Silver Enchantress

by Patricia Rice

  If it had not been for his frustration with the conflicting advice he received daily from his father’s men of business and solicitors, Drake would have made his excuses and slipped away. But determined to turn down the path he meant to follow henceforth, Drake refused to return to London without some decision made. He had hoped the peace of the countryside and the sober sensibility of Sir John would guide him, but it seemed all the shallow glitter and pomposity of London had followed him here. It would be much too easy to fall back on the idle days of his past and allow events to happen as they would, but the responsibility for his family now lay on his shoulders.

  Sighing inwardly, but flashing the smile for which he was known, Drake joined the company gathered in his honor. Heads twisted as he passed, young girls giggled and stared, young men hailed him affably. His devil-may-care wink brought a blush to more than one pretty face, and several less hearty companions winced beneath his enthusiastic slap of greeting. He knew his role and played it well, while simultaneously rehearsing his excuses and his escape.

  The new Lord Sherburne attracted the glances of even those who did not know him. His golden crop of curls crowned a high forehead, an aquiline nose, a strong, square jaw, and a pair of dancing blue eyes that turned many a maid’s head. He still wore the brown broadcloth coat and breeches he had traveled in, the skirt of the coat slit at the sides to reveal the hilt of his sword, the lace of his shirt rumpled from the ride. He had disdained wearing a wig, but though his dress was less than elegant, there was no mistaking his heritage. It was for this reason, more than any other, that heads turned as he passed by. In his youth the first Marquess of Sherburne had earned a wildly romantic reputation for adventuring. His son continued his father’s legend with a bold flourish all his own.

  The rumors of Drake’s notorious parties and eccentric friends as well as his quixotic habit of rescuing starving artists and harboring brilliant young members of the Opposition had kept tongues rattling for years. Drake himself had never taken a seat in Parliament, chiefly due to his father’s support of the king. The same struggle for change and power between prince and king had embittered the relationship between Drake and his father. But now the marquess was dead and the power was all Drake’s, and what he would do with it was anyone’s conjecture. Since the Stuarts had been forced from their throne and the Hanoverians had claimed their inheritance, times had been dull.

  Sir John hurried to greet his guest. “Drake! Good to see you, boy. Though you’re a boy no longer, I collect.” He pounded his friend’s son on the back in vigorous welcome, adequately repaying the marquess for his earlier pummels of the guests. “How is your sister? What brings you from the excitements of the city to our humble abode?”

  “A need for advice, but the matter can wait.” Drake amiably dismissed business. “Diane is as lovely as ever and sends you her greetings. I thought some fresh country air after the stench of London would prevent me from telling my father’s men of business to go to Hades.”

  Sir John chuckled. “If you wish my advice on the subject of solicitors, I recommend your solution wholeheartedly. The lot have hearts of stone and the minds of weasels. Make yourself at home, lad. If chatter does not suit your mood, my table is at your disposal. And if you should stumble across my niece, tell her she neglects her guests. Chatter is not much her style, either.”

  Drake nodded and accepted the invitation to dine.

  Summer Hall was known for the sumptuousness of its spreads, and he was starving after the ride from London. As he chose from a variety of meats, pies oozing with thick gravy, cheeses, an assortment of garden produce, puddings, and sweetmeats, Drake remembered his father speaking of Sir John’s odd adoption of a wild girl he claimed was his niece. Drake had never met the child. People claimed the death of their daughter had made the Summervilles a little odd, but he could see no oddity in taking in an orphan. Calling her their “niece” might be a trifle eccentric, but he knew ladies who called their dogs their “baby” and referred to themselves as the dog’s “mama.” He saw no difference.

  With his platter filled, Drake looked around for congenial company. He caught the sound of a mandolin and he grinned. He would not be adverse to seeing his old friend Theodore. Spying a gathering of young men about the fireside, he strode in that direction. Simpering misses and court gossip would not be the attraction with that group.

  As he approached, the crowd parted enough to give him a glimpse of a young maid sitting beside the fire, enraptured by the melody of the mandolin and Theodore’s love song. Judging from her lack of powder and simple gown covered by a large white apron, she was a servant, but something familiar about her nagged at Drake’s memory. He had never been one to haunt the backstairs in search of easy takings. Where could he have seen that head of shimmering copper before? As he approached, Drake studied the rise of her slim throat from the square-cut neckline, the vulnerable curve of her jaw, and lips with just a hint of amusement even when composed. He could not see her eyes, for they followed Teddy’s fingers, but he was willing to wager they were devastating.

  The poet, James, made room for him in the tight circle around the girl and the musician. Drake searched his memory for this creature of elfin grace with the glorious mane of auburn hair, without success—until she turned those silver eyes to meet his and startled him into a shockingly vivid reminiscence.

  “The Princess of Apples!” Drake crowed in astonishment. Setting aside his plate, he elbowed through the circle of young men to joyously greet this childhood memory.

  To the amazement of all onlookers, the modest maiden leapt from her seat to fling her arms around the handsome marquess’s neck. And to their equal amazement, the young lord returned the hug with enthusiasm. From a man who had an astonishing ability to elude available young misses, this was an unheard-of lapse of caution. The girl in question, too, had never exhibited any enthusiasm for the embraces of young men.

  Controlling his inexplicable delight at this reunion with a child he had seen but once, Drake returned the girl to the ground and bowed ceremoniously before her. She curtsied perfectly and continued smiling expectantly.

  He obliged. “You dull fellows have no appreciation of the royalty in your midst!” he roared, laughing at the astounded looks of his companions.

  “Sherburne, ain’t it a trifle early to be in your cups?” one wit inquired dubiously.

  Drake played to his creative audience by declaring, “You are blessed to have among you a sprite of the forest, a princess of fairies, a savior of starving lads! Why, without this lovely lady, I would have perished in the cold, bleak forest, with none but the wolves to pick at my bones!”

  Stifling her giggles, the wench dove deep into a pocket and produced a perfect apple, a shining, ripe example of her uncle’s orchards. She offered it in her outstretched palm, and Drake threw her a laughing look of gratitude.

  “You see? A veritable Princess of Apples.” He took the gift and bit deeply into the crisp flesh of the ripe fruit, his eyes searching hers with amusement and fascination.

  Theodore strummed a chord and sung, “Like precious metals, silver and gold and copper, the couple shimmers in the firelight, as much one as any alloy.”

  Drake threw the apple core at him.

  “Well, Neville, you never told me you knew my niece. Naughty wench, her aunt’s looking for her.” Sir John clapped him on the shoulder. “You’d best lose that apron, Eileen, before Emma sees you. Lady Duncan has arrived and asked for you.”

  The sprite curtsied and disappeared into the crowd. Her departure left a noticeable rift in the conversation as well as an air of tension. The spell broken, the others began to wander off, leaving Drake and Sir John to face each other.

  Now that he had been returned so rudely from the enchanted forest of his imagination, Drake realized his faux pas. How could he have known this sprite of his own creation was the baronet’s pampered niece? And how in hell would he explain his ardent greeting to her doting uncle? Drake watched the girl’s f
igure disappear from the hall. He should have noticed the costliness of her gown, or the artful style of her loose curls, but like a nod-cock, he had seen only her welcoming gaze. How would he explain that to her staid and proper uncle?

  With a lazy shrug of his shoulders, Drake began, “I apologize, sir, I had no idea she was your niece.”

  The baronet tensed. “You didn’t know she was my niece, but you have met before? Where? When? Do not keep anything from me.”

  Drake glanced around and, finding none but friends here, explained, “It was some years ago, sir. I was no more than a boy. My father and I met her in a wooded area somewhere this side of Westbury.”

  Sir John grew animated, drawing him away from the fire. “Tell me everything. Describe where you found her precisely. We have been searching for years. . .”

  From the latticed window of the turret room she had transformed into her studio, Eileen watched the guests depart the next day. In the five years since she had come to live with the Summervilles, whole new worlds had been opened to her, as she had known they would. She absorbed the manners of those around her, but she could not find herself a part of this company any more than she had been part of the village.

  She turned away as the last of the carriages rolled down the road. She had not seen the storyteller depart. Staring pensively at the canvas on her easel, she contemplated the golden-haired young lord of yesterday. Perhaps because they had never really tried to talk to each other, she had not felt cut off from this man as she had all others. He dominated the situation, making speech unnecessary. She liked that, but she feared a prolonged encounter would end as so many had, in frustration and disappointment.

  With troubled eyes she gazed upon the painted scene that had formed beneath her fingers these past weeks. A beautiful castle glittered on a distant hill, high above a verdant forest of enticing shade. A peaceful stream rippled through one corner of the painting, winding among the trees and losing itself at the base of the castle’s hill. The painting had the immediate effect of soothing calmness, similar to the enchantment of the storyteller’s fairy tales. Only she knew that beneath the layers of oiled green lay an ugly spill of dark red, seen now as only specks of blood in the stream’s glistening waters.

  Later that evening, the young marquess entertained them at dinner with lively tales of the London season. Ignoring gossip, he embroidered anecdotes and wove stories that made the characters of his social set come alive. The baronet and his wife laughed over the antics of those they knew well, while Eileen smiled at the recital. She did not need to know these people personally. She saw them through Lord Sherburne’s eyes.

  She knew his name now, but no more than that. He fascinated her, in the same way she apparently fascinated him. From the corner of her eye she caught his glances, hidden beneath laughing looks but studying her just the same. She did not understand why his gaze kept returning to her, but she had difficulty maintaining her modest pose. She wanted to stare at the sparkling hues of his sky-colored eyes, search for the soul she saw reflected in the shadows, linger on the square cut of his strong jaw with its cleft chin. She wanted much more than that, but she stared purposefully at her plate. Looks often lied.

  After dinner, Eileen withdrew with her aunt to the parlor at the side of the house. This was their family parlor, where they often sat after dinner, Lady Summerville playing the spinet or working on embroidery while Sir John read his newspapers. Eileen liked it here. She had no need of London’s parties and teas, although she had attended several on occasion. Her lack of speech set her apart from the others, and her lack of background removed her from society in the eyes of most. She had little use for the fashionable world. After the poverty of her childhood, she had all the amenities she needed right here.

  She picked up her needlepoint and admired the rich golds of the thread she worked with. Here were the advantages her new family offered. Colors of every sort and kind and texture: watercolors, oils, pastels, threads, and yarns. These she understood more than the confusing world outside. She often felt suffocated by her guardians’ constant watchful attention, but she gladly sacrificed freedom for the security of their love and her art. For now.

  Eileen looked up as Lord Sherburne and Sir John entered. Garbed in a long coat of rich blue velvet and matching breeches, his heavily embroidered waistcoat as pristinely white as his cravat, his golden hair neatly bagged in a queue, the marquess appeared every inch the noble gentleman. Whatever the two had been discussing, it had taken the laughter from the young lord’s eyes, and his gaze was sober as it found her.

  He came to stand beside her, leaning on the mantel as he studied the tapestry of colors beneath her fingers.

  “Your uncle tells me you have a talent for drawing, Miss Eileen.”

  Eileen flicked him a mischievous glance from the corner of her eye. The marquess was supremely experienced in drawing-room small talk, but even he had difficulty in addressing her. She was not a Summerville. If Sir John and Lady Summerville were to be believed, she was a de Lacy, and not just a Miss de Lacy. Her father was supposedly a land-poor nobleman of English title but Irish descent who had once owned large estates. So what did that make her? Her aunt insisted Lady Eileen would be correct, but Eileen had a tendency to giggle whenever anyone attempted to apply that term to her. Miss Eileen was more title and name than she had ever possessed before.

  Drake’s eyes crinkled at the corners at her saucy glance. “Perhaps it is a good thing that you cannot unleash your tongue upon the world,” he whispered as he bent to retrieve the tapestry from her hands, holding it out critically before him.

  He hid her amused gasp with a commentary on the tapestry’s subject matter. “I fancy the unicorn is a trifle walleyed, but the gold mane is extremely well done. One fancies one could tie a red ribbon in it. But for that, the unicorn would have to lay its head in the lady’s lap. Is she a princess, by the way?” He slanted a laughing look to her.

  Eileen smothered her laughter and sent him a severe look, indicating he should sit himself properly in the chair where he belonged and leave artistic criticism to those who knew art. She did not need to speak a word. He seemed to understand her gestures and laughed out loud as he deciphered her look.

  “My sister would enjoy meeting you, Miss Eileen. You are of much the same age, I believe. She dabbles at watercolor and needlework, but like me, her strength lies in her silver tongue. You would get on well, I believe.”

  Sir John cleared his throat and set aside his newspaper, catching the marquess’s attention. Eileen studiously broke her thread and reached for a red one.

  “You have said nothing of the Lady Pamela this evening, Drake. Has the date for the nuptials been set?”

  Lady Pamela? Sir John glanced in her direction, but she merely discarded the red thread and searched for another.

  Drake continued to lounge against the mantel, his broad shoulders supporting the carved wood. “Lady Pamela is well, as usual. She is quite taken by the London season and is in no hurry to shoulder the responsibility of marriage, and I see no reason to rush her. My father’s death has left the estates and the inheritance in some disorder. My solicitors demand my time, and in the interest of my sister and cousins, I must acquiesce to their demands. There is some question of my cousin’s inheritance that I wished to speak to you about, when we have the chance.”

  Sir John allowed the topic to drop, and brought up the progress of the war in Europe. Even the excitement of war had grown tarnished beneath the ignominious Hanoverian battles that had no glorious cause or purpose, and the English people grew restless for the grandeurs of their undefeated past. Neither man worried over the rumors of a French invasion.

  “Cumberland will hold off the French until everyone grows bored and goes home,” Sir John said, laying aside his paper. “Mark my words, it is the Jacobites who will bring this country to its knees if we don’t bring our armies home.”

  “Yes, well, considering my family’s reputation, an army or two might be persuasive
,” Drake commented wryly.

  Eileen sent him a swift glance, but Lady Summerville rose and she hastily packed her threads to follow her out.

  Once the women were gone, Drake faced his host. “I would consider it an honor if you and your family will visit with me. I fear Diane will go into a decline if she’s left alone any longer. And I still need your advice.”

  Sir John gestured for him to take a seat. “Tell me about it.”

  Chapter 4

  Voices—loud male voices. Angry. Shouting. She huddled in the darkness but the voices came closer. Screams. She could not stop the screaming. Ear-piercing. Heartrending. Utterly futile in their horror.

  Fighting the shrieks, Eileen kicked and thrashed and threw back the covers. Nothing muffled the sound. Moisture ran down her face, and she could not see. She could not stop the horror. The cries came from within as well as without. Choking, sobbing, racking her.

  Walking down the candlelit hall of his home, Drake heard both the angry voices and the muted cries. He paused, knowing the nature of the voices but uncertain of the source of the cries. His first thought was of his sister, and he anxiously stopped at her door, finding all quiet there.

  Breathing easier, he eased down the carpeted corridor to the door of their houseguest. For the sake of his invalid sister, he was grateful the Summervilles had chosen to visit. He would not have his guests molested—although surely one so silent could be making such noises.

  The angry argument raised in tenor, nearly drowning the faint moans from behind the heavy door. Finally realizing muteness might prevent screams, but these choking sounds might mean the same, Drake tried the knob. It was frightening to know she could not cry for help. She ought to have a maid with her.