Silver Enchantress

by Patricia Rice

  He meant to send Drake’s cousins to fight for the exiled prince, and knew Drake would follow them! They could be killed in the battle to come.

  Anger burned through Eileen’s veins as she recognized the treachery of Edmund’s plot, but she continued painting. She couldn’t afford to draw suspicion, but her anger emerged in large, tempestuous waves upon the canvas. She would have to wait until the men were gone, but the idea of involving Lord Sherburne and his volatile Monsard cousins in some dangerous fray to aid a madman’s vindictive ambitions made caution difficult. Edmund’s danger was evident. Evil came easily to men.

  The trio continued laughing and drinking, murmuring obscene jokes in low voices after a warning from the tavern keeper. After one such admonition Eileen heard unsteady footsteps behind her, and sensed a tall man peering over her shoulder. He did not smell like a fisherman, and she judged him to be the marquess’s treacherous cousin. She did not turn to acknowledge his presence.

  “Ugly sea you’ve got there, miss. A man would drown in waves like that.” He indicated the fragile ship tossing on her tempestuous ocean.

  Eileen gritted her teeth and pretended not to hear. She feared letting him see her face. She did not think he would recognize her, but she could take no chances.

  “What’s under that ugly bonnet, wench?” he jibed, reaching for the encompassing black brim that so successfully hid her.

  “Watch out, Edmund, she’s reaching for the knife!” chortled one of his companions.

  “Leave the wench alone!” Mortimer Drew bellowed from behind the bar. Built like an ox, his forearms wider than the legs of most men, he had the power to enforce his commands. Just the sound of his feet treading the boards behind the bar was sufficient warning to cease and desist.

  Eileen breathed a sigh of relief as Edmund retreated. Hastily she packed her paints in their case and folded her easel. No one would suspect she had any cause for departure but the gentleman’s attentions. Their laughter followed her out, but her flushed cheeks had naught to do with embarrassment.

  In a fury she found her mount and loaded her gear into the saddlebags.

  She had known men were vile, had known it all her life, but this encounter had driven the point home.

  She did not know what his cousin intended for Lord Sherburne, but his cousins and the villagers would suffer for it, she felt certain. And should anything happen to any of them, Lady Diane would be bereft.

  Eileen galloped back to the Hall, forgetting Quigley, forgetting her painting, forgetting everything but the necessity to get word to the Nevilles. How could she warn them? Diane might take her seriously, but she had no authority to stop this disaster. Besides, it would not do to worry her. Helpless as she was, Drake’s sister was too inclined to fret already.

  The marquess was the one she needed, but Eileen had no idea where he was. The Nevilles owned dozens of estates, and Drake had friends all over the kingdom. He could be fishing for salmon in Scotland or hunting to hounds in Ireland.

  By the time she reached her studio, Eileen knew she had only one choice. She had learned social etiquette from her aunt and knew it was highly improper for young ladies to exchange letters with men to whom they were not engaged, but etiquette had little to do with practicality. She disliked alarming Diane, but she was the only person who might know where to find the marquess. She could not sit idle and wait for disaster to strike.

  The note to Lord Sherburne was brief and to the point, simply outlining the conversation and including his cousin’s name. He would know more what to make of it than she.

  The cover letter to Diane was a trifle harder. She had to make it urgent enough to convince the lady to send it on immediately, but without describing the danger. Ideally, it would be preferable if she could make the danger sound as if it were to herself instead of the Nevilles. Lady Diane’s romantic fantasies would take it from there.

  Writing was not an art Eileen had mastered, but she did what she could, sealing Drake’s letter before wrapping it inside Diane’s. She trusted Diane not to open her brother’s mail no matter how much her curiosity stirred her. With a sigh of relief Eileen packaged it and carried it down to the footman responsible for taking the post. It was out of her hands now.

  Lady Diane Neville read the missive from her friend with puzzlement. Ever since Drake had come home with his nonsensical stories of the Princess of Apples, she had been fascinated with the little girl just her age who spoke only with her eyes. When Drake had come to her last spring and announced he had found his favorite forest sprite in captivity, she had felt sorrow that the sprite had been imprisoned by civilization, but delighted at the prospect of meeting her. Drake’s tales had been so close to the truth, that Diane felt as if she had known Eileen before they ever met.

  So she felt no surprise at the intensity of her friend’s letter. Under her delicate, mute exterior, Eileen seethed with explosive passions that seldom surfaced except in her painting. No, it was the subject that worried her. What danger could Eileen possibly face in the security of Summer Hall, and how could Drake possibly alleviate it?

  Diane frowned and rubbed her useless leg beneath the woolen blanket. Drake had told her Eileen’s history, the possibility that she might be half-Irish. Could some danger from her past have returned? But why would she call on Drake?

  It did not matter. With decisiveness Diane reached for her pen and hastily scrawled Drake’s address. Her brother enjoyed a challenge, though he certainly had not found one in his current pursuit of Lady Pamela. Diane suspected her brother’s fiancée had been conquered many times and by men other than Drake, but she did not dare whisper a word against the lady. The match had been forged long ago, and Drake would not dishonor his father’s wishes nor a family pledge. Diane feared the lady’s wandering ways had left Drake restless and irritable and ready to conquer new mountains.

  Rescuing a lady in distress might prove beneficial. Diane rang for a maid.

  Chapter 5

  England-Ireland, Summer, 1745

  In the bedchamber of his London townhouse, garbed only in a satin dressing robe, Drake scowled at the childish scrawl of the missive his secretary had just handed him. He would have thought the message some jest had it not been for the faded yellow ribbon enclosed. The little urchin had anticipated his suspicions.

  Wrapping the old ribbon about his fingers, Drake cursed at Eileen’s enigmatic scribbling. She had evidently never mastered penmanship, but her words were terse and all too clear. Obviously, the little imp had been where she didn’t belong to overhear such a conversation. He would like to throttle Edmund barehanded, but instead he could only be grateful that Eileen had heard him and had the sense to gather the import of his words. He owed her for that. It gave him time to plan.

  Drake folded the paper and signaled his valet that he was ready to dress, but his mind ticked like a gear. He knew too well the message Edmund would see delivered to the Monsard brothers. A call to arms from their uncle in France would send the duo flying to join the rebellious Jacobites in Scotland, ready to serve the gloriously romantic cause of England’s “true” king—and get themselves killed in the process. Like the other misguided young men forming behind Charles Stuart, they had no money, no arms, and no training. The slaughter, when it came, would be merciless.

  The rest of the plot escaped his reasoning. What Edmund hoped to solve by sending Drake on a wild goose chase after the feckless brothers, he could not ascertain. His older cousin had always been a problem. While his father led a dissipated life, Edmund had been more or less raised at Sherburne. Older than Drake, he had usurped many of the responsibilities and privileges of an older son. The fact that he would not inherit the title or the estate had made him a bitter man, though he had concealed that fact from the old marquess. The new marquess knew it with the pain of experience.

  Drake contemplated whipping the meddling traitor within an inch of his life, but that would raise the ire of his father’s family and the feud would erupt messily all over the st
reets of London. What Drake might once have done while his father was head of the family could not be considered now that he himself held that title. There had to be a peaceful means of eliminating Edmund, but he’d be damned if he knew what it was.

  Drake shrugged on the buff coat his valet held for him, and ignored the curled bob wig the man held out. He had hired the man to keep his clothes neat and clean, but he had not the patience or the affectation to linger over details. Grabbing his walking stick, Drake stalked out, leaving the valet to stare in dismay at his unpowdered locks.

  Drake sent his secretary to Sherburne to intercept all messages. Then he issued a few urgent ones of his own before proceeding on to his fiancée’s home as originally planned; only his purpose had changed. Lord Westley might be a remorseless old rake, but Drake’s prospective father-in-law possessed the acumen to keep his head above troubled waters when all else around him drowned. His advice was worth the asking.

  Lord Westley looked mildly surprised as Drake entered the study, but he rose and shook his hand. “Have a seat, Neville. What brings you here when you should be out driving with my daughter?”

  Drake had never once protested the contract binding him to Lady Pamela, but the betrothal adjoining their estates had not yet been made public. Since Pamela’s first season, neither of them had any interest in forwarding the match. Drake had no idea where his fiancée might be.

  “I need your advice, sir.” Drake met the older man’s gaze, guessing the reason for the older man’s frown. Pamela was a loose piece of baggage, but her father had powerful connections. Drake could not honorably break the marriage contract, but he’d damned well like to get something of his own in return.

  Westley listened to Drake’s tale, frowning at his refusal to reveal the source of his information but nodding his head in understanding.

  “Wouldn’t do to draw swords against your own kin. Nasty scandal, that. Edmund always was a greedy lad,” Westley speculated out loud. With instant decision he offered, “Tell you what, Neville. I’ll take Edmund off your hands if you’ll do something for me. There’s not a thing I can do about your mother’s French relations, but I can occupy Edmund well enough. Give me your word and consider it settled.”

  Drake took the glass of brandy offered and swallowed gratefully, knowing what was coming. He had known it when he had walked in here, but it was a price that had to be paid sooner or later. If it meant family peace, he would pay it sooner.

  “Name your request, sir.” He set the glass down and faced the older man squarely.

  “You’ve dawdled with my daughter long enough, Neville. She’s a wild piece, I admit, but she needs a husband to keep her from trouble. Set the date, boy, and get her with child posthaste, then maybe she’ll settle down. I want a grandson, and I want my daughter happy. Grant me that, and Edmund will be my problem.”

  Drake knew he only traded one problem for another. Still, Lady Pamela had no tendencies toward violence as did Edmund, and he had never intended to renege on his father’s promise. He had postponed the inevitable long enough.

  “I fear you gain the worst end of the bargain, sir.” Drake rose and offered his hand. “I’ll consult your daughter and have the announcements made immediately.”

  Westley stood and accepted Drake’s handshake with a grim smile. “I’d be pleased if she were plump when you lead her down the aisle, boy. Take her in hand for me, before someone else does.”

  Acknowledging that possibility with a cynical quirk of his lips, Drake bowed out. He would make certain it was his own offspring the lady carried when he made those final vows.

  Remembering the sprite who had set him on this path, Drake’s smile softened. He had watched Eileen with his sister. They had graced his gardens with loveliness, and Eileen’s quicksilver grace had provided an excellent foil to his sister’s stillness. With her long limbs, she had darted in and out among the flowers, with a lively spirit Diane needed. He was convinced that, like a druid, she could disappear into trees at will. Perhaps that was how she had heard this particularly useful piece of information.

  Patting the pocket carrying Eileen’s message, Drake went in search of his fiancée. He would find some way to thank the girl for her warning, but for the nonce he had battle plans to draw.

  Eileen heard nothing from Sherburne, though Lady Diane swore the message had been forwarded. There was no reason for the marquess to write her, after all. She should not have expected more, but the fate of the Monsard brothers worried her.

  She took to reading Sir John’s newspapers, but the gathering rebellion in the Scottish Highlands provided little new information. It was rumored Prince Charles hid in the hills and gathered the clans, but she had no means of discovering whether Drake’s cousins had joined them. Diane wrote nothing of the matter, either.

  Not until July did she discover any news of interest, and that did not come in the form expected. Among all the announcements of weddings and engagements of people she did not know, a familiar name leapt from the page. The formal announcement of Lord Sherburne’s betrothal to Lady Pamela held her attention so long, even Emma noticed it.

  “What is it, child? You’re staring at that page as if it were a snake. I could use a bit of news to break the monotony. Is it someone we know?”

  Eileen closed the paper and handed it to her aunt. It was no one she knew. Not really. She picked up her embroidery and stabbed it with a needle.

  For her birthday, Eileen received a book on sketching from Diane and, enclosed in the same packet, a slender volume of Tales from the Sublime to the Ridiculous. She did not recognize the author’s name on the cover, one D. Owen Sherburne, until she opened the front flap. The inscription, “To the Princess of Apples,” told her at once the book’s giver, which in turn induced her remembrance of his title, Marquess of Sherburne. Drake had simply made use of his many family names to blur the identity of the real author of these tales. He had probably laughed all the way to the publisher.

  She handed the volume to Sir John to inspect. There was nothing in it to indicate anything more than the innocuous relationship of a family friend, which was all they had. Perhaps Drake had found her letter extremely ridiculous. Who, after all, would plot such schemes against a marquess? She hid her vexation as Sir John chuckled.

  “Young scalawag. I trust he had the sense to keep his tales innocent. He handled that situation with his cousins very well, from all reports. A bit over-generous with his promises, I suspect, but it stopped an ugly situation. He’ll do well one of these days. Lady Pamela will see to that, I wager.”

  He chuckled again and returned the volume to Eileen. “Generous of him to think of you. Princess of Apples, indeed! Where does the fellow come up with these things?”

  Eileen determined to wipe the incident from her mind. It did not sound as if anyone had come to harm. She rose and carried the book from the room.

  At her abrupt departure, John frowned and turned to his wife. “She ought to have a husband, Emma.”

  His wife of these past many years smiled at the frown lines on his brow and shook her head. “Where is it said that all women must marry? She is comfortable here. When we are gone, there should still be sufficient wealth to keep her, I daresay. And don’t tell me she needs a man to look after her. She seems quite capable of doing that on her own.”

  “That’s not the same.” John reached for his pipe. “I cannot imagine my life without you, my dear. When we are gone, Eileen will be all alone. She has been alone too long as it is, I fear. It’s not right. She needs friends. And she needs a husband.”

  Emma nodded thoughtfully. “That will not be easy, John. I know men laugh and claim they wish their wives had no tongues, but what man could live in eternal silence? And with no way of proving her parentage—it cannot be done. Only fortune hunters would consider her.”

  “Any man would be lucky to have a gem like that!” John announced defiantly. “I’ll find one, you’ll see.”

  Unbeknownst to the Summervilles, the little
book that had set off this debate had been inscribed some weeks earlier and given to Lady Diane for mailing at the appropriate time. With Edmund off his hands, the author had finally thought of a way to reward the little princess and keep the Monsards safely under his surveillance at the same time. They wanted adventure, he would give them adventure. Drake and his cousins were in Ireland by the time Eileen received her gift.

  With only the name of her purported father’s estate and its approximate location, it had taken Drake and his cousins time to locate the barren corner of Ireland governed by the de Lacy earldom. The rocky soil was unsuitable for farming, and the timber had been stripped from the land to heat and shelter the area’s few inhabitants. The hovels in the village bespoke the poverty of the region, a poverty that begat poverty. The Catholic inhabitants could not vote for changes, and the Protestants had not wealth or numbers to influence Dublin’s Parliament.

  Perhaps things would have been different if Richard de Lacy had survived to fight for his people and his lands, but the present earl had little interest in his tenants, Drake discovered after long evenings in the local taverns. Peter de Lacy was loved by no one, but feared by all. Few dared speak against him except when well fortified with drink.

  The Monsards were the ones to find the de Lacy family graveyard. Deciding it to be as good a place as any to explore, Drake rode out to take a look, discouraged by his inability to come up with any concrete evidence of Eileen’s heritage. The road mounted a small hill, and below and off in a distance Drake could see the crumbling ruin of the once proud castle. Few worked there anymore, for the new earl’s needs required naught but strong drink and weak women, according to current gossip. Beyond the castle a river ran toward the sea. Someone had attempted to replenish the missing trees in the landscape and a veritable forest of leaves blew in the breeze along the riverbank. Drake did not trespass on this private paradise but turned his mount to follow the road. The graves were in an old churchyard where he could not be accused of trespassing.