Moonstruck Madness (6 page)

Sabrina finished hers thirstily and added it to the pile. "I enjoyed that so much. It is so pleasant to just relax and daydream for once," she commented lazily, stretching her
arms above her head, then laughed and covered her face as one of the spaniels began licking it with a soft, moist tongue. He rolled over as Sabrina rubbed his long, silky hair playfully, laughing as he held up his paws begging for more.

"I wish every single day could be as nice, but," Mary added regretfully, "it must end, and I've still the accounts to see to." She glanced at the lengthening shadows on the lawn and sighed. "Aunt Margaret, shall we go in now?"

"Yes, dear, quite right," Aunt Margaret answered thoughtfully. "You know, do remind me to embroider this garden. I must capture these glorious colors, and really, the pickled salmon was just a wee bit too salty," she smiled, gathering up scattered threads with quick, nimble fingers and tucking them into the large tapestried bag that was her constant companion.

"When are you going to finish that tapestry you've been working on for the past few years, Aunt?" Sabrina asked
,
looping her arm through her aunt's as they walked towards the house. "You've never shown it to us."

"In time, dear, in time," she answered vaguely.

They entered the hall through the side door that opened onto the garden and were stopped by the butler who'd just closed the doors to the drawing room.

"Visitors, Lady Margaret," he announced deferentially, but looked to Mary for his orders.

"Who has called, Sims?" she asked curiously, checking her gown for grass stains and straightening the lacy, flounced sleeves at her elbows.

"Lords Malton and Newley, your ladyship," he replied stiffly, ill-contained dislike of the two visitors barely concealed in his well-trained manner.

Mary cast an inquiring glance at Sabrina, who shrugged and merely tipped the wide, floppy brim of the pale blue silk slouch hat she wore to a more rakish angle over an amusedly arched eyebrow.

"I suppose we must find out what they want. Come along Mary, Aunt—" she began, but Lady Margaret had
disap-peared up the staircase, a thin strand of scarlet thread the only indication she'd been present.

Sabrina turned to Richard. "Would you care to be present?" she asked the solemn-eyed boy. His eyes brightened visibly, and he nodded his head in agreement.

"Please, Rina," he spoke eagerly.

"Mary, Richard." She clasped their hands and they moved forward as one into the drawing room, past the doors held open by a footman, to greet their unexpected guests.

"Ah, Lady Mary," Lord Malton greeted her loudly, nodding to Sabrina and Richard as he bent over Mary's outstretched hand.
"A pleasure."

"Our pleasure, surely," Sabrina murmured softly, smiling sweetly as she caught his eye.

"I must say, Lady Mary, your sister grows more beautiful with each day that passes, as indeed do you yourself."

"If I might be allowed to add my compliments also," Lord Newley added suavely, looking directly into Sabrina's violet eyes. "We must see more of you ladies, eh Malton?"

"Certainly.
Of course we understand that without a man to act as escort, and only your aunt to chaperone you, it is most difficult for you to get about. Ah, how is the dear woman?" he asked hesitantly, looking around the room nervously in expectation of being surprised by her sudden appearance. "I knew the dear lady when she lived here with your father. They were, of course, a bit older than me," he added quickly.

"Aunt Margaret has never been better and hardly seems a day older than my sister and I," Mary smiled. "Please do be seated, and may we offer you a refreshment?" Mary invited, her good manners overcoming her reluctance to issue such an invitation.

She avoided Sabrina's grimace and seated herself demurely on a winged settee. "Richard, ring for the footman. We've a very fine elderberry wine?"

"Or lemonade and ginger beer?" Sabrina added helpfully, knowing full well that the gentlemen would much rather
have had a brandy
.

"Really, we mustn't put you to any trouble, dear ladies," Lord Malton said quickly with a beaming smile, which faded as he broached the subject of his visit. He leaned forward from the chair he was seated in and confided, "We have paid this call on a most serious note, I'm sorry to say."

"Oh, dear me, how dreadful."

"You may well say that, Lady Mary," Lord Malton expostulated, settling his bulk more comfortably in his chair, his sword and gold-headed cane complicating matters as he tried to cross his legs.

"We come to warn you, dear ladies," Lord Newley began carefully. "We certainly do not wish to frighten you, but we are all in the gravest danger."

"No!
Whatever from?"
Sabrina exclaimed.

"Last night, in my own dining room, a few friends and
myself
were held up at pistol point and robbed!" Lord Malton told them vehemently, his face turning red.

"Robbed!
How scandalous. Surely you jest. Who would dare?" Mary asked faintly.

"Bonnie Charlie, that's
who
!" Lord Newley spat, his thin lips drawn back from his teeth in almost a snarl.

Richard gasped, his blue eyes widening in admiration as he stared at Sabrina's elegant figure as she sat quietly on the settee, appropriately frightened by the news.

"An outrage!
Why I should think you'd have his head," she whispered.

"Exactly my words, Lady Sabrina!
The impertinence of it all.
Well, that is why we've come. You ladies must be warned, and prepared to defend yourselves. Have you good, strong footmen to protect your home?"

"Why, yes, we've several big country boys footing for us," Mary reassured them.

"Not sure even that'll do it. Monsters they were.
Stood seven feet tall, those henchmen of his.
And him! Well, let me tell you, he was six feet if an inch, and
a
meaner ruffian I've yet to meet."

"Tch, tch.
Six feet if an inch, you say? How distressing," Sabrina breathed. "I do fear, Mary, that I shan't be able to sleep a wink for fear of my life."

"Dear lady," Lord Newley exclaimed contritely, leaning closer, "you've no need to fear. I don't believe he's killed anyone yet, and besides, we're calling in more dragoons to patrol. I shall personally guarantee your safety. I promise you we shall hang that scoundrel before the week is out He has gone too far this time! Coming into
a
man's home, it's uncivilized."

"You're too kind to be concerned on our behalf, and I am sure we shall be quite safe. We do live a very simple life," Mary reassured them, and then added ingenuously, "Why, I'm sure we have nothing here that he doesn't already own."

"You're too modest, my dear," Lord Malton contradicted. "Well, we really mustn't detain you any further. We just wanted you to know the truth, should you have heard any exaggerated rumors that there are going to be reinforcements coming."

"Thank you, I'm quite reassured now," Mary thanked them. "We appreciate your solicitude, my lords, don't we Sabrina?"

"Indeed we do, and although your description of the highwaymen quite terrified me, I was most interested and reassured to know about the dragoons."

"As good neighbors it was our duty, and of course it's always
a
pleasure to visit such lovely ladies," Lord Malton complimented as they heartily made their good-byes.

After the doors had been closed behind them, they remained silent for a moment until Richard couldn't control his giggle and started to laugh, his slight body shaking with mirth.

"It is just too priceless. I should've asked Lord Newley for the time," Sabrina laughed as she untied the ribbons beneath her chin and flung aside her hat.

"Yes, it is rather," Mary agreed, wiping her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief. "But I hope we aren't underestimating them. Foolish though they are
,
they're not completely blunt-witted."

"No, but they're windbags. They couldn't keep a secret if their lives depended upon it. With their chatter, Will and John can pick up any news at the tavern from their servants, who love to gossip, and we can gather what we may direct from the horse's mouth, for I'm sure the dragoons will not be able to make a move without Mal-ton's advice."

Richard stared at Sabrina in open admiration, his face flushed with excitement. "When are you going out again, Rina? Can I ride with you? I promise I won't be frightened," he pleaded hopefully.

Sabrina shook her head. "You know I told you we would never discuss that. Besides, you're needed here. Should anything happen to me, what would Mary and Aunt Margaret do? They'll need you, Dickie."

"Nothing will happen to you!" Richard cried, flinging himself at her feet and wrapping his arms about her waist.
"Nothing, ever!"

Sabrina looked over his head into Mary's eyes and wondered what she saw, but Mary shook her head despairingly, unable to answer the question in her eyes. Nothing must go wrong now, nothing must happen to interfere with their plans. Sabrina intended to make sure that nothing did, and vowed to herself that she would not allow anything,
nor
anybody, to upset their lives.

A bold
bad man.

Edmund Spenser

Chapter 3

T
HE Duke of Camareigh leaned indolently against the portal of the double doors and watched as the carefree dancers glided past. First they slowly danced the minuet with its bowing and crossing, the partners flirting provocatively as they drew together, and then a
more lively
bouree, followed by a courante to keep them breathless with its quick, running steps.

"Aren't you going to join in, Lucien?" Sir Jeremy Winters inquired, as he took two glasses of champagne from a tray offered by a liveried footman and handed one of the brimming goblets to the Duke.

"And have my feet trod upon? No, thank you," Lucien declined wryly as a red-faced, perspiring gentleman stumbled past.

Sir Jeremy laughed. "Even if you shun my more lively entertainments, I'm glad you accepted my invitation. Only sorry I'd already planned such a cursed large party. Don't get you down this way much."

"I thought I might as well look up an old friend, as long as I was here looking over some property I've acquired," replied the Duke.

"Heard you'd won Davern's estate.
Not much, I'm afraid," Sir Jeremy informed him. "He'd let it go for years."

"Yes, I'd thought as much, but I like to know what I possess. It may be worth saving," he paused, taking a sip of champagne. "If not, I'll sell or lose it in a game of hazard next week."

Sir Jeremy shook his head. "Lavenbrook lost everything last week in one hand. Shot himself dead in his host's dining room."

"If you can't afford to lose, you shouldn't play the game," Lucien commented unsympathetically. "We're all bound to lose sometime and should be prepared to pay."

"But for God's sake, man," Sir Jeremy replied fervently, "sometimes you just can't help it. I've often found myself in too deep and just luckily managed to extricate myself in time."

"When I play a game, whatever it may be, whether at the tables or elsewhere, I expect to pay my debts, and," he added, his eyes cold, "I expect to collect what is due me. I make no allowances, and I always collect."

"Well, I like to collect too," Sir Jeremy began, "but I give a friend a chance to regain his losses and time to pay."

"I never gamble with friends who can't afford to lose— it's the best way to lose your friends," the Duke replied lazily.

"I'd have thought you'd be, of all people, the most understanding, Lucien. After all, you were in tight spots many times before you managed to break even and eventually make your fortune."

Lucien smiled thoughtfully as he answered seriously, "That is precisely why I feel as I do. I had to make my fortune at cards, a professional gambler you might say, and therefore it was a business, and charity and compassion played no part in it. I couldn't afford to feel either. That is why I didn't and prefer not to play with friends."

Sir Jeremy shook his head regretfully, his friendly features mirroring dissatisfaction. "Cursed nuisance having your inheritance tied up the way it is."

The Duke's jaw hardened as he ran his thumb along his scar.
"More than that, Jeremy.
Up until a couple of months ago I thought I'd managed to circumvent the Dowager Duchess's ploys, but as usual she refuses to concede defeat and continues to dictate and meddle in my affairs. This time she has outmaneuvered me and I must swallow my pride and give in gracefully. I have no other choice if I wish to own my ancestral home, and I have vowed that no one but I shall inherit it. So, I find myself in the position of being engaged to the Lady Blanche Delande, the Dowager Duchess's choice as a perfect wife for me, despite my feelings to the contrary. However," he shrugged in resignation, "there is little I can do to remedy the situation except marry the chit—as ordered—for I'll be damned if I'll let my cousin Percy inherit."

Sir Jeremy felt a twinge of unease as he stared at his friend's haughty profile, the sherry-colored eyes narrowed reflectively and the finely chiseled lips curved in an unpleasant smile. In an untrimmed cream silk, full-skirted coat with matching waistcoat and breeches, the Duke was an elegant foil to the brightly dressed dancers in their gaudy pinks and puces, oranges and reds, lavishly embroidered and trimmed in gold and silver.

"Well, shall we see how the play is going in the Gold Salon?" Sir Jeremy broke into the Duke's thoughtful silence.

They drifted from the room to the Gold Salon, where tables had been set up for games of chance, and stood watching the engrossed card players. As they continued to stand there another man moved closer and stood nearby, his face flushed with drink as he glared at the Duke's arrogant profile.

Lucien turned his gaze slightly and glanced dispassionately at the man staring so rudely at him until the man shifted uneasily and turned his eyes elsewhere.

"Who is the malcontent who's trying to put me to the blush?" Lucien inquired casually.

Sir Jeremy glanced around the room in surprise as he looked over his guests, who were busily absorbed with their cards, until his eyes alighted on a stocky gentleman in salmon colored velvet, his brow thunderous as he stared at Lucien in a definitely threatening manner.

"What the devil?" Sir Jeremy demanded, looking at Lucien questioningly.

The Duke returned his look steadily. "I've not the slightest notion why this fellow should bear me malice. I haven't even had the pleasure of making his acquaintance."

"He's Sir Frederick Jensen. A real hothead, always in a sulk about some imagined slight."

"Really," the Duke drawled in boredom.
"How tiresome."

"A real hot-air merchant.
His mouth has gotten him into countless duels," Sir Jeremy confided distastefully.

"Then how is it he's a guest of yours, Jeremy?"

"Someone else's guest, not mine.
There's always some parasite worming his way in. But short of throwing the braggart out, what can I do but cold-shoulder him?"

"Well, you shall have to do better than that because the fellow is coming this way," Lucien stated dryly, "and unless I'm mistaken, with the express purpose of engaging us in conversation."

Sir Frederick Jensen swaggered up to the Duke of Camareigh, ignoring Sir Jeremy, and cast a baleful eye at Lucien's amused expression.

"Laughing in your sleeve at me, are you, Your Grace?" he sneered loudly, causing the nearby card players to glance up in interest.

"Hardly that, since I know nothing about you to laugh at," Lucien replied indifferently.

Sir Frederick's mouth curled into a sneer as he leaned forward, and jabbing a finger on the Duke's wide chest said, "No, you do yours behind a fellow's back.
Maligning my character, holding me up to ridicule."

"It would be a waste of my time since you seem to be doing that yourself," Lucien replied coldly.

"Why, you!
I'll—" Sir Frederick began heatedly, his face a dull red.

"Now, now," Sir Jeremy
interrupted,
a placating note in his voice. "Don't get in a stew, Jensen. You've had a few too many. You're fuddled, man."

"Fuddled!
Me? I can drink any man here under the table, even His Grace, the all-powerful Duke of Camareigh. Too good for the likes of me, are you?" he yelled.

The gentlemen in the room had now stopped their gaming and were giving their full attention to the little contretemps being enacted before them. In the silence Sir Frederick's heavy breathing could be heard loudly, and all eyes were focused on the two men who stood facing each other.

"You owe me an apology," Sir Frederick demanded aggressively, his chin jutting forward pugnaciously.

"Indeed?" the Duke asked disdainfully.

"Indeed, yes,
Your
Grace. You called me a yokel, a slow-coach, and said I was only fit to inhabit a dunghill. I demand satisfaction," he spat, throwing his gloves in the Duke's face.

A gasp of surprise and a few whispered comments went around the room as they waited nervously for the Duke's reaction. The scar on his cheek had whitened visibly as he insolently took a pinch of snuff from a small gold box and putting a dab in each nostril sniffed disdainfully.

"It would be obvious from your actions this evening that had I indeed made such remarks about you, they could only have been the rather unpleasant truth," the Duke drawled, and looking at Sir Jeremy as he held a handkerchief delicately to his nose added, "Do open a window, there is the most loathsome and offensive odor in here—enough to turn one's stomach."

The Duke had begun to walk away from the red-faced and humiliated Sir Frederick when he turned and spoke to him, a bored tone in his voice. "Do have your seconds with you, say dawn tomorrow morning under the oaks, and don't keep me waiting, for I must make an early start if I'm to reach my destination by afternoon."

Sir Frederick Jensen's mouth dropped open and sweat broke out on his brow as he watched the Duke and Sir Jeremy stroll nonchalantly from the room. And then as excited conversation broke out amongst the astonished guests, Sir Frederick hurriedly fled from the room with several of his friends.

Sir Jeremy poured himself a glass of port after handing Lucien one, and took a deep swallow. "What the devil got into Jensen?
Never seen anyone act so bellicose.
He purposely forced you into defending your honor, and yet you say you've never even met the fellow?" Sir Jeremy shook his head, clearly unable to understand the situation.

"Never set eyes on the fool before tonight," Lucien said thoughtfully. "Yet it would seem someone insinuated that I offended and insulted him." He gazed ruminatively into the fire burning in the grate. "Now I wonder why anyone should want to do
that?
"

Sir Jeremy stopped his pacing abruptly. "What?
A trick?"

"Well, it doesn't all ring quite true," Lucien answered. "Here is a fellow I've never met accusing me of lampooning him and, being something of a hothead, will not be satisfied until he's called me out and hopefully killed me."

Sir Jeremy frowned. "Jensen may be a fool—but he's a damned good swordsman.
Prides himself on being a successful duelist.
The fact that he's still alive proves that."

"I always prefer a fair fight myself, but any man win allows
himself
to become someone's cat's paw, and be led into conflict at another's direction, is easy prey for any schemer off the streets. No." Lucien continued grimly, "I'm afraid our friend Jensen is ruled by his passions and not his head. There can be only one outcome to this affair."

"Which is?" Sir Jeremy asked hesitantly.

Lucien glanced up, shrugging his shoulders fatalistically. "Sir Frederick Jensen will come to grief.
It is
inevitable, and unfortunately it must be by my hand,
but
eventually he would have met this end. His unavoidable destiny, i fear."

"You're mighty cool about it, Lucien," Sir Jeremy observed, a look of admiration on his face.

"Am I?" Lucien shook his head.
"I
'm just resigned, that is all. But I am curious as to the identity
of the schemer
behind this little scenario. I would hazard a guess
that I
've an enemy who plots my early demise."

"It's scandalous. The effrontery of some people," Sir Jeremy complained. "Have you any notion
who
this
villain is?"

The Duke drained his glass and smiled. "You have a certain way of dramatizing situations,
Jeremy, but to
answer your question, no, not for a certainty.
I
've
my fair
share of enemies, so it could be any number of
people,
but most of them I know. This rascal would
prefer
to remain anonymous, and I can't effectively deal with a phantom."

He stood up and smiled at Sir
Jeremy's worried
expression. "Don't fret, Jeremy. I'm an obstinate
fellow
and insist upon having the last word. My
only regret
is
having
to rise so cursed early, so I'll bid you good night,"
he
said, stifling a yawn as he left the room.