but Brandon’s eyes went to her at once. His mind was filled with conflicting emotions. He had not wanted this combat, and yet now that it had been thrust upon him, something cold and watchful in him welcomed it. A man like the colonel would never be satisfied until he had ferreted out events and secrets that must not be revealed. It was best to kill him, make an end.
“Coward,” grated the colonel. “I’ll expose you, by God. I’ll tell the world about tonight.”
With his face hard and set, Brandon asked, “You’ll act for me, Jermayne?”
“Greatest pleasure in the world, Brandon.”
“Sir Carolus?” The little squire nodded resolutely. “In that case, I await your pleasure, colonel.”
Some of the Riders were expostulating with their chief, but the colonel shrugged such counsel aside. “Farmington, Rogerford—you’ll act for me? Now, gentlemen, make a ring around us and hold the lamps high. We need light.”
Obediently the colonel’s followers fanned out to make a living circle in the clearing. Brandon paid them no attention but watched Cecily instead. Even in the ruddy lamplight she had gone pale, and there was a growing horror in her eyes.
“I will escort the ladies to the house and be back at once,” Sir Carolus said, but Lady Marcham shook her head.
“I am staying also,” Cecily said resolutely.
Without another word Brandon strode forward into the human circle and faced the colonel. Howard was taller, with longer arms. He himself was younger, quicker. Black eyes and blue locked.
“En garde,” Brandon said.
Cecily wanted to cry out in protest, but she could not speak. Perhaps her blood had turned to ice, for she felt heavy and cold. She started as a hand clasped her shoulder, then realized that Lady Marcham had come to stand beside her. “Steady, my dear,” her grandaunt murmured.
No one else said anything. There was no sound but hard breathing and the metallic rasp of steel sliding against steel. Then the colonel lunged forward. All the brutal power of the man was in that blow, but it glanced harmlessly off Lord Brandon’s blade. As he easily beat back the colonel’s attack, Cecily realized that the duke’s son was a swordsman that few could match.
Feint, parry, and then a lightning double thrust—a sigh ran about the living circle as blood spurted from the colonel’s arm. Black in the lamplight, it dripped down his sleeve.
The duelists circled again. As the lamplight fell on Brandon’s set face, Cecily clutched Lady Marcham’s hand. “Aunt Emerald, he means to kill the colonel.”
“It will fall as it will fall,” Lady Marcham replied. Her soft voice was as inflexible as her godson’s eyes.
“But if he kills the colonel, Trevor will have to leave England,” Cecily mourned.
Within the circle Brandon was thinking that if he felled Howard, he would be facing worse things than exile. Even if she understood and realized that this was the only possible course of action, she would never forget that he had once killed a man in front of her. The colonel’s blood would lie between them forever.
But, he reasoned unhappily, not to kill the man would have worse consequences. What he had committed himself to do weighed more heavily in the scales than individual happiness. He had only one choice, even though that choice might be one he would regret forever.
Through crossed blades, Lord Brandon glanced at Cecily, and the unhappiness in his eyes went to her heart. Unable to watch any more, she closed her eyes.
At that moment, a cold, inflexible voice spoke. “Put up your swords,” it ordered. “Put them up now.”
Cecily’s eyes flew open. She looked toward the false thicket of alders and saw there a man with a face like a hawk. He was tall and powerfully built, and his eyes were dark and piercing. A high-bridged nose shadowed an arrogant mouth.
“Good heavens,” Sir Carolus cried, “it’s the Duke of Pershing!”
“The Duke of Pershing?” Cecily gasped.
The duke did not even glance at her. His attention was riveted on the combatants, neither of whom had lowered his blade. “This must cease,” he said sternly. “Inquiries into a duel will lead to trouble later on. Brandon, do you hear me? Remember that we act for the good of our country.”
Limping slightly, he stepped between the combatants and with his walking stick forced their blades apart. Colonel Howard snarled, “So you are in this as well, your grace. I cannot credit that you are a criminal like your son.”
“Hold your tongue, sir,” the duke commanded. He indicated James. “I
s he dead?”
Sir Carolus began a long-winded explanation but was cut short by the duke, who demanded, “Who the devil are you?”
With a curious kind of dignity, the little squire replied, “One is named Sir Carolus Montworthy, your grace. The young man on the ground is one’s son, James. Members of our family have had the privilege of fighting for England many times through the years. One does not understand what all this means, but one would gladly sacrifice one’s life in England’s service.”
The duke nodded, then turned to Cecily. “And you, madam?” he asked, curtly.
“This is Miss Cecily Vervain, sir,” Brandon explained, “Lady Marcham’s grandniece.” As Cecily curtsied, he added, “I think you have made her acquaintance.”
“The lady has made a definite impact on me, yes.”
His voice was hard, dry, colder than ever. Some instinct warned Cecily that if she quailed before the Duke of Pershing now, he would forever hold her in contempt. It took all of her courage to meet his black gaze, but she did so.
“Our first meeting was indeed memorable, your grace,” she said.
A strong forefinger extended itself, tucked itself under Cecily’s chin and lifted it. Perhaps it was a trick of the moonlight, but the duke’s eyes now no longer appeared quite so cold. In fact, his thin, aristocratic lips actually twitched at the corners as he commented, “So you are related to Lady Marcham. You don’t have her looks, but you do have her spirit.”
“Thank you, your grace,” Cecily murmured.
For a moment the duke looked almost human. Then the colonel exclaimed, “Pershing’s arrival does not change things. I came to arrest you, Brandon, for smuggling, and I mean to do so.”
He gestured his staring retainers forward, but Lord Brandon said, “If you look about you, you’ll see that you’re outnumbered.”
Cecily looked about her with the others and noted that a contingent of men had materialized out of the trees. They were all armed and had their weapons trained on the colonel and his followers.
“Put down your weapons,” Brandon ordered.
The colonel had gone as white as the handkerchief he had tied around his wound. “Your smuggler band?” he sneered.
