Enchanted Rendezvous: A Tangled Hearts Romance (12 page)

“You had better put on your shoes and your stockin’s,” Lord Brandon suggested. “It’s a long walk to the village.”

In silence she wrung out her dripping skirts and put on her hose and shoes. Then he said, “Let me carry the basket to the village for you.”

When she turned, she saw him fully dressed. Except for his wet breeches, he looked as he always did. “It is not necessary,” she replied.

“It is to me. You see, Miss Verving, I confess that I behaved out of character today.” Lord Brandon
pulled his snuffbox from his pocket and snapped it open. “I so seldom am called on to perform heroic acts that I was carried away by the romance of the moment. I assure you I forgot myself entirely. My, er, actions were not worthy of a gentleman. I beg you to forgive me.”

Cecily raised her chin and watched him inhaling snuff. He must think very little of her intelligence, she thought wrathfully, if he felt he could fob her off with Bambury tales.

Lord Brandon did not fool her for a moment. He had kissed her not because he was carried away by the moment but because he wanted to end an uncomfortable discussion.

In his own way Lord Brandon was as smug as James Montworthy. He was certainly as odious.

“Of course,” she told him, coldly. “No apology is necessary.”

“You are too good. But in penance, allow me to carry your basket to the village, Miss Verving.” He looked down at his sopping breeches. “From Wickart-on-Sea I can send a message to Andrews so that he can bring me some dry clothes. He will probably swoon when he sees the condition I’m in, but anythin’ is preferable to walkin’ into Marcham Place lookin’ like this. My reputation would be ruined.”

In silence Cecily handed him her basket. Let his deceitful lordship accompany her to the village or go to Jericho as he willed, she thought; it was all one to her.

Chapter Seven

T
urning her back on Lord Brandon, Cecily began to trudge toward the village. She was determined not to turn around and see whether he was following, but the silence stretched and stretched. Perhaps he had changed his mind and was not coming after all, she thought.

Cecily glanced over her shoulder and looked straight into his dark eyes. “Ah,” he drawled, “the fair damsel relents and forgives me.”

“There is nothing to forgive, Lord Brandon.”

Brandon smiled at her icy tone. “Kind of you to say so, ’pon my honor. Whether Andrews will ever forgive me for going wadin’ in my clothes is another matter. If they saw me now, my friends would give me the cut direct.”

“I wonder that you do not return to London,” Cecily snapped.

“It’s too hot at this time of year. Stiflin’. The stench would be excruciatin’ for someone with delicate sensibilities.” Lord Brandon waved a languid hand. “Besides, I am very fond of Lady M.”

It was almost on the tip of Cecily’s tongue to ask
him why, if he was so fond of his godmother, he was running the risk of embroiling her in his schemes. With difficulty she reminded herself that she had no proof of his involvement with the smugglers.

Lord Brandon continued, “I used to come to Dorset every summer until I was twelve. My brothers, all several years younger than I was, stayed home in Pershing, but I begged to come here.”

Cecily remained dampeningly silent. This did not deter Brandon, who drawled on, “My mother, the duchess, was a busy woman. She had her hands full with arrangin’ and attendin’ balls and assemblies and musical evenin’s. She had the younger boys and our sister to deal with, too—Elizabeth’s come-out is still the talk of the ton—so she was glad to pack me off to Lady M.”

In spite of herself, interest stirred. Cecily rationalized that if she could get Lord Brandon talking about himself, he might make some incriminating slip.

“Did your father also wish to send you to Dorset?” she asked.

“Pershing was rarely home. He was a soldier while I was growin’ up, always away on some military campaign. Then Mother died, and he turned to politics. But whenever he was in residence at Pershing, we toed the mark.”

While he spoke, Brandon saw his father clearly. With his dark, flashing eyes, decisive voice, and air of command, he had won battles on the field and in parliament by sheer force of personality. Men were anxious to stay in his good graces, and it was rumored that even Wellington did not care to cross the Ice Duke.

“When he gave a command, we obeyed—that was about the sum of our relationship with Pershing.” Cecily noted the dry note in Lord Brandon’s voice
as he added, “His mission was to make men of all of us. No easy task.”

Not for poor, shiftless Leonard, who rebelled against authority and spent years in useless profligacy before marrying and raising a quiverful of brats as unruly as himself. Not easy for bookish Thomas, either, though Thomas was almost as stubborn as his sire and had become a cleric in spite of Pershing. Easier for Clarence, who had been their mother’s favorite—a sweet-tempered if empty-headed lad who embraced a military career as though born to it. And as for himself . . .

For a moment Brandon contemplated his reasons for being in Dorset and the effect that his recent actions would have on the duke.

“Our father was a hard man to bridge at the best of times,” he continued at last. “Dorset was my favorite place because here I could run tame in and out of Lady M.’s house. In a way it was my only real childhood.”

Though Lord Brandon’s tone was casual, Cecily felt a quiver of sympathy. A scene from her own childhood had touched her mind, and she recalled an impromptu picnic. Her mother had spread a white cloth and put out bread, cheese, and honey and apples, and her father had read aloud from Tacitus while Cecily made daisy chains for them all. Later, when Father was old and ill and they were always in need of money, it had helped to remember the scent of daisies and the taste of apples and the sounds of happiness.

“Not everyone has a magical childhood.” Surprised out of her thoughts, Cecily looked up and saw Lord Brandon watching her. “You didn’t tell me if you lived in the country. Did you?”

“In Sussex. My father was a scholar who loved his books and nature.” Cecily’s eyes sparkled as
she added, “He had a small living, and my mother had her marriage portion. It was not very much, but it seemed more than enough to me. We had a comfortable little home and all sorts of animals. We had a tame squirrel, and a raven, and a poor old badger that we rescued from a trap.”

“And cats?”

“Archimedes was a kitten when my mother died.”

Brandon saw her smile fade and memories darken her eyes and thought that she had the most expressive eyes he had ever seen. He was used to people who had secrets to conceal or games of their own to play, but by looking into Cecily Vervain’s eyes, he felt he could look directly into her heart.

And just now, her heart was troubled. He could guess the reason and wished that he could say something to reassure her. But, he reasoned, the truth would probably alarm her even more than her suspicions.

“That cat of yours has terrorized the whole household,” he said aloud. “Even Andrews, who has never been afraid of anythin’, turns pale when Archimedes lifts his lip and hisses.”

“I have
tried
to make him behave, but he will not. Archimedes does not like too many people,” Cecily admitted. “He did not care for anyone at the Netherbys’, certainly. The Netherbys were my employers before I—before I came to Marcham Place.”

Brandon noted the slight hesitation in her voice. Without seeming too curious, he drawled, “Perhaps there was a reason for him not likin’ these Netherbys?”

“Indeed, there was. Master Giles Netherby, especially, was a care-for-nobody who kicked poor Archimedes whenever he could.” Cecily’s darkling look spoke volumes, and Brandon found himself
wishing that he had the care-for-nobody close to his fist. “The curious thing,” Cecily continued, “is that Archimedes likes both you and Aunt Emerald. It is most strange.”

“He’s attracted to my sterlin’ character. He knows that I am to be trusted and relied on.”

She looked up quickly at this, and the look in his eyes made her catch her breath. For an instant it was as though a very different man was looking out from Lord Brandon’s black eyes. Then the fop came back.

“Of course,” Lord Brandon drawled, “cat hairs are somethin’ else again. Andrews almost went wild the last time your animal brushed up against my coat. Took him an hour to get it clean.”

Cecily was disgusted with herself. Once again Brandon had turned the tables on her. She had started talking to draw him out and had ended by telling him all about herself.

They fell silent as they traversed the long, winding street that led to Wickart-on-Sea, and soon they were following the twists and turns that led into the village. Lord Brandon withdrew his handkerchief and held it to his nose.

“I wish,” he complained, “that it did not stink of fish.”

What else did he expect of a fishing village? “We are almost there, for Mrs. Amber lives not far from Cully Horris. But what is this?”

Colonel Howard, on a mettlesome bay, sat waiting by the hawthorn hedge that edged Cully Horris’s garden. Behind him, like a phalanx of foot soldiers attending their general, were a dozen of his tenants, all of whom were armed with staves and pistols. Two of these retainers were questioning Cully, who stood in front of his closed door.

“Wonder why Captain Hackum is payin’ a visit,” remarked Lord Brandon idly.

It was plain that Cully did not care for the visit. His arms were folded across his chest, and he kept shaking his head. As they approached, Cecily could hear him say, “An Henglishman’s ’ome is ’is castle. You ’ave no right to go in there.”

“Then you admit that you have something to hide,” suggested the colonel.

The young man shook his head vehemently. “I hain’t suggesting no such thing—your honor.”

“Then why will you not allow my men to search your house?” Howard demanded.

“What right does he have to search anyone?” Cecily wondered, indignantly. “He is not an officer of the law.”

Cully was protesting, “I told you why you wasn’t being hinvited in. T’ lad is sick.”

“That’s a likely story.” Leaning forward in his saddle, the colonel stabbed an accusing finger at the fisherman. “My Riders have been observing you, Horris. Last night you were seen driving a cart up to and away from Robin’s Cove. My Riders tried to detain you, but you got away.”

Cully said nothing, and Howard nodded to his retainers. “Ableman, you and Pruett lead a search into the house.”

“Infamous!” Cecily exclaimed. But as she started forward, a hand clamped itself about her arm.

“Let it be,” Lord Brandon said.

“Who are you to give me orders?” she blazed up at him. She tried to shake loose his hand, but Lord Brandon’s fingers were like steel. “Let me go at once,” she commanded him. “That man is a bully, and—
will
you let me free!”

Lord Brandon held her fast. Outraged and helpless, Cecily heard Cully’s voice rise in protest. “My
son
is
sick. I was set ter go to Marcham Place to get some medicine from ’er ladyship.”

“Here I am,” Cecily cried. As all eyes turned to her, she held up her basket of herbs. “I have a special decoction here for Tim Horris’s putrid throat. Putrid throat,” she added significantly, “is highly contagious.”

The rank and file paused uneasily, and the one called Ableman said, “Perhaps, sorr, we houghtn’t to disturb the lad.”

Colonel Howard said something that sounded like
“Tchah.”
He dismounted, flung his reins at his nearest henchman, and strode over to confront Cully. “So your boy is sick, is he?” Suddenly he raised his riding crop and brought it down on the young man’s shoulders. “You are a liar as well as a criminal,” he shouted.

“Shame!” Cecily cried.

Then she turned upon Lord Brandon. “And shame to you, too. Why do you not stop this?”

“I never interfere in other people’s business when I can help it,” was the cool reply.

He was contemptible. Cecily tore free of Lord Brandon’s grasp, caught up her damp skirts, and ran toward the cottage crying, “Stop beating that man!”

The colonel did not even bother to turn his head. “This is no place for a woman,” he rasped. “This business does not concern you.”

With the whip in his fist, he looked deadly, but Cecily was too angry to be intimidated. “Indeed, it is my concern,” she retorted. “If you do not stop at once, I will call the watch.”

The colonel’s only answer was to raise his crop again. Cecily started forward with some intention of arresting that blow but was shouldered aside. “Now, what’s this?” drawled Lord Brandon.

As leisurely as though he were inspecting his breakfast, he strolled forward and examined Cully through his quizzing glass. “What’s the fellow done?”

“I have no time to explain to you,” the colonel gritted. “Stand back.”

Once more he raised his arm. Simultaneously Lord Brandon leaned forward, and the colonel’s riding crop raked the front of his jacket. Lord Brandon started as the whip end of the colonel’s crop tore off one of his huge brass buttons.

“Hi,” Brandon shouted, “confound it, Howard. See what you’ve done to my coat!”

“I told you to move back, didn’t I?” But the colonel’s snarl turned to a bellow of outrage as Lord Brandon seized his whip hand and twisted it behind his broad back.

“I
said,”
Lord Brandon repeated, “look what you’ve done to my coat!”

His voice was almost petulant. “You’ve knocked off one of my buttons into the mud. Not any button, mind, but my own special invention. I had to hunt all over London to find a craftsman skilled enough to make ’em, and he destroyed the design. I tell you, they are unique. Prinny himself would give his soul for that button that you knocked into the mud.”

“Damn you, let me go.” Howard attempted to extricate his whip hand but found he could not move. Cecily watched in astonishment as the shorter, slighter Lord Brandon easily held the giant colonel prisoner. “Leave go of me or you’ll be sorry,” the colonel threatened.

“Not until you apologize,” the duke’s son said.

“Until I—! I’ll do no such thing,” the colonel retorted furiously. “You got in my way, damn you. You had no right—”