The Bachelor Trap (13 page)

Flora quickly gathered her bits and pieces together, dropped them in the box, and slid the box inside the leather satchel. “Finders keepers,” she declared.

“Not if you stole it from our cottage” came the quick retort.

Color surged into Flora's cheeks. “I am not a thief! I borrowed it, that's all.”

“Then tell me where you found it.”

“I will not.”

Breathing hard, Phoebe said, “Lord Robert's letters belong to Marion now. She should decide what to do with them.”

“So you can put them in your family history?” scoffed Flora.

“Maybe I shall!”

They glared at each other across the satchel.

“You,” said Phoebe scathingly, “are the worst friend I have ever had.”

“And you are no friend at all!”

With that, Flora picked up the satchel and stalked off.

Phoebe sat there stewing. She couldn't tell Marion about the box because she'd promised on her honor to keep it a secret. She couldn't understand why it had to be a secret unless Flora had stolen the box. Apart from the notes, there was nothing worth keeping. Come to think of it, the note they'd read was worthless, too.

No one in her right mind would save such rubbish, and she couldn't think why Flora had made such a fuss.

Some friend!

Her thoughts scattered when she saw Marion bearing down on her. Now what had she done?

Emily was having the time of her life. She hadn't expected to meet many people of her own age in Longbury, but she'd already made a few friends. That was the thing about church services. Even if the sermon was boring, people stood around after the service to talk and get to know each other, without waiting for proper, formal introductions.

Ginny Matthews was on one side of her, and Peter Matthews, Ginny's older brother, was on her other side. The vicar was their father and they knew everybody in Longbury. They had just watched Lord Andrew, whom Emily had also met at church, win the ribbon for his faultless performance and were waiting to congratulate him.

Victor Malvern, the son of a local landowner, joined their group, and Emily's pulse started to beat a little faster. Victor was very handsome and seemed more worldly than her new friends. He was quite the dandy, and put her in mind of Ash Denison.

“Did you see Lord Andrew?” she asked Victor. “He looks as though he was born in the saddle, doesn't he?”

Victor's lip curled slightly. “Horses are all that poor little Lord Andy knows, that and sheep. Take him away from the Priory and what have we got?”

“What have we got?” asked Emily. Her pulse had stopped racing.

“A nobody, that's what. It turns my stomach to think that one of these days we'll all have to kowtow to him, you know, His Grace, the Duke of Shelbourne.”

“Heavens,” said Emily, “what did Andrew ever do to you?”

Peter Matthews remarked mildly, “Andrew is already the Duke of Shelbourne, Victor, and we ought to address him as ‘Your Grace.' As for what Andrew did, he and Victor raced their horses across the downs, and Andrew won.”

Victor's face flushed. “It wasn't a fair race. He took a shortcut. So he's a cheat as well as a nobody. Excuse me.”

He sauntered off and joined two young men who also looked to be aspiring dandies. Whatever he said sent them off into hoots of laughter. They watched Andrew as he left the pasture, leading his horse, then, still laughing, they turned their backs on him.

Ginny sighed. “Victor is a beast, but Andrew is his own worst enemy. He doesn't put himself out to make friends. He rarely attends any assemblies, and when he does, he never asks anyone to dance. We're all in awe of him, really, because he
is
the duke. Some people think that he feels above our company.”

“I think he's shy,” said Emily. “And maybe he doesn't know how to dance.” Privately, she thought that if she'd been lumbered with his family, she'd be like a fish out of water in society, too.

“I know that his father died when he was eleven,” she went on. “What happened to his mother?”

Ginny answered. “Oh, she died when Andrew was an infant.”

That explained a lot. Emily's heart went out to the young man. She looked at Ginny and Peter. “Come on! Let's show Andrew a little support.”

He seemed startled when the three of them descended on him, then shyly pleased. Emily had the confidence to keep a conversation going, and there were few awkward pauses. She also knew how to draw someone out. By the time Andrew left to stable his horse, she had already decided that she liked this boy immensely.

He didn't make her heart flutter or her pulse race. They were the same age, but she considered herself a woman. Andrew was only a boy, though to be sure, he had the FitzAlan good looks. What he lacked was polish.

And friends.

He'd made a good beginning with Ginny and Peter. Emily was confident that the rest could be safely left up to her.

Not everyone stayed for the finale. As at any country fair, the crowds swelled and diminished from hour to hour. Marion would have liked nothing better than to put her feet up in front of her own fire, if only for a short respite, but this was out of the question. As one of the dowager's guests, she felt obliged to stay to the end, especially when Her Grace sent a messenger to inform her that one of the household carriages would convey her and her sisters to the field. An honor, indeed, since most of the guests would be walking to the site or had prudently brought their own carriages.

Phoebe was subdued. In a careless moment, she had innocently remarked to no one in particular that Mr. Hamilton had not come near their cottage in a week, and a little buzz of gossip had taken on a life of its own. And now Marion wasn't letting her out of her sight.

Emily was in high spirits. She was looking forward to the battle between Cavaliers and Roundheads. It sounded romantic. She listened attentively as Clarice gave a disjointed account of what they could expect to see.

Finally, Clarice heaved a sigh. “I'm not the person to ask,” she said. “History bores me. Now, if my Oswald were here, he could answer all your questions.”

“History bores you?” said Phoebe, struck by the notion.

Marion quickly cut her off. “Do we have far to go, Clarice?”

“Not far. Just the other side of the Priory. But if it rains, and it always rains, those with carriages can wait it out in comfort.”

The carriage duly arrived, an antique that looked as though it had been rescued from a museum. Was this Brand's doing? Marion wondered. Was this how he managed the estate, by pinching pennies? No wonder there was ill feeling in the family.

They arrived at the site and took up their positions on a little rise that gave them an excellent view. Here they were joined by Mr. Lewis, a newcomer to Longbury, whom Marion had met after church services on the previous Sunday. He was, she judged, not more than forty, spoke with an easy confidence, and was handsome enough to have attracted his share of feminine interest.

She gave her attention to the field. Brand was there, out in front, with a steel helmet, a plain jerkin, and a short cloak covering his shoulders. Evidently, he was to be the commander of the Roundheads. Lord Robert's dress, in true Cavalier style, was more gaudy. His bonnet had more feathers than a rooster's tail. The majority of the Cavaliers were magnificently mounted. The Roundheads, as they were derisively labeled, were all on foot. Marion did not think that was fair.

“Why are they standing around?” Phoebe asked. “Why aren't they fighting?”

“They're getting into position,” replied Mr. Lewis. “See, Lord Robert is playing the part of King Charles, and Mr. Hamilton represents Oliver Cromwell. When the bonfire is lit, the action will begin.”

“The Cavaliers look like fops,” said Phoebe.

Clarice nodded. “They look ridiculous in all that finery, don't they? But just remember, Phoebe, we're on their side, so you must cheer for them.” To Marion, she added, “We FitzAlans have always been royalists.”

If there was one thing that could arouse Marion's sympathies, it was the plight of the underling. She knew whose side she was on.

Because the skies were becoming overcast (and it looked as though Clarice's prophecy might come true), they lit the bonfire early, much to the delight of the crowd. The drums rolled and the battle commenced. It was more like a ballet than a battle. No shots were fired, no pikes were lowered, and only the flats of swords were used so that no one could be accidentally run through. For all that, there was drama in the spectacle. Drums beat out a constant tattoo; Cavaliers and Roundheads screamed out bloodcurdling battle cries; horses charged and retreated; men fell upon each other as though they were in earnest. And all the while, the Cavaliers slowly retreated. When the king and his aides made their escape from the field and the Cavaliers charged the Roundheads to prevent the king's capture, the crowd went wild.

Marion's eyes were riveted on Brand and his troop of men. Unwavering, unrelenting, they came on. When the crowd began to jeer, Marion did the opposite. Phoebe looked at her sister, then followed suit. The bystanders close by stopped jeering and turned to stare. So did Brand, and the sword thrust that he should have deflected easily caught him hard in the midsection and he sank to his knees. Marion was sick with fright until two of his comrades helped him to his feet.

That's when the ballet stopped and the fight began in earnest. Swords and pikes were thrown down, feathered bonnets were tossed aside, and men dismounted or were pulled from their horses. They went at each other with their fists as though they were caught up in a barroom brawl.

Their commanders could do nothing with them. Brand and Lord Robert strode up and down the field, pulling men off each other; Andrew, still on horseback, was driving runaway horses through a gate and into an enclosure with the aid of the Priory's stable hands; and the crowd cheered them on.

“This can't be how the battle was fought!” exclaimed Marion, turning to Mr. Lewis for confirmation.

He was no longer there. It seemed that the svelte Mrs. Chandos had purloined him when she wasn't looking.

Clarice answered the question. She had to raise her voice to make herself heard. “No, indeed! The Cavaliers are supposed to win this skirmish, but feelings run deep here, and it always ends the same way.”

“Feelings run deep?” repeated Emily, shouting above the roar of the crowd.

“Yes,” yelled Clarice. “Longbury was split into Cavaliers and Roundheads in King Charles's day and nothing has changed. Why do you think Brand's grandfather hated all us FitzAlans?”

“That is
pathetic
!” declared Marion.

“That's what Oswald says. Thankfully, the old quarrel is forgotten most of the time. It's only on occasions like this that it is revived.”

“Barbaric,”
declared Emily.

Phoebe piped up, “If it always ends like this, why don't they cancel it?”

“We've tried. The villagers won't allow it.”

Out on the field, Brand was gnashing his teeth as he pulled men off each other. He felt ridiculous in his Roundhead getup, and didn't know why he allowed the locals to persuade him to take on the role his grandfather had once played. Family loyalty? Guilty conscience? Another debt he felt obliged to pay off? He felt like a little boy again, trying to win his grandfather's approval.

He knocked the blacksmith's apprentice off his feet, grabbed him by the scruff of the neck, and gave him a hard shake. “Go help Lord Andrew round up the horses or I'll have your guts for garters!”

He had to roar to be heard above the cheers, jeers, and catcalls of the crowd.

The boy gulped, nodded, and hastened away.

Brand shook his head as he surveyed the carnage. His men could not get it into their thick skulls that they were preordained to lose this battle. That's why it always ended in a brawl. No one wanted to be on the losing side, himself least of all.

Evidently, Ted Fields, the blacksmith, had taken umbrage at the way his apprentice had been manhandled. Sixteen stone of brawn and muscle came barreling down on Brand. He stood his ground (one of his talents) until the last moment, then shot out a foot and sent Fields sprawling in the mud. When the fallen man sat up, the pungent odor of horse dung filled the air.

“For God's sake, get yourself cleaned up, man,” Brand said, his voice mirroring his look of revulsion.

The blacksmith laughed. “Didn't you know, Mr. Hamilton, sir? Horse shit is lucky.”

“Tell that to your wife.”

Fields grimaced. “Aye, right enough. I'd best get myself cleaned up.”

Big drops of rain began to fall. No one seemed to care. The unofficial battle still raged. There would be a few broken noses and black eyes, but no serious injuries. At the end of the day, everyone would get cleaned up and enjoy a pint of ale in the tithe barn or champagne at the Priory.

And to think he had given up Brighton for this. Had he not bowed to the call of duty, right this minute he and Ash would be sitting down to a civilized dinner in the Castle Hotel where Ash had taken rooms. This was Brand's usual reward to himself after a grueling day of tramping from farm to farm, calling on voters and drumming up support for the party.

Ash knew how to enjoy himself. He never lacked for a pretty woman on his arm or in his bed. He had legions of friends. He was easily amused.

That was the trouble. Brand was bored out of his mind with pretty women. They were two a penny, whereas Marion Dane…

Marion Dane. He still could not take her measure. She blew hot and cold. When she was hot, she was very, very good. But when she was cold, she was horrid.

He turned away with a smile, and right into the knotted fist of the butcher's boy. The blow winded him, but no more than that. Sixteen-year-old Billy, on the other hand, let out a howl of pain.

“I think I've broken my wrist,” he cried.

“If you don't get off the field,” Brand grunted, “I'll break your bloody neck!”

The weather changed so violently and suddenly that people were drenched in seconds. The rain came down in torrents. One good thing came of it. It stopped the brawl on the field. Everyone ran for cover.

“Come along,” yelled Clarice. “Make for the carriages. We'll be safe from the storm there.”

Marion unfurled her umbrella only to have to wrestle the wind for it. One ferocious gust tore it from her hand and whisked it away. It didn't go far.

“You go on,” she shouted, “and I'll catch up to you.”

She trotted after her umbrella, but each time she caught up to it, the wind picked it up and whisked it out of her reach. She was cursing under her breath by the time she gave up the chase, cursing and furious. Droplets of rain ran from the brim of her bonnet into her eyes. Her gown clung to her like a sticky spider's web. There was a stitch in her side. Her teeth were chattering. She didn't know whether she wanted to shake her fist at the wind or throw a tantrum.

A sudden shaft of lightning and its deafening roar almost panicked her. She did an about-turn and fell into Brand's arms. His face was as thunderous as the sky above.

“Looking for someone, Lady Marion?”

“You're not hurt?” she got out.

“Of course I'm not hurt. The swords we use couldn't cut butter.”

As he spoke, he hoisted her into the nearest carriage. She was too spent and too grateful to object to his rough handling and black looks. It was dry in the carriage; that was all that mattered.

He followed her in, removed her bonnet and tossed it onto the banquette beside his helmet, then draped his short cloak around her shoulders. His cloak was warm from the heat of his body, but not warm enough to stop her teeth chattering.

The coach began to move, but only at a snail's pace.

“Get this into you,” he commanded. He had a silver flask in his hand.