A Kiss in the Dark

by Joan Smith

  If she had said that to a gentleman in London, it would have been repeated abroad, soon taking on the aura of an invitation to dalliance. Dauntry figured that was how she had acquired her racy reputation. “Fear not, I am a tame man in a carriage.”

  “I doubt that, for you are no tame man on the dance floor. I had no idea dancing with you would be so much fun.”

  “I have been hiding my light under a mask of gray eminence, as you called it. There was a facer for me! I checked my mirror that night for gray hairs.”

  “How many did you find?”

  “None! I am only five and thirty, after all.”

  “I am five and twenty, but I would never say ‘only’ that age. As a general rule, women live longer than men. It is odd that while we are alive, we age so much more quickly, is it not?”

  It seemed ludicrous for this young girl to be worried about her age. “You have lost ten years since coming here.”

  “It is all the seclusion that accounts for it, and the salubrious sea air, of course.”

  “I hoped your neighbors had something to do with it. And before you tell me how charming Mr. Brewster is, I shall rephrase that utterance. I hoped your landlord had something to do with your amazing rejuvenation.”

  “Landlady, actually. The house is your mama’s. I had best stay clear of her in future, or I shall find myself back in short skirts with my hair down.”

  “Then we can start all over, as it were, and become childhood sweet—friends.”

  “I cannot picture you as a child,” she said, ignoring that “sweet.” “Yet you do look more youthful than before, and less intimidating.”

  “Intimidating! Good God, you make me sound like an ogre.”

  “No, only a disapproving judge.”

  When he took her out to the carriage, Dauntry thought it wiser to sit on the opposite banquette, for he doubted that he would behave himself if he sat beside her. He talked pleasant nonsense for the first while, to show her how far he was from a disapproving judge. As the carriage drove past the road leading to the cottage, Cressida fell silent. He had an idea what she was thinking.

  “About Amarylla, Lady deCourcy—or may I call you Cressida? Since I have known you all these years.”

  “If you like.”

  “About Amarylla, Cressida—”

  “You don’t have to explain. I know how bachelors go on. You are not the first man to keep a mistress, and you will not be the last.”

  “Perhaps I shall not have her here after all.”

  Dauntry expected her to inquire why he changed his mind, which would have given him an opening to intimate his feelings for her.

  She said, “I have changed my mind about the cottage, Dauntry. After being inside, I realize it is too small. The dower house is more suitable. I shall remain there.”

  Her reply showed clearly she was not thinking along the same lines as himself. She was not feeling this excitement between them. He had read too much into it. “It is a wise decision,” he said.

  She talked on about her reason for coming to the seaside. “I am considering buying a little cottage on the sea, and wanted to give it a try first, to see how I like it.”

  “And do you like it?”

  “I shall try swimming first and take a trip on Beau’s yacht. If they prove enjoyable, then I might buy a little place. It is too early to tell.”

  The carriage proceeded to the dower house. When they descended, Dauntry told the driver to take the carriage back. “I shall walk home,” he said.

  “You might as well have a drive home,” she said. “I am afraid I cannot ask you in. Miss Wantage will have retired. I would never hear the end of it if I invited a gentleman in without her there to glower and glare at him and make everyone uncomfortable.”

  The groom waited, listening with the keenest interest to this exchange until Dauntry waved him off.

  “It is a warm evening. I shall enjoy the walk home.”

  “Well, thank you for a delightful party, Dauntry.” She shook his hand. When she tried to remove her fingers, he held on to them.

  “I would hardly call it a party,” he said, gazing at her face bathed in moonlight.

  “It was a wonderful evening, like being home at Tanglewood. A small do, just as I like. I enjoyed the large balls when I first went to London, but after tonight I find I like simple parties even better. You do get to really know—people,” she said.

  “I hope that means me?”

  “Yes, that is what I mean.”

  “I want to tell you about Amarylla,” he said simply.

  She placed two fingers on his lips. “Please don’t spoil it, Dauntry.”

  “You are right. Let us end this evening as it should be ended.”

  Without further speech he pulled her into his arms and kissed her. She was too surprised to be angry at first, and as the kiss deepened, her surprise swelled to astonishment. It was impossible! Dauntry was not French—but he was certainly the same man who had kissed her in the cottage. She couldn’t mistake those nibbling kisses that deepened to a bruising attack on her lips, the way his strong fingers splayed on her back, pressing her against him, the heat that flared inside her.

  Was she mad? This could not be her mysterious Frenchman. Was she a wanton, to enjoy the kisses of two different men so much? She was too honest to pretend she was not enjoying it. Her arms went around his neck, her fingers reveling in his crisp black hair as she returned every pressure from his lips. Then she forgot the Frenchman, and thought only of Dauntry, who was so very different from what she had expected.

  Dauntry, who was bringing his mistress to the cottage ... There was no explanation for that, only excuses, and she had heard them all from her lady friends. “A gentleman has needs.” “It doesn’t mean anything to them.” How could a kiss like this not mean anything? She drew away and gazed at him with sad, disillusioned eyes.

  “Good night, Dauntry,” she said in a small voice.

  When he reached for her again, she withdrew.

  “Please don’t,” she said in a breathless voice. “Once was bad enough.”

  Then she turned and fled into the house, and Dauntry stood looking at the closed door, wondering if he had heard her aright. “Bad enough?” What the devil did she mean by that?

  Cressida had a word with Muffet. “Beau may be out until all hours, Muffet. There is no need to wait up for him. He has his key.”

  “Would you care for a glass of cocoa, missy?”

  “Not tonight, thank you. I am tired. I shall go straight up to bed.”

  This, alas, was impossible. Miss Wantage called her as she tiptoed past the door. “What time is it, dear?” she called.

  “Not much past midnight, Miss Wantage. I am sorry if I awoke you.”

  “I was not asleep. You know I can never sleep until you and Beau are in your beds. Is Beau home?”

  “He will be up shortly,” Cressida said, wavering between a lie, to let Miss Wantage sleep, and the truth, which would ensure a few more hours of wakefulness.

  “Was it a good party?”

  “Very nice. Could I get you a glass of warm milk? Muffet it still up.”

  “I don’t like to be a bother to anyone. I’ll just glance over a few pages of my Bible to pass the time. What happened to your coiffure, dear? It looks all of a heap.”

  “The country dance ...”

  “A cap would keep your hair in place. So much neater, and at your age ...”

  “Good night, Miss Wantage.”

  Cressida escaped to her room, where Jennet had laid out her lawn nightgown and turned down her bed. Miss Wantage was sawing logs in no time; it was Cressida who lay awake, thinking. Dauntry would be spending the weekdays in London. He would be at the seaside only on the weekends, and Amarylla would be at the cottage, so he would be kept busy. She need not see much of him. It would be disastrous to go on seeing him. Society’s idea of marriage was not her idea.

  She would not go back to London in the autumn. Two Seasons were en
ough. She would go home, and perhaps marry one of the local gentlemen while she was still young enough to start a nursery.

  She heard Beau tiptoe upstairs an hour later. As his room was at the other end of the hall, he did not disturb Miss Wantage’s slumber.

  Of course, she did not see Dauntry, or have the faintest notion that he had not gone home, but had gone to the cottage, where he spent the better part of an hour searching in vain for the missing letter.

  Chapter Eleven

  It was close to three o’clock in the morning when Cressida finally slipped into a troubled doze. The quiet clicking of her door handle turning was enough to awaken her. She assumed it was Miss Wantage, with one of her migraines. Cousin Margaret had warned her of them. Dulled by sleep, Cressida sat up, peering into the shadows, as a figure crept silently toward her bed.

  “What is it, Miss Wantage?” she asked, trying to dampen the annoyance in her tone.

  The shadow stopped. Cressida had raised the blind to allow fresh air into the room. As her eyes became accustomed to the dim light, the shadow began to take on human form. It seemed strange that Miss Wantage did not speak or advance closer to the bed.

  “What is it?” Cressida asked with an edge of fear.

  Still, there was no reply. The shadow’s head turned toward the door. Cressida noticed that the head was smooth and the shoulders broad. Miss Wantage had been wearing her cap with the frilled edge. If she had removed it, her hair would have hung loose. This was not Miss Wantage. It was a man!

  “Beau?” she asked sharply. The fear was rising insensibly to panic. “Is that you?”

  Instead of answering, the man turned and pelted out of the room. The soft thud of receding footfalls echoed through the open door. Without realizing she was doing it, Cressida opened her lips and emitted a high-pitched scream. She ran to her door, screaming at the top of her lungs.

  “Beau! Muffet! Help!”

  Within seconds Beau came pelting down the corridor and Miss Wantage’s capped head appeared at her door, holding a lighted lamp. This pious dame’s first concern was not for the life of her charge, or even her jewelry, but for propriety. She took one look at Beau’s pale legs protruding from beneath his nightshirt and covered her eyes,

  “Beau! There are ladies present!”

  Beau had the sense to ignore her. “Sid, are you all right?”

  “A man—in my room.”

  “Good God!” Miss Wantage said weakly. She did not faint, but she turned white as paper and stood trembling with excitement. “He might have been in my room, too!” she exclaimed. “My room is closer to the staircase than yours. I thought I heard something—”

  “He went that way,” Sid said to Beau, pointing to the far end of the corridor, where a curtained archway led to the servants’ stairs.

  Beau went darting after him.

  “Take a gun, Beau!” Cressida called.

  “Put on your robe, Cressida,” Miss Wantage said.

  Cressida ran into her room and picked up the poker, as Beau had not heeded her warning to get a gun.

  “Your robe!” Miss Wantage called after her as she ran, wearing nothing but her nightgown, toward the stairs after Beau. “What will the intruder think of you ...” Her voice petered out.

  As Cressida ran carefully down the narrow, unlit servants’ stairs, she heard a scuffle in the kitchen. It sounded as if Beau had cornered the intruder. Turning the bend in the stairs, she could hear the men gasping and thrashing about on the floor. There was not enough light to be certain which one she would hit if she used the poker, and she did not know where the lamps in the kitchen were located, so she stood at the ready. If the intruder won, she would whack him on the side of the head when he stood up.

  One man rolled aside and scrambled to his feet. “Beau?” she called, and was answered by a grunt from the floor.

  When she turned back to the other man, he was already heading for the back door. He overturned the kitchen maid’s stool behind him. It caught Cressida a sharp blow on the shin, temporarily disabling her. It was long enough for the man to unlock the kitchen door and flee into the night. He took one look over his shoulder before he darted off, Cressida fully expected to see the face of the man who called himself Melbury. In the pale rays of moonlight she saw a black mask, which made the whole affair even more frightening.

  She bolted the door, lit a lamp, and went to Beau’s assistance. “Are you all right?”

  He rose, gasping for breath and rubbing the back of his head. “He was a strong lout. He caught my head between his two hands and banged it on the floor.”

  “Good gracious! He might have broken your skull.”

  “He might have killed me—but I had the feeling he didn’t really want to hurt me. It wasn’t a very hard bang, and he was strong.”

  “How very civil of him!” Cressida sneered.

  The racket was enough to bring Mrs. Armstrong forth from her bedroom, which was just off the kitchen for convenience’s sake. She appeared with her white hair hanging in a tail down her back. True to England, her sleeping attire continued her color theme with a white gown, blue robe, and a red ribbon tying her braided tail.

  “What is all the ruckus?” she demanded. “Why are you dashing about in the middle of the night, next-door to naked?”

  Although less squeamish than Miss Wantage, she was no lecher and went into her bedroom to provide the youngsters with something to cover their sins. She handed Beau a patchwork quilt and Cressida her own Sunday-best shawl.

  While Cressida and Beau recounted their adventure, she stoked up the smoldering fire and put on a kettle.

  When she had heard the gist of it, she said, “Why don’t the pair of you go up to the saloon and be comfortable? I’ll bring you up a nice cup of tea as soon as it’s brewed. No need to rouse up Old Muffet. Age wants ease. Let him rest.”

  As the seating in the kitchen was rudimentary, they did as she suggested.

  “Who do you think it was?” Beau asked when they were settled in above stairs.

  “It cannot have been Melbury. He is supposed to be in Bath. The man was the size and shape of the brash swaggerer who called, pretending he was Brewster. His covering his face suggests we would recognize him. Of more interest, Beau, what was he after? He was not carrying off the silver.”

  “No, and not looking for it upstairs either, I shouldn’t think.”

  “He might have been after my jewelry,” she said.

  “Or you,” Beau added with a warning look.

  She drew Tory’s shawl more closely about her. “Don’t say such things. You’re making my flesh crawl. How did he get in? Are you sure you locked the door after you when you came home?”

  “Positive.”

  They went to check and found the front door locked and bolted. The kitchen door had also been locked. The French doors in the library were the only other doors to the outside. When they checked, the doors were ajar, but there was no sign of a forced entry.

  “Is it possible he has a key?” Cressida asked, worried for the future. “Muffet would certainly have locked this door when he made his rounds. I don’t believe it has ever been open since we came here.”

  When Tory brought the tea, they asked her about it.

  “I feared as much. I have been thinking about it, and I’ve figured out how it happened,” she said. “I left the library door on the latch when I went out this evening—just to have a word with Cook at the castle, since you were both away. I enjoy the bit of fresh air. I have no key to the front door, you see, and I saw no point in bothering Old Muffet.”

  “Why did you not lock the library doors when you came home?” Cressida asked. She knew from Tory’s averted eyes that she was making this tale up out of whole cloth.

  “That’s his job, isn’t it? He don’t like interfering with his chores. No doubt he thought I had locked it. Another time, I’ll make sure one of us tends to it.”

  “Do you not have a key to the back door?” Beau asked.

  “I do
, but when I got home, I found out I’d forgotten to take it with me.”

  “Why did you leave the library doors on the latch if you thought you had the back door key with you?” he persisted.

  Without a blink of delay Tory had her lie ready. “It’s the rats,” she said. “Jennet spotted a rat hiding under the back stoop. If there were rats about, I meant to use the library doors. It’s not pleasant to have a rat run up your leg. Then, when I discovered I’d left my keys behind, I went and used the library doors. I’ll have the rat catcher in tomorrow to be rid of the vermin.”

  “Would you have any idea who the intruder might be?” Cressida asked. She knew she would not hear the truth, but by the process of elimination, she might discover who it was not, at least.

  “Very likely it was young Melbury again.”

  “He is in Bath.”

  Tory gave her a sharp look. “No, he isn’t,” she said, surprised. She looked Cressida right in the eye as she spoke. So she was telling the truth then. “I didn’t want to distress you, milady, but he was seen hereabouts this very day.”

  Beau and Cressida exchanged a questioning look. “Supposing it was Melbury,” Beau said, “what do you think he was after upstairs? Is it possible he meant to—harm Lady deCourcy?”

  “Attack her in her bed, do you mean?” she asked, astounded at such a charge. “Not he! He can have his pick of the common village women. Why would he risk putting his neck in a noose by attacking a lady? Sure Melbury never had to use force in that way. He is all honey and sweet talk. The Dauntrys have taken a good deal from him, but they would draw the line at that, I promise you.”

  “He was not looking for teaspoons in my bedroom, Tory,” Cressida said reasonably.

  “No, that was not the silver he was after. His aunt Annie used to have a silver dresser set there of a comb and brush and mirror and I don’t know what all. We moved it when we learned you were coming. She left it to him in her will, but he never bothered to pick it up, for he said if he took it he’d only hawk it, and he wanted it for a keepsake of his auntie. A hair loom, as they say. Likely he is in dun territory and dropped by to pick it up tonight.”