Enchanted Rendezvous: A Tangled Hearts Romance (4 page)

Lady Marcham sighed.

“You mean she’s left you? But why? Mrs. Horrifant was devoted to you. She spent years in your kitchen.”

“Love,” Lady Marcham said succinctly, and Lord Brandon professed that he saw no connection between Cupid’s darts and a cook who did a bunk before breakfast.

“Didn’t she think to give you notice, ma’am?” he demanded.

Instead of answering Lord Brandon, Lady Marcham smiled at Cecily. “Yes, my dear,” she said, “I agree with you. Trevor only thinks of his stomach and his clothes. It is a reprehensible trait, and you are right to want to box his ears.”

Cecily, whose mind had been indeed forming this scenario, could only stare at her grandaunt, who sank down into a chair and commenced fanning herself with a napkin. “It really is too bad. Apparently Mrs. Horrifant conceived a tendre for Lord Kildyce’s butler. Since Kildyce removed to Suffolk, she has been desolate. Then, a letter arrived yesterday, and Grigg surmises that this fellow made Mrs. Horrifant an offer of marriage through the mails.”

Just then the gray-haired butler stalked into the room bearing a tureen, which he set down on the sideboard. Lord Brandon hastily uncovered this receptacle and declaimed, “Ah, eggs and kidneys. Just the thing when a man’s feelin’ faint.”

He heaped his plate, brought it to the table, swallowed a mouthful, and promptly choked.

“I am afraid that I have forgotten the art of cooking,” Lady Marcham apologized. “Did I put in a pinch too much pepper? Or it might be the nasturtium leaves I added at the last moment. But heart up, Trevor,” she added as Lord Brandon turned pale, “I will advertise for another cook immediately.”

“But that might take days!”

“My new chambermaid’s cousin has done some cooking and can manage plain fare. I was going to send Gwendolyn to the village to bring the woman to Marcham Place, but the foolish girl was too upset. It seems as though Colonel Howard’s so-called Riders were racketing about last night and interfered with her brother.” Lady Marcham frowned as
she continued, “Really, the colonel is becoming too officious by half. His Riders accused Gwendolyn’s brother and some other young men of being smugglers.”

As if he had not heard one word, Lord Brandon mourned, “Weeks—perhaps
months.
Lady M., we need a cook
now.”

Cecily decided that it was time to intervene. “One of the people I rode down with was a Mrs. Horris. She said that she used to cook for Lady Maples.”

Lady Marcham’s expression brightened. “Do you know if this good woman is the same Emma Horris who used to live in Wickart-on-Sea?”

Before Cecily could reply, Lord Brandon cried, “Lady M., this is the hand of Providence.”

Dramatically he shrouded his plate with his napkin and rose to his feet. “Breakfast is dead, but there is hope for luncheon. Miss Verving, will you lead the expedition in search of Mrs. Horris?”

Ignoring him, Cecily turned to her grandaunt. “I cannot vouch for Mrs. Horris’s skill, Aunt Emerald. She only
said
she cooked for Lady Maples.”

“If it is the same Emma Horris that I recollect from my salad days, she is a perfectly good cook.” Lady Marcham lowered her voice as Lord Brandon left the room and began to call out orders for the trap to be brought around to the door. “I would consider it a favor if you did go with Trevor, my dear. He is bound to make a mull of things if he is left alone, and we
do
need a cook.”

“Come, ma’am—come immediately.” Showing much more energy than Cecily would have believed possible, Lord Brandon fairly skipped back to the breakfast table, caught Cecily by the elbows, and propelled her into the hall. Within five minutes he had summoned his valet, refused several hats before settling on a curly beaver, and selected a cane
that matched his attire. Then, while Cecily was still tying the ribbons of her bonnet, he marched her out of the door toward Lady Marcham’s trap.

“Do you drive, ma’am?” he asked. “So much the better. I am not dressed for ridin’. But,” he added resolutely, “I am ready to make any sacrifice in order to acquire a cook.”

“I collect that a cook is of the same importance as your complexion,” Cecily remarked, but her sarcasm was wasted on his lordship, who was engaged in parting the tails of his coat preparatory to taking his seat, smoothing the knees of his breeches, settling his cuffs, and adjusting the lapels of his jacket.

“Now,” he said complacently, “we may be off.”

“Thank
you,” she murmured.

He flicked his perfumed handkerchief, and the sun glinted on the ring on his hand. Cecily could not help remarking, “You wear an unusual ring, my lord.”

He glanced down at his hand. “This? I bought it in Spain.”

“So anyone with a ring such as yours must have been in Spain,” Cecily mused.

Lord Brandon paused to yawn mightily before replying, “Unless the fellow bought it off someone else—or stole it.”

Cecily did not like this last explanation. She was willing to entertain the possibility that her rescuer could have been a smuggler. She would not believe that he was a common footpad.

Unwilling to dwell on this unpleasant thought, she said, “In your haste, my lord, you seem to be forgetting something. Perhaps Mrs. Horris may not want to go into service.”

“If Lady M. wants her, she’ll come,” was the languorous reply. “You may not know it, Miss Verv
ing, but she’s known as a wise woman hereabouts. No one will run the risk of antagonizin’ her.”

He leaned back in the trap and pulled his curly beaver hat over his eyes. The uncharacteristic energy that he had displayed was gone, and he was once again torpid. Cecily soon forgot about him, and as she drove along the road, which skirted the sea and the Widow’s Rock before turning inland, her thoughts slipped back to the events of last night. Suddenly the noise of pounding hooves brought her to full attention, and the next moment several mounted men came careening around a corner in the road.

They were galloping directly toward her. Cecily shouted a warning, but the riders were going so fast that they hardly seemed to see her, and she had to turn her horses’ heads sharply in order to avoid a collision.

Beside her Lord Brandon stirred awake. “Easy over the pimples, Miss Verving,” he said, yawning.

“Do you know who those people are?” Cecily demanded.

Lord Brandon did not bother to lift his beaver from his eyes. “Colonel Howard’s followers. You recall that Lady M. did say that they’d been botherin’ the housemaid’s brother.”

“What gives them the right to bother anyone or to endanger people on the road?” The fact that her hands were shaking made Cecily even more indignant. “And who, exactly, is this Colonel Howard?” she asked.

“One of Lady M.’s new neighbors. He’s retired from his regiment and as rich as Golden Ball. He loathes civilian life, so he’s found somethin’ military to do.”

Cecily raised her eyebrows. “What could be military about Dorset?”

“Ferretin’ out smugglers. I tell you, Miss Vervant, the good colonel makes life excitin’ for the bored young fellows who call themselves his Riders. And he’s got his tenants on the hop, too. They chase smugglers all up and down the coast.”

As Lord Brandon spoke, they turned a sharp corner and came upon the village proper. Wickart-on-Sea was a small but prosperous-looking place shadowed by overhanging trees. It boasted neatly thatched stone houses and small back gardens riotous with late-summer flowers. In front of one of these houses were several horses and one mounted gentleman, whom Cecily recognized as James Montworthy. The band of gold braid around his arm caught the sun as he turned to look inquiringly at the occupants of the trap.

“Servant, ma’am,” the Corinthian exclaimed. “What brings you here so early?”

“Breakfast,” the duke’s son replied. “This lady’s Miss Verving—”

“Vervain,” Cecily snapped.

“Miss Vervant is Lady M.’s grandniece. She and I are on a mission, ’pon my honor.”

He broke off as a young woman backed out of the hut. “I’ll ’ave the law on you,” she was crying. “Leave my ’usband alone, you slipgibbets. Leave ’im alone, I say!”

As she spoke, two men dressed in workmens’ clothes exited from the cottage. They were dragging a third between them. Behind them came Mrs. Horris.

James’s handsome face had flushed with excitement. “Ready to confess, Horris?” he demanded.

“Wot’s ’e got to confess?” Mrs. Horris demanded. Her gray hair was disheveled, and her round face was quivering with distress. “My son hain’t done nofink, sir.”

Ignoring her, Montworthy said, “Horris, you was seen prowling about Robin’s Cove last night. What were you doing there?” There was no answer. “Answer, you damned idiot.”

Lord Brandon raised his head and murmured, “Language, old boy. Ladies present.”

“Beg pardon, ma’am. Now, Horris, this is your last chance to open your budget. Otherwise, you’re going to the colonel for questioning.”

At this the young woman began to sob, and Cecily rose in the trap to exclaim, “Mr. Montworthy, what right do you have to take this man anywhere?”

Taking courage from this unexpected support, Mrs. Horris screamed, “You hear that? You let him go, you mawworms, you.”

The men holding Cully Horris glanced uncertainly at Montworthy, who scowled. “See here,” he was beginning, when he was interrupted by Lord Brandon.

“Miss Verving’s right. You can’t haul this man away.”

“Why can’t I? He’s a suspected smuggler.”

Moving with slow precision, Lord Brandon uncoiled himself from his seat in the trap, descended, and began to stroll toward the captive fisherman. “Cully’s no more a smuggler than I am.”

Cecily watched doubt enter Montworthy’s eyes. “You know this fellow?”

“We were boys together.”

Cecily saw a look of contempt flicker in James Montworthy’s eyes. “Next,” he all but sneered, “you’ll tell me you were
friends.”

“But of course we were. Cully and I used to climb the Widow’s Rock on a summer’s night. Remember how we used to lie in wait for the ghost, Cully?”

A faint grin touched the stocky young fisherman’s lips. “I recall, Master Trevor.”

“What
I
remember most is those gooseberry tarts you made for us, Mrs. Horris,” Lord Brandon continued. His boredom had once again been replaced by enthusiasm, and he bowed so deeply that his corset creaked. “This is too good to be true, ’pon my honor. Here you are, and here we are. You are an angel in our hour of need.”

Mrs. Horris looked blank. “N-need, sir?”

“For a cook, ma’am. The old one did a bolt and loped off with a butler. I hope you’ll do me the honor of accompanyin’ me back to Marcham Place as Lady M.’s new cook.”

The red had slowly begun to recede from Mrs. Horris’s face. Now she looked ready to faint. “You mean—cook for ’er ladyship?” she gasped. “Ooh, I never could. I’m not near good henough.”

“On the contrary, you’re vastly qualified. Memories of those gooseberry tarts sustained me through many tryin’ times, ’pon my honor. You’ll come, won’t you, ma’am?”

Mrs. Horris looked helplessly at her son, then murmured an affirmative.

“Wonderful! First rate! Get your things together, ma’am, and Cully will bring you to Marcham Place instanter.”

Montworthy growled, “I say, Brandon, you can’t walk off with this man. The colonel wants him for questioning.”

“And Lady M. wants her cook. Lady M. wouldn’t take kindly to your arrestin’ her cook’s son, Montworthy. She takes care of her people—as do I.”

For a moment there had been a note of something very much like command in Brandon’s die-away drawl, and Montworthy spoke in a less certain voice. “I don’t want to inconvenience Lady Mar
cham. She’s the pater’s neighbor, ain’t she? But the colonel—”

“Bit of a martinet—thinks he’s still followin’ the drum. I know all about it.” Lord Brandon stepped past Cully Horris’s guards and put a hand on the young man’s shoulder. “Tell Howard that I’m takin’ responsibility for Cully, here. And if he wants to question
me,
he’ll know where to find me.”

Montworthy looked unconvinced but held his peace. He nodded to the two men who had been holding Cully, and they stepped aside. Lord Brandon smiled and gave the released fisherman’s shoulder a pat. “There you are, old fellow,” he said.

The genuine friendliness in that gesture contrasted sharply to Montworthy’s attitude of noblesse oblige, and Cecily liked Lord Brandon for it. She was wondering whether he might have some redeeming qualities after all, when he spoke again.

“I feel faint with hunger, ’pon my honor,” he said with a sigh. “All this excitement is excruciatin’ on an empty stomach.” He drew out his scented handkerchief, touched it to his forehead. “Don’t dawdle, Cully. Get your mother packed. And you, Mrs. Horris, I beg you to hurry to Marcham Place before it is too late for lunch.”

Chapter Three

A
pparently Lord Brandon had been worn out by his exertions. As soon as he returned to the trap, he leaned back, folded his hands across his waistcoat, and went to sleep.

As Mrs. Horris elected to follow with her son in their horse-drawn cart, Cecily had plenty of time to reflect on her meeting with the colonel’s Riders. Her reflections were not pleasant ones. Supposing, Cecily thought, that Colonel Howard captured the stranger with the lion’s ring?

Perhaps because they were passing the Widow’s Rock, last night’s peril seemed very real, and Cecily did not even try to repress a shiver. She had not known how ominous a place this was, with a granite fist jutting over a steep cliff. Below, the pounding sea reflected the slate of the sky. If the carriage had gone over that cliff, it would have meant death on the jagged rocks below.

“Interestin’ view, isn’t it?” Lord Brandon commented. He had sat up in the trap and was engaged in smoothing the lapels of his coat. “You can’t see
it from here, but there’s an inlet below. I used to go crabbin’ there when the tide was out.”

Her eyes still on the sullen water, Cecily asked, “Crabbing in such a treacherous place?”

“Well, boys thrive on danger.” Lord Brandon’s smile was nostalgic as they turned inland to skirt the woods. “We used to play Mohocks in Lady M.’s woods, here, too. Then Cully and I would racket into the village for Mrs. Horris’s gooseberry tarts.”